7
The whole incident of the stolen magic wand came as an eye-opener, in more ways than one. She always thought she knew herself pretty well – an illusion in which so many young people indulge. In her, this illusion was even stronger than usually, for she had read a lot of books, recognized herself on many pages and considered their wisdom to be her own. Yet now she learned how raw and intense an emotion could feel when it comes for real, not imagined, but experienced, lived through.
At first, she was simply extremely exited. Something was happening, at last. In the two days spent in the castle she came to think of it as a quiet, rather dull place: she was expecting the Dark One's abode to be slightly more trilling, frankly. Here at last was some action, and dramatic one. She saw her master in a new light – alert and animated, he seemed to move and speak with some malevolent grace, and was quite fascinating to watch. He was so brooding and distanced lately that she forgot the cascade of impish gestures and sneers that he performed in her father's castle. Now here they were, again, only somehow more sinister; he took obvious pleasure in showing off his amazing tricks.
Then, when the thief shot an arrow at him and it darted around the room, finally finding his heart, she felt something entirely new to her. She couldn't name it, couldn't find a word for it, she just felt an incredible anguish. Not fear and shock or compassion towards the victim that can normally be experienced when witnessing a violent scene, but real anguish – panic at the immediate perspective of this man's death, the horror of his imminent loss. She hardly knew him, he was not her lover or her brother, she wasn't even sure she liked him, yet as the arrow flew and as it struck his chest with an awful thud, she screamed, silently: 'No! Not him!' and made a movement as if to shield him.
Then he plucked the arrow from his chest, unharmed, and laughed, and in front of her very eyes was transformed into a monster. There was an awful… coldness about him as he dragged the bewildered thief into the dungeon, giggling on the way. This dry ruthless gaiety was more frightening then anger. She could have understood anger – she grew up at a violent military place. She could have understood if he struck the offender down, killed him there and then. But the evil glee, with which he, looking very much like a spider, took his victim into the darkness to devour, was entirely alien to her. It was truly horrible to watch, and it made her ashamed of her earlier anguish at his peril, of her surge to save him.
This thing doesn't need to be saved. It is unworthy of pity and kindness and any human emotion, for it is not human. Washing the bloody aprons he threw at her, swiping the floor in the living room mechanically, listening to the cries of the tortured thief she castigated herself, mercilessly, for all the illusions she ever had in her life, especially the ones she cultivated about Him. How could she think that this person was interesting, mysterious, sad, and worth knowing? These were the thoughts of an utterly naïve girl. There was nothing to know, nothing mysterious about him. He was simply as dark as he looked. Darker, perhaps. He was a monster. Know him? God forbid – the only thing she could think of was to flee from him.
When he emerged from the torture chamber to give her one more bloodied item to wash, she lied: she said there were no more clean and dry aprons for him to use. She hoped that would make him stop, hoped that the pause would give the sufferer in the cells some respite from pain. She was right; with surprising indifference her master strolled out of the room and out of the castle, as if suddenly losing interest in his victim. The moment he was gone, she run to the dungeon to free the prisoner. He was weak and bloodied, but actually in a better condition that she had expected after the prolonged time her master spent with him. Before making his escape, the thief asked her to join him. She refused, without hesitation. She gave her word to stay in this castle and she had to keep her promise; her earlier thoughts of fleeing were induced by panic and helplessness and now, when she had acted and did help, they were gone. She knew she'd be punished for her act of defiance, but she was a person of honor and it was unthinkable to run away from responsibility. 'Only a thief would suggest me running away', thought the little princess with contempt.
And there was something else; despite his pity-inspiring sufferings, she found she didn't actually like the man too much. He was big and hairy and burly, his eyes were glinting with mischief as soon as he was out of chains, and he strongly reminded her of some knights back at home – crude people with coarse jokes and perpetual odor of sweat about them. She didn't want to go anywhere with such a person, even if to run for her life. She'd rather face the wrath of her menacingly elegant lizard of a master.
