The Beast is looking for Belle.
It feels like he has always been looking for her, even before he knew her, long before she arrived at the castle and with her brought a rejuvenating breath of fresh air to his lungs that had been drowning for so long and so deep that he'd almost forgotten how to breathe.
Yet now that she is here it feels like he is still always searching for her — out of not only a yearning desire for her company, but a paranoid, deeply seated compulsion to know she's still there. It is this fear that sometimes grips his feet and steers him down corridor after corridor; driven by an irrational, needling voice that whispers in his ear that any day she will break her promise and leave, vanishing away without a word nor trace from the castle and him forever. The thought leaves him so cold at times that he cannot bring himself to even trust the magic mirror, needing to see her with his own eyes.
But recently, more and more it seems, he's begun having trouble finding her. There are long stretches of time throughout the day where none of the servants can report seeing her pass by, and it's at those times that he can feel something in his chest clench and his breaths seem to come in shorter bursts, as if the very walls themselves are closing in on him.
It has been several hours since anyone has seen her today, and he has felt that fist increasingly tightening in his chest for at least half as long. Unfortunately, seeking her out is no small undertaking. The castle is enormous — a fact that was never really pressed upon him until suddenly there was someone in it he actually wanted to find. The dark halls and gothic confines of the stone and marble walls that at one time had felt small and suffocating seem to now be filled with light and go on forever. How much bigger the castle feels for two than it ever did for him alone.
He has checked all of her favorite places: her beloved library (he has already come to think of it wholly as her library; can't imagine it anymore as anything but); her east wing room on the fourth floor, as well as the stables her window overlooks where her chestnut gelding, Philippe, is lodged; the kitchen to the north, with its newfound smell of warm, fresh bread and tarts that Ms. Potts and Bouche always now have baking; the south side gardens, with their delicate ice crystal-encased leaves and buds that are never not in bloom; and still he has not found her. And so he is checking the library again, because as he has heard it said sometime long ago in a different life when he was a different person — you always inevitably find what you're looking for in the first place you look the second time.
The library is empty and still. Her scent still lingers in the room — or perhaps she smells like the library, the fragrance of parchment and ink that he has come to associate as such an indistinguishable part of her — but there is no sign of her up on the balcony that runs the length of the walls, nor on the ladders that stretch up to the towering top shelves. An empty space on a shelf in her favorite section of myths and legends denotes her newest choice of reading material, recent enough to not even allow the time for dust to begin to settle, but Belle is nowhere to be seen.
This new familiar tightness twists in his chest, making his shoulders knot up and his breath sharp, images of her slipping away into the night flashing through his mind. A promise after all is only words, and words are fragile insubstantial things.
Outside, the snow and sleet from their most recent mid-winter storm is pelting against the window panes, a soft muffled pattering like hundreds of tiny mice feet on the other side of the glass. He peers out through the swirling whiteness. It obscures the sky, making it barely possible to even see across to the east wing of the castle where Belle's room is, and it's not until he is about to turn to leave that for a brief moment the wind lets up and he sees it. It's not Belle's window that catches his eye, but the one below it. Among the patchwork of dark, empty windows, there is an ember of light.
...
By the time he reaches the third floor of the east wing he has almost convinced himself that it must have been a trick of the storm. With the exception of Belle's alone, the rooms in this branch of the castle are rarely used anymore: a multitude of empty bedchambers and dressing rooms, lavatories and laundries, and private parlors for entertaining that serve no purpose now other than to gather dust. What possible value she could see in them he cannot guess.
But when he turns the corner, the door to what should be an empty bedchamber is there and against all odds there's light visible beneath it. Curiously, he leans his head to the wood and the sound he has come to treasure and has become particularly attuned to in these past months tickles his ear — the softest whisper of turning pages. Something does a flip in his chest and the knot comes unraveling loose.
He hesitates, his hand poised on the door handle. He feels strangely like he's trespassing for some reason, an intruder in his own home — but in the end his curiosity and his desire simply to see her face outweighs his doubt, and when he slowly eases the door open he is greeted by the most baffling sight.
Blankets of wool, fine linen sheets, and elaborate silk coverlets of every color have been stretched and hung in a tiny but elaborate makeshift tent in the middle of the dark room, like something a child would create. Suspended between the two end posts of the bed, an improvised stack of various sized throw pillows, and the tall back of a commandeered parlor chair, they are draped in a such a way that they hang down to the floor like flowing silk curtains. A faint, flickering light hints at movement inside the tiny blanket fortress.
He stoops, leaning his head way down, twitches aside the hanging fabric, and there she is. She is propped among a pile of plush pillows in a space that is roughly the length and width of a man and only a bit more than half as tall, a book of fables in her hand, and a bowl of strawberries and sweet smelling crème sitting beside her. In the middle of the tent burns a little brass oil lamp, covered in a glass shade and draped over with a pink scarf that illuminates the inside of the little linen cave with a soft rosy glow. Her fingers freeze with a white-tipped strawberry halfway to her lips as she looks up at him, for a moment looking caught between surprise and embarrassment, and it strikes him that he has never witnessed anything so enchanting.
There is a second of silence, then Belle's lips pull into a sheepish smile. "You found my hiding place."
"Was I not supposed to?" the Beast asks, amused — then pauses upon further consideration of her words, his face falling nervously. "Were you hiding from me. . .?"
