Beast: Chapter 2
After, came years of loneliness. There must have been people, before, but now no one came. It wasn’t any wonder, because the garden that had once been beautiful and looked after, was now anything but: it was uninviting and daunting. Everything darkened in the vast garden, everything decayed and rotted, except for the rosebushes which endured: the roses full of colour in the darkness, glowing strontium red.
He roamed the castle halls, roamed and waited - for what? He didn’t know, because surely he didn’t believe anyone would love him. No, he didn’t believe it - he didn’t believe anything, he didn’t expect or dream anything. There was only now, the present, in which there was nothing else to do but to wait. No one to converse with, except his own thoughts, which quieted down, too, as the years passed. Nothing, nothing, except this hollow house, his hollow chest. Living, breathing. Eating, sleeping. No matter how much he starved himself he could not die, only suffer, and then again there was always food on the table.
Sometimes, early on, he wondered what had become of her. The enchantress - her name escaped him as well, if he had ever known her by any other name. Had she moved on? Had she married? Had she found someone to love her like he should have? The answer was: of course she had. She had ran into the next, safe kingdom, had appeared weak in front of their king, had wept that a terrible monster had eaten the poor young prince in the abandoned castle. No, no, it could not be killed, for if the enchantress had lost against it, who could kill it? And besides, there was a war raging - no one had any troops to spare. She had been given a safe haven, and before long, she was married to the old king, just as she wanted - while he was left roaming, something she had wanted, too.
Time was a tricky thing. At first he had counted the days, teared lines into his bedroom walls to mark their passing. He steered clear of some parts of the castle - the east wing, the library, to save some of what had been. Mostly because he could not bear to go there, to see the books he had read and loved, to see the grand piano. The piano in the great hall was nearly dust, keys made of ivory shattered to sharp pieces, wood ripped apart. Sheets of music littered the black and white tiled floor. Someone - something had started to clear the mess away, but he had roared and made the mess again, and so it stayed.
Now, who knew how many years had passed? He couldn’t remember. Most of the time, there was no past either, only present. A forest had grown outside the castle, so it must’ve been years and years. Once or twice, some human found their way to his garden, to his castle. He heard them from far away, heard them creak open the gates, which had lost their gold in flecks and revealed the black metal underneath. Some of them came inside, and when that happened he climbed out his bedroom window and clawed his way to the roof. Hello? he could hear them hollering in the hall, trying in vain to address their elusive host. They always found their way to the dining room, rested for some time and left content. At first it was cold comfort for him, for at least he knew that even though his mind faded, his anger was not directed at others; then, after years, escaping away was just a habit.
The roses were the only thing glowing in the dark, better than the dull snow that always covered the grounds. They became a fixation for him: he spent hours watching them, never touching, only watching. There were memories that had to do with the roses, though some of them he couldn’t remember, and some of them he wanted to forget. The enchantress had loved the roses. Maybe that was why she had left them, only them as points of colour in the dark.
One day, he could hear the horse whinnying before he heard the gate. An old man on his horse; they galloped into the garden with wolves on their heels. The wolves knew better than to come inside, and they stopped and growled, but went away. The man didn’t take a hint.
He did the same as others: came inside, tried to call after him, ate, rested for the night, although he was more talkative than most, talking to the shadows and darkness, mostly in gratitude. After waking up, the man went to fetch his horse and made his leave - but then, nearly at the gates again, he stopped.
He unmounted his horse and came back, making his way through the garden - unaware of the eyes watching him from the roof, far away. He slowly got to his knees in front of the rose bushes, raised his hand, and plucked one, lush rose.
Immediately the beast jumped down from above, felt his joints ache from the impact, but he didn’t stop, he rushed to the small figure of a man. The voice that came out was such a low rumble that it truly resembeled more a growl than a human voice.
”How dare you steal from me, after I have helped and fed you?” The words were strange on his tongue, which was stiff from unuse, rigidly spoken past the massive fangs on their way.
”Forgive me, my lord”, the man whimpered, completely shaking and taken by fear. The rose, with a single dew drop on it, was still in his fist. Beast was taken aback: he had never before addressed anyone how he was. There was a touch of shame, somewhere, to look like this, though there was no other way to look, anymore. He bared his teeth from the tinge of emotion, and saw the rest of the colour escape the man’s face.
”The roses are what I value most: how do you defend your unforgivable actions, thief?” the beast said, this time choosing his words and tone more carefully - but truly, the change was not apparent to anyone but him, since his voice still thundered from deep within his chest.
