Blossoming romance, fierce battle, rescuing the endangered heroine, healing the wounded hero, quarreling, and reconciliation, all set amid flamboyant soap opera intensity; what more could one ask of a love story?
We know how this story ends, but we watch it, read about it, and even write about it; we just can't get enough of it. I wrote this in the vein of my 'Ardent' stories.
With her hair she throws lassoes at me, with her eyes she catches me, with her necklace she entangles me, and with her seal ring she brands me (Song 43 in the Chester Beatty Cycle, translated by W. K. Simpson, ed., The Literature of Ancient Egypt, 324).
Thine head crowns thee like Mount Carmel, and thine flowing hair is like a royal robe. The king is held captive in its tresses. (Song of Solomon 7:5)
But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering. (1 Corinthians 11:15)
He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes
Fasten your hair with a golden pin, / And bind up every wandering tress; / I bade my heart build these poor rhymes: / It worked at them, day out, day in, / Building a sorrowful loveliness / Out of the battles of old times.
You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, / And bind up your long hair and sigh; / And all men's hearts must burn and beat; / And candle-like foam on the dim sand, / And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, / Live but to light your passing feet. (by William Butler Yeats)
Then said Olaf, laughing, / "Not ten yoke of oxen / Have the power to draw us / Like a woman's hair! (from The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
ON BEAUTY
AND a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. / And he answered: / Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her / unless she herself be your way and your guide?
/...And in the summer heat the reapers say, "We have seen her dancing / with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair." (from The Prophet, by Kalil Gibran)
…The maiden, wonderful as a wonderful dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed, blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment, with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a mantle. (from Chapter VII, Qup Vadis, a Narrative of the Time of Nero, by Henryk Sienkiewicz)
Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor
chpt 1
her rescuer
The young man, Adam Seth Jared St. Michael de la Croix Ancr e sur la Montagne, used to be a prince. His family domain had been the ancient princedom of Molyneaux sous la Montagne.
Before his transformation into a 'hideous Beast', as he would one day be called, he had periods of surly tantrums. But he never knew true fury until the day he fell on the wolf pack with berserker madness and scattered them like wisps of straw in a hurricane…to rescue the radiant maiden.
It did not begin well. The radiant maiden, Belle Bricateur, had come to the Château de la Croix Ancrée, seeking her father, whom the hideous Beast had imprisoned, on the flimsy pretext of disturbing the ill-humored creature's peaceful seclusion.
In vain did the hapless fellow profess that he was fleeing the ravening wolves, and would rather have made a wide detour to avoid the inhospitable Beast. The contrary creature took great offense at this inference, construing it in the worst possible fashion
Following her father's trail, the unfortunate man's frantic daughter struck a desperate bargain with the surly dweller of the grim château; if the prisoner were released, she would remain as a willing hostage. The Beast was amenable to the agreement, and promptly tossed the old man into a carriage that, once drawn by a team of fine horses, had conveyed the prince in splendor. Now it crawled like a spider, and conveyed the man back to his village.
The Beast demanded to know her name.
"Belle," the girl told him, downcast.
Beauty. It fell on his ear like a song; her voice was the melody, and her name the single sweet lyric.
He was self-absorbed and temperamental; he demanded her company at his evening dinner table. She was despondent at becoming both a captive and an orphan in the span of a single hour. She refused to accommodate him, and he flew into a rage, confining her to her room without supper, as a strict parent would a naughty child.
Bristling at this humiliation, she defied him, cautiously exploring the château by herself. She was unfortunate enough to stumble onto the Beast unexpectedly in his own quarters.
His rage at being disobeyed reached titanic proportions. With a swing of his mace-like fist, he split timbers and demanded her departure.
She fled headlong from his apartments, terrified. She scampered down the grand staircase too rapid for safety, but her fear of the Beast surpassed her fear of injury. She grabbed up her cloak and ran off into the night, heedless of the risk of the wolves her father had earlier fled from.
Aghast at his insensitivity, the Beast belatedly realized his own awful error-he needed her to effect his restoration to humanity.
Stricken with remorse, the Beast watched from his balcony as the girl's draft horse galloped off from the château with her fair form astride the faithful steed. And he saw other forms moving among the trees…mere dots from his vantage, but swift and deadly…wolves. perhaps even the same wolves the girl's father had babbled about.
