Yes, a Beauty & the Beast retelling – I know everyone's doing it, but this one's mine :) If this project is successful, I'll write Sleeping Beauty (although I wouldn't be surprised if this turned out to have been done as well). For now, however, enjoy.
My greatest thanks to my friend Soshi185, without whom this would not be possible.
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Days are trickling past like grains of sand through Rey's fingers, and she marks each carefully on the wall of her small hut, so as not to misplace any of the too-similar ones she spends on her watch; she knows exactly the number of marks she has made, by rows and uneven columns, she knows the accidental patterns that reveal themselves over time; the marks seem to tell her life story more than anything else could.
Rey also knows exactly the number of marks she has made since she has last seen Finn and Poe: six.
(Even so, she counts them again.)
As she begins to etch another mark into the wall – the seventh mark by this newest count – Rey recalls the stories she has heard.
(What truth is there to the stories, Rey?)
Stories originating from Jakku and tales brought by the rare visitors; vague descriptions of the weird incident five years before, when the night bloomed aflame with magic, making the dark shapes stand out against its flare, when spells boomed through the air and a wild cry could be heard, as if of a wounded beast – these mixed with detailed fables of a monster living in a secluded manor, prowling the woods by night, devouring hapless travellers – unless one arrived there by day, then the monster is forced to provide them with food and shelter.
(What do you think?)
Rey has heard these stories and watched them unfold from witness reports to gossip to what seemed to her outright fabrications; she doesn't know where the truth lies and, if she were to be honest, she doesn't particularly care.
Rey's job is to stay alive, and as long as the monster doesn't emerge from the wilderness to devour her, it is irrelevant to the task; merely a curiosity.
Or at least, had been until she befriended two young adventurers.
The moment when the subject was finally raised came when they were sitting on a dune, watching the horizon for the last rays of the setting sun. Finn had once told them to look out for the single flash of green in the distance, but so far neither of them had managed to see it.
(Rey has been trying almost every night, since.)
"Rey. What do you think, how much truth is there in the stories? The monster stories?" Poe asked her.
He did not turn his gaze away from the sky as he spoke; only Rey cast a look in his direction and then dropped her eyes again, to where her hands were idly playing with the sand.
"I don't know," she said. "Some."
"Some?"
She shrugged.
"Have you seen this monster?" Finn asked, his curiosity visibly piqued.
"I don't know," she repeated. "I saw– something. What everyone did. Beyond that, I cannot tell."
The fire. The shapes. The cry.
"I see."
The next day, Finn and Poe announced they would go seek the alleged monster.
They invited Rey to go along with them, as they did each and every time they left the village; she refused, as she always did.
She had a watch to keep, here in Jakku.
So they bid her farewell and departed, promising to return soon, having uncovered the truth.
And then they didn't.
The mark is already deep in the wall when Rey gives it the last absent-minded polish and shakes herself out of her thoughts.
She is starting to feel worried.
Two days before, she found a rose laying on her doorstep.
Rey looks at it now, where it rests: deep in colour, soft to touch and slightly wilted; a few petals fall away beneath Rey's fingers as she feels the flower.
She remembers.
They say the monster lives in a rose garden.
They say it waters the roses with the blood of its victims, so the roses grow vibrant red.
They say it kills anyone who ventures into the garden.
Laughter.
I'll bring you a rose from the monster's garden, Rey!
But this rose is not the vibrant red of blood; it is darker, deeper, and softer.
Rey straps it to her jacket.
(She has always loved flowers, so scarce here in Jakku.)
Rey doesn't know what she is expecting, wearing the rose like a badge to distinct herself against the sandy monotone of the village; she doesn't know if her implicit treatment of the flower as a sign has any basis in reality, or where the feeling that she is meant to wear it comes from.
Perhaps she is falling into a story pattern.
Perhaps marking herself to be found is a natural instinct of someone who has worn the same hairstyle for the last thirteen years.
Perhaps she does it because it is the only thing she can think of to do, as it is; the only way she has of acknowledging her concern to the outside world.
However it may be, the fact remains that the rose appeared on her doorstep; thus, she wears it.
And waits.
What she is waiting for comes later that day, in the form of a tiny old woman sitting by the road.
The woman looks at Rey as she walks by, and the girl stops despite herself; the stranger's deep-set eyes, small and bright with wisdom, hold her gaze for a long while, long enough for the scene to become awkward; but the moment Rey decides to walk away, convinced she has imagined it, the woman speaks.
"Child," she inquires without preamble, "do you know where this flower comes from?"
"From the monster's garden," Rey half-answers, half-asks.
The woman laughs.
"Quite so," she says. "The monster's garden. Such beautiful roses the monster grows. Is it not a wonder?"
Rey says nothing.
The woman reaches to touch the flower with a studied gentleness that almost resembles affection; her small hand, smaller even than Rey's, brushes against the petals as if in greeting.
"It is calling to you," she states. "Why aren't you going where it wants to lead you?"
"Going where?"
"You know," says the woman.
Rey does, even if she would rather not admit it.
"I can't leave here."