”I cannot defend them”, the old man gathered his courage to say, ”All I can say is that I never meant any offense. I had only my daughter’s wish in my heart: you see, she asked me to bring her a rose from my journey.”
A daughter? Beast huffed, and it came out as a heavy snarl.
”Please”, the man begged, his chin and white beard quivering. ”Please, do not kill me, my lord.”
”I am no lord”, Beast huffed again, and he started to move, to circle the man. There was nothing he could do: the man was afraid of him. This was why he had always left the inside of the castle, every time someone came. But at the same time, there was a sick relief in seeing the reaction, some kind of satisfaction. Someone else loathed him too. The man was still on his knees, though they must have hurt on the cold paving. He was too scared to move even though Beast had moved behind his back. Beast could see he had tightly shut his eyes, he was shaking.
”Get up”, Beast snarled. He watched the man thrust himself up with difficulty. ”You say you have a daughter who asked for this?”
”I have three daughters and three sons, my lo-” he interrupted himself abruptly.
”Then you have two options, thief: either you shall suffer a death sentence in my castle, or you shall send your daughter here to take your place, the offender who asked for the rose. If she takes your place”, Beast continued before the man could say anything. ”You can have a week together. If she will not, you must return after the week.”
Now he was quiet, before he bowed his head.
”Swear it”, Beast growled, stepping closer.
”I swear, upon- on my children’s life”, he stammered out, and Beast thought, what an easy prey he was. He could try to get out of the oath, maybe bring other villagers to stop him (let them come), but he had sworn on the lives of his children. That part was binding.
The thief’s face had gone white, but he was resolute.
”Go then”, Beast said. ”Go!”
Shakily, with erring movements, he fumbled towards his horse, dropping the rose.
”No. Take it with you”, Beast growled. So the man turned back, once more, picked it up, before galloping out of the garden, with such haste as if fire was on his tail.
Beast returned to his empty castle, dizzy with what he had done. Where had he come up with it? Never before had he approached any of his guests, though he was sure one or few had stolen things, candlesticks, golden buttons or silver forks. It was the rose that had enraged him. The one thing that had remained untouched, from the moment the enchantress had left, until now. They were her roses. The least he could do, to repent, would be to look after them, look over them. He had made his mistake, but this was the small thing he could do to try and mend it.
The man would bring all the village with him, it was to be expected. Either that, or he would come back himself - he would not sacrifice his daughter, that was clear. And Beast hoped it would be the first. He could not starve himself, but perhaps the villagers would bring their pitchforks. He would greet them gladly. He would welcome their weapons.
He roamed the castle halls, roamed and waited - for what? He didn’t know, because surely he didn’t believe anyone would love him. No, he didn’t believe it - he didn’t believe anything, he didn’t expect or dream anything. There was only now, the present, in which there was nothing else to do but to wait. No one to converse with, except his own thoughts, which quieted down, too, as the years passed. Nothing, nothing, except this hollow house, his hollow chest. Living, breathing. Eating, sleeping. No matter how much he starved himself he could not die, only suffer, and then again there was always food on the table.
Sometimes, early on, he wondered what had become of her. The enchantress - her name escaped him as well, if he had ever known her by any other name. Had she moved on? Had she married? Had she found someone to love her like he should have? The answer was: of course she had. She had ran into the next, safe kingdom, had appeared weak in front of their king, had wept that a terrible monster had eaten the poor young prince in the abandoned castle. No, no, it could not be killed, for if the enchantress had lost against it, who could kill it? And besides, there was a war raging - no one had any troops to spare. She had been given a safe haven, and before long, she was married to the old king, just as she wanted - while he was left roaming, something she had wanted, too.
Time was a tricky thing. At first he had counted the days, teared lines into his bedroom walls to mark their passing. He steered clear of some parts of the castle - the east wing, the library, to save some of what had been. Mostly because he could not bear to go there, to see the books he had read and loved, to see the grand piano. The piano in the great hall was nearly dust, keys made of ivory shattered to sharp pieces, wood ripped apart. Sheets of music littered the black and white tiled floor. Someone - something had started to clear the mess away, but he had roared and made the mess again, and so it stayed.
Now, who knew how many years had passed? He couldn’t remember. Most of the time, there was no past either, only present. A forest had grown outside the castle, so it must’ve been years and years. Once or twice, some human found their way to his garden, to his castle. He heard them from far away, heard them creak open the gates, which had lost their gold in flecks and revealed the black metal underneath. Some of them came inside, and when that happened he climbed out his bedroom window and clawed his way to the roof. Hello? he could hear them hollering in the hall, trying in vain to address their elusive host. They always found their way to the dining room, rested for some time and left content. At first it was cold comfort for him, for at least he knew that even though his mind faded, his anger was not directed at others; then, after years, escaping away was just a habit.