Thoughtless of danger, the Beast vaulted from the balcony. Grasping the eave like an agile giant primate, he swung down, hand over hand. As soon as he touched the ground, he broke into a four-footed run, his Bestial hind legs enabling him to dart like a rabbit. Draft horses were built for strength, not swiftness. The wolves would overtake the maiden and her mount. And he must overtake the wolves.
The blizzard intensified even as he ran. The swirling snow veiled everything. Trees seemed to rush at him out of the eddy of flakes, and he dodged left and right to avoid colliding with them. There was only the whistle of the wind, the pound of his feet, and the deep rasp of his own breath.
Suddenly the Beast heard the terrified whinny of the horse, and the distraught wail of the girl. He redoubled his pace.
The wind ceased for a moment, and the snow magically cleared. He reached the top of a hill and caught sight of the object of his pursuit
There they were in the little dell below, the horse's reins tangled in a tree branch, the wolves ringing their prey, and the girl valiantly swinging a tree limb like a club to fend them off.
The Beast's heart exalted at this most marvelous maiden. She was as courageous as she was beautiful. Her wail was not a scream of utter terror; she succeeded in keeping her wits about her; and ringed by almost two dozen wolves, she managed to hold the predators at bay
The alpha male of the wolf pack seized her stick and yanked it away, pulling her to the ground. Snarling, it approached her slowly for the kill, its fangs bared. She stared at the bloodthirsty brute, a helpless fear in her eyes. None of them saw the newcomer; tensing himself for his leap, he bounded up like a stone from a catapult. and plummeted down into the dell.
The wolf lunged at Belle…it's jaws were but an arm's length from her throat…and an instantaneous hulking mass of hair, claws, and fangs landed with a resounding boom in the midst of them. Billows of snow were stirred up like dust.
The wolves, the horse, and the girl were all startled. The draft horse reared up. The wolves drew back, yipping. And Belle stifled a yelp of terror with both her hands.
With his great paw, the Beast seized the creature about to attack Belle by its scruff. It struggled as he lifted it. Gaze to gaze, one dominant predator to another, he unleashed a deafening bellow in its very face that drowned the other wolves' growling like a clap of thunder. He hurled the wolf into a thicket of trees, then turned and planted his four limbs in a defiant stance between the rest of the wolf pack and Belle.
The other wolves were upon him, swarming like ants. In a frenzy, he struck back with closed fist and slashed with clawed paw. If he were a large game animal, they could have dragged him down. If they were small game animals, they could have scattered to safety. But the wolves and the Beast were two of a kind, quick and predatory. No quarter would be given in this battle.
The alpha male returned. It clamped its jaws on his forearm. The Beast closed his own jaws on its neck and shoulders, and it yelped in agony. There was a crack of bone splintering, and the wolf went limp. The Beast shook the carcass like a dog shaking a rat, and flung the body from him with a twist of his head.
At last the wolf pack broke and ran, yipping and whining. More than one wolf lay motionless in the snow. The Beast almost roared again in the unholy joy of his bloody triumph…until he chanced to glimpse the one whose peril occasioned his berserker mood…Belle.
She was fumbling with the horse's reins. At last she dared to turn her head and look at him. the terror in her eyes at the sight of him was great as it had been when she beheld the wolf, and dreaded her death-as great as her father's terror had been.
For the barest moment, they regarded each other. Her hair had come unbound; it wafted in the wind of the blizzard like willow tree branches, her tresses flowing about her head with the snowflakes. Her cloak adorned her slender frame like a royal robe. Her little hands clutched at the hem, trying to keep herself covered from the wind. She was shivering pitifully. Despite that, she looked exquisite, like a vision.
He knew he was a bloody spectacle. Great patches of snow in the dell were stained with it, both his and the wolves'. The fur on his chest and limbs was scratched and matted with blood. The bite wound on his arm bled freely. With his uninjured arm, he wiped his mouth, and saw the blood from the wolf he had bitten.
His heart quailed. His rage had driven her from the shelter of the château into the hazards of the forest, with its frigid temperatures and its ravenous predators. She had no more reason to trust him to be her rescuer than to trust the very wolves.