She sees his distress and her hand flies to her mouth. "Oh! No no, that's not what I meant. It's just. . . a little embarrassing is all. I must seem very silly — a grown lady in her blanket fort."
"If it counts for anything, it's a very impressive blanket fort."
He can't tell if the pink flush in her cheeks is her blushing or cast from the rosy glow of the lamp.
Grinning, she considers him a moment then beckons him to join her. For a second he stares at her, hesitating, before looking back over his shoulder and quietly closing the door. Then he crouches down to all fours and awkwardly crawls inside.
He is all too conscious of his bulk in the tiny space, like squeezing a bear into a china cupboard, and presses himself low to the floor as he passes under the low strung doorway, the long guard hairs on the back of his mane brushing the underside of the blanket. He knows he should feel foolish, acting like this at his age. . . the very sight of him in such a setting. . . but it's quelled by the rush of delight and nervousness as Belle moves over to make room for him and soon he's squeezed in close beside her.
.
It's at the times like this when they are so close together that Belle registers how big the Beast really is.
For the briefest second as he slinks in under the sheets she worries that the whole thing is about to come tumbling down, but he handles his oversized body well and settles in beside her without mishap. She offers him one of the plentiful pillows to rest his elbow on as he stretches out on his side. He has to keep his head low and still the top of his brow almost grazes the ceiling of the little cave.
They make an absurd tableau: her with her knees drawn up in expensive silk skirts like a child, her fingers stained strawberry red; and him, all mass and fangs and claws, a figure of menace reclined out like a gentleman at a picnic. He's close enough that her arm brushes up against his, but she's not afraid. She's not sure exactly when the moment was that she stopped being afraid of him, and now the sheer looming weight and impossibility of his presence has become comforting and reassuring in some way. This near she can smell the pleasant, musky animal-like quality to him, mixed with the deep rich scent of pine needles, and fresh warm linen.
His eyes travel around her tiny, cozy hideaway before coming to rest on her. Despite the rest of him his gaze is entirely human, focused and curious.
"So. . . you come here. . . often?" he ventures slowly, with just a crinkle at the corner of the blue eyes suggesting gentle teasing.
She laughs and tucks the stray hair that falls in her eyes back behind her ear, a habitual, self-conscious gesture as she feels her face blush again.
"It's something I used to do when I was small. I'd steal all of the blankets from the inside the house and off the drying line and build a fort in my room. . . it used to drive my mother crazy to no end having to hunt down her best quilts all the time. Papa just laughed." She smiles and shrugs helplessly. "It was my special place where I could play or read my books or dream about all the adventures I'd go on some day."
She glances over at him shyly. "I guess, after I came here. . . I just wanted a place that felt like it was mine?"
"The entire library is yours," he reiterates earnestly.
"And I love it, I do, thank you —"
She's aware of how keenly focused he is on her every word. In the short time since that night in the woods that this precarious relationship has grown between them — friendship, or something like it — she's come to realize that he is, if anything, an attentive but temperamental listener. She has no wish to fling accusations at him, but the truth is she's feeling a bit homesick. For her father of course, so very badly — but also her privacy. She has long been more at home in the pages of a book than amid a crowd, and when a seemingly empty castle's entire household turns out to be the chair you sit in or the silverware that spoons your soup, that castle suddenly becomes very crowded indeed. There's little where she can go where she can't feel eyes on her, catch muffled whispers as she passes, or have a feather quill or ivory shoehorn skittering underfoot. She longs for a truly empty room.
So when she realized the rooms a mere one floor below her had been virtually abandoned, she took it upon herself to. . . liberate one. Discreetly. It had taken her a few days just to collect enough linen — stealing into one room at a time to strip the heavy blankets and decorative coverlets from the beds and slipping through the hallways with absconded pillows like some thievish laundry maid — always during lulls in the hustle and bustle of the household staff, and never when the Beast was watching.
He likes to stick close, she knows this. They dine together often these days, as well as spend a wonderful amount of time reading to one another in the library, and it's not uncommon for her to find a note from him inviting her for a stroll in the gardens or to feed the pigeons in the dovecote. She enjoys his company, even looks forward to it — but sometimes she just needs a retreat. She's not used to having someone checking in on her all the time. His habit of inevitably showing up everywhere she goes and uncanny knack for somehow always knowing where to find her can be exhausting when all she really wants is some time to herself. Even today she'd been prepared to spend her afternoon secluded away delving deep into her newest book. . . but then out of no where there he had appeared in the doorway of her hideaway, and she simply didn't have the heart to turn him away.
It's ironic that after spending all her years yearning for adventure and something bigger than the conventional rural town she'd spent most of her life in, now that she has the freedom of an entire enchanted castle sometimes it's just too big and too much and all she craves is the small, comforting sense of home. A space of her own. She searches for the right words, trying to make him understand.
"Sometimes I just need my own space that feels more. . . familiar. Like a piece of home."
"This is your home,"
It is not said in callousness or cruelty, but the moment the words are out of his mouth something behind her eyes breaks, and a little ache of pain she thought she had successfully buried and locked away rings fresh all the same.
The Beast seems to recognize his misstep, and for a split second he looks away and a shadow of something that could be guilt or shame passes over his eyes and then is gone. When he meets her gaze once more though it's with a trace of apprehension.