The roses were the only thing glowing in the dark, better than the dull snow that always covered the grounds. They became a fixation for him: he spent hours watching them, never touching, only watching. There were memories that had to do with the roses, though some of them he couldn’t remember, and some of them he wanted to forget. The enchantress had loved the roses. Maybe that was why she had left them, only them as points of colour in the dark.
One day, he could hear the horse whinnying before he heard the gate. An old man on his horse; they galloped into the garden with wolves on their heels. The wolves knew better than to come inside, and they stopped and growled, but went away. The man didn’t take a hint.
He did the same as others: came inside, tried to call after him, ate, rested for the night, although he was more talkative than most, talking to the shadows and darkness, mostly in gratitude. After waking up, the man went to fetch his horse and made his leave - but then, nearly at the gates again, he stopped.
He unmounted his horse and came back, making his way through the garden - unaware of the eyes watching him from the roof, far away. He slowly got to his knees in front of the rose bushes, raised his hand, and plucked one, lush rose.
Immediately the beast jumped down from above, felt his joints ache from the impact, but he didn’t stop, he rushed to the small figure of a man. The voice that came out was such a low rumble that it truly resembeled more a growl than a human voice.
”How dare you steal from me, after I have helped and fed you?” The words were strange on his tongue, which was stiff from unuse, rigidly spoken past the massive fangs on their way.
”Forgive me, my lord”, the man whimpered, completely shaking and taken by fear. The rose, with a single dew drop on it, was still in his fist. Beast was taken aback: he had never before addressed anyone how he was. There was a touch of shame, somewhere, to look like this, though there was no other way to look, anymore. He bared his teeth from the tinge of emotion, and saw the rest of the colour escape the man’s face.
”The roses are what I value most: how do you defend your unforgivable actions, thief?” the beast said, this time choosing his words and tone more carefully - but truly, the change was not apparent to anyone but him, since his voice still thundered from deep within his chest.
”I cannot defend them”, the old man gathered his courage to say, ”All I can say is that I never meant any offense. I had only my daughter’s wish in my heart: you see, she asked me to bring her a rose from my journey.”
A daughter? Beast huffed, and it came out as a heavy snarl.
”Please”, the man begged, his chin and white beard quivering. ”Please, do not kill me, my lord.”
”I am no lord”, Beast huffed again, and he started to move, to circle the man. There was nothing he could do: the man was afraid of him. This was why he had always left the inside of the castle, every time someone came. But at the same time, there was a sick relief in seeing the reaction, some kind of satisfaction. Someone else loathed him too. The man was still on his knees, though they must have hurt on the cold paving. He was too scared to move even though Beast had moved behind his back. Beast could see he had tightly shut his eyes, he was shaking.
”Get up”, Beast snarled. He watched the man thrust himself up with difficulty. ”You say you have a daughter who asked for this?”
”I have three daughters and three sons, my lo-” he interrupted himself abruptly.
”Then you have two options, thief: either you shall suffer a death sentence in my castle, or you shall send your daughter here to take your place, the offender who asked for the rose. If she takes your place”, Beast continued before the man could say anything. ”You can have a week together. If she will not, you must return after the week.”
Now he was quiet, before he bowed his head.
”Swear it”, Beast growled, stepping closer.
”I swear, upon- on my children’s life”, he stammered out, and Beast thought, what an easy prey he was. He could try to get out of the oath, maybe bring other villagers to stop him (let them come), but he had sworn on the lives of his children. That part was binding.
The thief’s face had gone white, but he was resolute.
”Go then”, Beast said. ”Go!”
Shakily, with erring movements, he fumbled towards his horse, dropping the rose.
”No. Take it with you”, Beast growled. So the man turned back, once more, picked it up, before galloping out of the garden, with such haste as if fire was on his tail.
Beast returned to his empty castle, dizzy with what he had done. Where had he come up with it? Never before had he approached any of his guests, though he was sure one or few had stolen things, candlesticks, golden buttons or silver forks. It was the rose that had enraged him. The one thing that had remained untouched, from the moment the enchantress had left, until now. They were her roses. The least he could do, to repent, would be to look after them, look over them. He had made his mistake, but this was the small thing he could do to try and mend it.
The man would bring all the village with him, it was to be expected. Either that, or he would come back himself - he would not sacrifice his daughter, that was clear. And Beast hoped it would be the first. He could not starve himself, but perhaps the villagers would bring their pitchforks. He would greet them gladly. He would welcome their weapons.