12
He couldn't stay away from her forever, however much he tried after the incident with the ladder and his frightening over-reaction to it. It was not possible from a purely practical point of view – they had to meet from time to time; he'd happen to need something in the room where she worked, and than they'd meet at meals. And it was not possible – unbearable – for him to stay away from her, for all the selfish reasons: his longing, his desire, his need to see her bright face and thus to get the confirmation of the fact that the sun has risen; his yearning to be comforted by her presence. He has grown… dependent on her. He was in pain when he was alone, by himself, and that pain eased only when she was near him. He had to be near, even if just to look at her, otherwise he couldn't make himself go on breathing, couldn't find the resolve to do what he was doing – to complete what he had started.
He had a task in life – a mission. His whole existence for hundreds of years (goodness, was it really that long?) was dominated by a single purpose – to find his son. For all the terrible things he did in life, the one moment of weakness when he betrayed Bae's trust and let him go was by far the most terrible. But it was not irredeemable. It could be put right. He could find him, and beg his forgiveness, and possibly get it. It was as simple as that, and he never stopped to think of it deeply, for fear of doubting. If he started to doubt, he would lose his determination, and then he might as well be dead, for his determination was his life-force. He never stopped; never wavered, never considered minor details and even major ones. For example, he never thought – forbade himself to think – of the fact that his quest went on for so unnaturally long. It really took centuries, and while it didn't matter for his immortal self, it meant a lot for his son, who spent all that time in the world without magic. How could he be still alive? He stopped himself from thinking of that. While imagining their reunion (vaguely, he never allowed himself to think of the details, not wishing to be carried away by hopes), he always thought, subconsciously, that he will find the boy he lost. But of course it couldn't be possible – if he did succeed, he'd find an old man. He couldn't picture that, he didn't want to – he had no right to doubt. There was a prophecy – he would find him, it was meant to happen. He stood by it. That used to give him strength. That used to be enough.
Yet now, when he has met Belle and loved her, he felt his resolve abandoning him. His was such an impossible, insurmountable task. He had to lay aside everything to achieve it. He had to deny himself all human connections – any affection was a distraction, seeping away his strength. And here, right in his grasp, was happiness, and its' pull was strong. The temptation to give in to it, to do something that he wanted, to life for himself, for the first time in his life, was strong. It was so easy to tell himself: 'The prophecy was false, as all of them are. I will not be able to find him. I have to accept my loss and my guilt. My loss is immense, my guilt might crush me, but here, in this girl, are the very means to help me bear it – to help me survive and become a better, wiser man'. But of course if he did that he would betray his son all over again.
That was a paradox, one of many that constitute human life. Belle was the greatest distraction in his quest, the only thing that would tempt him to stray from the path to redemption. And she was the greatest source of consolation when he despaired, and the greatest support when his will weakened. He just had to look at her to believe there was something bright in the world, that there was hope, and miracles could indeed happen, and not only if orchestrated by him.
He must not let himself be carried away by selfish hopes of personal happiness; that much was clear to him. He was a parent, and parents don't think of themselves – they think only of their children. He was a faulty parent; he failed in his fatherhood, and that made him unworthy of happiness. He had to put things right first, and then he could possibly start thinking of his own wishes and desires. If he succeeded, there would be time for that. For now, he could not and would not abandon his task. He would carry on with his plan; he would make sure that the Queen casts his curse, after he made sure that the infant that would break it is born.
He would not be distracted or stopped. But he could use Belle to help him – to support him. There must be a way to combine these things. Why can't he love her, and still go on fighting for his son? Why would these things be contradictory? She could stay with him. She could continue to be the source of hope for him. He'd work better for that, for he'd be a better man. Love is supposed to enlighten and help. It could not – it would not – be an obstacle.
And what he felt for her was love. Not just a crazed passion, an obsession with beauty and youth, for which he condemned himself after he gave in to his lust so disgracefully. He had time to think and reflect since then. He kept away from her for a while, he escaped temptation; he tried to temper his excitement at her closeness. And, while being away, while forcing himself to think of her nature rather then her looks, he found himself even more enchanted. After the depths of shame he felt that night, he thought he'd never be able to look at her; yet, when he did, he forgot the shame – one glance of her magical eyes made him feel elated and… pure.
This had nothing to do with passion. It had everything to do with hope.
It did cross his mind that, when he succeeded with his curse, he'd lose her – the focal point of the whole enterprise was to make lovers forget each other. But he cast that thought aside as insignificant. While the curse would be in force, they will not remember each other – they will not suffer. When the curse would break, he would find Bae, and then he would find Belle.
He thought of everything. He considered every detail. Nothing could go wrong.
A wise man said once that for every complex problem there is a solution that is simple, neat, and wrong.
He did not think of that.
