Fic: Tale as Old as Time, Part 1
Title: Tale as Old as Time, Part 1
Pairing: Pinto, for ontd_pinto 's fairytale week
Rating: This part, PG-13, rising to NC-17 next part. And how
Word count: 8000
Summary: VERY AU - Chris is a lowly farm boy, living life in the shadow of the castle of the Beast. Basically your usual Beauty and the Beast story, only an RPS version \o/ hope to update with Part 2 later tonight if life permits
Thanks to: illname_me_joan for epic ZQ hairkink spam on dailyzqphoto as furspiration.
We all know about the beast. Troublesome children are warned that the beast will eat their toes if they don't go to bed on time, or that he'll hunt you down and shred the skin from your bones if you wander too far into the forest. Even the first time I dared ask a girl's father if I could walk with her to the village dance, he frowned and reminded me that the beast's always watching, protecting the virtue of the village girls with tooth and claw, like the baker's aunt's second cousin's boy, who disappeared leaving only one shoe and a handful of pennies behind the night after he failed to restrain his baser nature. The beast only allows himself to be truly wild, they tell us. The rest of us look up to his gray, cloud-shrouded castle high on the hilltop and know we're here to serve him, by keeping his fields fertile and productive, his herds fat and clean.
Nobody really remembers how long the beast has ruled the valley. Generations, certainly, which can't be possible and the younger ones in the village, myself included, figure that the beast must be just one in a family line. Who knows what really goes on up there? His black-draped carriages rage up and down the rocky hill road back and forth to the village in the dead of night every two weeks, something we're so accustomed to, we barely even hear the clattering of horses' hooves, the low voices of the two shaven-headed hulks who work as his current manservants. If that's what they are, nobody ever dares ask.
One of them could even be the beast, for all we know. We fill the two carriages to overflowing with the best of everything, the darkest beef, the clearest ale, the freshest eggs and loaf after loaf of the baker's rye bread. Apples shined to a mirrorlike gleam, peaches that hold enough juice each to fill a cup to overflowing. Sometimes on a windy night you'll hear the carriages leaving the castle and taking a different road, down beyond the valley into the next. We'll wake, on those nights, not realizing why but aware something is different. Everything always comes back to the beast, in this place. But we know next to nothing about him. Not even what he's supposed to look like. Not even his name.
“Christopher, you're daydreaming again. You in there? You're miles away.”
“Can you blame me? Benjamin's lame again so I've been staring at Elsbeth's butt for the last two hours.”
“Aww. She has a cute butt.”
“Not as cute as yours. Zo, when are you going to dump that loser and come out with me?”
Zoe pulls a face at me, reaching up to stroke over Elsbeth's wheat-colored withers, scratching a little over the tufted head before running her finger up one long horn, lifting an eyebrow suggestively at me while she does it.
“Grow a horn half as impressive as one of Elsbeth's and I'll think about it.”
“I'm getting there as we speak, sweetheart.”
Her sudden, shocked laugh surprises Elsbeth, who quits chewing for one second with a surprised snort so I tickle over her back with my stick, shushing her as she whisks at me with her raggy, shit-matted tail. I get up, haul six bales of hay down to go stack them in Zoe's father's stables, collecting Bruce's three dollars off her and stuffing it in my pocket as I climb back up into the cart, dizzy with the heat and work.
“I'm serious. What's he got that I haven't? I'm charming. I'm cute. I have two pairs of boots.”
She tucks her skirts up to avoid the steaming stream of piss Elsbeth's unloosing in front of her, gives me a considered look before answering.
“Karl's got a bed, Chris. In a bedroom. Not just a cot in a barn.”
“My cot's pretty cozy for two on a cold winter's night. And it's not a barn, it's a shed. I fixed it up, too.”
“But here we are, the height of summer, not a snowflake in sight, so a cozy winter cot is no good to me. Go back to your barn, farm boy.”
“I'll see you at the dance tonight. Save me one?”
“Perhaps. If you wash, you stink like a goathouse.”
I managed to persuade Elsbeth to take a break on the long route back to Bruce's farm, jumping down from the moving cart to gather an armful of the stinking yellow wildflowers I know she loves, dumping them in front of her, giving me long enough to strip out of my sweat-soaked shirt and boots. I take a look around, the wind light in the trees surrounding this portion of the small river that runs along the valley's flat plains, narrowing to a rushing, foaming creek in some parts but here widening out into a natural pool, clear, green water that I know will carry more than a hint of the snow that still lingers on the hill's summit. The only sounds are Elsbeth's contented chewing, the leaves skittering in the breeze, a low hooting bird call. Nobody for miles. I strip out of my pants, kicking them off into the pile with my shirt and boots, and run naked into the icy water with a shout as the cold burns my skin briefly.
But, oh yeah, what bliss, once the cold becomes more welcoming. Bruce doesn't give me time off for shit like this and it's not like I have days off to come down and swim when the summer's high, but Benjamin being lame means I can blame any delay on Elsbeth's slow tread. Even Bruce can't expect me to make a cow pull a cart fast, no matter how much I poke at her with my stick. So I swim for long minutes, feeling the sweat and grime and dust of too many weeks with nothing more than a quick morning wash in the courtyard trough slowly melting away from my skin and hair. Roll over to float on my back, dick raised across my stomach to the tree-filtered skies above before I dive down to the bottom, pushing off the smooth, slick stones at the bottom and kicking my way back up to burst through the surface with a laugh.
I'm floating once more, knowing I have to get out and get back on the cart in my musty old clothes but I can't bear to force myself to get out just yet, even though the cold's making my skin ache. But there's a sudden explosion of noise and movement as a bunch of squawking, chattering birds take to the wing from the surrounding trees and I pull my feet down, curling my toes in the gritty sand of the riverbed shallows as I look around. Something's spooked the wildlife, even Elsbeth's stopped chewing for the second time today, looking around her with that confused air that cows manage so well. But wolves don't come down into the valley this far, especially not in the summer when prey's plentiful on the hillsides, so there's nothing to worry about. The skin between my shoulder blades itches as I pull my shirt on, as if something's watching me, but it's just how the cotton clings to my wet skin. I pluck at it in distaste, knowing that the blazing sun burning through my shirt and hat already will have dried everything and covered me in yet another layer of sweat by the time I get back to Bruce's place.
-
The walk back to the farm from the village dance takes so long that the moon shifts in the sky, almost full tonight, lighting my way although I could find my way back blindfolded if I needed to. The air's fresher now, a touch of wind coming down from the frozen lands to the north east of the valley and it gusts around me, playing with my hair and chasing the last of the ale out of my veins as I go. A good evening, dances with three pretty girls, grabbing Zoe's butt after my sixth drink and Karl almost lays me out with a right hook because of it. Just as well he's my best friend or I'd think he was a total dick for blacking my eye just because I felt up his girl. He shouldn't have picked the prettiest one in the village if he didn't want the rest of us trying to replace him.
My eye's throbbing a little, nothing too bad and it'll make Bruce laugh. I pick up my pace as I get closer, muscles aching from another hard day and not enough rest now as I'll probably have to be up in two or three hours, with the dawn as ever. But as I turn the corner around the black copse of pines that blot out the moonlight, I notice a light still on somewhere on the farm. The house, as I grow closer, which can't be good. Bruce is never awake this late unless it's because he's been drinking too much wine and feels the need to take the sins of his long-gone wife out on my ass once more. Not that I'm complaining, so much, as I'll usually get a good drink and a fuck out of it, at least. But I'm tired tonight and my head's sore, my eye stinging a little.
“What the fuck is this?”
I halt in my tracks, my voice loud even above the gusting winds but this couldn't be more surprising, more shocking, if I'm seeing this right. As I grow closer to the farm house, my skin bumping with a sudden chill as I become sure that it's what I thought, one of the beast's black carriages outside the house, the two snorting, gleaming horses at its head held firm by one of the big, bald men. He looks at me up and down in the dim light spilling from the farm house window as I draw nearer but, hell, I'm used to the villagers looking me over like a piece of dried horse shit so what do I care if this guy does it? Besides, I'm too freaked out about what's going on. Is the beast here? Himself? What does he want with Bruce? Energy shoots around my body, questions muddling my mind with their sheer number.
“You're to go in.”
“Huh?”
Musclehead nods in the direction of the door.
“Your man, there. He needs you.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.”
I practically inch across the doorway, looking around corners. I know it's stupid but I've heard about the beast my whole fucking life and it feels like he's going to spring out at me and, I don't know. Eat my toes? Shred the skin from my bones? But Bruce is sitting by himself at the stove, gazing into the glowing embers, fingers wrapped around the neck of a half-full bottle of wine, his eyes still fairly clear when they rise up to meet mine so it must be his first of the night.
“I always thought it might happen. Well, once you turned 13, anyway, growing into your face the way you did. Pity, really.”
“What would happen? What's going on, what's that - his, the coach, what's it doing outside?”