He clears his throat and nods towards the veiled candle draping everything in pinky hue, clearly bidding for a change in topic.
"And. . . the lamp?" he inquires.
Belle is grateful for the digression. "Well that's my sunrise, of course," she replies sagely, smiling, and that succeeds in rousing a smile from him in turn.
"You like sunrises?"
"They're beautiful."
It's one of the things she misses. Back at home she'd sometimes wake before dawn and walk to the edge of town to watch the sun climb over the farm fields, punching through the shadows of the night and throwing pinks and purples and yellows all across the sky — though you would think it never happened here. The looming mountains encircling the castle on all sides cut off any view of the horizon beyond, making the transition between night time and daylight seem muted and dull. It seemed unjust some how, amid the bleak rocky landscape towering in all directions, to be denied the sunrise. It was the reassuring start of something new each day. A light in the darkness.
The Beast looks withdrawn in thought, and she worries that their earlier exchange is still bothering him. She searches for a distraction.
"So what are you up for? We could read something together, or maybe play a game? Piquet, perhaps? Or Questions and Commands?"
Confusion crosses his expression at her latter suggestion. "What is that?"
She's surprised. "You've never played Questions and Commands?"
He raises an inquisitive brow.
"Well," she explains, "it's simple really, there's a commander and a subject. The commander asks a question to the subject — any question they want, which the subject must answer truthfully. If they refuse, they must either follow a command, the forfeit, or have their face smutted."
"Smutted. . .?"
She grins playfully, and before he can react she dips a finger into the bowl beside her and dabs a spot of crème on his nose. The startled look on his face is beyond price and she can't help but laugh, and when she does he smiles and curls his tongue up to lick the crème from his nose like an overgrown cat. A grown lady indeed.
"Go ahead, you first," she prompts him.
He looks uncertain, running a massive paw-like hand over the back of his neck and thinking for several long moments before eventually hazarding: "What. . . is your favorite food?"
"That's your question?"
"I can have the chef make it for you —"
"I'm fine with the meals I already get."
"Every night."
"That's ridiculous."
"Are you going to answer my question?" His massive head is leaned in close to her, his baritone voice soft but a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. He holds up the crème bowl, a smirk playing along his mouth.
She smiles and sighs in exasperation. "Strawberries," she finally replies, and as if to illustrate her point she daubs one of the rich red berries into the thick crème between them and pops it into her mouth triumphantly. For his part, the Beast can't seem to decide whether he should feel pleased or cheated.
"So strawberries every night then," he grunts, and their joint laughter mixes and bubbles like song.
"All right, my turn." She sucks the sweet juice from her fingers, contemplating him shrewdly. She is weighing the cost and reward of the question she already knows she wants to ask against the answer she may or may not receive. She's not sure how he'll respond. . . but they've been having such a pleasant time and she feels emboldened.
"Tell me about yourself," she slowly says, meeting his expectant gaze unflinchingly. "Who were you — before. . .?"
For a second the Beast's brows knit together. There is a sudden tension and unease in his body language that wasn't there a moment earlier. "'Before. . .?'"
"The spell."
No sooner than it's out of her mouth, his expression clouds over and in an instant she knows she has said the wrong thing.
"I'm sorry. . ." she fumbles quickly, wilting under the stare he fixes upon her. "Don't be upset. No one told me, I swear. . . I figured it out on my own —" He is shutting down piece by piece before her eyes, like the slowing and stilling of various cogs and parts on one of her father's steam engine inventions being switched off. "I mean. . . it's obvious there's some sort of enchantment, isn't there? And I just thought. . . well. . . I barely know anything about you, so. . ."
Her voice trails off as he turns away, effectively cutting off any further explanation or apology she can offer.
The lightness of their game has vanished, replaced with a heavy, strangled silence that hangs in the foot of space between them, making each inch feel like a mile. She tries to bridge the distance again, to coax him back to her.
"So then what will it be. . .? Forfeit or smut?"
It's a lighthearted attempt to ease the tension, to engage him once more, and she puts on a hopeful little smile as she tries to catch his eye. He doesn't respond. With no other ideas, she leans over and fearlessly dots some crème on his nose again, a last ditch effort to repair all that she has broken.
But this time there is no funny face, no smiles, no laughter. The Beast wipes the crème away with the back of his sleeve and, just like that, he crawls out of the little fort without a word or look back.
As he leaves a sharp flick of his tail knocks the shade from the lamp and sends the scarf fluttering to the floor, and the little rush of air that is thrown up from the curtained sheet swinging down behind him puffs out the flame. Soft pink changes to harsh gold and then nothing. There's the sound of the bedchamber door opening and closing, and she is left by herself in the dark.
... ... ...
A day passes, and then another, and they don't talk.
The Beast is not there at dinner. He doesn't come in search for her, nor does she seek him out, but Belle knows he's near. She never sees him, but she can feel him watching her when she's not looking, eyes on her back while she moves through the hallways or peruses through the stacks of the library. She resolves to ignore his lurking, though she doesn't know if that makes her strong or a coward.
