Chapter XXI- Lost in Thought

Race to Resting Rock by James Newton Howard

Gregory woke early the next morning. Winter had finally descended around the castle and his breath steamed out before him like smoke from a dragon as he wandered the grounds, marveling at its deathly stillness. He hadn't been outside for quite some time, preferring to wander the straight and orderly halls of the castle over the overgrown wilderness of the lands outside it. They reminded him too much of his old life during those first years of the curse, and all the years after that. Living in the forest, scrounging for food, hunting wild beasts to say alive, days of blood and dirt punctuated by only short moments of humanity, brief spasms of consciousness that reminded him of his insanity…

He laid a hand against the bark of one of the many warped and graying trees littered across the grounds. He couldn't get caught up in the past. It wouldn't do any good.

You didn't come out here to mope and feel sorry for yourself, did you? No. Focus.

He began to walk more deliberately, inspecting each tree for signs of less progressive decay, wood that hadn't begun rotting yet. Finally, he found one, close to the edge of the property that looked more alive than the others. The color wasn't as dull as the rest and the bark on its trunk didn't seem to tear away from the base quite as easily as some did.

It'll have to do. He thought to himself.

Briefly, he considered the idea of venturing out beyond the gates to find what he was looking for, but quickly decided against it. He had already wasted enough time mooning about and the job wasn't even half done. A voice told him that this wasn't the only reason, or even the real one. That a lack of time wasn't what kept him behind the large twisting gates, but a lack of courage. A fear that, if he did leave these grounds, this castle, his animal instincts would rear up beyond control and he would be lost. An animal - in both mind and body. He'd come close, dangerously close, to that fate a few times before returning to his home. It was a risk he couldn't take, especially with Anne here. Anne. Her name brought him suddenly back to the present and he again focused his attention on the chosen tree. Picking the branch he wanted, a strong thick piece of wood far from the ground, Gregory concentrated until there was a creaking sound followed swiftly by a resounding thud as the bough cut neatly away from its trunk and landed close by. Turning around he walked back the way he'd come, heading to the rather extensive forge situated a little apart and to the right from the main building of the castle. Behind him, the large branch rose up in the air and followed after him like an obedient dog.

After a few hours of hacking, sawing, and scraping the bough was beginning to take on the desired shape. Gregory wiped a hand across his forehead. He knew that he could be finished at this very moment with a quick snap of his fingers or wave of the hand but he liked doing these sorts of things the old fashioned way, at least partly. It helped pass the time and didn't feel so much like cheating as it might have otherwise. Indeed it was the main reason he'd been able to retain his sanity for so long. Working with his hands, animal though they were, kept his mind on a task instead of the long stretch of eternity that seemed to be laid out before him.

It was well after midday when the pieces had finally been sanded down and measured to, what he hoped, was the correct length. Looking at the sun overhead Gregory suddenly realized how late it was. Waving a hand, he sensed the food in the dining room disappear and redeposit itself within Anne's bedroom. When she first came he had waited for her every morning and afternoon; hoping that she might chose to come downstairs to dine with him at meals besides the dinners they shared, but she never did. He thought back to their conversation the night before, the way she had touched his hand, enfolded it within her own. Perhaps, he thought tentatively as he carved and shaped the wood, that will change now.

Anne woke up in the morning, sore all over. Her clothes rubbed against her skin every time she moved, making her gown feel more like coarse sand rather than cool satin. Propping herself up on her elbows she began the arduous task of undressing. It was somewhat hard to believe that she had always used so many muscles for such a simple job. The fact that they were all moaning protests at once was equally inconceivable. She discarded each article of clothing into a heap near her bed, except for the cloak the Beast had lent her, that she folded neatly and laid on top of her pillow.

Free from her crinkled, slept in garments, Anne gingerly set her left foot on the floor, using the bedpost for support in lieu of her injured right leg. Carrying herself from post to table, table to wall, she slowly made her way towards the washroom but stopped suddenly when she spotted her reflection in the huge mirror that stood between her bed and the bathroom. Short cuts flecked across her face in random places. The left side had mostly gone unharmed but there was a very large cut across her forehead and another that reached from the bottom of her lip to the top of her right cheek that would be protesting every time she smiled or spoke for the next few weeks.