With the thief gone, she sat in the corner with a book she found on the desk, and waited for that wrath. She held the book in her hands, but couldn't make out a single word, couldn't even see the letters. She was so tense and apprehensive and desperately tried not to be afraid.
There was kindness in his eyes when he looked at her sometimes, she reminded herself. Surely he wouldn't kill her for an act of kindness.
He came back, he discovered that the thief escaped, he understood at once that she helped him, and he screamed at her a bit. But there was no wrath. There was not a shadow of the horrid, mad coldness that scared her earlier. He looked and sounded angry, but she didn't feel his anger.
In fact, it all seemed like an act, again. Like a show of hysterical fury, of which in reality there was no trace. He looked tired and sad, even as he screamed.
She was genuinely baffled. What sort of a man was he, so scary one moment and so theatrically insincere in his anger the next? How could it be possible for a human body to be a vessel for such contrasting qualities? And why did she have a stubborn feeling that the sad and weary person was the real one, or the dominant one, and the monster just sometimes made a temporary, thought frightening, appearance?
He went on ranting about hunting the thief, kept describing, in gory details, what he'd do to him, kept sneering at her for being naïve, and the only thing that sounded true in this whole performance was an exasperated cry: 'No one who steals magic ever, ever has good intentions!' That was serious, and that was spoken from some very painful experience.
And all the time while he was shouting and promising to show her unspeakable horrors she kept looking at him and thinking, irrationally: 'It is not you. All that noise and anger, it is not you. Not the real you. This is what you show to the world, but it is not what's in your heart'.
She even said to him something to that effect. She was speaking about the thief, supposedly, defending the possible purity of his heart. But of course in reality she was talking about him, her master. It was his heart she wanted to discover – passionately, as she suddenly realized, with a curiosity and stubbornness undiminished by her earlier horror.
So, when he announced that he was going to hunt the thief, and kill him, and make her watch the process, she didn't protest. The purpose of their journey didn't matter much, at the moment. The prospect of traveling together and having a chance to talk meant a lot.
She found herself in his magical carriage again. They have traveled in it three days ago, but it seemed that a much longer time has passed. She looked at herself – she was still wearing the same dress and the same cloak as on the night he took her from home, but she felt completely detached from her former life. Her homeland, her family all acquired a dreamy quality, as if they were not real. Her real life, her present and her future, were with this man sitting opposite her – silent, and sad, and strangely kind again.
He looked weary – he looked grey with fatigue, which was an odd thing to think, considering that his skin was grayish-green in color normally. His lips, with their dull golden glint, were set in a resigned line, corners drawn slightly downwards. His eyes were in deep shadow, and their weird reptilian glossiness was not immediately visible; they were intensely human. Looking at him now, in the quietness of this grey day, she suddenly realized what made his eyes so strange – his irises were much larger then those of ordinary people, they were almost obscuring the whites. There was a golden glow in his eyes. He looked so calm and still and melancholy it was impossible to believe that he was going to hunt and kill a man.
She asked him if it was really necessary, to catch this thief; and he insisted it was, and there was again such a forced quality to his protestations that she nearly raised an eyebrow on him.
He was so unconvincing that she had to ask him if there was indeed nothing he cared for in life but his power. She was curious, anyway, and she was acutely aware that this trip was her first opportunity to really talk to him, as she always wanted.
There was a long pause before he answered her. He just looked at her, looked right into her eyes with some unfathomable expression, wistful and sad and resigned and, staring into his eyes, expectantly, she felt a sudden unexplainable movement inside her, a gentlest of pulls, a quiet awakening, as if something stirred in her soul. That's how a woman must feel when a child is stirring under her heart for the first time, she thought.
'You are right. There is something else I love', he said. She felt as if a miracle was about to happen. And then he broke the mood; he made some inner effort, and seemed to close something in himself, and snapped: 'My things!'
She didn't know what she expected him to say, but his brittle irony offended her. She glared at him and said sulkily: 'You really are as dark as people say!'
He grimaced: 'Darker, dearie. Much darker'.
So forced. So unconvincing.
Oh you poor, poor unhappy man. How come you are so lost? What is this shadow that obscures you life?