Her gaff from days earlier still weighs heavily on her — the brazenness of how she had raised the question if not the question itself. It had never been her intent or desire to drive him off, only to know him better, to encourage him to share whatever it is that he seems to feel is so important that he hide from her. It's a constant back and forth struggle; a fine tightrope balancing act of learning how much she can push him to open up and what will send him pulling back into his shell. Every time she thinks she's breached the chasm between them, all it takes is the slightest breeze to send herself toppling over the line. Sometimes she worries there's a line she won't ever be able to cross. Just look at the rift one simple question had torn — he seems as far away from her now as the day she'd climbed a set of tower steps and made the choice to trade her life for her father's.
She misses his company. Between retiring for a few hours each day to hole herself up in her secret room, she passes her time by assisting Lumière to transcribe fanciful love poems to Babette, or helping Mrs. Potts in the kitchens; but his absence still leaves a hole.
It's not until the second evening as she's about to turn in for the night that she finds a note left at her bedchamber door, written in his tight, heavy-handed scrawl that reads simply: "Join me for an early morning stroll?"
She smiles softly, pens a quick reply, and sends it scurrying off with a passing soap dish.
...
The next morning the wild flurries outside have let up for the first time in days and the snow is falling gently in large, fat flakes to pile on the window sill. She rises while it's still dark out, dawn still arriving late this time of the season, and dresses in a light coral frock before slipping out into the corridor.
She finds him waiting for her at the top of the staircase, dressed in a trim, navy blue waistcoat. The Beast gives her a small mollifying smile as she approaches, and for a heartbeat they stand there in pregnant silence. He says nothing but simply offers out his arm to her, which she takes and they start off down the hall.
She lets him set their pace and destination, not thinking all that much about where they're headed until they've travelled the length of the castle and ascended up three floors and she finds herself at the base of the winding steps that lead to the west wing. She looks up at him questioningly, but his eyes betray nothing.
Slowly up the stairs he leads her and then down the hall, past the grotesque busts and figures leering out at them from the wall, past the shredded tapestries and broken mirrors. She has walked these halls only once before; they are as unsettling to her now as they were then, and she can feel a lump rising in her throat. When he proceeds to creak open the double set doors and step inside, she can only stop at the threshold, too vividly remembering the last time she had ventured into this dark room. He notices her obvious trepidation and offers out his hand to her reassuringly.
The room has been cleared of some of the most severely damaged furniture and any trace of foul remains since last she was here; however, it still carries a discernable air of gloom and neglect. He guides her through the remaining pitfalls that still litter the floor and out onto the open balcony, gently pulling her along when she unconsciously tries to linger to look at the mysterious rose under the bell jar. She is vaguely aware that it seems to have wilted considerably more since she saw it the first time.
Out on the balcony the snow is falling as gently and quietly as flower petals. The Beast is standing in the far corner where the ornamental parapet meets the steep angle of the roof, and as she watches he jumps up lightly onto the balustrade and beckons to her.
Immediately she can feel the color drain from her face and she stares at him in disbelief. He can't be serious. She creeps anxiously to the edge of the railing and peers down over the side of the balcony to the cliffs and water and darkness far below, and feels her heart plummet in her chest.
When he speaks then, it's soft and clear. He holds out his hand to her again.
"Do you trust me?"
She looks at his outstretched hand and then his eyes, and the answer comes out of her mouth as sure and swift as a river.
"Yes." And she knows without the faintest doubt in her mind that it's true.
He takes her hand and with surprising effortlessness tosses her up and onto his back, locking her arms securely around his neck, and then begins scaling up the roof of the castle. The instant loss of purchase under her feet and the feeling of hanging in the open air makes her gasp and her head spin, and she clings all the more tightly to him as they climb steadily higher.
"I won't let you fall," he assures her, glancing back over his shoulder, and she believes him but can only squeeze her eyes shut anyway.
The shingles are slippery with frost from the cold air, but his footing is sure as he navigates an experienced path around the spires and decorative finials, claws scratching on the clay tiles. When they reach the top it takes her a moment before she opens her eyes and realizes he's stopped moving. He's crouched low, motionless and patient, waiting for her to drop down. She does so, trembling, and relief rushes through her as her toes come in contact with something solid once more.
They've come to rest high on top the pitched rooftop on a flat, narrow ridge running its length and a crested, ornamental railing dividing it down its center. Surrounding them on all sides, however, is nothing but empty space and a long drop down into the fathoms far beneath them. From here atop their perch high above the world, the jagged mountain range that looms so threateningly tall outside her own window rises and dips away below them, and beyond the mountains — only darkness and shadows. She experiences a rush of vertigo and feels his hands on her elbows, steadying her.
Eventually it passes, and when it does she takes it upon herself to grope her hand out for the railing beside her and grasp it tightly. The little berm they stand on is small, no more than a foot wide between the railing and the long steep slope downwards, and a part of her is afraid to move the wrong way, afraid to breathe for fear of falling. To avoid looking down she looks up at him instead, and her eyes find his face. "Why did you bring me up here?" is all she can ask.
"I found your hiding place," he says gently. "Well. . . this is mine."
There is a bemused pause on her part.
"Here?" A little bubble of absurd laughter almost rises out of her, but she forces it down. She peeks nervously again down over the side of the roof to the drop below. "Oh," she flounders, her voice strained. "It's. . . nice. Very. . . open."