“I know I keep on at you. I know I've probably beaten you one too many times. Had to keep you in line, your old man said you were a terror before he left and that I should keep you under control. I know I've been tough but, hell, I'll miss you. You're a good worker. Such a shame, it is but, I could've seen this coming.”
“Seen what coming? Bruce, you're not making sense.”
He takes another long swig of wine, his throat moving as he swallows gulp after gulp.
“And you're the first that didn't mind . . . when I get lonely. Liked it, even, if I wasn't mistaken. Sometimes, anyway.”
“It was okay. You're okay, you're not such a bad boss.”
But he starts blinking rapidly, over and over, a tear trickling from one corner of his eye in the lamplight as he drains more of the bottle, obviously intent on falling face first either into the mattress or me.
“Not your boss any more. See, this is what happens, the older ones all know about it but they never talk about it so we can never be sure. But it's been a long time, a long, long time, since before, when I was a boy. He takes a fancy to the prettiest lad hereabouts and lays claim to him. Usually pays the family off but, as you're without family, he's taking you. Nothing to me, no compensation for losing a worker a month before harvest. Maybe the last lad finally died or something. Old age.”
“Bruce, you're not making much sense.”
His eyes screwed tight shut then focus on mine once more with frightening intensity.
“You're not to work for me any more, lad. That's why his coach is outside. You belong to the beast now.”
-
My first impulse is to run. I don't know where to, I don't know how as I have no mount, nothing but two pairs of boots to walk me out of the valley to somewhere the beast can't find me. But I'm too slow, too weak, one man alone against his manservants and his thundering coaches. I'm not even a freeman, indentured to Bruce after my dad sold my labors to him so, if Bruce says that's where I'm to go, it's impossible to find a single soul in the valley who'd argue otherwise. And nobody would dare anger the beast over some rough and dusty farm boy. Nobody would dare hide me, not even Karl, and I wouldn't, couldn't ask him to. So I rub my fingers through Bruce's hair and thank him for his few kindnesses, then take a lamp out to my shed with a nod to the man holding the horses. Stand and look over my cot, the small stool next to it that serves as a table, looking to see if there's a single possession I wish to take with me. All I see is my spare boots, my work overalls, my winter jacket with holes in the elbows, my mother's wedding ring and a book of old folk tales missing half its pages. I snag the ring on its cord from my bedpost and hang it about my neck, keeping on my better boots that I'd worn to the dance, deciding to leave everything else.
Back to the carriage, holding out a hand to one of the horses who tries to take a lightning fast bite out of my fingers before I dodge out the way.
“Hey! Watch it, you stinker. Yeah, I'm talking to you.”
Grinning as I smooth a hand over his muscled, corded neck and he stamps his feet, shakes his head at me, a squeal of annoyance when I dance out the way of his darting mouth once more.
“This one's a right bugger, he'll have your hand off if he doesn't know you. And stop winding his nerves up, he's almost got my arm out the socket as it is. We're late, get in.”
I eye the door nervously, shifting in my boots foot to foot. Last chance to run.
“The carriage? Is he -”
“No. You'll travel alone.”
I must've fallen asleep, it's the only explanation for the small square of sky out the carriage window being so light, touched with pink and yellow as dawn's approaching. But, comfy as the dark green cushioned seats of this carriage are, the mountain roads are rocky and I feel every single stone and rut like a hammer pounding up the length of my spine, my teeth about to rattle out of my head. How I'd sleep through a full hour of it is beyond me, the fear building in my gut, down in my bones, it seems impossible that I'd manage any rest but here we are, well over an hour's journey without my noticing. We're taught to stay away from the castle from birth and, now, here it is, looming large and black against the lightening sky, a few towering windows lit from within, patterns of color within the glass itself. The tallest towers are swathed in cloud as usual, the air fresher up here so close to the snowy summit. Another hot thread of fear threads through me as I jut out my chin and try to calm myself. No sense losing my nerve. At least until, y'know, he's actually feasting on me or whatever the hell's likely to happen.
It's like some madman designed this place specifically to be terrifying. Gargoyles at ever angle of the roof leer down at me, jagged, heavy stonework that looks centuries old. The low rumble of chains as the gates open almost magically it seems, drawing us deep into the inescapable embrace of the castle's walls. As the gates close behind me, it seems hope is slipping away, that I'm doomed without choice or chance of rescue. A grim outlook, I know but I'm flagging with the lack of a night's sleep despite the hour's rest and my usual sunny outlook seems far away as the cold air starts to bite at me through my thin shirt. A clatter of hooves on flagstones, an exclamation from above and the coach halts, the door opened for me by the other manservant, no smile of welcome, barely even an acknowledgment in the low order for me to Get out, you've kept him waiting long enough.
Every corner seems fraught with danger as we move through the dark grand hallway, sweeping staircases disappearing in every direction it seems, the low ticking of a huge clock echoing our footsteps and the speeding pulse of my heart. I follow the manservant deeper in through fine rooms where dawn's low light gently illuminates sumptuous furnishings and ornate decorations of a kind I've never seen before, that I'd never have believed existed. A simple chair here, picked out in gold and with leaves and berries carved deeply into the shining wood, the cushioning purple, very soft and deeply buttoned. A painting as big as the side of my shed over a fireplace that could fit six people into it, tiled with little depictions of fruits and fat children. And food everywhere, bowls of fresh fruit, grapes spilling from earthenware so fine that the low light gleams through it. My stomach gurgles loudly in the quiet house and I flush, clear my throat to cover it and how stupidly, coarsely impressed I am with the wealth and refinement around me. If I am to end my days here, well, I could pick worse prisons.
A smaller room here, less fine but more comfortable for it, perhaps, a few deeply stuffed chairs, one of which the manservant pushes me down into, a lamp spilling a circle of light at my elbow, throwing the rest of the room into darkness in contrast.
“Sit. He'll speak with you when he's ready. Call him Sir. I'm Matteo, the other guy is Luke. If you see us around and need anything, just ask. Otherwise, you're home now. Choose whatever bedchamber you wish, there's plenty. Eat what you wish. Do as you're told. Simple enough.”
“I'm Chris.”
“We know who you are.”
His voice isn't unkindly, a heavy pat on my shoulder, a hand laid flat on top of my head and he leaves, the door closing behind him with a heavy click.
Quiet settles around me and I become aware of a smaller clock counting the seconds in hushed ticking. The soft call of an owl outside the windows, which are heavily draped, allowing no light. The beating of my heart, rushing still, too fast making me feel breathless and nervy. I take a few long, slow breaths to calm myself, looking around me, every instinct screaming to get out of the room, to get away. Then I hear it, or perhaps simply sense it, coming from the corner of the room, a chair shrouded in complete night. The low, steady whisper of someone or something breathing, the sense of a great creature, some predator watching me and my skin crawls with the return of fear, my mouth suddenly dry. He's been here all along, watching me. He's over there, and I squint my eyes, trying to make out a figure but the light of the lamp so close prevents me seeing a thing. The depth of the breathing, the great intake of air into huge, monstrous lungs and I curl my toes in my boots, ridiculously scared that he'll chew them right off my feet.
Should I speak? Should I wait? I was instructed to do as I'm told, and nobody's said to introduce myself but who knows if the beast can even talk? I bite my lip, frowning in fright, fingers clutching the arms of my chair tight. Is it asleep? The breathing is so slow and steady, a husk now and then that could almost be a snore. Or, perhaps, that there's great bloodied teeth getting in the way of the escaping air. I fight the urge to cross myself, ridiculous considering I've not been inside a church since my father left. I dig inside my shirt instead, wrap my fingers around my mother's ring, needing something, a talisman to ground me, to give me some strength.
“What is that? The little thing you're clutching at.”
The voice, god, I near jump out of my chair with the suddenness of it. It's the voice of a monster, some hideous thing, so low and rumbling that it's like thunder rolling around the valley. It seems like I stutter for a whole minute out of terror before I can spit out a single sentence.
“M-m-my mother's w-wedding ring, sir.”
A low snort, a malignant, resounding depth to it. Whatever this thing is, this beast, it's big. Huge. Fucking enormous, bigger even than Benjamin, Bruce's towering carthorse. I cower back in my chair as I sense silent movement in his corner of the room now.
“And, tell me, what do you clutch it for? What do you imagine I intend to do with you, that you're in need of such sentimental protection?”
“I don't imagine, sir. I can't, I don't -” Balls. There's only so long your body and mind can sustain fear until it starts to grow used to it, step by step. I let loose the ring, force my shoulders to relax. “I don't know what you want to do with me. Haven't the slightest clue. Whatever the fuck you want, if we're going to be honest.”
Is that a laugh? I cower from it a little because, shit, that's a whole heap of terrifying, toothy-sounding growls coming from his corner, but that could be a laugh. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch up in automatic response.
“You could be right. What I plan to do with you remains to be seen. You'll serve me in some fashion but if you're able to . . . Your days are your own. I understand you're able to read, I have a large library so make use of it. Clothing and food will be provided. We'll meet here each evening and we'll talk.”
“That's it?”