Not that I feel like smiling anytime soon. She thought to herself. But all thoughts of her face- or the potential scarring that might come later-flooded away when she caught sight of the deep lacerations that crisscrossed the skin of her back. It looked like she had been whipped. And the small areas that remained unbroken were instead spotted with ugly bruises, shifting in color from dark black and purple to a sickly greenish yellow. Balancing her hand on the mirror for support, her mouth turned down in concern, she moved forward for a closer look. There wasn't any sign of infection, thanks in large part, she knew, to the Beast's handiwork. Neat little stitches pulled the skin together on each wound and she wondered how he'd managed it with those large claws. Claws, she remembered, that hadn't caused even the thinnest slice as he'd handled her numerous injuries. Remembered to, the way his large hand had felt resting in hers, heavy and warm. Though the skin of his palm did resemble leather more in texture, it had also felt more like a human hand than she would have thought it could. She gave herself a little shake, what did it matter what his hand felt like? He'd helped her and she was grateful to him. Coming back to the present Anne realized she'd been standing, naked, in front of the mirror, her broken foot still hanging in the air, for longer than was becoming comfortable. Hobbling the rest of the way to the washroom, she let out a cry of relief to see that there was a steaming bath already waiting for her. Anne eyed the crystalline water, bits of warm air rising up to curl invitingly around her face. She wished she could sink down into the bath and let the warm liquid envelope her completely. But she knew that she couldn't risk ruining the stitching that was holding her together... everywhere it seemed. So instead, slowly and carefully, she sat on the bath rim, and immersed her uninjured leg in the water before proceeding to sponge herself clean. Leaving the bath proved to be even harder and she nearly broke her other leg as she attempted to maintain her balance and dry off at the same time.

Sitting in one of the large armchairs afterwards Anne poured herself a cup of warm, creamy tea from the large silver tray she had found nearby and stared off into space as the gold and glass clock above the mantle ticked the minutes by. Its swinging pendulum reminded her of the man in her dreams, legs moving to and fro as he spoke with her. She hadn't dreamed of him the night before and that was a relief. She didn't want to think of him, now or ever again, but with very little within her room to serve as a distraction, and no feasible way to go elsewhere, think of him she did. He was unsettling. He didn't operate in the same vague, haphazard way others did in her dreams. There was method and clarity in his actions. Usually, her dreams were filled with bits and pieces all sewn together in a random selection of faces and actions to create a half made quilt of thoughts and emotions. But not with him. Landscapes didn't change when he was around, conversations never randomly switched topics. And he was the only one she ever saw. It didn't make sense. Well, no surprise there, she thought to herself, have you encountered anything here so far that did? But these strange dreams that didn't seem like dreams, even more so, because they were happening inside her own head. The one place she thought she was still safe. It made Anne's stomach tighten to image that someone, even a dead man- especially a dead man, had been able to invade her mind like that. She resolved to not let it happen again. If she had somehow let him in then it stood to reason that he could be kept out as well. It was all a matter of willpower and Lord knew she had that in spades.

The same could not be said for the Beast though. Thinking back to their encounter last night, she felt like she'd gotten it wrong somehow, gotten him wrong. Ever since coming here Anne had been working under the impression that he was an empty hearted monster, a dragon who needed slaying, a villain to be defeated. But that image was starting to fit him less and less- those brief glimpses he'd shown her of his memories and fears, the way he'd saved her life- they were all too much to ignore. It wasn't that she felt obligated to see him in a new light because of what he'd done. She just couldn't help herself. It was the difference between seeing the stretched shadow of something and seeing the actual object. Once you had the reality, it was hard to go back to the fantasy. She still wanted to go home; there was no doubt of that. If the chance was ever given to her she'd be gone in an instant. But it gave her hope that this whole empty stone wasteland wouldn't get the best of her in the end.

Time passed. The grey daylight that seeped through the thick winter sky disappeared and was replaced with a charcoal night. The clock continued to tick off the time, chiming down each hour as Anne's mind ran away from her, switching between thoughts of her family, the dead man, and the Beast; each one continuously pushing forward then falling back, like sprinters in a race that wouldn't end. Hours passed like this, with Anne slipping out of the real world and letting her thoughts take over as her eyes stared blankly into the dimming flames. A knock at the door broke the spell. Sitting up a little straighter Anne winced as her bones creaked and cracked in place. For a moment she forgot about her injured leg and hissed out a breath when weight was put on it. After a few softly worded curses she called out, "Come in." and the Beast opened the door.

A/N: Hello? Is anyone still reading this? My god, if you are you deserve a medal. I should travel, on foot, to wherever you are and give you a hug because... honestly? Four years? That's really pushing it on a hiatus. I'm really going to try to be better about updating though. Because I hate to leave you all hanging. I know what will happen story-wise, it's just getting it down that's hard. But if you ARE still here and don't despise me TOO much please send a review my way and let me know what you think. (Post a review even if you despise me) :)