CHAPTER 36
BELLE, unable to take the dreariness of the mess hall, strode down the corridor, her father and Claire trailing closely behind. She frowned, thinking that everything in the castle seemed monochromatic almost, as if the castle had suddenly painted the walls grey overnight.
Though before she could ponder this, a graceful hand shot out from nowhere and slender fingers wound around her arm. Belle drew in a breath and turned, seeing the Prince behind. He smiled at her in a way that caused her heart to careen against her ribcage.
"Belle," he murmured in a low and husky voice, his blue eyes alight with a look of hunger that Belle recognized within him. "I wondered if perhaps I might have a word with—" he started to say, though he blanched as Maurice stalked his way up the hallway and planted himself firmly between the Prince and his hearth keep, much to Claire's amusement.
"My daughter," Maurice's voice called, raising his voice slightly as he raised his brows in suspicion of the Prince. "I was hoping that I might have a word?" he asked simply, his tone hopeful, smiling as the Prince's eyes shot wide as he straightened his gait and stared at Belle with almost a furtive, guilty look. He seemed now like a man caught in a dalliance.
His brilliant blue eyes pleaded with Belle to intervene, though before Belle could part her lips to speak, her father turned and addressed the prince of these lands with a solemn expression.
"Your Highness," Maurice announced, somewhat stiffly. The Prince flinched, with Adam being unable to tell if the man's voice meant to threaten or to calm him right now.
"Monsieur." The Prince could only murmur and bow his head to Belle's father and snapped immediately to attention. His face was turning an interesting shade of red that almost sent Belle and Claire smiling, as the baker's daughter moved to stand alongside Belle, almost shoulder to shoulder, and wound her arm around Belle's.
Undoubtedly, Prince Adam du Barreau was imagining the thoughts which must have certainly been occurring to Belle's father, the women could tell by the look in Maurice's eyes.
Belle hastily stepped forward, quite forgetting that Claire was still clinging to her arm, and hurried to her new love's defense, eager to supplicate her father some and diffuse the tension that was obviously existing between them.
"Papa, the Prince was just coming to tend to our comfort," she said urgently, able to tell by the look in Adam's eyes that she was not necessarily telling a falsehood. The man was. "He—he came by to see if we needed anything," Belle stammered and swallowed down hard past a lump in her throat before awkwardly trailing off.
She could only stare at Maurice, hoping that her father would not jump to the obvious conclusion and make assumptions as to the nature of their relationship.
But the inventor and painter scoffed lightly and held up his hand to silence his daughter's efforts to make excuses for the Prince.
"It is alright, my love," he told her, amusement in his tone. "I am well aware that the master of this castle harbors…intents, towards you, but it is merely my intent to determine whether or not they are true. I was hoping perchance, that I could borrow your Prince for a moment, love?"
Belle blushed and ran her hand down along the red and jagged edges of her now-pink scar.
She opened her mouth to justify her feelings, and then Belle thought better of the notion. Like a little girl about to be punished, she clamped her lips shut.
This time, Belle looked beseechingly towards the Prince for the man's help Adam took that as his cue and stepped forward. He cleared his throat and spoke up, eager to defend Belle's honor and would fight any man who would dare to make aspirations against her character.
"Monsieur, Maurice, I don't…" He began but was then halted from whatever he'd been about to say next by Maurice's hard rueful glower.
"A moment of your time, Your Highness, is all that I require. Nothing more and nothing less."
There was just a faint tinge of a smile in Maurice's eyes as he spoke, which made Adam inhale a sharp breath and hoped that he could trust the look, whatever it was, and that his eyes were not tricking him into seeing what it was that he knew his mind wanted to see: his acceptance.
"I am well aware that my daughter is more than capable of making her own decisions. She is a grown woman in both body and mind and is well within her rights to choose with whom and how she…." He cleared his throat. "…spends her time," Maurice finished lamely, somewhat awkwardly, his knowing remarks quelling some of the tension.
Maurice glanced at Belle affectionately and then brought his slightly soft er eyes to the Prince.
"I would however ask, if I might interrupt your…time together this afternoon, Your Highness," Maurice spoke to the Prince almost reverently as he lowered his head in a show of the respect that was owed to France's young monarch. "I would like a few moments to speak with my daughter, alone if I may?" Maurice asked kindly.
The Prince's face and shoulders visibly relaxed at the idea that Maurice was not about to cast aspirations against Belle's character for expressing a desire to remain within the castle walls.
He held the look of a man whose execution was pardoned as a shy, sheepish smile spread over his face.
"Of course, monsieur, take as much time as you need," he answered warmly, bowing slightly and eager to appease the man who now held his heart's desire in his hands whether or not the man knew it or not remained to be seen yet. "I should confer with the servants the matter of our food stores. Mademoiselle Renaud, I believe our mutual friend Gaston was looking for you," he elaborated, trying to seem as if he would be able to find more productive ways to spend his time other than brooding and in a mood, sulking until he could rejoin Belle's side and ask her a question. If she would marry him.
But until her father's need was assuaged, and he had spoken to the man himself, such a conversation was going to have to wait until later.
Claire's face brightened at the idea and looked towards the Prince for confirmation of where the military captain and soldier might have gone off to. The Prince, sensing her curiosity and look of glimmering intrigue, had to chuckle at the young woman's look.
"I believe you'll find Monsieur Dupont in our library of all places, alongside that strange Gold bloke." He furrowed his brows in a frown, thinking he had heard Lumiere mumble something under his breath about it when he passed his youngest Head of Household by in the corridor not but two seconds ago. "Monsieur Gold has become quite fascinated with my collection of volumes, and I believe Gaston inquired something about war strategies and military tactician's records," the Prince let himself smirk at the shocked look on Belle's face.
Belle blinked owlishly as her mind struggled to process the Prince's words. Never in her entire life had she ever known Gaston Dupont to harbor a vested interest in reading, though as she shot Claire an interesting look that Claire returned and it was a look that Belle did not know what to make of, it only occurred to Belle that she knew very little of Gaston.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Claire murmured, grabbing fistfuls of her black dress, and sinking into a low but brief and graciously curtsy and turned on her heels to go, with the Prince and Maurice following behind Claire Renaud as a much more leisurely pace, not in a hurry to keep Gaston waiting.
Belle slowly followed by taking a half step forward, trying to secret herself somewhat from her father's knowing eyes as she bid a shy farewell to the Prince.
"Would you return a bit later, Your Highness? Before supper?" she whispered into the shell of Adam's ear, anticipation, and eagerness for the man's nearness in her voice as it lowered a bit.