“What did you expect? Be honest.”
“Uh, shredding of skin from bone and you eating my toes and, fuck, I don't know. You must know what we say, about you, down in the village.”
A sudden gust of warm breath fans my face, scented with some kind of wine and something spicy. A sigh, maybe, massive.
“Ah yes, the village. There will be no eating of toes. At least, not until we know each other a little better.”
Oh. There it is, a hint of humor in the velvet voice but it's sending me a message. He does intend to use me, there's a tacit understanding in the sentence hanging in the dark air between us. I nod, hang my head. Something so big, so hideous, I'll never survive it. No matter how beautiful the castle, how fine my prison, it still looks like I'm fucked whichever way I look at it. My nose burns with sudden, helpless tears but I'm not going to cry like a whining girl. I set my jaw and accept my fate with one more tight nod.
“No toe eating till later. Got it. Glad to hear it, I'm a little attached to them.”
Definitely a laugh this time, albeit one that sounds like it's coming from the jaws of certain, painful death.
“The sun's coming up, I must sleep. The light is not . . . You won't see me during the day. I'll meet you this evening.”
“Oh. Yeah, okay then. Good night, sir.”
The sounds of a huge, heavy frame leaving a protesting chair but then, nothing, no heavy footfalls, barely even the movement of air. He's simply disappeared into the dark. A chill goes through me, an understanding that I was correct, he's a great predator like the beasts from my mother's books when I was a child. You'll never hear him coming, not until his jaws are clamped around your neck shaking the life out of you.
I fall into the first bed I find up the great staircase, not bothering to strip out of my clothes, head and heart too clouded with emotion and exhaustion. I think of the village, of Bruce's farm, how I'd already be hard at work tending the animals, milking the cows and stealing a cup for myself, turning them out before heading to the fields once more, riding Benjamin's broad back rather than sitting in the cart, the morning sun already beating down on my head. Think of Karl and Zoe, wondering if they'll miss me at all or if perhaps everyone's just well-rid of the fatherless farm boy with a too-smart mouth. The bed's so soft compared with my cot, the bedding sewn from a fabric so fine I've never seen or felt its like before. I rub my face into it like a barn cat wrapping itself around someone's legs and proceed to sleep like I'm dead.
-
“Holy shit! Fuck! God, fuck, that's. Fuck.”
God. Is that me? It's been so long since I've seen anything my reflection in anything other than a pool of water. I'm already pretty much freaked all to hell with the idea that I have to piss and, I'm guessing, shit indoors, this little room attached to the bedchamber I seem to have chosen designed to take care of my bodily needs. A deep bath tub, an indoor water trough and what's got to be the fanciest outhouse shitter in the whole world in here, made in finer pottery than the nicest dishes I've ever seen. But you can't mistake it for what it is so I pull my dick out my pants and start to have the most elegantly-appointed piss I've ever had. I'm halfway through emptying a full bladder when I catch sight of myself by accident in the looking glass and scare myself to crapping point. I tuck myself back in and go over for a look, gazing at myself, rubbing my fingers across my grubby, bruised face. Oh yeah, Karl, I'd forgotten the punch last night over Zoe, the skin not split but purpled in places, a little tender. But my face - it's hardly me. I was a kid last time I saw myself like this, at my grandfather's house that I barely remember.
Weird, I'm an adult. A true adult, a man, no question about it. Rough as shit, too, tufty too-long hair not cut since shearing season, a scrubby two-week beard that itches as I look at it. Perhaps there will be a razor somewhere, some soap, something to hack my hair back with. Maybe I'll have a soak later, the idea of a bath tub of hot water a luxury I thought I'd long given up since I was a child. Hell, if my days are numbered, I suppose I might as well spend them as pleasurably as I can. My mind is chomping at the bit to find escape, to spend the day hunting for an exit route, planning my survival but, deep down, I'm sure there's no chance of it. Then my stomach growls angrily, reminding me I've not eaten since a slice of egg and bacon pie at the dance last night and, from the sun pouring through the windows now, it's late in the day.
Heaven. I'm already dead, the beast killed me last night and some celestial error's landed me in the wrong afterlife. The kitchen is the size of Bruce's barn, the larder bigger than my shed and every counter groans with food. I haven't even finished looking at it all before my hands reach out to grab some little tart things, cramming them into my mouth one by one. Tear the leg off a cold roast chicken and rip off a chunk of flesh with my teeth to chew as I dig through for whatever else I'm going to eat next. I gorge myself until my belly sticks out and aches, finishing a hunk of cheese and a golden pear that's just about the size of my head, washing it down with water that's untainted by horse trough for once. Maybe he wants me fat for when he intends to fuck me to death and eat my corpse, I don't know but it's going to happen if I've got this at my fingertips all day. I've got some way to go, knowing I'm a little too ribby and ropey for the likes of most people so I grab a flaky pork pie, the other chicken leg, a wobbling slice of cake and two apples on a tray to take on my explorations with me. Perhaps I should just set up a bed in here and be done with it, try to eat myself to death. I think I could manage it.
The castle's huge and seems deserted except I keep getting the impression that every room I walk into has just been exited by someone else. Not him, I think he must sleep during the day, like the sun's bad for him or something. A nocturnal beast like a fox, only a hundred times bigger and more terrifying. But there must be servants somewhere like this as everything's spotless, not a mote of dust in the air. I'm scared to touch anything, still all grubby and now with a layer of chicken grease on my fingers. I wander the rooms for two hours and don't have to backtrack once, sure that there's ever more to see. Pick out a bigger, more elaborate bedchamber from the twenty different ones alone that I find, choosing one that must've been made for a prince or something as the bed's so high I have to use a little step thing to climb up into it to test it for softness. I gaze out the windows over the valley to the village, little streams of smoke already lifting from stoves across the place as wives begin to bake the next morning's bread. I don't know if I miss it, yet. I was never truly a part of that place.
When I get out of the bath tub, smooth-chinned and skin shining with a thin sheen of rosemary-scented oil, the closets of the room I've chosen have been filled with clothes, fine cloths and cuts but nothing fancy or showy, good, simple work clothes that fit like they were made for me, new shoes that are soft, suited for a life indoors rather than my heavy farm boots that have vanished along with my old clothes. How long was I in the tub, anyway? Is this place enchanted? Like all the younger guys in the village, I don't believe in that sort of stuff but, hell, I'm fucked if I can think up a better explanation. An enchanted prison, waiting a beastly executioner who wants me to read through his library before rutting me into an early grave. Looks like things are getting interesting.
-
“I see you've bathed.”
“Jesus! Fuck, you scared the crap out of me.”
“I tend to have that effect on people.”
“Here's a tip, try not sneaking up on them like that. Shit.”
I place a hand over my racing heart, narrowing my eyes to look into his corner but, yet again, I can't see a single thing, the lamp at my elbow shielding him from sight. His voice is lower, more frightful than I remembered, the controlled roar of a mountain bear or worse.
“I'll keep that in mind. I'd probably scare you more if I simply walked into the room in full vision.”
“Well, if you're planning to keep skulking around in the shadows like that, I guess we'll never know.”
A snort of laughter carrying the same gust of warm, scented breath across the room in my direction. He has got to be huge, no question of it. My ass winces in certain dread.
“I've been accused of many things in my lifetime, but skulking's never been one of them.”
“I like to think my opinions tend to towards the unique.”
“You know, I can quite believe it, even on such a short acquaintance.”
“Hey.” I glare over at his dark corner. “I'm offended.”
“You shouldn't be. You've eaten?”
Strange how easy it is to talk with him even though the fear and urge to run is still pumping through my veins hard with every frantic heartbeat. Is it possible to ever relax with the instrument of your own, painful, probably agonizing death making small talk across a dark room? But it feels oddly like talking with a friend. I curl my fingers around my wine cup, take a drink, marveling at the taste. If I'd known wine like this existed I'd never have developed a taste for the warm, cloudy pigswill that passes for ale down below.
“I've stuffed myself stupid till I nearly puked it back up again. I swear, there's more food in that kitchen than I've eaten my entire life. I wasn't sure if I should save anything for you or if there was anything meant for you in particular . . .”
“No, you eat what you want.”
“I'll get fat.”
“Doesn't matter.”
All the better to bake you into a big, fatty Chris pot pie, maybe. Curiosity overcomes the fear, I want to see him, look him in the eye and know what my end's going to be because waiting is driving me crazy, the stuff my mind is imagining him as perhaps a hundred times worse than he could possibly ever be. I get to my feet, gripping my cup in front of me like a shield and take a step in his direction.
A rising growl makes every hair on my body stand on end.
“What do you think you're doing?”
“I'm never going to be allowed to see you? I've heard of keeping the lamp low but this is ridiculous.”
“You're to do as you're told, Matteo told you clearly.”
Another step towards him, clutching at my wine.
“Get back!”
The blast of noise that is his roar hits me like a clap of thunder in an unexpected summer storm, loud and utterly ferocious and I whimper, drop my cup and leap into my chair like a woman frightened by a mouse.