Despite her best efforts she finds she's trembling, and it's not just her nerves — even with little wind it's cold this high up, and she never thought to bring her cloak. She rubs her arms and manages a thin, weathering smile. "Well I'll say this for my little blanket fort: while it may be small, it makes up for it in warmth."
As if on cue, after ensuring that she has a solid hold on the railing the Beast steps away briefly, moving off to the end of the walkway where the roof edge butts up against the slim stone stack of the chimney. With one clawed hand hanging onto the chase, he leans out into the empty air and with his other hand unties a large straw basket from the side of the roof that she had never even realized was there. With just the hint of a wry smirk, he removes from it a thick stack of blankets.
"Small can be good," he muses, making his way back to her as a slow smile spreads across her face. "Small spaces are a perfect size for many perfect things." There are woolen blankets of crimson red and deep umber brown, as well as a rich, heavy grey fur that speaks of safety and warmth. He snaps it out with a flourish and wraps it around her, and the weight settles comfortably on her shoulders like an embrace.
When he speaks again his voice is low and feather soft. "Though if you ever wanted a little more space. . . I'd gladly share mine."
She meets his focused gaze and for a short time they stand there facing one another in a laden sort of silence, two distinct silhouetted figures amid the last few light flakes of snow floating down around them in the dark. Even after he finally drops his gaze his hands linger for a moment longer, slowly smoothing out the wrinkles across her shoulders.
She lets him take her by the hand and guide her to the far end of the rooftop, where he spreads out the remaining blankets and settles himself on the edge, then carefully helps her down beside him. The thick, rolling cloud cover that has cloaked the castle grounds for days is finally moving off, leaving behind instead a few high, wispy clouds and a sheet of silken night sky stretching out before them in every direction. The stars are boundless, an ocean of delicate white gems thrown up and scattered across the dark like pearls spilled over the floor, and despite some lingering unease at being so high up she can't help but admit that there is a profound beauty to it.
She glances over at him. "Quite the hideaway," she concedes, smiling.
The Beast is staring intently out into the dark at some point beyond where the horizon should be but isn't, lost as it is somewhere in the shadows of the night. He breathes in a lungful of the chilly winter air, a big deep inhale that swells and holds in his massive chest before being slowly released again in a little cloud of vapor.
"I like to come up here to think," he sighs heavily. "The air, the openness — it's clarifying. Gives me room to clear my head."
"You live in a castle. No one would say you're particularly lacking for room," she teases.
The corner of his mouth quirks up ruefully. "Perhaps." He shrugs. "I suppose sometimes I just need some. . ."
"Space?"
A full smile for her this time. "More like breathing room."
It's a small admission on his part, no deep truth or grand revelation of past lives, but it's a start.
They sit in comfortable silence for a time. The snow has stopped and the air has a clean, crisp feeling to it. Her trembling has ceased; in fact, she can barely feel the cold at all anymore. Soft hairs from the blanket tickle her cheeks as she pulls it closer under her chin, lightly breathing in its warmth. It smells like him, she realizes, and for a brief moment she wonders if they are the same sleek silver furs from the mangled bed in the room directly below their feet.
When she looks over at him he's staring off once more into the distance wearing that far off expression. There's something about him this morning: a held breath, a patient expectancy. She has the impression there is something on his mind, though whether he'll feel inclined enough to share it with her, to ever share himself fully, she has no clue. She hopes he will. He's a book with a promising beginning but no middle or end; like trying to read page after page of a story that has been scratched over and inked out. Something in her is determined to try though.
She turns to him, eyeing him like an explorer considering how to tackle a piece of particularly treacherous terrain; cautious of overstepping her bounds again, especially so soon after they seem to have reconciled.
"Think about what?" she endeavors at last, picking up from what he'd said earlier, parting the silence tentatively. Baby steps.
The unexpectedness of her question catches him off guard and he glances at her, puzzled. "What?"
"You said you come up here to think. What do you think about?"
He goes quiet for a long moment, staring down off the edge of the rooftop in a strangely intimate, worrying sort of way at the dark rocks and crashing falls far below. "Lots of things. . ." he murmurs absently, and for a second he seems to disappear to some dark place she doesn't recognize and doesn't know how to broach. Then her fingers lightly touch his hand and he's back.
He takes another deep breath and comes alive again, casting a forced, reassuring smile at her. "Nothing of consequence," he amends dismissively.
She frowns at this abrupt revert to form. It's endlessly frustrating: just when she thinks he may let her in, let her cross the line — he moves it on her, making her second guess everything. Will he or won't he; to let it be or push forward. She chooses forward.
"You can trust me, you know," she presses ever so gently, and she can feel the breeze stir and raise the hairs of the blanket alongside her neck. "If you wanted to talk."
His eyes turn away from her evasively. "Talk about what?"
"Whatever it is you're hiding from me."
"I'm not hiding anything."
And now he is lying straight to her face. A little fire burns to life in the pit of her belly, and it makes her brash.
"Okay then, truth. Who are you?"
The look he flashes her is one of mingled disbelief and outrage. His upper lip twitches for the slightest instant, but then he snorts and turns away.
She continues her pursuit. There's nowhere for him to storm off to this time, and she trusts — hopes — that he will not abandon her alone on the rooftop.
"Who are you?" she repeats.
He won't meet her eyes. There's a rough, biting quality to his tone now. "It doesn't matter."