Temporarily unconcerned if Belle's father sensed the growing intimacy between them, the Prince let himself slide his hand around her waist and brought his lips to graze her ear.
"Try to stop me, Belle," he challenged in a low and seductive voice.
Then he pressed one last tender kiss upon her lips and left the corridor in search of Gaston, escorting Claire arm-in-arm down the hallway.
Were she any other woman, the simple act might have ignited a flame of jealousy in the pit of her stomach, but Belle was warmed by the sight, grateful the Prince was being such a gracious host to not just her father, but to Gaston and Claire too, ensuring her familiars from the village had warm lodgings and were comfortable.
Belle swallowed down hard past a lump in her throat as she ran her slender fingers through her hair before turning on her heels and giving her father her now full and undivided attention, now that the Prince was not present or nearby to serve as a distraction.
"Let me take a good look at you, my Belle, my love," Maurice commanded sweetly, holding out his red and curled, aging hands for Belle to join his side.
Belle eagerly accepted her father's outstretched hands and stood in front of her father with a bright wide smile, tears coming to her eyes again at finally being reunited with him after months.
Unable to contain his joy any longer, Maurice embraced his daughter in his arms and held onto Belle tightly.
"It does my heart good to see you at long last, Belle," he murmured, resting his chin on top of her hair. "I thought that I might not ever see you again," he professed, pained.
Belle closed her eyes and let herself relax into her father's protective and shielded embrace. "That would never happen, Papa, I promised you that I would see you again," she answered, not willing to even entertain the very notion.
"Belle, my love, there is no reason for you to commit yourself to a man who is unworthy of your affections and your heart," Maurice began confidently, his tone serious and unflinching as he looked at his daughter.
Belle's lips parted open in shock, slightly slack-jawed as she stared at her Papa, utterly stricken and horrified, looking like she could not quite believe her ears.
"Wh—what? Unworthy?" she echoed, her eyes wide in disbelief. "Oh, but Papa, the Prince has very nearly sacrificed his own life for me. Twice," she informed him indignantly, ticking them off on her fingers as thoughts of Ser Laurent in the hallway came to mind, and then again at the front castle gates with Monsieur D'Arque. "He isn't!"
Nodding his acceptance of those facts, Maurice's lips pinched downward into a scowl as his lined forehead creased in concern for his daughter's happiness and wellbeing, regardless.
"He also ordered a man under his command to hurt you. He gave you that," Maurice bluntly reminded Belle, gesturing towards his own cheek with a shaking index finger.
"He has since apologized for what happened to me, Papa." Belle angrily heard her own voice raise in defiance. "He spent days helping Agathe nurse me back to health, seeing to my every need," she countered, her voice catching in her throat as fresh tears pricked at her eyelids.
Maurice's expression fell as he easily caught sight of the dread and fear mounting within his precious daughter's dark eyes, as Belle furiously blinked back tears.
Suddenly, his growing need to comfort his only family member and the light in his dark tunnels overwhelmed his protectiveness.
He took Belle's hand and began to lead her towards his prepared bedroom quarters.
"Forgive me, my love. It was not my intention to trouble you, Belle." Maurice smiled awkwardly. "Come, come inside, let us sit by the fire and get you warm. You are still exhausted and from what the master of this place told me, still need to be resting," he said, as he swept open the door to his bedroom an elderly looking woman named Mrs. Potts, a kindly madame had shown him to earlier.
Belle returned her father's pleasantries with a weak smile of her own, though she could feel her cheeks' reluctance to be molded so falsely and followed Papa inside. She was greeted with a rush of warmth from the roaring fire in the hearth as the red and orange flames cast about their reflections all throughout the room, as shadows played hide and seek along the otherwise cold brick walls.
Belle followed her Papa to the fireplace, her heart and mind racing, wondering what the continuation of their conversation would bring, not sure she wanted to know it.
Belle awkwardly situated herself in the rocking chair alongside her father, having to gather the skirts of her velvet gown to avoid the hem catching on the legs of the chair. She nervously bit down on her bottom lip and fidgeted with her hands and awkwardly rested them in her lap.
Maurice regarded his grown daughter with loving awe.
His mind took him back unbidden to the days when he had nestled his own infant daughter in his arms within the walls of their simple home in Paris.
Maurice regretted the pain and danger she had known during the months she had been away from his side, residing in this very castle.
As much as Maurice wished with all of his heart and every fiber of his being that he could have kept her safe from injury and heartbreak that had tormented his daughter, the pride he now felt for the strong and independent woman Belle had come allowed him to firmly trust the decisions that she alone would make for her life, and that included whom she wanted to marry and spend the rest of her natural-born days with. Even the Prince…
Although he had been well advised by both Agathe and the elderly Mrs. Potters earlier thus far during his presence within these cold stone walls of the ways in which Prince Adam du Barreau was indeed a man who was much changed, and completely deserving of his daughter's affections, his father pride, and fierce protectiveness was not about to so easily let the man off the hook, not just yet.
Maurice awkwardly stared into the roaring flames of the hearth as they sat side-by-side in front of the fireplace, unsure of where to begin. Sensing perhaps that it was just best to be forthcoming with his daughter before his resolve could falter, he blurted out,
"You love him, Belle. The Prince." Maurice raised his eyes to get a better look at Belle's previously placid and hardened expression, a look his daughter often wore when attempting to conceal her true emotions from him.
But it did not work this time, he was relatively pleased to see as it softened.
Belle's face gentled considerably at the thought of Adam. Maurice was almost visibly startled at the sudden shift in his daughter's countenance. Never had he seen his daughter so affected by a young man before, or such adoration in her glistening brown eyes. It was as if the man who now possessed his daughter's heart was standing here in the room right alongside her.
He noticed with furrowed brows how Belle glanced shyly down at her lap and fiddled with her fingertips to keep them warm. He almost let himself chuckle as he took note of how Belle was wistfully studying her left ring finger as if imagining the Prince's ring he would bestow to her there and already envisioning a life together with him.
She breathed out deeply in the form of a long and slow exhale and let the air flow slowly from her lungs.
"I do, Papa, oh, I very much do," Belle declared softly and shyly, suddenly bashful as her cheeks flamed bright pink, a sweet smile playing on her lips as she joined her father in staring at the fire.
"But the man used you and betrayed you when he ordered his man to give you that, Belle, forgive my candor, my love, but this does not sound like the actions of a man who is in love with you," Maurice barked hoarsely as anger seethed in his tone now.