“Jesus! Okay, okay! Christ alive, no need to take my damn head off! I'll keep away till I'm told.”
Those massive lungs drawing air in through, god, teeth, big, jaggedy teeth, I swear I can hear it whistling around in there, perhaps making the remaining morsels of his former companion flutter where they hang twisted between his three-inch fangs.
“I'm not ready for you to see me. Not yet.”
“I got that impression from the ringing in my ears, thanks.”
“That you didn't flee the room says . . . something. Wish I could say what.”
“That I'm a nosy bastard who has no concept of exactly what's waiting for me over your side of the room?”
He chuckles and it sounds like a landslide tearing forests from the hillsides.
“You truly don't. I can promise you that.”
We fall into some strange routine. I sleep until the sun's already beginning to drift downwards towards the horizon, spend the remaining day exploring every nook of this great, grand castle that's never cold, never lonely though I barely see another soul except occasional sightings of the manservants beyond the windows. Just when I think I've mapped every room I'll find one more, a secret passageway from the library through to a bedchamber or steps leading to the tallest tower, bound by heavy iron locks. I run my fingers over them, wondering if this is where he sleeps, press my ear to the doors but they're oak timbers as soaked through with time as much as oil and there's not a peep of sound, much less the rumbling snore of a beast at rest.
I spend most early evenings in the library itself, next to a fire that is always laid for me ready to settle in as I arrive with my customary dish of food, curling into my favorite stuffed leather chair by the window and watching the sunset sparking across the sky, holding a book in my lap that I can't pretend to have looked at beyond two pages. As the yellows and pinks deepen to reds and golds bleeding into the dark blue of the approaching night, I watch lamps lit around the village, all the little houses, little lives below me where I sit. Imagine them looking up at the castle, wondering what fate befell me.
My thoughts always seem to travel in his direction. I find myself looking forward to our, well, whatever you would call them. Talks? Discussions? Dates? Impossible to tell. We never talk of anything much of consequence, never a thing to do with him or his nature. But it's so easy, still, a strange warmth to it as my heart races in my chest, trying to will my body into fleeing the monster much as my mind wishes to linger longer each night. I still don't know his name. I can tell that he's lonely but aren't we all? I try to remind myself that he's my captor and that, whatever he is, he has the power to destroy me in an instant. But I get drawn in by his quiet humor, his tolerance of my big mouth. Hell, he even seems to like that I'm a smart ass and I've become used to his laugh, a warm blanket of approval around my shoulders. I like him. I don't want to but I do.
“Will you tell me something about yourself? You must know everything about me by now. You knew it all before we even spoke.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Your name.”
“You know my name.”
I swing my legs up onto the table, ankles crossed, settle back into my chair with a small dish of chocolates, another vague childhood memory that I intend to enjoy every night now I've discovered a seeming endless supply of them on a small shelf in the larder. “If I knew it, I wouldn't be asking.”
“I'm the Beast.”
“But that's not your name.”
“It is now.”
“Ahh. So you weren't always -”
“Ask me something else.”
“I'll figure it all out one day.”
“Christopher . . .”
The growl is back, a warning sending nerves shivering across my skin as always. He certainly has the lack of patience of a bear, ready to bite my head off in a second if I ever pry too far. But, perversely, he seems to enjoy that it doesn't worry me, not too much. I've had people shouting at me most of my whole life, he's just a little louder than most. Okay, a lot louder. My system's gradually becoming a little more accustomed to sitting in a room with a wild animal of sorts and his sudden displays of brutish aggression cause me less and less fear as the nights go by. I think he likes that. I think he likes it a lot.
“When will you be ready? For me to see you. I don't think I'll be so scared now.”
“I can't say -”
“Because I know you. A little bit, your nature at least. You're like a big hearth cat or something. You just need scratching under the chin and around the ears a bit.”
“You think that's why you were brought here? To tickle my chin?”
“No, I guess not. C'mon, it's weird talking to a corner of a room. Give me something tangible.”
A low sigh that breezes around me like the draft from a cooling fire. “Can I trust you to do as you're told? Of course I can't, look at you.”
“You know, talking to yourself is one of the first signs of madness. I can't remember where I read that. Maybe in one of your books.”
“Here.” A scarf lands in my lap, like the ones the mayor always wore around his collar where the rest of us have a cotton neckerchief tucked in our shirts. It's smooth, that fine, heavy cloth again, golden yellow with thin blue stripes. “Cover your eyes. Do it properly, I can smell deception on your skin and will know if you're able to see.”
“Fine, I promise, I'll do it properly.” I inhale as I bring it up to cover my eyes and there's his scent, warm, the same hint of spice that his breath carries. Wrap the scarf around my eyes, tying it tightly at the back of my head and tugging the fabric until it blots out every speck of light from the lamp. “Done. I can't see for shit.”
I barely feel the air move in front of me before I can sense him there. That's all it is, a sense of this hulking, looming presence over me, a dense mass of something so much bigger than myself as I settle my feet back on the ground, trying to stop my hands from shaking so much as I bring them up, reaching out to touch.
“Fuck! Sorry, I'm a little nervous.”
“I will not harm you. I promise.”
“Not now or not ever? Actually, don't answer that.”
“I've never intended to hurt you. More than you wish to be hurt.”
“There's a loaded statement.” I start to trace my fingertips around the skin of the palm of his hand where he'd reached out and taken mine. It's perhaps twice the size of mine, the skin thick and tough like the pads of a dog's paw, rough areas that my mind immediately imagines skating across my skin and I give an involuntary shiver. He snatches his hand away and retreats with footfalls no heavier than a snowflake landing on the ground.
“Where did you go? Can I take the scarf off?”
“You were . . .” His voice is gruff with emotion. “You touched me and shook with disgust. I don't have much pride left but that which I have -”
“It wasn't disgust! Christ, who knew a great big thing like you could be so goddamn delicate? Come back here.”
“You presume to tell me -”
“Hell yeah, I presume. Get your big and, I'm guessing here, hairy butt back over here and let me have a proper feel of your hands. You're worse than a woman. Am I going to have to tell you how pretty you are when you finally let me see your face?”
A snort of laughter, “Okay, you made your point. Here.”
His two hands engulf mine totally, hotter than my own, stronger, so much controlled power that I'm speechless. Running my fingers up the length of his, bump fingertips across the tips of what feel like claws, each an inch wide, not razor sharp but very definitely lethal if applied with this much strength. Shred the skin from my bones . . .
“Turn your hands over.” Lifting my own as he does so, and I somehow know that it'll be something different when I touch again, his hide, his fur, whatever it is that covers him.
My grandfather's bear-lined winter gloves. Goosedown on raw fingers after a day's hard plucking. My mother's winter hat fashioned of mink from the north east. His fur, his thick, inches-deep pelt is softer than anything I've felt before as my fingers sink in deeper and deeper still across the tops of his hands and I spread my fingers, pressing in as much as I can to try to find his skin. It's impossible, the density of fur so luxurious, so fine, his hands making tiny movements beneath mine as I explore.
“Wow, you'd make someone a really nice coat. I'm guessing at least a couple of someones from the size of your hands.”
“I'm half the size again of a normal man.”
“But not exactly skinny as a scythe handle.”
“No, that I'm not. You seem to be . . .”
“What?”
“Unusually comfortable with speaking with a being who is also covered in fur. Most have -” A deep sigh and the caress of his breath makes me smile. “Most are emphatically not so comfortable with it, put it that way.”
“Eh. Life's been weird, I've developed a tendency to take things in my stride.”
Running my hands up his forearms now and they're thicker than my thighs, muscles bunching and moving under my hands as I stroke through the fur, marveling in its texture, softer than air, than the breath of an angel. Up as far as I can reach and back, tracing the insides of his arms, the fur perhaps even finer there and a rhythmic rumbling sound comes from somewhere above my head, I'm guessing his chest.
“Are you purring?”
“No.”
“You are. You're purring! See. Told you, just a big pussy cat.”
“I am not purring.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. My fingers find the pads of his palm again and his hands close around mine completely, a light squeeze that makes me very aware he could crush my hands into a sticky pulp with barely a thought.
“Enough. The sun's coming up, I need to sleep.”
“Can I take the scarf off yet? Hey, you still there?”
Silence but I'm sure I can still feel him in the room with me. It sparks a recent memory this time, the skin prickling between my shoulders that day at the river, a sense of being watched.
“You can go out in the sun, though, can't you? It was you, that day. Watching me swim. You disturbed the birds.”
A growled whisper so low that I feel it rather than hear it as it grumbles through my body, Yes.
“Is that why I was brought here? Why you chose me?”
“It is.”
“You liked what you saw? That simple, huh?”
“No, it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.” He sounds suddenly sad. “You may take the scarf off. I'm going to bed.”
“Please - tell me your name. If we're going to . . . just tell me.”
An endless pause as I unwrap my scarf, blinking in the lamp light.
“It's Zach. My name is Zach.”
A slight shifting of the air in the room and I can tell he's gone.