The woman sends her a doubtful look.
"What of your friends?"
"I- You know where they are, then? Are they in the monster's castle? Are they all right?"
Another laugh, this time short and curtly amused.
"Go see for yourself, child. I'll only tell you one thing – it's hardly a castle."
"But my friends-"
"Go," the woman urges. "Find out. Help your friends. Staying put in here will help no one – not even you."
Rey hesitates.
"You wore the rose." The woman is smiling now, and there is something surprisingly infuriating about how knowing the smile appears. "I know your eyes, girl. You wore the rose and you want to see where it will lead you – what waits ahead. So, go. Go, and you may just save someone."
Rey hesitates again, and nods.
"Are you going to stay around here?" she asks.
"For a time," the woman concedes. "Don't worry. Go."
"I will," Rey promises, and she means it.
"Good." Now the woman appears genuinely pleased, and Rey doesn't know what to think of it.
She leaves.
She walks several dozen steps before she realises she hasn't even asked the woman's name; but when she turns, the stranger is no longer there.
She will go, then – to where the monster dwells.
There is unease quenching Rey's stomach as she paces around her little hut, trying to ready herself for the journey; but it is not at the thought of facing a beast – not yet, at least.
She knows it is irrational, she knows she is being paranoid, and yet the grain of fear remains.
She shouldn't be leaving.
She tries to convince herself the woman will keep watch, that Unkar Plutt will relay her message, and after all, she would only be away for a short time–
(Why does she trust the woman so unconditionally, anyway?)
(Is it the story pattern at work again, or was she that desperate for someone to break through her uncertainty?)
The truth is, Rey is afraid of missing the moment her family return for her.
So afraid she nearly forgets to worry about possibly having to face the monster.
(Yet there is also a part of her that is happy to leave – that has wanted to leave for a long time, feeling stifled and chained in the village.)
(Rey feels slightly guilty about this.)
Rey thinks of Finn, and of Poe.
Once upon a time, she found a small golem lost in the desert, and helped it evade local thieves. Then she met a young man she mistook for a thief, and a wounded man the golem recognised as its master; and just like that, she had friends.
It was a wonder, for she had never had friends before.
Rey's friends have visited her almost regularly, bringing fantastic tales of the wide world and curious little gifts of exotic food, foreign greenery and peculiar tokens; they offered her a break from monotony, a brief spell of entertainment, and most importantly, company.
They have offered her a share of joy.
They have also offered Rey a chance to join them in their travels, yet she consistently refused; and inevitably, she has watched their retreating backs and fought the images and associations assaulting her mind; and she has reassured herself that they will be back, even if she never knows when to expect them.
Sometimes Rey reflects that above all else, her friends made her realise how lonely she was.
She can't leave them.
She etches another mark into wall.
(How many days will she have to mark once she returns?)
(She packs a piece of rope, resolving to tie a knot for each day of her absence.)
Her sleep that night is troubled and filled with dreams; when she wakes, she remembers none of them.
In the morning Rey departs.
(She knows where to go – this is one of the few things all reports agree on.)
Her steps are brisk and resolute, her mind fixed on her destination; on her collarbone, the wilting rose; in her hands, her trusted staff, although she secretly – even though the only she can hope to fool is herself – harbours doubts as to how helpful it would be if she were to confront the monster.
The monster.
Now that she has left the village behind – not without the nagging discomfort – and is headed towards the source of the tales and rumours, her mind is slowly switching focus from a concern over being away to a concern about what she will find ahead.
(You want to see – what waits ahead.)
Once again, Rey runs the stories through her mind; and once again, she is forced to admit she doesn't know which to believe.
Are Finn and Poe even there? Are they all right?
(You may just save someone.)
Should she have gone looking for them earlier?
(Staying put here will help no one – not even you.)
Rey tightens the grip on her staff and walks on.
It is dusk by the time she arrives at the gates of the monster's residence.
The sight takes her by surprise: a turn reveals unexpected greenness behind the gates. There are towering trees guarding the mansion and leaves littering the yard, drifting on gusts of wind. The walls of the manor – which, true to the woman's words, is no castle, as far as Rey can tell, but still looms enormous in her eyes – are covered in winding hangings of ivy, which also entwines the rusting gates; and the gates, at which she is standing, are open.
Rey regards her surroundings, suspicious of the invitingly ajar gate; as she hesitates, uncertain of what her next move should be, she spots a dark silhouette beneath the trees' shade, standing out in thicker shadow against the faint grey of the evening: a tall figure clad entirely in black, from sweeping cloak to forbidding mask.
The figure appears to notice her also, and takes a few steps in her direction; the scenery seems to condense around the figure while Rey waits for it to act, to speak, to react to her presence in any way; she is the intruder, after all, intruder to the monster's house.
"The rose from my gardens," the figure says quietly, and it seems to Rey it is more to himself than to her; she raises her hand self-consciously to touch the flower on her collarbone, feeling the stranger's unseen eyes follow her motion.
His voice, muted by the mask, rings deep and strong none the less when he speaks again.
"You must be the girl."