He gestured once more to her cheek with a trembling finger and was only calmed when Belle's arm shot out and her slender fingers caught Maurice's hand.
She brought his knuckles to her lips and tenderly kissed them with as much tenderness as she could muster, wanting to supplicate Maurice. Belle shyly lowered her gaze, ashamed of the faith that she once could not find in the Prince's affections for her.
"I thought that too, Papa, for a long time," she murmured, furrowing her brows into a frown as she shook her head and tried to send the images of the memories in her mind's eye away. "But the Prince has proven to me that it is simply not true, Papa. Adam is much changed. You will see it yourself," she tried to encourage and smiled at him.
"He has confessed his reasons for…that?!" Maurice inquired, his eyes studying all aspects of his daughter's reaction, watching as the pads of her fingertips ghosted along the jagged edges of her scar. "Belle, my love, again forgive me, but you do not seem to be of a sound mental state and are not thinking clearly and are not making sound mental judgments, Belle! The master of this castle seems to have done nothing but bring you physical pain and heartsickness!" Maurice angrily protested, squeezing tightly onto his daughter's hands, afraid to let Belle go, for fear if he did, he'd never hold her again, never be near her, much less talk to her.
That his Belle would cease to exist and just be a phantasm…
He shivered and shook away the thought, his daughter's voice pulling him out of his dark swirling tempest of thoughts.
"All the Prince has done since then, Papa, has been to keep me safe and to ensure my comfort and overall well-being," Belle quietly corrected her father as she was able to answer Maurice with clarity and conviction. "He has apologized for his actions, Papa. Yes, he did break my heart, but it has since mended, and perhaps it has grown stronger than before, Da."
"Yes." Maurice nodded in understanding, his eyes twinkling as he slowly lifted his gaze to Belle's. "Earlier, when I was being shown here to my room, I was able to speak at lengths with that lovely lady, Mrs. Potts, I believe her name is," he informed Belle. "She was only too eager to describe the intensity of her master's efforts in winning your heart, and how he frequently confided in her and the other two members of his Household, a Monsieur Cogsworth and Lumiere for their assistance?" Maurice asked.
Only when Belle nodded her confirmation at their identities did Maurice continue his explanation. He eyed Belle with the utmost concern. "From what the men and Mrs. Potts were able to tell me, the young Prince was…quite persistent in winning your heart."
He studied his daughter and saw in her dark eyes only a glimmer of admiration and affection at his words as he described the changed Prince's actions.
"Prince Adam loves me, Papa," Belle asserted plainly. "And I love him," she sighed in contentment.
Maurice nodded plaintively; his expression thoughtful as he stroked the edges of his rough beard.
"Are you certain of this, Belle?" he asked, allowing Belle a moment to consider her answer.
It was an unnecessary pause, Maurice realized. Belle slowly turned to look at her father and looked deeply into her father's-tired eyes and answered him with the earnestness of a heart that was eternally pledged to the one she knew she loved.
"Yes, Papa. I have never been surer of anything else like this quite in my entire life," Belle quietly swore, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips now.
Satisfied with his daughter's answer, Maurice allowed himself to relax as the tension in his shoulders dissipated and he slumped back into his rocking chair.
"Mrs. Potts imparted to me how diligent and vigilant the Prince was in helping Agathe to tend to your…wounds, how you become his sole focus for those few agonizing days," he said, his tone mellowed, his gaze fixed on Belle's bandaged hands, still not liking how pale she was. "Although what he did to you has caused you pain, the likes of which you should have never had to suffer in the first place, I cannot fault him for wanting to rectify his mistake and tend to you," Maurice conceded, suddenly feeling older than he was, as every bone in his body was hurting. "I believe that, following his…apology, his every action thus far has been intended to keep you safe and out of harm's way. I don't think I could find it within myself to harbor a grudge against another man, Prince or no Prince, so willing to give his life for the safety of his child," Maurice relented quietly.
He clutched onto Belle's bandaged hands as tightly as he dared, hoping he was not hurting her.
"Forgive me, daughter," he pleaded, his face twisting in pain. "I needed to know you have no doubts about him if you want to spend your life with him," he explained, hoping she would understand.
Belle passionately shook her head no.
"None, Papa," she murmured, regarding her father lovingly, grateful that he was here by her side after months spent apart, and that her father was looking well.
Maurice allowed a faint smile to flit across his careworn and weathered features.
"Well, then," he chuckled a bit as he inhaled sharply and sighed. "It is quite clear that Adam du Barreau is a young Prince who is dedicated solely to you," he praised, his chest puffing out slightly with pride as he spoke the words, thinking his daughter deserved nothing less. "You say that you were the one to steal his heart, my love," Maurice chuckled quietly. "But I think you are wrong in that regard, daughter. It would appear to have been freely given," he corrected, his smile widening at her astonishment. "Any man who can see the true beauty that my daughter possesses, not just in looks, but within as well, I do not think I have it in my heart to deny him if he should come to his sense to ask for your hand."
Belle's soft smile and her happiness shone through like the beams of sunlight peeking through a dull and grievous grey cloud of winter and warmed Maurice over several times over. He thought he would never tire of seeing her smile.
"Oh, thank you, Papa." She leaned forward and softly kissed her father on the cheek, still beaming and looking positively radiant at her father's words. The painter and inventor held his daughter in a loving embrace, not willing to relinquish her yet.
"Just remember, my love," he murmured as he reluctantly relinquished his grip on his daughter and pulled back to study his daughter and revel in the presence of her that she would soon belong to another man, and not just him anymore. "Your heart, it belonged to me first," he proclaimed, almost sounding hurt as memories flooded his thoughts.
Hot but loving tears pricked at the edges of Belle's eyes, and she nodded her acknowledgment before brushing them away with the corner sleeve of her gown.
"Oh, Papa," she replied warmly, still clinging onto her father's hand tightly as she would when the storms would come as a little girl, and she would run to him for comfort.
She leaned forward and graced him with a soft smile, her next words meant for her father and Maurice alone, and faint.
"It always will," Belle promised.
CLAIRE gritted her teeth and tried not to seethe as she wiped the thin blanket of perspiration on her brow, trying to ignore how a few of the Prince's guards were leering at her, stealing glances at her, some had started to whisper about her for all she cared. No doubt they were discussing her physical likeness to the lady Belle, Claire thought bitterly.
She moved her legs towards another set of stairs, the same ones that Lumiere had told her about, the same room where their old physician was located.