"That's not an answer."
Exasperated. Annoyed. "Belle. . ."
"What? It's a simple question."
"You're too curious for your own good. . ." he mutters under his breath.
She charges on. "Where are you from? Who were your parents?"
"Drop it —"
"When's your birthday? What's your name? I don't even know your name."
"Stop!"
"Why won't you talk to me? Why do you hide everything?"
"Because it's none of your business!" He whirls on her, in an instant his voice going from a low rumble to a thundering roar, and she flinches back on instinct.
Silence descends once more over the rooftop.
.
How did they end up back here again?
The Beast's shoulders are heaving following his outburst, his breathing coming fast and heavy with loud puffs of steam billowing from his nostrils on each sharp, agitated exhale. Belle's pale cheeks are flushed red, whether from the chill or her own vexation, and for a minute neither of them can look at the other; each falling back to stew in their own simmering anger.
Glowering straight ahead out into the darkness, enormous clawed hands clenching and unclenching at the air, he takes a few deep breaths and tries to calm himself down and de-escalate the pent up storm rolling around in his chest.
He hasn't raised his voice to her like that since the day she'd trespassed to the west wing. He never meant to unleash on her just now the way he did, but she just has a way of pushing him. Why is she never content to leave well enough alone?
Off in the distance he can just barely make out the far edge of the forest canopy now; without him noticing the night sky has imperceptibly lightened around them. He releases a low, drawn-out, rumbling sigh and hangs his head. This isn't what he brought her up here for. It had been intended as a peace offering of a sort, and a gesture god willing of his feelings for her — feelings that are still too new and confusing and frightening to dare utter out loud yet. After two days of going slowly crazy not speaking to her, of watching her from the shadows, he had doffed his grievances and made the effort to reach out and close the terrible aching hole between them — and instead she's gone and pried it all open again for no good reason he can see.
Somewhere deep inside he feels a familiar sharp twist and the thing in his chest clenches up again. It's the same feeling he experienced when she confronted him unexpectedly about his past in the tiny blanket fort days prior, and again minutes ago, tightening and tightening like a hangman's noose as she barraged him endlessly with questions. It is an unrelenting demon — squeezing the air out of him when she is not close enough, fingers pressing around his throat when she gets too close.
Over all the long years, he has retreated to the rooftops to breathe when the castle, the staff, the weight of the enchantment itself becomes too stifling. When he needs to remember who he is. When he hates himself. And mostly when it all seems like almost too much burden to bear: with the fault of the curse resting on his shoulders and the pressure of lifting it riding on his back in the most exposing and vulnerable way possible; all the while each passing day his own home feels like it's becoming more of a prison, the walls constricting smaller and tighter, and in the darkness it becomes harder to hold onto things like hope and faith.
And now her prying, the way she smothers him with question after question. . . It's suffocating.
But as much as he wants to hold her squarely at fault for his display of temper just now, he knows that is no excuse. And conceding that, he is the first to break the deadlock.
"I'm sorry. . ." he apologizes finally with a grunt, "— for shouting. . . I lost control. It was inappropriate."
She says nothing, but a sidelong glance shows that she's listening. She's stubborn, and that is something he can relate to.
He sighs heavily and runs a tired hand down his face. When he speaks again it is low and even, and he fights to keep the growl out of his voice. "When you came here, I asked of you one thing. . . to respect my privacy."
"You told me to stay out of the west wing," she corrects obstinately.
"Which you didn't."
There is a slightly guilty pause. Her tone takes on a meeker quality to it than it did before.
"You never said it was private, only that it was forbidden. . . There was no explicit —"
"There shouldn't have to be."
The reprimand is sharp, and as they meet each other's gaze for the first time since they began lashing out, she has the decency to look chagrined. "You're right. I'm sorry," she says quietly.
"When I ask you to respect my privacy, I need you to do just that," he tells her in slow and unequivocal clearness. "And when I ask you to drop a question, I need you to drop it."
His rebuke leaves her looking properly abashed. "I was never trying to pry. . ." she whispers, her eyes downcast. "I just keep feeling. . . like you're hiding something."
"And if I were, would that not be within every bit of my right to do so?" he replies severely.
She looks up, her eyes considering him boldly for a moment before she answers.
"I suppose that depends on what the secret is and why you're hiding it."
There is a wordless face-off in the wake of her words, hazel eyes and blue both trying to stare down the other, and in the end he is the one to turn away. He doesn't need to look at her to sense her disappointment.
"I hate that you don't trust me enough to talk to me," he hears her say in a small, dejected voice beside him.
The hurt and pain infused in her words is like a punch to his gut.
"It's not about trust," he insists quietly.
"I'm not so sure. You certainly don't seem to trust me. Isn't that why you're always watching me?"
He tenses, looking suddenly uncomfortable like a child who has been caught misbehaving. When he glances over at her she's staring at him expectantly.
"I know you do," she asserts flatly. "You watch me all the time. You like to check in on me. As if it isn't already difficult enough here finding somewhere to be alone with your thoughts without wondering if the urn in the corner is going to start voicing an opinion." There's a noticeable trace of resentment underscoring her tone, and she looks away from him. "Why do you think I craved a private space of my own so badly?"