He took a step, and she backed away a step. He raised the unscathed forepaw as if to beckon, and tried to speak reassuringly. She flinched at his movement. He tried to call her by name, to apologize for his wicked temper. To beg her not to flee. To promise to be kinder and less explosive. He tried to make his voice heard above the wail of the wind, beseeching her forgiveness for frightening her. All that came out of his mouth was a strangled cry, a disconsolate animal keening sound. Then his eyesight darkened and his knees buckled. Before he collapsed facedown in the snow, he was already unconscious.
The Beast awoke in the château…in his own den, with the roaring fire in the hearth, the thick cushy hearthrug on the flagstone floor, and the big overstuffed chair. Somehow Belle had conveyed him here, to the very place where he had found her father, before tossing the poor hapless man into a dungeon cell. In mute astonishment, he wondered at the girl's abilities, what manner of power she must wield to accomplish that feat.
She appeared, carrying a basin of steaming water with both hands. The water gave off the acrid smell of antiseptic. Over her arm were draped clean linen that the housekeeper kept for bandages. The girl had laid aside her cloak and rolled up her sleeves, baring her slender forearms.
But what entranced him was her hair. It was still as it had been in the woods, unbound from her ponytail. Falling past her shoulders, and down to her back and upper arms, it adorned her head and shoulders like a Madonna's veil, forming itself to her contours. In another way, though, her hair seemed to float around her head like an ethereal mist, its sheen mimicking the brightness of an angelic halo.
"I'm going to bandage your wound, Monsieur Beast," she said in a low voice, kneeling beside him. She dipped a cloth in the basin of water and wrung it out.
While she was leaning over his arm, dabbing his wound with the cloth, some of her locks spilled over her shoulders, and rested on her bosom in pliant curls. Her face, with its eyes downcast and lips drawn like a bow, was framed by her loose tresses, and looked even more beguiling.
He remembered something he heard as a young lad: a woman's hair her crowning glory. Belle's crowning glory had a mysterious quality, as dark as stained oak, yet as glossy and as shimmering as the noonday sun on running water. It looked as soft and smooth as satin. She absently tucked the hair that obstructed her vision behind her ears, first the left, then the right. He saw, closer than ever, the dimples of her cheek, the lines of her jaw, and the roundness of her ears. He longed to touch even a silken strand of her hair, to satisfy his burning curiosity. But he dared not.
The antiseptic stung him while she was binding up his wounds, and his temper grew short again. She responded this time in kind, answering him outburst for outburst, and retort for retort.
Her eyes threw sparks. She balled her hands into little fists. Her little mouth hardened into a harsh frown. Her hair seemed to surge about her head like a stallion's mane when it rears up. The tables had turned; the unwilling guest was now the mistress of the château
She daunted the Beast badly, like a hissing spitting housecat might daunt a big curious ambling dog. And the Beast wondered for a moment if this little village girl were in reality the Enchantress who transformed him, and all the inhabitants of the château, returning in a new concealment, to test him again.
For the first time in his life, he was cowed into submission. Perhaps she was indeed an enchantress. It could not be denied that she enchanted, enthralled, and fascinated him. He was awed, charmed, and smitten all at once. He remained subdued while she finished binding his wound.
"By the way," she murmured, in a soft dulcet voice, "Thank you for saving me." She looked up with her big expressive eyes from tending his arm, and blinked.
Like boulders careening down a mountainside, those few words and that single glance set off an avalanche of emotions in his heart, To say he felt thrilled is to say that a torrential rainfall produces some slight moisture. All his lands, titles, wealth, possessions, and authority were as chaff in the wind compared to her single expression of gratitude. He felt he could willingly face a legion of slavering predators to earn another little murmured word of thanks. Mastering his overwhelmed senses, he managed a rasping "You're welcome…Belle."
It was as though his mention of her name was a magic word. A noticeable little smile flickered on her lips in response, as she completed the binding of his wound. He had to press his uninjured hand to his chest to keep his pounding heart from rupturing his ribs.