She could not tell if it was stress that her body was becoming too taxed by over the last few days alone, first with LeFou's betrayal, and then again in thinking Gaston to be dead, his throat and body ravaged and ripped by wolves, and now this ruddy business and mess with that strange chap from the Woods, Monsieur Gold.
But her stomach seemed to be churning in knots over the last few days for reasons she could not explain. She had fully been intending to make her way to the library and had gone arm-in-arm alongside Monsieur Lumiere, a bit of a flirtatious chap that made her roll her eyes, but kind-hearted enough and something of a looker.
Either way, there came a sharp, shooting pain in her midsection, the third or fourth one in the span of an hour that caused Claire's face to contort in pain, and she could no longer ignore and pass it off as immaterial and had begged permission off Monsieur Lumiere to speak with the Prince's on-staff doctor.
Which now led her up here at the Head of Household's instructions. Lumiere had been all vexed and on the brink of hyperventilation as she had been slowed by a queasiness in the pit of her stomach and her nose had not let her go further.
She'd clung to the cobblestones, repulsed by bitter reflux from her throat while the kind monsieur had been forced to hold her by the shoulders. She'd gagged but could not dare to bring anything up, and then remembered having not eaten. She had straightened her gait with the help of the Prince's golden-haired Head of Household.
"Would you like to see our doctor, milady? What on earth do you think is the matter with you? Are you ill? You have gone as white as a sheet!" Lumiere had suggested, sounding, and looking on the brink of panic, and had started to tug on the sleeve of her gown, but Claire shrugged out of his grasp, swallowing down hard, sighing rather tiredly.
"Perhaps I might," she had said to him earlier, though she'd backed away when Lumiere had nodded and started to lead the way. "No, no, I—I could take myself, monsieur, if you will kindly just tell me where his solar is. I do not want to impose or take away from your duties, you've done more than enough. And if you should pass by the kitchens, monsieur, if you should come across any baked apples, I would like some. I greatly appreciate it."
Monsieur Lumiere had not looked convinced, his blond brows shooting so far up onto his forehead that they had almost disappeared into his hairline.
"Are you sure?" he asked, still looking doubtful.
"Yes, I—I suppose hunger has caught up with me, thank you, monsieur, you are too kind, sir," Claire mumbled, only able to reason before she stepped towards one of the staircases and turned on her heels to flee up the stairwell, leaving Monsieur Lumiere behind to fret over Belle's friend's overall well-being.
Terror rooted itself deeply in the pit of her stomach.
It was not the fact that she was sick so much that bothered her, she had the occasional dizzy spells now and again, but it was not knowing the cause of her headaches and tiredness in the mornings or her frequent bouts of nausea. Stress?
Surely, it was stress. She tried to tell herself that.
Claire knocked on the door and swallowed down hard, praying that this Prince's physician would be discreet in his dealings with her. It was growing late, and he was sure without a doubt of his duties, but he could be elsewhere in the castle.
Though she had not the faintest clue where to look and did not exactly want to go traipsing through the castle looking for him and announcing her personal affairs to everyone that she was taken ill and needed the old man's help.
She had no way of knowing for sure whether he was within or not and Claire found herself both praying that the physician was both there and away. She felt little beads of sweat break out along her forehead as Claire angrily followed up her first knock quickly with another in short succession. Fast and rapid knocks with her knuckles, insistent and urging.
She was in mid-knock, her third round of heavy wraps on the door when it flung open.
The castle's doctor froze at the young mademoiselle's presence, looking quite agitated and white-faced. In his hands, he was clutching rolls of soft white linens and herbs, looking like he was about to run off to some crisis and she'd caught him.
"Oh, ah, mademoiselle, I—I mean…milady...Claire, is it not?" the doctor stammered. "What—what is it I can do for you?"
Claire furrowed her thin brows and studied the castle's physician for a good long while in silence. She could see the older white-haired gentleman's bone-white hands, how they badly trembled, and his fretted green eyes told Claire he was spoken for something.
Two of the Prince's men, guards, from the looks of him, came up from behind him, wearing the same exasperated look as the doctor was now.
"His Highness demands that you come, monsieur, he says you've taken too long to tend to Belle," one of them spoke in a disgruntled voice.
"Yes, yes, yes, I was just about to come, please inform the Prince that I am on my way, that the master need not fret…" the doctor squirmed, closing the door behind him, and turning back to face Claire, the edges of his mouth pinching downward. "My lady, I am quite afraid that I would have to see you later…" he said, his voice trailing off as he bit the wall of his cheek.
Claire was already instantly stepping away from the now-closed door of the man's private study, shaking her head and convincing the Prince's doctor that tending to Belle's overall health and well-being was far more the important matter than of her own.
The older gentleman's sigh was enough for the baker's daughter to tell how grateful he was for her toleration and understanding of the urgency of it all.
"I—I h—have to go then, young mademoiselle, the lady Belle, her bandages need changing and Mrs. Potts came to me and said that she was in pain…."
"Go then, monsieur, it's quite alright. I—if you're agreeable to it, I shall come to you at a more comfortable hour," Claire ducked her head and bid him willfully even before the doctor scurried down the stairwell with the Prince's guards at his heels.
She herself harbored great concern for Belle in her heart.
As apathetic as she felt herself acting towards the Prince, recollecting the horror stories she had heard of the man back in the village, from Gaston himself on occasion, before he had paid attention to her, she would not hope of Belle's misfortune at all.
Claire's shoulders slumped forward in disappointment, and she tried to vest herself to remain in one piece as she marched her way dutifully back down the stairwell, all the while continuously passing by soldiers whose eyes never failed to land on her.
Her cheeks flushed red in rage. The soldiers' leering gazes, their wandering eyes were far too palpable for Claire to notice. It was as if there were eyes on the walls of this very castle and the dank air, and she decided that she abhorred it.
Claire had just barely reached the landing, seconds passed when her thoughts meandered back to Gaston, and it was as if the man had a sixth sense for these sorts of things when a flash of red out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and at the entrance to a row of the vestibule, he'd suddenly shown.
Gaston Dupont paused, his face looking like he was far too preoccupied in thinking after something that the expression he wore was almost speculative, seemingly lost in hesitation on whether to walk past her or stay.
Her heart heaved and pounded loudly in her chest the way the military captain was eyeing her. Like Claire had been caught stealing and she was to face the next several hours in the stocks or about to have a few hours' worths of a good flogging.