That bright morning in early spring was one of the days when, however much he tried to restrain his wish to be near her, he couldn't help himself. He came down to the dining room, where she served him tea, and didn't escape back to the study. He lingered, watching her move gracefully around the room. She seemed to be in a happy and light mood; she kept smiling at him and sort of… following him around. It seemed she had something on her mind – she had a look of an inquisitive little bird, biting her lip, obviously trying to form some question. Finally, she literally chased him round the table and then, with sudden spontaneity that young people have, she sat on the table and looked up at him.
'Why did you want me here?' she enquired.
'Because you are the woman I am destined to love, and I couldn't let you go', would have been an honest answer. But there was obviously no way to blurt it out like that, so he made a face and sipped his tea: 'The place was filthy'.
That was a typical of him – she was accustomed to his manner to brush her off when she asked anything serious. Usually, she'd give up after such answers. Not this time. This time, she insisted on a normal conversation. Not just insisted – suddenly, without any sort of warning, she brought this conversation to an entirely new level.
'I think you were lonely. I mean, any man would be lonely', she ventured a guess.
He nearly choked on his tea. This was very personal. This showed she was thinking of him; cared for what was happening to him; was compassionate for him. It also went directly to the point and was acute. She understood him quite well, and felt confident to show it.
That was unexpected, and not very welcome. He still feared the power she held over him. He had to restore his position – to remind her that he was a dark wizard, thank you very much.
'I am not a man', he said.
He meant it to sound cold and distanced, as in 'I am not a man; I am The Dark One'. Instead, it sounded lame and self-pitying.
Embarrassed, he sat gingerly on the table near her, not wanting to be exposed to her curious eyes standing in front of her, yet at the same time meaning to show that he was not dismissing her; he wanted to go on talking. God, she was talking to him – she showed interest and compassion – she showed she cared!..
That was a mistake. He was suddenly very close to her – he hasn't been that close since she fell into his arms from the ladder. With her beautiful face just inches away from his, it was difficult to adhere to his policy of self-restraint. His heart accelerated. He turned away from her, looking at the floor.
And then she asked him about Bae. He felt suddenly heavy – one word, 'son', brought it all back: his face, his presence, his love, the good times, the laughter, and the awful moment when he was lost – all that came back to him, forcibly. He tried so not to think of it, to keep it at bay; it was so painful, and the pain itself could easily distract him from his task. He could not allow himself to become too emotional, for when he became too emotional, he made mistakes. Terrible ones.
Yet she wanted an explanation, and he had to give her one.
'There was. There was a son. I lost him – as I did his mother'.
He knew these few words were not enough, but he couldn't say more. He knew it was a right moment to tell her the story – to explain… He had to tell her, if he wanted any future with her. How could he hope to love her, how could he hope she'd help him if she had no idea what he was? He had to tell her, he had to talk to her, otherwise all their moments together would remain incomplete and lead to shame and darkness. But he couldn't. It was not just that it was not really possible to utter the words 'I killed his mother, and I let him fall into the magic portal while he was screaming for me'. Imagine what such a revelation would do to her – all compassion and interest would vanish from her eager face at once. It wasn't just that he didn't want to blacken himself in her eyes. He just couldn't really speak. His mouth was dry.
Yet she seemed to be satisfied – with the lightheartedness of youth she took his scarce information into her stride and went on, driving to the point she really wanted to make, asking something that really interested her. 'So you… You were a man once. An ordinary man'.
'Oh yes, and you should have seen me then. It was pitiful', he thought bitterly.
And then it hit him. She was asking about him. She was interested in him.
Goodness gracious, could it really be happening? Could it be that, in all that time when he was dreaming of her and thinking of her, she was thinking of him in remotely the same way?
It seemed she was, for she continued: 'If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?'
His heart thundered in his chest. Her choice of words, completely accidental of course, made this simple question deeply meaningful. 'To know' someone does not always mean just learning a character. It can also mean 'to possess'. A husband 'knows' his wife when he beds her for the first time. She wasn't going to know anyone in her life but him. She wanted to know him.
It was complete madness. There was no way she could have meant it. He had to get a grip of himself, fast, before his imagination got the better of him.
He stood up, abruptly, and turned to face her. 'Perhaps…' he started with a sigh, and had to stop. God, no, no 'perhaps' about her 'knowing' him like that, or his head would burst. He had to lighten the mood, and his habitual quipping came in handy. 'Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses, ah? Ah?'
Even as he joked, even as he waved a finger in playful warning to her he brought his face closer to hers, and felt he was drowning in her eyes. He wanted to stroke her cheek, to cup her face in his hands and slowly, slowly kiss her.
His distraction didn't work, anyway. She smiled at him indulgently, as she always did when he was fooling around, but she did not abandon the subject. 'You are not a monster', she said gently. 'You think you are uglier than you are…'
She went on about covered mirrors. He stood stunned, living through cruel awakening.