Next
Pairing: Pinto, for ontd_pinto 's fairytale week
Rating: This part, PG-13, rising to NC-17 next part. And how
Word count: 8000
Summary: VERY AU - Chris is a lowly farm boy, living life in the shadow of the castle of the Beast. Basically your usual Beauty and the Beast story, only an RPS version \o/ hope to update with Part 2 later tonight if life permits
Thanks to: illname_me_joan for epic ZQ hairkink spam on dailyzqphoto as furspiration.
We all know about the beast. Troublesome children are warned that the beast will eat their toes if they don't go to bed on time, or that he'll hunt you down and shred the skin from your bones if you wander too far into the forest. Even the first time I dared ask a girl's father if I could walk with her to the village dance, he frowned and reminded me that the beast's always watching, protecting the virtue of the village girls with tooth and claw, like the baker's aunt's second cousin's boy, who disappeared leaving only one shoe and a handful of pennies behind the night after he failed to restrain his baser nature. The beast only allows himself to be truly wild, they tell us. The rest of us look up to his gray, cloud-shrouded castle high on the hilltop and know we're here to serve him, by keeping his fields fertile and productive, his herds fat and clean.
Nobody really remembers how long the beast has ruled the valley. Generations, certainly, which can't be possible and the younger ones in the village, myself included, figure that the beast must be just one in a family line. Who knows what really goes on up there? His black-draped carriages rage up and down the rocky hill road back and forth to the village in the dead of night every two weeks, something we're so accustomed to, we barely even hear the clattering of horses' hooves, the low voices of the two shaven-headed hulks who work as his current manservants. If that's what they are, nobody ever dares ask.
One of them could even be the beast, for all we know. We fill the two carriages to overflowing with the best of everything, the darkest beef, the clearest ale, the freshest eggs and loaf after loaf of the baker's rye bread. Apples shined to a mirrorlike gleam, peaches that hold enough juice each to fill a cup to overflowing. Sometimes on a windy night you'll hear the carriages leaving the castle and taking a different road, down beyond the valley into the next. We'll wake, on those nights, not realizing why but aware something is different. Everything always comes back to the beast, in this place. But we know next to nothing about him. Not even what he's supposed to look like. Not even his name.
“Christopher, you're daydreaming again. You in there? You're miles away.”
“Can you blame me? Benjamin's lame again so I've been staring at Elsbeth's butt for the last two hours.”
“Aww. She has a cute butt.”
“Not as cute as yours. Zo, when are you going to dump that loser and come out with me?”
Zoe pulls a face at me, reaching up to stroke over Elsbeth's wheat-colored withers, scratching a little over the tufted head before running her finger up one long horn, lifting an eyebrow suggestively at me while she does it.
“Grow a horn half as impressive as one of Elsbeth's and I'll think about it.”
“I'm getting there as we speak, sweetheart.”
Her sudden, shocked laugh surprises Elsbeth, who quits chewing for one second with a surprised snort so I tickle over her back with my stick, shushing her as she whisks at me with her raggy, shit-matted tail. I get up, haul six bales of hay down to go stack them in Zoe's father's stables, collecting Bruce's three dollars off her and stuffing it in my pocket as I climb back up into the cart, dizzy with the heat and work.
“I'm serious. What's he got that I haven't? I'm charming. I'm cute. I have two pairs of boots.”
She tucks her skirts up to avoid the steaming stream of piss Elsbeth's unloosing in front of her, gives me a considered look before answering.
“Karl's got a bed, Chris. In a bedroom. Not just a cot in a barn.”
“My cot's pretty cozy for two on a cold winter's night. And it's not a barn, it's a shed. I fixed it up, too.”
“But here we are, the height of summer, not a snowflake in sight, so a cozy winter cot is no good to me. Go back to your barn, farm boy.”
“I'll see you at the dance tonight. Save me one?”
“Perhaps. If you wash, you stink like a goathouse.”
I managed to persuade Elsbeth to take a break on the long route back to Bruce's farm, jumping down from the moving cart to gather an armful of the stinking yellow wildflowers I know she loves, dumping them in front of her, giving me long enough to strip out of my sweat-soaked shirt and boots. I take a look around, the wind light in the trees surrounding this portion of the small river that runs along the valley's flat plains, narrowing to a rushing, foaming creek in some parts but here widening out into a natural pool, clear, green water that I know will carry more than a hint of the snow that still lingers on the hill's summit. The only sounds are Elsbeth's contented chewing, the leaves skittering in the breeze, a low hooting bird call. Nobody for miles. I strip out of my pants, kicking them off into the pile with my shirt and boots, and run naked into the icy water with a shout as the cold burns my skin briefly.
But, oh yeah, what bliss, once the cold becomes more welcoming. Bruce doesn't give me time off for shit like this and it's not like I have days off to come down and swim when the summer's high, but Benjamin being lame means I can blame any delay on Elsbeth's slow tread. Even Bruce can't expect me to make a cow pull a cart fast, no matter how much I poke at her with my stick. So I swim for long minutes, feeling the sweat and grime and dust of too many weeks with nothing more than a quick morning wash in the courtyard trough slowly melting away from my skin and hair. Roll over to float on my back, dick raised across my stomach to the tree-filtered skies above before I dive down to the bottom, pushing off the smooth, slick stones at the bottom and kicking my way back up to burst through the surface with a laugh.
I'm floating once more, knowing I have to get out and get back on the cart in my musty old clothes but I can't bear to force myself to get out just yet, even though the cold's making my skin ache. But there's a sudden explosion of noise and movement as a bunch of squawking, chattering birds take to the wing from the surrounding trees and I pull my feet down, curling my toes in the gritty sand of the riverbed shallows as I look around. Something's spooked the wildlife, even Elsbeth's stopped chewing for the second time today, looking around her with that confused air that cows manage so well. But wolves don't come down into the valley this far, especially not in the summer when prey's plentiful on the hillsides, so there's nothing to worry about. The skin between my shoulder blades itches as I pull my shirt on, as if something's watching me, but it's just how the cotton clings to my wet skin. I pluck at it in distaste, knowing that the blazing sun burning through my shirt and hat already will have dried everything and covered me in yet another layer of sweat by the time I get back to Bruce's place.
-
The walk back to the farm from the village dance takes so long that the moon shifts in the sky, almost full tonight, lighting my way although I could find my way back blindfolded if I needed to. The air's fresher now, a touch of wind coming down from the frozen lands to the north east of the valley and it gusts around me, playing with my hair and chasing the last of the ale out of my veins as I go. A good evening, dances with three pretty girls, grabbing Zoe's butt after my sixth drink and Karl almost lays me out with a right hook because of it. Just as well he's my best friend or I'd think he was a total dick for blacking my eye just because I felt up his girl. He shouldn't have picked the prettiest one in the village if he didn't want the rest of us trying to replace him.
My eye's throbbing a little, nothing too bad and it'll make Bruce laugh. I pick up my pace as I get closer, muscles aching from another hard day and not enough rest now as I'll probably have to be up in two or three hours, with the dawn as ever. But as I turn the corner around the black copse of pines that blot out the moonlight, I notice a light still on somewhere on the farm. The house, as I grow closer, which can't be good. Bruce is never awake this late unless it's because he's been drinking too much wine and feels the need to take the sins of his long-gone wife out on my ass once more. Not that I'm complaining, so much, as I'll usually get a good drink and a fuck out of it, at least. But I'm tired tonight and my head's sore, my eye stinging a little.
“What the fuck is this?”
I halt in my tracks, my voice loud even above the gusting winds but this couldn't be more surprising, more shocking, if I'm seeing this right. As I grow closer to the farm house, my skin bumping with a sudden chill as I become sure that it's what I thought, one of the beast's black carriages outside the house, the two snorting, gleaming horses at its head held firm by one of the big, bald men. He looks at me up and down in the dim light spilling from the farm house window as I draw nearer but, hell, I'm used to the villagers looking me over like a piece of dried horse shit so what do I care if this guy does it? Besides, I'm too freaked out about what's going on. Is the beast here? Himself? What does he want with Bruce? Energy shoots around my body, questions muddling my mind with their sheer number.
“You're to go in.”
“Huh?”
Musclehead nods in the direction of the door.
“Your man, there. He needs you.”
“Oh. Right. Okay.”
I practically inch across the doorway, looking around corners. I know it's stupid but I've heard about the beast my whole fucking life and it feels like he's going to spring out at me and, I don't know. Eat my toes? Shred the skin from my bones? But Bruce is sitting by himself at the stove, gazing into the glowing embers, fingers wrapped around the neck of a half-full bottle of wine, his eyes still fairly clear when they rise up to meet mine so it must be his first of the night.
“I always thought it might happen. Well, once you turned 13, anyway, growing into your face the way you did. Pity, really.”
“What would happen? What's going on, what's that - his, the coach, what's it doing outside?”