His newly shorn short hair, courtesy of Gold who had hacked it off in a show of dominance, as if Gaston needed reminding that for the time being, he took his orders from him, was wild and unruly, sticking up in tufts every which way as Gold's hand was clumsy and not skilled in the cutting of hair. His clothes smelt strangely of the Wolves' Woods, of the forest, pinewood, fir, and scent of animals. The man's black leather breeches were damp, and the soles of his boots muddied, dirtying the cobblestones he now stood on as he looked at Claire.
Claire swallowed down hard past a lump in her throat, a sheen of sweat glittering on her scalp and trying to brave the handsome man's scalding glare.
"Are you alone?" he asked in a rough, coarse voice that almost reminded Claire a bit of sandpaper.
"Yes."
Claire heard the man sniff as Gaston scratched at the stubble near his jaw, which was growing prickly.
Man would need to shave soon, she thought, though she frowned as the movement left a smidge of red that was a streak of blood down his cheek which made her stomach coil in revulsion and awe.
What in God's name had he done? She wondered.
Though there was another movement that caught Claire's eyes as she hardened her gaze in suspicion as Gaston moved his other hand from out behind him and handed over what looked to be too peculiar.
Her lips fell open as her expression morphed into one of shock. A tousled bouquet of bright red roses, that the soldier had obviously nicked from the Prince's rose gardens. She stared at the unruly means in which the stems had been cut with his dagger.
The scent of roses was so distinctive that it took Claire back to happier thoughts of home, the peaceful tranquility of their provincial little village.
Her lips were agape in disbelief, she realized, and she was sure she probably looked like a fish, staring at Gaston Dupont in this manner. She thought, back when the man had attempted to court Belle despite her disinterest, there were many things he would do to impress a woman but handing her over such beautiful roses had never been an option with him.
The man was a hunter, Gaston might have perhaps presented her with stag antlers or a bearskin that Claire could have dried to use as pelt and rags.
But… this was not at all the Gaston she was familiar with. This would make him a bloody fool.
And this so-called fool now standing affront of her had managed to bring her something for the potpourri in her bedchamber the Prince was putting her up in close to Belle's quarters for the duration of her stay here in the castle, however long that was.
This 'gift' Gaston had just presented her with seemed too funny a gift, coming from a hunter like him. A mess of thorns that Gaston tried to pull off awkwardly, leaving them on the ground by his boots and swearing under his breath as one of the thorns pricked his palm.
Again, he handed them to her, shoving them at Claire's chest in an ungraceful way, but Claire was too dumbstruck to so much as lift a finger to begin to take them from him.
Gaston furrowed his brows into a frown, noticing her staring at the blood splatters on his cheeks, which was seemingly annoying him, Claire gaping.
"The rabbits, milady," he murmured huskily.
"Oh." Claire's mouth twitched upward, almost smiling at the cringeworthy way Gaston tried to hastily explain the mess and his disheveled state.
Gaston heaved in frustration and yanked the flowers back with an irate mumble, "You don't like it," he growled through gritted teeth, sounding hurt.
Claire's face paled as she realized her shocked expression had given off the wrong impression to him.
"No!" she cried out, eager to rectify her error. "Don't throw them away, Gaston, I—I'll have them!" Claire stammered out in protest, quickly jutting out her fingers to take the jumbled mess of roses from Gaston's bloodstained hands.
Gaston's dark eyes widened at her acceptance and pointedly looked away from her as he released it.
The thrill she felt in her chest was beginning to make her fingers tremble and her stomach churn but in a good way this time.
A faint blush stung on her cheeks as she held the bouquet close to her chest.
"Thank you, Gaston," she whispered in the girlish spirit she'd always had whenever the man would come into her father's shop. She brought them to her nose and sniffed, inhaling the luscious scent. "They're beautiful," Claire murmured.
She was surprised that Gaston had done this kind gesture, considering his usual eccentric behavior, this coming from such a wounded man, both figuratively and literally, was almost unheard of, but not necessarily unwanted.
Though a part of her could not help but wonder as to the occasion, she thought, looking at him.
Gaston awkwardly wet his lips and cleared his throat. Claire could not help but to catch a glimpse of the former military captain, the man's general uneasiness made the rich brown of his eyes sparkle.
Even with the man's unshaven face and the blood spatter smudging on his cheek, Claire thought Gaston Dupont to be a handsome man, hardened by the grim shadow of a rough life yet recovering.
She could only hope he would let her in and allow her to help him heal. She wanted that. She watched as he stepped back and turned away, wordless, and did not look at her.
"I was hoping that you and I could talk in private. Somewhere warm and not out here," he grunted, suddenly finding it difficult to look at Claire.
This did not escape her attention, and she felt worry worm its way into the pit of her stomach, and yet again for a second time, her nauseous feeling returned.
"What is it?" Claire asked. His tone brought concern to her gaze and the fact that Gaston could not even look at her, not even a moment after handing her the bouquet.
Gaston tensed, a muscle in his jaw clenching as he dug along the wall of his teeth and held out his hand for Claire to take. "Come," was all he could say to her, and without waiting for permission, clutched onto her hand.
Claire had no choice but to comply. She was more than shocked as Gaston led the way at a quickened pace and did not stop or tell her where they were going until they reached the library of all places.
She opened her mouth to instantly protest this idea until the soldier turned and shot her a withering, rueful look and barked that they would be alone, that Belle was spending time with her father and the Prince in the mess hall. How he came by this information she did not know. She could only surmise he had stumbled across them during his walking.
Her eyes needed a moment to adjust to the warmth and overall brightness of the library, at the several dozen candelabras and torches that were light every which way.
It was a stark contrast to the rest of the otherwise dreary and grievous castle.
Claire turned to say something and gasped and took a step back at once.
Gaston was right behind her, his face inches from hers. She shivered and gritted her teeth as she could swear the hunter was looking almost angry, but hopefully, not at her.
Claire swallowed down hard, half expecting the man to slam her back against one of the bookshelves right there and there. She tried a reassuring smile, but it felt wavering, and she felt her cheeks' reluctance to be molded so falsely like this, and her face wouldn't let her.
"What's the matter?" Claire asked, her voice shaking.
Words could not even begin to describe the look on the handsome soldier's face as he breathed slowly and ran a hand through his short dark hair, a look of pure turmoil on his face. She flinched as he slammed a fist into the wall, just by her head.
She frowned and put her hands across her chest and jutted her hip out.
"What is it?!" she cried, eager for Gaston to get the point of why he was behaving in a way that she deemed quite uncouth.
"LeFou, Claire," he growled through gritted teeth. "You care for him. The two of you are still…betrothed, are you not? This little arrangement made by both sets of parents?" he asked.