Ugly. She thought him ugly. Well, not very ugly, as she inferred in her great kindness, but ugly still, and ashamed of it. It seemed she wanted to perk him up a bit, oh gentle soul.
How could he have been such a fool? How could he not think of it? How could he forget how the world must see him – how she sees him? He lived at peace with himself – he was what he was, and looked as he had to. That's what he was, the heart and the face at one. But she saw a monster – a literal monster, a green beast with black claws and eyes of a snake.
To think what he was thinking of her. To imagine what he imagined, from her eager touch to her passionate kiss to her abandoning her body and her whole self to him. And all that time, she saw him as a lonely ugly creature of darkness, and pitied him.
Oh, the shame of it.
A knock at the door was very welcome. The sight of her stupid and handsome fiancée was more welcome still. He was so angry with himself he needed to let the steam off.
Turning a pretty mindless boy into a pretty mindless flower felt good.
He stood at the door for several moments, taking deep breaths, trying to arrange his thoughts. He knew that his feeling for her was unreciprocated; he knew that from the start. He hoped that she might love him, in time – and he knew it was just a dream. He knew she only touched him twice, and that he held her in his arms accidentally, and he knew that it was stupid to make anything out of these occasions. He told himself that, many a time. He just let himself get carried away somehow. He was so certain of his love for her that it felt entirely natural that she should feel the same way, at least to some extent, or at least to be inclined to feel the same way. Well, it was glaringly obvious now that she didn't, nothing was farther from her thoughts, and that cast an entirely new light on the whole situation.
His love made him extremely vulnerable to her. She had the power to crush him just as surely as if she held his heart in her pretty little hand. He had to know what she thought of him, really. How she felt. He had to know if there was any hope for him, or if he must distance himself from her as much as possible.
The Dark One cannot be killed with anything but his dagger, but right now it felt as if humiliation would do the job very nicely indeed.
He came back, carrying the rose behind his back. He gave her the flower, and wondered at the lightness and gentle teasing tone of his own voice. He was probably drawing strength from despair, how else he could be so outwardly calm, so playful?
He started asking her questions, urging her to tell him about herself. She responded hesitantly at first, doubting his interest, then eagerly, as shy young people do when they feel genuine interest. Watching delighted glow on her face, listening to her detailed explanations of her wishes and hopes, he thought how terribly young she was, and how neglected she must have been back there in that gloomy kingdom of hers. She was an odd one out there; nobody must have ever asked her about her feelings and wishes. A closeted life, an arranged marriage – it must have felt awful for such a bright, such an intelligent girl.
And what did he do to her? He took her from one prison, and placed into another.
And he dared to call it love.
He listened carefully as she explained her reasons for coming with him. Heroism. Sacrifice. A wish to prove herself. All wonderful, very natural reasons, which did her honor.
There was nothing that referred to him. He was a thing that moved the plot – his coming was just a factor of change. She didn't think of him otherwise. He had no other significance.
She didn't love him.
Love for her was an abstract thing, one supposed to happen in distant future, and she spoke of it with romantic dreaminess and idealism of a person who never felt the real thing.
As she moved about the room, glancing at him, smiling, making sure he understood what she means by this or that, and obviously flattered by his attention, she was truly, truly lovely. He couldn't take his eyes of her.
Never, never has he loved her more.
He loved her, body and soul, his heart bleeding with tenderness, and his whole being filled with deepest sadness.
She was such a bright and wonderful thing. She was a truly magical being – how could he not see that before? She glowed with magic, as if she wasn't born naturally, but shaped in some outer region by some beautiful force, entirely foreign to him.
She was a woman whom he would love till the day he dies. And, as he was immortal, that meant he would love her forever. But he could never touch her. It was like trying to touch a ray of sun and, by his very nature by touching her he could only cast a shadow on her.
With pain, he thought of another woman he thought he loved – oh, how well he knew the difference now. He told her he could only give her darkness and isolation. It was true then.
It was true now.
His lips were numb, not really his own, as he told her he was setting her free.
As she left the room, it visibly darkened. This had nothing to do with her leaving, of course – the weather changed, clouds obscured the sun. But it seemed very fitting to the way he felt. Darkness with which he belonged came to claim him.
He kept waiting for something to change in the magic that flowed around him. That change of fate, the magical reshaping of the universe, which he felt in her father's castle when she said 'Forever' to him – surely it must come undone now? He let her go, that deal is off – why doesn't the universe respond to it? Why doesn't the bond break?
He never thought that the spell that made the bond was not his, and wasn't for him to break. He was just too miserable to think.
He sat there, in the twilight matching his inner gloom, looking at the tray with tea things that she forgot on the table in her haste to leave, and trying to at least start imagining his life without her.