“I know I keep on at you. I know I've probably beaten you one too many times. Had to keep you in line, your old man said you were a terror before he left and that I should keep you under control. I know I've been tough but, hell, I'll miss you. You're a good worker. Such a shame, it is but, I could've seen this coming.”
“Seen what coming? Bruce, you're not making sense.”
He takes another long swig of wine, his throat moving as he swallows gulp after gulp.
“And you're the first that didn't mind . . . when I get lonely. Liked it, even, if I wasn't mistaken. Sometimes, anyway.”
“It was okay. You're okay, you're not such a bad boss.”
But he starts blinking rapidly, over and over, a tear trickling from one corner of his eye in the lamplight as he drains more of the bottle, obviously intent on falling face first either into the mattress or me.
“Not your boss any more. See, this is what happens, the older ones all know about it but they never talk about it so we can never be sure. But it's been a long time, a long, long time, since before, when I was a boy. He takes a fancy to the prettiest lad hereabouts and lays claim to him. Usually pays the family off but, as you're without family, he's taking you. Nothing to me, no compensation for losing a worker a month before harvest. Maybe the last lad finally died or something. Old age.”
“Bruce, you're not making much sense.”
His eyes screwed tight shut then focus on mine once more with frightening intensity.
“You're not to work for me any more, lad. That's why his coach is outside. You belong to the beast now.”
-
My first impulse is to run. I don't know where to, I don't know how as I have no mount, nothing but two pairs of boots to walk me out of the valley to somewhere the beast can't find me. But I'm too slow, too weak, one man alone against his manservants and his thundering coaches. I'm not even a freeman, indentured to Bruce after my dad sold my labors to him so, if Bruce says that's where I'm to go, it's impossible to find a single soul in the valley who'd argue otherwise. And nobody would dare anger the beast over some rough and dusty farm boy. Nobody would dare hide me, not even Karl, and I wouldn't, couldn't ask him to. So I rub my fingers through Bruce's hair and thank him for his few kindnesses, then take a lamp out to my shed with a nod to the man holding the horses. Stand and look over my cot, the small stool next to it that serves as a table, looking to see if there's a single possession I wish to take with me. All I see is my spare boots, my work overalls, my winter jacket with holes in the elbows, my mother's wedding ring and a book of old folk tales missing half its pages. I snag the ring on its cord from my bedpost and hang it about my neck, keeping on my better boots that I'd worn to the dance, deciding to leave everything else.
Back to the carriage, holding out a hand to one of the horses who tries to take a lightning fast bite out of my fingers before I dodge out the way.
“Hey! Watch it, you stinker. Yeah, I'm talking to you.”
Grinning as I smooth a hand over his muscled, corded neck and he stamps his feet, shakes his head at me, a squeal of annoyance when I dance out the way of his darting mouth once more.
“This one's a right bugger, he'll have your hand off if he doesn't know you. And stop winding his nerves up, he's almost got my arm out the socket as it is. We're late, get in.”
I eye the door nervously, shifting in my boots foot to foot. Last chance to run.
“The carriage? Is he -”
“No. You'll travel alone.”
I must've fallen asleep, it's the only explanation for the small square of sky out the carriage window being so light, touched with pink and yellow as dawn's approaching. But, comfy as the dark green cushioned seats of this carriage are, the mountain roads are rocky and I feel every single stone and rut like a hammer pounding up the length of my spine, my teeth about to rattle out of my head. How I'd sleep through a full hour of it is beyond me, the fear building in my gut, down in my bones, it seems impossible that I'd manage any rest but here we are, well over an hour's journey without my noticing. We're taught to stay away from the castle from birth and, now, here it is, looming large and black against the lightening sky, a few towering windows lit from within, patterns of color within the glass itself. The tallest towers are swathed in cloud as usual, the air fresher up here so close to the snowy summit. Another hot thread of fear threads through me as I jut out my chin and try to calm myself. No sense losing my nerve. At least until, y'know, he's actually feasting on me or whatever the hell's likely to happen.
It's like some madman designed this place specifically to be terrifying. Gargoyles at ever angle of the roof leer down at me, jagged, heavy stonework that looks centuries old. The low rumble of chains as the gates open almost magically it seems, drawing us deep into the inescapable embrace of the castle's walls. As the gates close behind me, it seems hope is slipping away, that I'm doomed without choice or chance of rescue. A grim outlook, I know but I'm flagging with the lack of a night's sleep despite the hour's rest and my usual sunny outlook seems far away as the cold air starts to bite at me through my thin shirt. A clatter of hooves on flagstones, an exclamation from above and the coach halts, the door opened for me by the other manservant, no smile of welcome, barely even an acknowledgment in the low order for me to Get out, you've kept him waiting long enough.
Every corner seems fraught with danger as we move through the dark grand hallway, sweeping staircases disappearing in every direction it seems, the low ticking of a huge clock echoing our footsteps and the speeding pulse of my heart. I follow the manservant deeper in through fine rooms where dawn's low light gently illuminates sumptuous furnishings and ornate decorations of a kind I've never seen before, that I'd never have believed existed. A simple chair here, picked out in gold and with leaves and berries carved deeply into the shining wood, the cushioning purple, very soft and deeply buttoned. A painting as big as the side of my shed over a fireplace that could fit six people into it, tiled with little depictions of fruits and fat children. And food everywhere, bowls of fresh fruit, grapes spilling from earthenware so fine that the low light gleams through it. My stomach gurgles loudly in the quiet house and I flush, clear my throat to cover it and how stupidly, coarsely impressed I am with the wealth and refinement around me. If I am to end my days here, well, I could pick worse prisons.
A smaller room here, less fine but more comfortable for it, perhaps, a few deeply stuffed chairs, one of which the manservant pushes me down into, a lamp spilling a circle of light at my elbow, throwing the rest of the room into darkness in contrast.
“Sit. He'll speak with you when he's ready. Call him Sir. I'm Matteo, the other guy is Luke. If you see us around and need anything, just ask. Otherwise, you're home now. Choose whatever bedchamber you wish, there's plenty. Eat what you wish. Do as you're told. Simple enough.”
“I'm Chris.”
“We know who you are.”
His voice isn't unkindly, a heavy pat on my shoulder, a hand laid flat on top of my head and he leaves, the door closing behind him with a heavy click.
Quiet settles around me and I become aware of a smaller clock counting the seconds in hushed ticking. The soft call of an owl outside the windows, which are heavily draped, allowing no light. The beating of my heart, rushing still, too fast making me feel breathless and nervy. I take a few long, slow breaths to calm myself, looking around me, every instinct screaming to get out of the room, to get away. Then I hear it, or perhaps simply sense it, coming from the corner of the room, a chair shrouded in complete night. The low, steady whisper of someone or something breathing, the sense of a great creature, some predator watching me and my skin crawls with the return of fear, my mouth suddenly dry. He's been here all along, watching me. He's over there, and I squint my eyes, trying to make out a figure but the light of the lamp so close prevents me seeing a thing. The depth of the breathing, the great intake of air into huge, monstrous lungs and I curl my toes in my boots, ridiculously scared that he'll chew them right off my feet.
Should I speak? Should I wait? I was instructed to do as I'm told, and nobody's said to introduce myself but who knows if the beast can even talk? I bite my lip, frowning in fright, fingers clutching the arms of my chair tight. Is it asleep? The breathing is so slow and steady, a husk now and then that could almost be a snore. Or, perhaps, that there's great bloodied teeth getting in the way of the escaping air. I fight the urge to cross myself, ridiculous considering I've not been inside a church since my father left. I dig inside my shirt instead, wrap my fingers around my mother's ring, needing something, a talisman to ground me, to give me some strength.
“What is that? The little thing you're clutching at.”
The voice, god, I near jump out of my chair with the suddenness of it. It's the voice of a monster, some hideous thing, so low and rumbling that it's like thunder rolling around the valley. It seems like I stutter for a whole minute out of terror before I can spit out a single sentence.
“M-m-my mother's w-wedding ring, sir.”
A low snort, a malignant, resounding depth to it. Whatever this thing is, this beast, it's big. Huge. Fucking enormous, bigger even than Benjamin, Bruce's towering carthorse. I cower back in my chair as I sense silent movement in his corner of the room now.
“And, tell me, what do you clutch it for? What do you imagine I intend to do with you, that you're in need of such sentimental protection?”
“I don't imagine, sir. I can't, I don't -” Balls. There's only so long your body and mind can sustain fear until it starts to grow used to it, step by step. I let loose the ring, force my shoulders to relax. “I don't know what you want to do with me. Haven't the slightest clue. Whatever the fuck you want, if we're going to be honest.”
Is that a laugh? I cower from it a little because, shit, that's a whole heap of terrifying, toothy-sounding growls coming from his corner, but that could be a laugh. I feel the corners of my mouth twitch up in automatic response.
“You could be right. What I plan to do with you remains to be seen. You'll serve me in some fashion but if you're able to . . . Your days are your own. I understand you're able to read, I have a large library so make use of it. Clothing and food will be provided. We'll meet here each evening and we'll talk.”
“That's it?”
“What did you expect? Be honest.”