Gaston spat the words as if they were blades against his tongue.
Claire could only gape and stare, wide-eyed.
"I…I don't…" she drew in a shallow breath and tried to calm her racing heart and her nerves. Never before had she ever seen the hunter and tavern owner this furious. "He is nothing, Gaston, not anymore. He will always be nothing after the stunt he pulled with my brother."
There was a long and awkward pause between the two of them, and a few shaky breaths later, and Gaston took hold of Claire by her right wrist, pressing the young woman back and back until she bumped into a bookshelf.
"You swear it," he snarled, an almost wild, animalistic feral snarl of anger curling his lips upward. "You look into my eyes, Renaud, and swear it to me."
Claire looked and jutted her chin out slightly defiantly, deep into the fathomless cold brown pits of Gaston's eyes, not wanting to be the one to break their gaze first.
"I swear it," she promised, her voice positively trembling with emotion.
She felt her body start to shake. But Gaston made no move to release her.
If anything, the soldier's grip on the baker's daughter's hand tightened.
"His parents do not know then, I take it, of…us. They still seem quite certain you are their son's."
Gaston's voice was rising again, steadily growing louder in the desolate quiet of the otherwise abandoned library. God, but the Prince's servants, maids, most likely, or kitchen wenches, were no doubt at the door, hoping to catch snippets of the Prince's friend's otherwise 'private' conversation that was about to not be so private if she could not convince him to calm down.
A fiery heat began to spread through her veins like a wildfire, devouring Claire, leaving the young woman hungry and wanting more of the soldier's nearness.
It took great effort to keep herself from squirming. She bit down on her lip, hard, and tried to think of something to say that would supplicate his temper.
"LeFou is nothing, Gaston, whatever his parents say," she murmured, keeping her voice low. "If it bothers you that much, you should discuss it with my father, whom you would have me marry," she said. "You should know by now where my heart is, or you would, and you would know perfectly well who I've fallen for, Gaston, if you weren't too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice," Claire snapped, feeling her own temper surge.
"Do I?" Gaston challenged, having the impudence to raise his brows at Claire, which she took immediate offense to, thinking that the man was mocking her. "Do I, really, Claire?" He rolled the words on his tongue as if he had tasted something bitter. "I know what it is you think you want, but if it would not have been me, you'd find someone else."
Gaston's cold accusation stung, and wounded Claire much more deeply than she cared to admit.
"But there is no one else," she whispered.
Gaston snarled, seemingly not convinced of her words.
"Not now, pretty Claire, but perhaps there will be one day. Someone stronger, even dare I think it, more handsome than I am, but just as devious, that would take my place and take you from me," Gaston almost shouted as he gritted his teeth.
Gaston was talking purely out of anger now, and somewhere, Claire could see a deeply-rooted fear in the heartbroken soldier's eyes, the fear that was driving all of his nightmares, doubts, and insecurities, that motivated all of Gaston's movements into making the decisions that he was.
"Someday, Claire, surely you would look at me and think that I will no longer be enough for you. That you have deserved better right from the start!"
Claire let out a low warning growl and angrily wrenched one of her wrists free of the man's grasp and reached down, took hold of the collar of the man's doublet, and pulled Gaston forcefully to her.
"What I deserve," she emphasized through gritted teeth, her voice low and a deep murmur, "Is what I want, Gaston Dupont, and what I want is you."
Claire yanked on his collar a little harder and firmly pressed her mouth to his, praying this would shut him up and silence the man's insecurities as to her true feelings for him.
And ah, it did, for a split second again, until the soldier caught her wrists again and shoved them roughly back against the bookcase, pinning her once more.
Then his mouth was everywhere he could think to reach, against her lips, trailing down the pale column of her throat, dancing across her collarbones, nipping the sensitive skin there.
And then it was no longer he whom Claire needed to keep silent to avoid anyone overhearing.
It was hard enough to keep herself in check. The tension she felt coiled and tightened deliciously, sinful, intoxicating, screaming to let Gaston break it. She trembled desperately beneath the man's movements, letting the euphoric sensation erase away all thoughts of her idiot would-be-suitor LeFou, and focused her attention solely on Gaston.
He dropped her wrists long enough to bury his hands into the back of her hair and pressed against her skull hard, his kisses were urgent, almost possessive in a way, as though he were trying to taste her, to feel her, to commit how she was to his memory.
Gaston pressed his mouth hard and long over hers to silence her scream as the tension within her threatened to erupt, though it finally shattered that broke her wholly and left Claire sagging against his broad chest as he broke apart from the passionate embrace and wiped at his lips with the back of his fingers.
He took her hand, and for a fraction of a second, Claire almost thought he would kiss her again. She moved in, her nose almost touching his, but he did not kiss her, merely looked down his nose at her, and his expression was almost teeming with the hope that she wondered what it was that he wanted.
"Would you give a man a kiss before sending him on his way to his grave? That I might have something to look forward to, to come back to, Claire, perhaps it might make this easier on me, on the both of us. I would take something with me to remember you by, all I ask of you is another kiss and nothing more than that," Gaston asked, bitterly, though there was a trace of longing in his voice for her that made her shiver.
He looked as though he did not enjoy spouting such words at Claire, and his expression suggested to Claire that he seemed to be under the impression that he was not being offered a choice.
Claire blinked, angrier than before with him if it was even possible, her cheeks flushed high with color, both from the unexpected passion of their kiss and his words which were seemingly cold and hurt.
"What?" she exclaimed sourly, still fearful that this conversation they were about to have, considering his seemingly sour mood, was not going to be a particularly pleasant one. "I—I don't—" she started to say, but Gaston instantly interrupted her.
Gaston took her hand and stared deep into Claire's hazel eyes for a good long moment, not speaking. He stroked back a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across her face.
Then, suddenly, Gaston did not think he could bear to look into the shining adoration he found as he beheld the woman he loved.
He was beginning to hate and curse Gold with every fiber of his being for demanding he leaves this woman's side to attend his own personal vendetta against Monsieur D'Arque. He did not care what the old mental bit had of Gold's that was so ruddy important to him.
There could be nothing of greater importance than Claire. Gaston secretly hoped that this so-called 'relative' of his was giving him seven shades of holy hell, wherever they happened to be. Gaston turned to stare at one of the bookshelves off in the distance he did not truly see.
"I have to go." His voice was so quiet it was nearly a whisper.
