Quia

Because I was afraid.

No; not afraid. Afraid is what you are of the dark, or spiders, or thunderstorms. 'Afraid' is too utterly juvenile to possibly capture what it was I felt. I was petrified.

There was nothing to hope for. There was nowhere to go from where we were. Nothing, nowhere… such inescapable bleakness. It was petrifying to feel such tremendous things—such radiant things—and know that they were for naught. I had dreamt of it, hoped for it, reflected on it, prayed for it… All my life, I waited eagerly for such a brilliant summation of emotions.

Children are prone to such misguided desires as these. They do not know how painful it can be to love. They know nothing. I knew nothing.

But I learned. I learned what it was to pine—and pine fervently—for something you cannot even put to words. I had in my heart an intangible idea of what could be: in some other world, some other life… But nothing could be in this world, or this life.

And so things would continue as they were, unendingly.

We walked in silence. The sun was descending listlessly, and the sky was a tapestry of brilliantly luminous tangerine and crimson threads. Through the verdant gardens floated the usual mild breeze, which swayed the tall grasses just so and caressed the vivacious blooms of every imaginable variety. The scene was picturesque—as picturesque, indeed, as every single other night.

I wanted to scream.

Never before had I felt so livid; so trapped; so hopeless.

I looked to him feverishly, almost expecting the despondency to be written as clearly in his features as I felt them in myself.

But he seemed unaware of my presence entirely. He walked with his head bent forward solicitously, gray eyes focused on nothing in particular.

He did not know. Perhaps empathy was too much to ask for.

I exhaled and glared at the cobbled path on which we strolled.

"Are you unwell, Beauty?"

I was surprised when he spoke. He had looked so utterly engrossed in his thoughts that I had thought... But no matter.

"No. I'm perfectly well, thank you," I answered courteously, after blinking at him a moment.

Beast glanced at me dubiously, which was unsurprising. Cold civility was not like me at all.

"Of that I am glad," he remarked, with a subtle wryness audible in his tone. "You have been oddly quiet. I thought you might at least have something to say about the end of King Lear."

"No… I haven't finished."

I flushed then, horrified that he had remembered that. I'd borrowed the book from him—not the library, but him—what must have been at least a month before. I had tried very hard to read it, but could not for the life of me keep my thoughts on the page. I had abandoned it—it: the work that Beast had lauded as Shakespeare's best!

I anticipated a look of affront to appear on his countenance, but he simply nodded.

"I assumed because you no longer carried it to the garden with you…" He shrugged. "Do tell me when you finish."

I might have answered with a simple 'Yes', but I could not bring myself to endure it one more moment. I looked at him resolutely.

"I cannot read anymore. I can't."

It was much less momentous when spoken. In fact, it sounded rather like I'd lost my mind; as if I'd woken up that morning suddenly and inexplicably illiterate. Which, sadly, might as well have been the case.

Beast looked justifiably confused. "You don't like it?"

"No; it isn't that. It's that I cannot read anything. It's that I'm losing any mental clarity I might've possessed! It's that everything—every thought, every word, every image—leads invariably to one place. And it's a place that I'm tired of being!"

There was a peculiar look of regret in his eyes. It was as if he had somehow comprehended the meaning of my idiotic rambling but wished he had not.

I looked to the ground, kicking a stone sheepishly across the cobbled path. "I got no farther than France taking Cordelia to be his bride, despite Lear's advice against it."

He said nothing.

"It was very lovely up to that point," I murmured haplessly. "When France was defending her, he said something I though quite prolific. I can't quite recall it all, but it reminded me of—"

"Sonnet 116," Beast answered easily. " 'Love's not love'; 'Love is not love'… nearly the same."

"Sonnet 116," I repeated earnestly. "Yes; that's my favorite."

Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. The words struck a painful chord. My favorite? What was I saying? Shakespeare was a fool if he believed all that nonsense. He knew nothing about love: nothing at all.

"France said many astute things. 'She is herself a dowry'," Beast recited softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I glared at him, my throat constricting. "France doesn't even know her. He assumes she's perfect, simply because she refuses to be sycophantic."

"I doubt he was fool enough to think her perfect," Beast replied.

He paused and studied the rose bush to his right with such pretense of purpose that I was convinced he was merely avoiding looking at me. Not that I minded.

"I think he merely admired the bravery she possessed. It is not easy for a girl to lose her father. Especially not when everything she has ever done has been for his sake."

I was beginning to wonder if the conversation was about Cordelia anymore. I, however, had no intention of discovering the truth.

Ignorance is bliss.

"Well, good for France and Cordelia," I chirped merrily. "It's Burgundy's loss. Lear's loss, too."

"Indeed," Beast agreed.

"I guess France is the only one who's not so proud or senile or opportunistic to see that she's a good, honest girl," I continued. My voice was cheerful in a despicably contrived way, and not a second after the words were spoken did I wonder why I'd felt the need to say anything.

My fatal flaw: the inability to shut up.

Beast had something like a smile on his face. "The world is so often blind to true beauty. Humility, I think, is the greatest wisdom. I suppose, as a creature that once was proud and pretentious, I did not realize how profoundly my arrogance blinded me until I was stripped of it."

I plucked a leaf off of a nearby bush and tore it into small pieces. It was a pathetic excuse not to look into his eyes.

I felt obligated to speak, however, so I did. "You, conceited? That cannot be. That must've been eons ago."

"So it would seem," Beast replied. He laughed forlornly, if such a thing is possible. It felt as barren of happiness as death knolls tolling in a dreary churchyard.

We walked in silence for some time. I was glad of it, though I wished we were heading back towards the castle instead of away from it. But it was nearly dark, so I knew that Beast would soon turn to me and politely ask if I wished to retire.

He had an odd preoccupation with being alone after sunset. I did not question it. At first it had been welcome; later it was something I simply accepted. Now I longed for it more desperately than any day heretofore.

He did not say it.

The grounds and path extended for acres and acres. How long would we walk, neither of saying anything? Even if we spoke, we would be saying nothing. We were gifted liars, or at least able actors.

"I'm tired," I gasped at last. "We have been walking and walking. I am… drained."

The spectral trees in the plum grove loomed over us, whispering, waiting.

Beast looked down at me. "I'm sorry. I was lost in my thoughts. It was inconsiderate of me."

I ignored him. His chivalry irritated me.

"I just want to sleep," I choked. "I'm so tired."

"Then we'll go back," he supplied softly.

I turned to look over my shoulder, back towards the palace. The path was cloaked in darkness; barely discernable through the dim. Perhaps my mind was overwrought, but I felt there was something profoundly metaphorical in that.

There was no going back. Nor was there any moving forward. I knew then, in that moment, that I had only one choice.

Because I was afraid, yes. But it was more than that. It was what was best for us both, whether or not he knew. He would understand someday. He would.

I knew then—in that very moment—that I would ask to go, and that he would release me.

A/N: Prequel to The Reason Why. I started this a long time ago, and finished it tonight just because I felt like publishing something. I'm back in school again, and my English class is doing its damndest to beat my love of writing out of me. So this is my retaliation.

Quia"because" in Latin. I used it simply because using Latin makes you sound more intelligent than you are. And that's always nice, no?