His eyes followed her as she stood up and gathered her hair back off her shoulders and bound up her tresses in a ponytail. He felt suddenly deprived, as though a great honor had been withdrawn. And before he was aware of it, she was gone from the den, back up to her queenly bedchamber, the gilded cage he had imposed on her. Her presence had been light and music, and her departure greatly diminished the chamber.
In the silence, with only the crackling of the fire in the hearth, the Beast was overwhelmed again. Ecstasy and despair both warred in his heart. He felt like a thief who had come into possession of a single fabulous gem, unearned, the single moment of her appreciation. A whole vast hoard was his for the having…if only he could find the key.
He understood at last what the Enchantress meant when she gave him the resplendent Rose in the bell jar. "If you can learn to love another, and earn her love in return by the time the last petal falls, then the spell will be broken."
He had contrived to make Belle a captive in exchange for her father's freedom; of course it was an unjust agreement. But he no longer saw her simply as a means to an end. In the span of a single night, he had learned to care for another's wellbeing more than his. Beauty had tamed the Beast.
He had defended Belle at the risk of life and limb. And she had had bestowed her regard on him. The reward was more than worth the price. In the thrill of the moment, her favor meant more to him than the possible restoration of his humanity. His heart was lost to her.
And the task the Enchantress had set before him was to somehow win Belle's heart as she had won his.
A / N
First, this chpt. is a recreation of a scene from the Disney movie. I was enthralled by Belle's flowing hair, and I tried to convey it in the Beast's response. This chpt. is from the Beast's POV; the next chpt. will be from Belle's POV.
Second, the names have various sources. As explained by the Little details in fanfic page at the BaTB fansite Bittersweet and Strange, the name of Molyneaux as Belle's village is of fanon origin, chosen randomly by a few fanwriters from French place names, and then accepted by a groundswell of more fanwriters.
The choice of 'Adam' as the Beast's human name is a little more obscure.
Various opinions are bounced around on the webpage's conversation thread. I myself recall hearing the name 'Adam' cited on a cassette tape children's audio book recitation of the Disney movie 'way back in the 1990's…I think. And in my overwrought way, I expanded on the fanon names of the Beast and the village.
The names 'Adam Seth Jared' are derived from the genealogy of Adam to Noah, found in 1 Chronicles 1:1-3.
St. Michael is one of the patron saints of France. His shrine is found on Mont St. Michael. It used to be an island, until the land rose over geologic time. I almost made it the location of Molyneaux, but decided to let Molyneaux remain a generic French rural village without any particular locale.
'De la Croix Ancrée sur la Montagne'; that's complicated. Molyneaux, and its variants, Molyneux, etc, are common names in France. According to Wikipedia, a nobleman of that name accompanied William of Normandy when he conquered England in 1066. There are branches of the family in both the UK and the USA. The family residence was at the site of Castle Molyneux, at Moulineaux-Sur-Seine in Normandy.
The coat-of-arms of the English families include a moline cross, or croix ancrée, as it is called in French, similar to a Maltese cross. Is the name 'Molyneux' a derivative of the word 'moline'? Nothing I read mentioned that. But all the names are startlingly similar.
And the 'ancient princedom of Molyneaux sous la Montagne'; it's a place name I invented; 'Molyneaux under the mountain', like Moulineaux-Sur-Seine', 'Moulineaux on the Seine (River)', which is real. I'm working on a backstory connecting Adam's family with Belle's village.
Third, my verbose writing style; numerous essays on how to write urge the would-be writer to be sparing with words, and let the story tell itself. I am a colossal failure in this aspect.
Modern writing is like Modernist painting, minimalist and utilitarian. I've gotten into the stirring romances of the 19th century, books like Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo, and Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. They write like the old masters of oil painting, Rubens and Rembrandt, lush with detail and as extravagant with words as the painters with paint.
Oh, yeah, while I'm baring my conscience; it's probably no surprise to those few who are my dogged loyal readers that I'm a devout delayer. I refer to myself in my FF-dot-net profile as Glacially Slow; am thinking I should change that to Geologically Slow, like continental drift.
It's now been almost six years since my divorce. There's an old saying about not letting grass grow under one's feet, which is a metaphor for prompt completion of one's tasks. If I look real close under my feet, I might find prairies of grassland as far as the eye can see; or maybe a vast redwood forest.