Claire wondered if he spoke at all. Claire gaped. Her heart dropped to the pit of her churning stomach. Her arms went numb, and she wrenched away from Gaston's grasp.
All the color drained from her face as her lips parted in her shock. Claire swallowed all the bile that was slowly seeping its way up into her throat and lingering on her tongue.
"Y—you're…leaving?" she squeaked numbly, unsure what it was she had heard, hoping she'd misheard the man and that she had heard Gaston Dupont wrong.
But one look into his eyes convinced her otherwise, as Gaston looked away somewhat remorsefully and dropped his chin, not able to look at her.
He swore he could almost hear Claire's fragile heart breaking, and a dozen or so curse words in the foulest language imaginable flitted through his mind as he cursed Gold to the seven hells and back for making him do this to her. Gaston nodded slowly, unable to say much.
"Leaving…to go back to D'Arque."
It was not even a question as it left Claire's lips in an accusing way.
She voiced her suspicions as if already certain. Gaston's arm shot out to curl around her arm to prevent her from leaving him and desperate to make Claire understand.
"Not back to be with D'Arque," he corrected, already seeing the confusion fraught on her face. "I am going with Gold to the man's fortress to kill him," he quietly explained, lowering his voice an octave.
Gaston only then realized that Claire's fingers were still clasped tightly in his own. He clung firmly to them, hoping to make Claire understand and that she would accept him as a husband to her once he returned.
"But…why?" Claire asked in a voice that broke as it warbled. She angrily shook her head, as if trying to send Gaston's words away and dismiss like they were the wind. "You and Gold both promised we'd be safe here."
Her hazel eyes questioned Gaston desperately.
Gaston nodded.
"You are, Claire," he agreed reassuringly, though as he caught sight of just how furious Claire was becoming, his expression sobered. "But I fear that within these very walls is the only place you will ever be safe from that bastard's wrath," he growled. "I am not sure that you and Belle and Maurice could leave it, and certainly not the Prince. Not while D'Arque lives."
Claire sniffed and slowly nodded her understanding.
"Then we will stay shielded here, Gaston," she countered, though even she understood how difficult that would be for all of them, but especially Belle.
Gaston softly shook his head and tried to give the woman he loved an understanding smile.
"For the rest of your lives, Claire?" He acknowledged in disbelief and unwilling to ask Claire to do such a thing, nor would he impose on the Prince's kindness any longer than necessary. "What about all that you would be missing back in the village? Your family, your siblings, Claire? Your mother?" Gaston pressured, trying to make her see.
"She of all people would surely understand," Claire answered, remembering how her mother had always admired Gaston and had lamented more than once how she wished her only daughter would have gone for a proud man like Gaston, a provider, instead of LeFou.
Her mother would have understood the desire to keep her daughter safe, how Claire would be safe here.
Gaston sadly looked at Claire and again shook his head.
"Adam's home has been your sanctuary, Claire," Gaston stated soberly, trying to comfort the baker's daughter, and feeling like he was failing in that regard. "But I will not allow it to become your prison. That man, Gold, he saved my life, Claire, I know I don't need to remind you of that. I owe him. I will not let D'Arque hold anyone else I care about hostage, regardless of how magnificent and luxurious the cage, Claire, this castle is still your prison. At least until the man is dead," he spat. He frowned as he studied the woman's crestfallen face. "That is no life for you or Belle or Adam to live, Claire," he declared. Gaston hoped Claire would understand why.
Claire fell silent as she let her mind consider Gaston's words and his reasonings for agreeing to this. Her heart ached and her mind screamed for relief, not wanting to think of Gaston leaving when she'd just gotten him back. How could she watch him go, knowing that next time, there was every possibility that he might not return?
Something deep within her heart still stung with a horrible fear, hurt, and bitterness as she grew more afraid that Gaston's grand plan if he had one, would not end as he thought.
Now, it was Claire's turn to stare off into the distance towards the fire in the hearth on the opposite end of the library, for she could not meet his gaze.
"You are not coming back, Gaston," Claire coldly announced as if she were already sure of the outcome, her tone flat and emotionless. She slipped her fingers from his.
Gaston flinched, unable to stomach the dread in Claire's prediction, shaking his head to send her words away.
"Of course, I am going to come back to you." He gingerly took her elbows and brought her facing front, so she was forced to meet his gaze. "Nothing is going to stop me," he swore. "It will be but a few days, a few weeks at best to travel there and back if these damned bloody storms don't let up," he confessed, a brief flicker of annoyance darting across his face at thinking of how harsh and brutal the winters here in France could get. "I will take the bastard's head and be on my way back here to you before anyone even knows I was able to slip inside." Gaston tried to give Claire a hopeful smile, but it felt strained. "I got you here, didn't I? Gold and I did. No one is going to be a challenge in me returning to you, especially not D'Arque."
A shadow flitted across the man's angular features that made Claire shirk away.
Gaston continued, undaunted by the look of unease she shot him. "I'm going to cut down anyone who dares stand in my way," Gaston growled through his teeth, already sure of his victory.
Claire's eyebrows rose up on her forehead in alarm as she continued to eye him questioningly.
"That isn't what I'm afraid of, Gaston," she did her best to correct the soldier, her breaths erupting forth from her lungs in shallow bursts. "I am positive that no sword or bow and arrow would ever be a match for you," she answered, jutting out her chin in a defiant manner.
"Then what is it, my love?" he begged, searching her face, and visibly startling, feeling he was sure he looked shocked as he bestowed upon Claire a term of endearment he had one day hoped to call Belle by, for the first time, and Claire saw the shock form in his eyes.
And yet, though the thought was somehow bittersweet, he found the baker's daughter now to be sweeter than Belle.
Claire swallowed down hard, wanting to cry and bury her face into the crook of his neck, but her chest felt heavy, her heart moreover, was heavy and stricken at the thought of Gaston leaving the relative sanctity of the castle that she was now beyond the point of crying at all.
"That man is going to—to cast his spell on you again, Gaston, I'm sure of," Claire protested, pursing her lips, and furrowing her brows into a frown. "He's persuasive, a worm and a snake who never learned to keep his forked tongue in between his teeth, Gaston!"
Gaston tried to protest to get a word in edgewise, to tell Claire that was absolutely not going to happen, but Claire would not let him and continued on speaking.
"No matter how much you'll want to return home, to here, to—to me," she stammered, a light pink blush speckling her cheeks at the very idea that he could love her, "You will stay with him." Claire knew she did not need to tell Gaston that D'Arque had persuaded him once before on various matters that pertained to their village. "I don't think that I will ever see you again," she replied.