Everything seems to stop, and for a frozen moment the Beast is forced to mentally re-evaluate all that has happened in the past few months as he is faced with considering that everything he has thought and assumed has been wrong all this time. It's as if a lead weight has been dropped into the pit of his stomach, and he immediately feels his lungs and throat constrict.
"I. . . I apologize," he manages stiffly. "I wasn't aware my company was so unwelcome."
"No — that's not what I'm saying —" she amends hurriedly at the sight of his crestfallen expression. "I enjoy your company. I value the time we spend together very, very much. It's just. . . sometimes. . . too much."
His brow furrows. He can tell that she is measuring her words carefully, trying to soften their brunt for his sake.
"You and I spend so much time with one another these days, and Cogsworth and Lumière and the rest of the staff have been so attentive — it's wonderful, but I don't always need so much. . . attention. I can barely walk down the hall without someone offering me tea or stopping to ask where I'm off to. . . or watching me from the shadows." He shifts uncomfortably, and she gives him a weak smile. "It can be draining."
A stray hair falls back across her eyes that she brushes aside. "Sometimes. . . I need some time to myself. Alone." She bites her lip, glancing away from him and then looking back gingerly. "A little bit of. . . breathing room?"
It's his turn to look sheepish and he can't immediately meet her eyes.
She sighs. "You have to stop following me," she says with gentle but firm directness. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not going to leave or sneak away. I made a promise and I'm not going to break it."
"You did before. How do I know you won't again?"
The question is out of his mouth before he can stop it. It's a low blow and he knows it. She looks hurt.
"You have to trust me," she says quietly.
He says nothing.
"You have to trust me," she repeats again, stressing on the word, beseeching a dry crop field for rain.
When he still does not respond, she reaches out and takes his hand, pulling his eyes to her. "Look at me. This has to go both ways. A friendship can't be built if there's no trust. . . and without it, I don't know what you want from me."
Friendship. He experiences a sharp little heart-wrenching pang at her use of the word. The thought that it is possible that's all she sees him as, will ever see him as.
"I don't want anything from you —" He fumbles over the words. "I just — I want. . . you. Here."
"Then you have to give me something," she implores him. She sounds exhausted, battle worn. "Because sometimes I don't know whether to keep fighting or to give up."
She's staring up at him, waiting for something, but there is nothing he can offer her. He doesn't know what to say and so he says nothing at all, and after a second her hand slowly let goes of his and they fall back down to their sides.
The sky is a definite shade lighter than it was a short time before. They sit in silence, an ocean stretching between them, and he can only stare out earnestly past the silhouettes of the mountains in the distance as they take on a more defined shape, more depth, and inch ever so gradually through the grey, creeping shadows of the pre-dawn.
"Do you want me to go?" Belle asks quietly, and she casts a hesitant glance down the steep slope of the roof, as if mulling her chances of whether she'd be able to make it down on her own or not.
He turns and grabs her wrist very gently as she is about to stand. There is an imploring look in his eyes and a hint of desperateness to his tone. "No — don't go. You haven't seen it yet."
"Seen what?"
"The best part."
.
He gets up and moves around behind her anxiously, stretching an arm over her shoulder and pointing her attention east to the horizon.
"What?" Belle asks, confused.
"Wait."
She doesn't know what she's supposed to be looking at. "I don't see. . ."
"Wait."
With effort, she squints out into the gloom, following the direction of his arm and a single extended claw.
Nothing. "Where. . .?" she murmurs.
His mouth is poised beside her cheek and she feels him inhale and hold an expectant breath for a moment, and then in a breathless whisper in her ear: "—There."
There is nothing again at first. . . then something, and when she sees it, the first tiny speck of rosy color far in the distance, her eyes widen slowly and her lips part. "Oh. . ." she breathes.
It grows and spreads outward gradually, like watercolors being added to a blank canvas before her eyes. A gradient of cool shades at first: pink to purple to blue, soft and light; arms reaching out to caress the sky with long delicate fingers sweeping tendrils of gentle hues through the gauzy clouds overhead as a lover's fingers threading through hair — then little by little they grow more vibrant. Clouds like gossamer and spun sugar begin to flush rich and full and warm with startling coral pinks, deep royal plums, and pulsing scarlet. They roll and tumble together in a heady, delirious tangle of rising intensity and heat; their underbellies rimmed with gold filigree, an elegant streak of color from an artist's brush finer and more dazzling than any master painter could produce.
It is a sky like she has never seen, and she feels as if she's stepped off the edge of the world and has been swallowed by the blushing heavens themselves.
For a long while she stares up at it in awe, when there's a sudden glint out of the corner of her eye and she turns her attention from the colors overhead back out to a spot far off in the distance, silhouetted black against the sky. Amid the cold, desolate shadows there is the faintest pooling of light glimmering just below the horizon.
It flickers like a candle seen from a league away in a high window. There is a tensing, a feeling like a sharp intake and holding in of air, of palpable anticipation — then as she watches, the sunlight breaks over the lip of the Earth and spills over like languid liquid flame. It licks the steep, jagged hips of the mountains, giving them fullness and body and breath. And beyond their craggy peaks, beyond the forbidding tops of forest canopy, rising up out of the dark. . . the rest of the world suddenly comes into view: plunging valleys dissected by twisting streams and rivers; country side dotted with copses and farmland, vineyards and little winding lanes; and rolling hills and meadows extending out into endless lowland plains blanketed in snow tinted pink, the color of strawberries and crème. It stretches so far and endless that everything from the mountains to the castle to the rooftop where she sits there, mesmerized, all at once seem indescribably small.