“Uh, shredding of skin from bone and you eating my toes and, fuck, I don't know. You must know what we say, about you, down in the village.”
A sudden gust of warm breath fans my face, scented with some kind of wine and something spicy. A sigh, maybe, massive.
“Ah yes, the village. There will be no eating of toes. At least, not until we know each other a little better.”
Oh. There it is, a hint of humor in the velvet voice but it's sending me a message. He does intend to use me, there's a tacit understanding in the sentence hanging in the dark air between us. I nod, hang my head. Something so big, so hideous, I'll never survive it. No matter how beautiful the castle, how fine my prison, it still looks like I'm fucked whichever way I look at it. My nose burns with sudden, helpless tears but I'm not going to cry like a whining girl. I set my jaw and accept my fate with one more tight nod.
“No toe eating till later. Got it. Glad to hear it, I'm a little attached to them.”
Definitely a laugh this time, albeit one that sounds like it's coming from the jaws of certain, painful death.
“The sun's coming up, I must sleep. The light is not . . . You won't see me during the day. I'll meet you this evening.”
“Oh. Yeah, okay then. Good night, sir.”
The sounds of a huge, heavy frame leaving a protesting chair but then, nothing, no heavy footfalls, barely even the movement of air. He's simply disappeared into the dark. A chill goes through me, an understanding that I was correct, he's a great predator like the beasts from my mother's books when I was a child. You'll never hear him coming, not until his jaws are clamped around your neck shaking the life out of you.
I fall into the first bed I find up the great staircase, not bothering to strip out of my clothes, head and heart too clouded with emotion and exhaustion. I think of the village, of Bruce's farm, how I'd already be hard at work tending the animals, milking the cows and stealing a cup for myself, turning them out before heading to the fields once more, riding Benjamin's broad back rather than sitting in the cart, the morning sun already beating down on my head. Think of Karl and Zoe, wondering if they'll miss me at all or if perhaps everyone's just well-rid of the fatherless farm boy with a too-smart mouth. The bed's so soft compared with my cot, the bedding sewn from a fabric so fine I've never seen or felt its like before. I rub my face into it like a barn cat wrapping itself around someone's legs and proceed to sleep like I'm dead.
-
“Holy shit! Fuck! God, fuck, that's. Fuck.”
God. Is that me? It's been so long since I've seen anything my reflection in anything other than a pool of water. I'm already pretty much freaked all to hell with the idea that I have to piss and, I'm guessing, shit indoors, this little room attached to the bedchamber I seem to have chosen designed to take care of my bodily needs. A deep bath tub, an indoor water trough and what's got to be the fanciest outhouse shitter in the whole world in here, made in finer pottery than the nicest dishes I've ever seen. But you can't mistake it for what it is so I pull my dick out my pants and start to have the most elegantly-appointed piss I've ever had. I'm halfway through emptying a full bladder when I catch sight of myself by accident in the looking glass and scare myself to crapping point. I tuck myself back in and go over for a look, gazing at myself, rubbing my fingers across my grubby, bruised face. Oh yeah, Karl, I'd forgotten the punch last night over Zoe, the skin not split but purpled in places, a little tender. But my face - it's hardly me. I was a kid last time I saw myself like this, at my grandfather's house that I barely remember.
Weird, I'm an adult. A true adult, a man, no question about it. Rough as shit, too, tufty too-long hair not cut since shearing season, a scrubby two-week beard that itches as I look at it. Perhaps there will be a razor somewhere, some soap, something to hack my hair back with. Maybe I'll have a soak later, the idea of a bath tub of hot water a luxury I thought I'd long given up since I was a child. Hell, if my days are numbered, I suppose I might as well spend them as pleasurably as I can. My mind is chomping at the bit to find escape, to spend the day hunting for an exit route, planning my survival but, deep down, I'm sure there's no chance of it. Then my stomach growls angrily, reminding me I've not eaten since a slice of egg and bacon pie at the dance last night and, from the sun pouring through the windows now, it's late in the day.
Heaven. I'm already dead, the beast killed me last night and some celestial error's landed me in the wrong afterlife. The kitchen is the size of Bruce's barn, the larder bigger than my shed and every counter groans with food. I haven't even finished looking at it all before my hands reach out to grab some little tart things, cramming them into my mouth one by one. Tear the leg off a cold roast chicken and rip off a chunk of flesh with my teeth to chew as I dig through for whatever else I'm going to eat next. I gorge myself until my belly sticks out and aches, finishing a hunk of cheese and a golden pear that's just about the size of my head, washing it down with water that's untainted by horse trough for once. Maybe he wants me fat for when he intends to fuck me to death and eat my corpse, I don't know but it's going to happen if I've got this at my fingertips all day. I've got some way to go, knowing I'm a little too ribby and ropey for the likes of most people so I grab a flaky pork pie, the other chicken leg, a wobbling slice of cake and two apples on a tray to take on my explorations with me. Perhaps I should just set up a bed in here and be done with it, try to eat myself to death. I think I could manage it.
The castle's huge and seems deserted except I keep getting the impression that every room I walk into has just been exited by someone else. Not him, I think he must sleep during the day, like the sun's bad for him or something. A nocturnal beast like a fox, only a hundred times bigger and more terrifying. But there must be servants somewhere like this as everything's spotless, not a mote of dust in the air. I'm scared to touch anything, still all grubby and now with a layer of chicken grease on my fingers. I wander the rooms for two hours and don't have to backtrack once, sure that there's ever more to see. Pick out a bigger, more elaborate bedchamber from the twenty different ones alone that I find, choosing one that must've been made for a prince or something as the bed's so high I have to use a little step thing to climb up into it to test it for softness. I gaze out the windows over the valley to the village, little streams of smoke already lifting from stoves across the place as wives begin to bake the next morning's bread. I don't know if I miss it, yet. I was never truly a part of that place.
When I get out of the bath tub, smooth-chinned and skin shining with a thin sheen of rosemary-scented oil, the closets of the room I've chosen have been filled with clothes, fine cloths and cuts but nothing fancy or showy, good, simple work clothes that fit like they were made for me, new shoes that are soft, suited for a life indoors rather than my heavy farm boots that have vanished along with my old clothes. How long was I in the tub, anyway? Is this place enchanted? Like all the younger guys in the village, I don't believe in that sort of stuff but, hell, I'm fucked if I can think up a better explanation. An enchanted prison, waiting a beastly executioner who wants me to read through his library before rutting me into an early grave. Looks like things are getting interesting.
-
“I see you've bathed.”
“Jesus! Fuck, you scared the crap out of me.”
“I tend to have that effect on people.”
“Here's a tip, try not sneaking up on them like that. Shit.”
I place a hand over my racing heart, narrowing my eyes to look into his corner but, yet again, I can't see a single thing, the lamp at my elbow shielding him from sight. His voice is lower, more frightful than I remembered, the controlled roar of a mountain bear or worse.
“I'll keep that in mind. I'd probably scare you more if I simply walked into the room in full vision.”
“Well, if you're planning to keep skulking around in the shadows like that, I guess we'll never know.”
A snort of laughter carrying the same gust of warm, scented breath across the room in my direction. He has got to be huge, no question of it. My ass winces in certain dread.
“I've been accused of many things in my lifetime, but skulking's never been one of them.”
“I like to think my opinions tend to towards the unique.”
“You know, I can quite believe it, even on such a short acquaintance.”
“Hey.” I glare over at his dark corner. “I'm offended.”
“You shouldn't be. You've eaten?”
Strange how easy it is to talk with him even though the fear and urge to run is still pumping through my veins hard with every frantic heartbeat. Is it possible to ever relax with the instrument of your own, painful, probably agonizing death making small talk across a dark room? But it feels oddly like talking with a friend. I curl my fingers around my wine cup, take a drink, marveling at the taste. If I'd known wine like this existed I'd never have developed a taste for the warm, cloudy pigswill that passes for ale down below.
“I've stuffed myself stupid till I nearly puked it back up again. I swear, there's more food in that kitchen than I've eaten my entire life. I wasn't sure if I should save anything for you or if there was anything meant for you in particular . . .”
“No, you eat what you want.”
“I'll get fat.”
“Doesn't matter.”
All the better to bake you into a big, fatty Chris pot pie, maybe. Curiosity overcomes the fear, I want to see him, look him in the eye and know what my end's going to be because waiting is driving me crazy, the stuff my mind is imagining him as perhaps a hundred times worse than he could possibly ever be. I get to my feet, gripping my cup in front of me like a shield and take a step in his direction.
A rising growl makes every hair on my body stand on end.
“What do you think you're doing?”
“I'm never going to be allowed to see you? I've heard of keeping the lamp low but this is ridiculous.”
“You're to do as you're told, Matteo told you clearly.”
Another step towards him, clutching at my wine.
“Get back!”
The blast of noise that is his roar hits me like a clap of thunder in an unexpected summer storm, loud and utterly ferocious and I whimper, drop my cup and leap into my chair like a woman frightened by a mouse.