Her voice trailed off into a half-choked sob as Claire sharply turned her head, unable to finish speaking.
Gaston flinched as he bit the wall of his mouth. He knew that somehow, he had put that fear into Claire's heart and mind. He had foolishly let D'Arque come between them and was ruining any hope, any glimmer of a spark that might exist between him and this woman.
He gritted his teeth in anger at the very thought.
"That will not happen, Claire," he promised, almost sounding angry with the young woman as he spat his words more than spoke them, desperate to make her see. Though there was a reason Belle and Claire were friends. Both young women were equally just as stubborn. "If there were any other way, Claire, believe me, I would find it and I would take it." The soldier shook his head. "But Gold is right. Man is dangerous. D'Arque has to die for us to truly be safe. I—I should have killed him when I had the chance instead of trying to reason with the man."
He hung his head in regret for a moment, and then raised his moisture-filled eyes to Claire's pain-filled face.
As he studied Claire's heartbroken expression, Gaston felt his throat start to hollow and his chest tighten.
"Believe me, Claire," he beseeched, cringing at hearing the faltering warbling crack and dip in his voice. "I…love you, and only you, with all that I am, though I may not be much for you at all. I cannot fathom how you could choose me over someone else," he said, choosing to ignore the momentary flicker of anger that passed through her eyes.
Claire clearly was bothered by the low opinion he reputed of himself, but he could not manage to pretend to care right now. All he wanted was her. Just her. Gaston beheld the lovely image of Claire, his Claire, his chest tightening, his heart as pained as hers.
It only occurred to him then that he had again spoken the three precious words he had always itched to utter to a woman and have said woman say it back in kind. The fact that Claire had not reacted to his heartfelt confession chafed at him, and vexed him, cut him deeply.
"I give you my word, on my honor, Claire, that I will return to you. I swear it, and when I do, when D'Arque is dead, when he is no longer a threat to you or anyone else, if you would have me, we can marry, Claire."
He heard her breaths catch in her throat as he expressed perhaps the one thing he wanted most of all. Claire sighed heavily. Gaston flinched. A pause in her response was nothing that he could have hoped for, and the defeat in her beautiful face ripped him asunder.
There was nothing left between them to be said.
Claire stared angrily straight ahead of her, as if not seeing him and furiously blinking back the tears which threatened to escape her burning eyes and slide down her cheeks. Claire swallowed down hard and felt the world of the library spinning beneath her boots as she turned away.
As she turned and huffed angrily, she said not a single word to Gaston as she left, unable to bring her eyes up to regard him, much less look over her shoulder as she began to stalk towards the castle library's exit, eager to put as much distance between herself and Gaston as able.
Heartbroken and in tears, Claire slipped past Gaston swiftly and walked slowly out of the library, slamming the door shut behind her so hard in her wake that the ancient wooden panel rattled within its hinges.
Gaston lingered in the library for longer than he had planned to, and his mind blazed with a dozen double edged curses as he damned Gold to the seven hells below.
Gaston squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth.
He thought he was getting used to the dryness of his mouth and the swallowing of nothing in particular, but now there was the slime of something thick and nasty, the taste of iron in between his tongue and palate. It took him a moment to realize he'd bitten down on his tongue.
He turned his head to the side and spat the blood that filled his taste buds as his body began to violently shake in rage and heartbreak, hating Gold, hating D'Arque, and hating himself for this chasm that now existed between himself and the one woman who might have loved him, and now, surely, she never would.
I'll kill him…kill them all…kill…rip…tear his head off…
His jaw clenched and his teeth dug on the wall of his mouth. Gaston let out a dense and aggravated breath and the hand that was holding himself against the edge of a bookshelf formed into a tight fist and he smashed it against the wood, letting out a furious blood yell as his leg shot out of its own accord and toppled the shelf and its books to the ground as Gaston let his temper take control.
Gaston almost swallowed his own tongue, throttling the urge to roar like an enraged cursed dragon as he brought his boot down on the shelf and smashed it.
Over and over again, as shards of wood splintered. A few splinters might have even pierced his skin as he felt a stinging on his cheek and in his palms, but Gaston hardly ignored it.
The worst part of the pain was that that small bleeding cuts now dotting his palms and face were not enough to swap with the anguish that was his broken heart.
The agitated military captain breathed in and out, continuing to do so in deep, macabre moods as he violently wrenched away from the bookshelf that he had just painstakingly ruined. He stalked towards the exit though paused, letting his forehead rest against the cold bricked wall. His throat hurt and threatened a sob, but he dared not let it escape.
He'd die before he would ever hear himself cry.
Suddenly, Gaston lacked the strength to move. He could not move a muscle, though he tried to break free of the wall, he could not. He mourned his failure to act, how his actions of the past were now hurting Claire and Adam besides, not just Belle, or to put it more appropriately rather, his lack of actions. He shivered, his body quaking.
Perhaps he had no right to hope that Claire would see his departure as anything but a betrayal of his feelings.
Gaston knew, just as Monsieur Gold knew, that Monsieur D'Arque's death was the only possible outcome of his return to his fortress, a centuries-old castle previously left to rot, the Château de Beauvin, that Monsieur D'Arque had taken it upon himself to renovate.
The military captain was more than eager to have the bastard wretch out of all of their lives forever, but especially his.
The snake had slithered in the shadows and haunted his footsteps too long, whispering conniving sweet words as a counselor would a king and persuading Gaston that much of his work that involved their village was for the greater good and the good of the people.
He knew he should have foreseen that his leaving so abruptly would cause Claire to have her doubts about him and to question his commitment to their future life together. Claire had been through Hell itself, all seven layers of it, he was sure, when she thought that he'd died.
It was his fault. He had created that chasm. This time, he thought, almost violently to himself as he wrenched open the same doors that Claire had just vacated and stalked down the hallway after her like a lion stalking its prey, he was going to prove to Claire that she was now the most important thing in his life, by killing D'Arque.
It was, he thought bitterly, his ultimate sacrifice.
Well. That could have gone worse. Eep. Poor Glaire(?) I really need a new ship name for these two lol. At least Maurice approves of the Prince, so progress!
Can you tell I've sort of modeled D'Arque after Brad Dourif/Grima in LOTR lol? All this talk of snakes and kings and counselors and fortresses. Lol.
Joking aside, I do think that Dourif would make an exceptional D'Arque in a live version sometime, especially now the man is a bit older. Anyways, enough rambling. I hope that you enjoyed this chapter!