Words to express the swelling inside her chest and the magic of the moment catch in her throat, and as she feels the warmth rise in her cheeks all she can utter is a breathless exclamation.
Eyes locked on the splendor unfolding before her, she can't see the Beast beside her but she can feel him there. He is a quiet, anchoring presence keeping her tethered to the rooftop save she go floating up and away; and despite that he has not said a word since the dawn first broke, despite all their feuding left unresolved, somehow over the course of watching the sunrise and greeting the morning light of a new day, her hand finds his again and their fingers wind together.
It's in that moment that she realizes with perfect lucidity that she has lost all her fear about being so high up, and that from up here maybe the rugged crags and snow-topped peaks are not all that intimidating after all — and that perhaps all you really need sometimes is a different vantage point.
.
Her palm in his hand is soft and warm, and instead of watching the sunrise all he can watch is her. She's gazing at the sky with lips slightly parted and eyes wide and rapt with wonder, and as the receding twilight and rising sun lights her face up in pinks and gold, he thinks to himself that it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.
They sit together following the track of the rising sun across the sky for a time until eventually the intensity of the colors begin to fade into pastel yellows and mild blues. A slight breeze stirs through his mane. He breathes it in, filling his lungs. He has been mulling over something for several minutes now, turning it over and over in his mind, weighing the cost and examining it for possible risks, and has come to a somewhat hesitant decision.
"The start of spring," he says at last.
She looks over at him. "What?"
He sighs, heavy, reluctant. "The first day of spring. That's my birthday."
He tenses, waiting for the push, for all of the additional questions that would inevitably follow, but there's nothing. Instead she looks at him for a long considerate moment.
"That's coming up soon," is all she says.
The sigh that rises and releases from him is heavy and laden with fear and resignation and of so many words left that cannot be said. "Yes. It is."
"We should do something special."
He looks at her and she smiles, and finally he nods, accepting her plan; submitting to whatever would or would not happen, to whatever joy or sorrow should come to pass — as long as she was with him he would bear it.
...
When they finally climb down from the rooftop Belle insists on sliding and scooting her way down the sloping incline herself, not keen to revisit the unnerving sensation of dangling in the open air again, while the Beast steadies her from below. He leaps lightly off the roof face to the floor of the balcony and turns to help her off the parapet.
As he lifts her down, hands around her waist, her fingers on his arms, their eyes hold level for a moment longer than necessary and there is an indrawn breath, a fluttering in the chest, a flicker of. . . something — before he looks embarrassed, setting her on her feet and dropping his hands back decently to his sides. It's her who surprises him by taking one of them up again and clasping it in her own between them.
"Thank you for sharing this morning with me," she smiles.
His expression returns her warmth tenfold, and with his other hand he softly brushes a few remaining flakes of snow from her hair and tucks it back behind her ear.
"Breakfast?" he suggests hopefully.
Her lips press together, and she looks hesitant. "I was thinking. . ." she tells him gently, "I may take breakfast today in my room — my other room. . . alone." And she gives his hand a tight little squeeze.
His shoulders fall fractionally, betraying his disappointment, and somewhere deep in his chest something tightens — but he nods in dutiful understanding.
"But I'll see you tonight at dinner?" she affirms bracingly.
The pressure lessens. A firmer nod this time. "Yes."
There's a pause, then almost reluctantly she slips the thick, warm furs from her shoulders to return them to him, but he presses the blanket back into her arms.
"Add it to your fort," he smiles.
The corners of her lips curl up and she bundles it closely against her, her fingers combing though the soft hair, and though it may be merely a trick in the afterglow of the vanishing rosy twilight, he can swear she is blushing.
She turns to leave and he does not follow, though it takes all of his considerable will. But before she disappears, he softly calls out one more time.
"Belle?"
She turns back to him. There is a somber sort of supplication in his gaze, a barely contained desperate plea.
"Don't give up on me."
The emotion that reflects in her eyes as she looks at him is so steady and sincere, so full of hope and new beginnings and words unsaid, that surely at that moment there must be something more there than friendship.
"Never," she promises.
Then she gently slips away, and he knows that will have to do.
He doesn't search her out that day, or the next. They continue to spend time together as they did before, and it is always full of laughter and tender touches and an ever-growing, irrefutable closeness — but he no longer intrudes on her without invitation.
And on his very darkest days, if he ever can't find her and he feels his chest begin to tighten and is finding it hard to keep on breathing, he knows he only needs to look past the darkness towards the east and there will be light.
END
Author's Notes:
This was something that started as just a cute fluff scene and sort of took on a life of its own. Working under the assumed timeline in which the events of the movie spans the six months between late October to March, this fic takes place about midway through in late January/early February.
Questions and Commands - This is a real game that originated in Europe in the early 18th century. There's not much to know about it other than it is assumed to be an early day predecessor to Truth or Dare. I couldn't figure out a way of incorporating in the command/dare element of the game without disrupting the story flow, but I'm sure it would make a potentially enticing story prompt. ;3
Feedback is welcome and appreciated! Also, please feel free to check out my other BatB fic on my profile.