“Jesus! Okay, okay! Christ alive, no need to take my damn head off! I'll keep away till I'm told.”
Those massive lungs drawing air in through, god, teeth, big, jaggedy teeth, I swear I can hear it whistling around in there, perhaps making the remaining morsels of his former companion flutter where they hang twisted between his three-inch fangs.
“I'm not ready for you to see me. Not yet.”
“I got that impression from the ringing in my ears, thanks.”
“That you didn't flee the room says . . . something. Wish I could say what.”
“That I'm a nosy bastard who has no concept of exactly what's waiting for me over your side of the room?”
He chuckles and it sounds like a landslide tearing forests from the hillsides.
“You truly don't. I can promise you that.”
We fall into some strange routine. I sleep until the sun's already beginning to drift downwards towards the horizon, spend the remaining day exploring every nook of this great, grand castle that's never cold, never lonely though I barely see another soul except occasional sightings of the manservants beyond the windows. Just when I think I've mapped every room I'll find one more, a secret passageway from the library through to a bedchamber or steps leading to the tallest tower, bound by heavy iron locks. I run my fingers over them, wondering if this is where he sleeps, press my ear to the doors but they're oak timbers as soaked through with time as much as oil and there's not a peep of sound, much less the rumbling snore of a beast at rest.
I spend most early evenings in the library itself, next to a fire that is always laid for me ready to settle in as I arrive with my customary dish of food, curling into my favorite stuffed leather chair by the window and watching the sunset sparking across the sky, holding a book in my lap that I can't pretend to have looked at beyond two pages. As the yellows and pinks deepen to reds and golds bleeding into the dark blue of the approaching night, I watch lamps lit around the village, all the little houses, little lives below me where I sit. Imagine them looking up at the castle, wondering what fate befell me.
My thoughts always seem to travel in his direction. I find myself looking forward to our, well, whatever you would call them. Talks? Discussions? Dates? Impossible to tell. We never talk of anything much of consequence, never a thing to do with him or his nature. But it's so easy, still, a strange warmth to it as my heart races in my chest, trying to will my body into fleeing the monster much as my mind wishes to linger longer each night. I still don't know his name. I can tell that he's lonely but aren't we all? I try to remind myself that he's my captor and that, whatever he is, he has the power to destroy me in an instant. But I get drawn in by his quiet humor, his tolerance of my big mouth. Hell, he even seems to like that I'm a smart ass and I've become used to his laugh, a warm blanket of approval around my shoulders. I like him. I don't want to but I do.
“Will you tell me something about yourself? You must know everything about me by now. You knew it all before we even spoke.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Your name.”
“You know my name.”
I swing my legs up onto the table, ankles crossed, settle back into my chair with a small dish of chocolates, another vague childhood memory that I intend to enjoy every night now I've discovered a seeming endless supply of them on a small shelf in the larder. “If I knew it, I wouldn't be asking.”
“I'm the Beast.”
“But that's not your name.”
“It is now.”
“Ahh. So you weren't always -”
“Ask me something else.”
“I'll figure it all out one day.”
“Christopher . . .”
The growl is back, a warning sending nerves shivering across my skin as always. He certainly has the lack of patience of a bear, ready to bite my head off in a second if I ever pry too far. But, perversely, he seems to enjoy that it doesn't worry me, not too much. I've had people shouting at me most of my whole life, he's just a little louder than most. Okay, a lot louder. My system's gradually becoming a little more accustomed to sitting in a room with a wild animal of sorts and his sudden displays of brutish aggression cause me less and less fear as the nights go by. I think he likes that. I think he likes it a lot.
“When will you be ready? For me to see you. I don't think I'll be so scared now.”
“I can't say -”
“Because I know you. A little bit, your nature at least. You're like a big hearth cat or something. You just need scratching under the chin and around the ears a bit.”
“You think that's why you were brought here? To tickle my chin?”
“No, I guess not. C'mon, it's weird talking to a corner of a room. Give me something tangible.”
A low sigh that breezes around me like the draft from a cooling fire. “Can I trust you to do as you're told? Of course I can't, look at you.”
“You know, talking to yourself is one of the first signs of madness. I can't remember where I read that. Maybe in one of your books.”
“Here.” A scarf lands in my lap, like the ones the mayor always wore around his collar where the rest of us have a cotton neckerchief tucked in our shirts. It's smooth, that fine, heavy cloth again, golden yellow with thin blue stripes. “Cover your eyes. Do it properly, I can smell deception on your skin and will know if you're able to see.”
“Fine, I promise, I'll do it properly.” I inhale as I bring it up to cover my eyes and there's his scent, warm, the same hint of spice that his breath carries. Wrap the scarf around my eyes, tying it tightly at the back of my head and tugging the fabric until it blots out every speck of light from the lamp. “Done. I can't see for shit.”
I barely feel the air move in front of me before I can sense him there. That's all it is, a sense of this hulking, looming presence over me, a dense mass of something so much bigger than myself as I settle my feet back on the ground, trying to stop my hands from shaking so much as I bring them up, reaching out to touch.
“Fuck! Sorry, I'm a little nervous.”
“I will not harm you. I promise.”
“Not now or not ever? Actually, don't answer that.”
“I've never intended to hurt you. More than you wish to be hurt.”
“There's a loaded statement.” I start to trace my fingertips around the skin of the palm of his hand where he'd reached out and taken mine. It's perhaps twice the size of mine, the skin thick and tough like the pads of a dog's paw, rough areas that my mind immediately imagines skating across my skin and I give an involuntary shiver. He snatches his hand away and retreats with footfalls no heavier than a snowflake landing on the ground.
“Where did you go? Can I take the scarf off?”
“You were . . .” His voice is gruff with emotion. “You touched me and shook with disgust. I don't have much pride left but that which I have -”
“It wasn't disgust! Christ, who knew a great big thing like you could be so goddamn delicate? Come back here.”
“You presume to tell me -”
“Hell yeah, I presume. Get your big and, I'm guessing here, hairy butt back over here and let me have a proper feel of your hands. You're worse than a woman. Am I going to have to tell you how pretty you are when you finally let me see your face?”
A snort of laughter, “Okay, you made your point. Here.”
His two hands engulf mine totally, hotter than my own, stronger, so much controlled power that I'm speechless. Running my fingers up the length of his, bump fingertips across the tips of what feel like claws, each an inch wide, not razor sharp but very definitely lethal if applied with this much strength. Shred the skin from my bones . . .
“Turn your hands over.” Lifting my own as he does so, and I somehow know that it'll be something different when I touch again, his hide, his fur, whatever it is that covers him.
My grandfather's bear-lined winter gloves. Goosedown on raw fingers after a day's hard plucking. My mother's winter hat fashioned of mink from the north east. His fur, his thick, inches-deep pelt is softer than anything I've felt before as my fingers sink in deeper and deeper still across the tops of his hands and I spread my fingers, pressing in as much as I can to try to find his skin. It's impossible, the density of fur so luxurious, so fine, his hands making tiny movements beneath mine as I explore.
“Wow, you'd make someone a really nice coat. I'm guessing at least a couple of someones from the size of your hands.”
“I'm half the size again of a normal man.”
“But not exactly skinny as a scythe handle.”
“No, that I'm not. You seem to be . . .”
“What?”
“Unusually comfortable with speaking with a being who is also covered in fur. Most have -” A deep sigh and the caress of his breath makes me smile. “Most are emphatically not so comfortable with it, put it that way.”
“Eh. Life's been weird, I've developed a tendency to take things in my stride.”
Running my hands up his forearms now and they're thicker than my thighs, muscles bunching and moving under my hands as I stroke through the fur, marveling in its texture, softer than air, than the breath of an angel. Up as far as I can reach and back, tracing the insides of his arms, the fur perhaps even finer there and a rhythmic rumbling sound comes from somewhere above my head, I'm guessing his chest.
“Are you purring?”
“No.”
“You are. You're purring! See. Told you, just a big pussy cat.”
“I am not purring.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. My fingers find the pads of his palm again and his hands close around mine completely, a light squeeze that makes me very aware he could crush my hands into a sticky pulp with barely a thought.
“Enough. The sun's coming up, I need to sleep.”
“Can I take the scarf off yet? Hey, you still there?”
Silence but I'm sure I can still feel him in the room with me. It sparks a recent memory this time, the skin prickling between my shoulders that day at the river, a sense of being watched.
“You can go out in the sun, though, can't you? It was you, that day. Watching me swim. You disturbed the birds.”
A growled whisper so low that I feel it rather than hear it as it grumbles through my body, Yes.
“Is that why I was brought here? Why you chose me?”
“It is.”
“You liked what you saw? That simple, huh?”
“No, it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.” He sounds suddenly sad. “You may take the scarf off. I'm going to bed.”
“Please - tell me your name. If we're going to . . . just tell me.”
An endless pause as I unwrap my scarf, blinking in the lamp light.
“It's Zach. My name is Zach.”
A slight shifting of the air in the room and I can tell he's gone.
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