This balance of moods went on for the rest of the day. She felt so sorry and… protective of him, in his sadness, that she quite forgot his vows of revenge and the dark purpose of their journey, as she forgot her earlier resentment and fear of him. So when they finally found the thief, and her master seemed determined to carry out his revenge, she felt… cheated. And helpless – well, anyone would have felt helpless if they were forcibly put waist-deep into the ground. She watched him preparing for murder, and all previous pangs filled her heart. Oh, no, not him, please let not him do it, please let not him be like that, it is all so wrong. For some reason, it meant a lot to her – she felt that if he did a truly evil thing in front of her eyes, her heart would break. She felt like crying, her eyes were brimming with frustrated tears as she kept saying to herself it was not real, it was an act, again, she was convinced of it – he cannot truly want to do this, he is not that kind of man. That was a really absurd thing to say to herself, for she hardly knew what kind of man he was behind his mask, behind his assumed coldness and constant clowning, but that's what she kept repeating, and not just silently, as before.
She actually said it aloud, when they have discovered that the thief's beloved, healed with the stolen wand, was pregnant: 'You are not a kind of man to leave a child fatherless!'
He went rigid when she uttered the words – he stood with his magical bow, the bow that never missed its' target, stood ready to send an arrow flying into his victim's heart, and he visibly froze in place.
She froze with him, her whole being willing him to be… true to her. To be real. To be the man she wanted him to be, with all her youthful stubbornness and ability to believe the best.
And then he released the string, and the arrow swished through air, and she gave an exasperated cry. But the arrow hit the wooden board of the cart in which the woman was brought to the thief, and lovers escaped unhurt.
Silence hung between her and her master as they watched the pair disappear in the forest.
Than he uncovered her from the ground, and sighed, with majestic aplomb: 'Get back to the carriage. I am bored with this forest'.
She couldn't believe her ears, and she was awash with relief. He was not going to hunt the man further. He let him go. They can go home now, and there is no blood on his hands… She should have been happy with that, but she was young and she was stubborn – she wanted him to actually voice a measure of goodness.
'What happened?' she asked.
'I… missed'. He answered without turning his head.
That was absurd: 'This bow has magic in it, it never misses its' target'.
His shoulder twitched, he gave an irritated sigh, and turned towards her. 'Well, may be the magic has just… worn off'. He stopped, the end of the sentence trailing into whisper, and just looked at her, transfixed. She had no idea what he saw in her that stunned him so. Yet she knew what she saw in him. She saw a man completely open to her, as if holding his heart in his palm, a man full of wonder and tenderness, all kinds of tenderness, from indulgent look of a parent towards a child to sad tenderness of a man hopelessly in love, and all kinds of wonder from awe at her existence to amazement at his own reaction to her. She also saw a truly human face, without a trace of its' actual weirdness. It was as if the expression of his eyes obliterated the rest of his features.
She saw a face of a man she believed him to be, and it was beautiful.
Her heart suddenly filled with joy, and she felt that life had more, much more loveliness and light to offer her – she was all at once happy and exited, convinced of more happiness to come. She wanted to hug the world, which suddenly seemed such a bright place, and quite impulsively she hugged Him.
Oh how still he stood in her embrace. How his breath caught.
Instinctively, she knew it is better to let him go, now. So she withdrew her arms and started walking towards the carriage, as he told her to, and turned on the way, smiling at him: 'Aren't you coming?'
He picked his bow and followed, shaking his head ever so slightly, with tenderness and unbelieving wonderment still filling his eyes.
She walked before him, sensing his gaze on her back, and basked in the glow of what just happened. She couldn't even start to comprehend it, it was so strange and unexpected, but she felt so right when she was holding him close, as if being in his arms was the natural and the only place for her, and his body under the cloak felt so warm, and the skin of his cheek, which she touched with hers briefly, was so surprisingly soft, despite all the golden dust, and she liked his fresh smell and his hair, when she accidentally touched it, was silky.
Her heart danced with happiness, the reason for which she could not really explain.
