Title: Unworthy

Author: Rissa85-Stargazing85

Rating: PG13 to R

Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance

Part: Part Five (Humanity Obscured)

Disclaimer: See parts prior.

Author's Note: I am writing this as I just finished this part of the story. I tried to make the story sound smoother, especially from someone else's perspective later on in this part. Keeping the vocabulary sprinkled lightly, just enough to season the fanfiction. =) It took longer to update because I've been busy so this part is longer than any of the others to make up for it. Enjoy and thanks for the reviews!

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Perfume and spirits. It was a preternatural combination of scents, nothing revolting; but certainly not exceedingly pleasant. Feminine and masculine, both mingled together but clashing as well. Much like her and her Maître, for that was what that creature was to her now. She was to answer him, in all the ways that a servant would satisfy its owner; for prisoners were nothing but a deplorable form of humanity in arrears.

She looked around again, eyes rimmed red, and head splitting from incessant weeping. The room was nothing she envisaged, but then again the outcome of the day was out of the reach for her preceding introspective expectancy. From a marriage proposal to a state of depraved existence. Both had the potentiality of decapitating her dreams. Her percipience. Her life.

At once, her short-term memory assailed her mind, and agitatedly she thought of the book she had been reading. Perhaps what she had become clever at when she was younger would play into her hands. Inebriating her mind with concepts that were less harsh than many others had been- the vestiges of a mother, her hostile paternal family, emotions of mystification. It had always been much more unproblematic to delve into the lives of other characters than her own. Perhaps now, it would aid her.

Attempting to recapture thoughts of the book she had read earlier, which seemed to be many years past than only a few hours, was operose. So much in fact, that she could not meditate her mind. It seemed the more intense she wanted to not ponder of her situation, the more her memories rushed. She felt almost as if her head were a chimney with dark fumes of thought spilling from her to the rest of the room, clouding the atmosphere with her remembrance.

She then realized that in her weeping stupor, she had trudged her way to the canopy bed, all adorned in soft satin and embroidered linen. Her head, was in fact, resting its heated self on the satin pillows that cushioned her head, seeming to know her heartache and trying to invigorate her. Sighing she looked up, the top of the canopy was brass and somewhat elevated, reminding her of the silhouette of the castle.

Arising, she noted the dark azure and irradiated marble that covered the floor. But above the marble was a gorgeous rug, almost covering the glossy floor, and complete in a light cerulean with intricate woven threads of yellow enwrapping a multitude of colored flowers. Florets, which were as life-like as the distant portrait of her mother, she had seen as a child.

There was a door, near the large and clarion window, that was partially open, and from what she could see was a broad and ivory porcelain tub. There were two dressers, one with doors as tall as her, and another half as tall but her height in width. They were both beautiful mahogany wood that looked pristine and illuminated even with their dark color in the faint light.

A vast painting the took up quite the amount of space above the dressers, was framed in silver that reflected the poor light from even the shadows. It was a soothing picture, and by gazing upon it she felt an immediate aura of calm. A dark balcony that overlooked what seemed to be a vast dark forest, a sky decorated with stars that glistened even in the picture, and a soft golden light that came from beyond the picture that illuminated the one individual on the balcony just enough. It seemed the figure was the silhouette of a lady, with long hair to her waist that wounded moderately. Slender, tall, and in a outline of a ball gown.

The painting seemed almost too realistic, as if she had emerged herself into the eyes of someone else. And she tore her eyes away. Peculiar that he should give her such a beautiful room, when in fact, she was only his prisoner. And had only the power to answer to his every desire. Unconventional that the room emitted such a smell, ineluctable but in a sort of gentle dominance.

It was not a room that would be given to a normal prisoner. And she paused, thinking. Perhaps he wanted her not as a prisoner, but perhaps as a mistress, as a trapped concubine. All prisoner in respect to anyone that would have been held in the dungeon, but even less because she was subjected to whatever whim he was to feel.

Misinformed and naïve was what she was not. And while she, herself, was not a whoremonger, her mother had been. And as sheltered a child as she, she know what those had been. A few trips to Paris, one even as recent as a few years before, she had remembered the brightly-dressed ladies that wafted through the streets in provocative clothing that showed a tad too much skin even in the bright light of day.

She thought to her mother, trying to sustain herself through something other than imploration. Resorting to prostitution to attain essential necessities and obtain the luxuries that she had grown in, selling what she could get money for. And seeing the picture as a child, her mother had not been ugly even by the most critical eyes. Integrity lost for an occupation that delivered no approbation, all to preserve the remnants of an entity.

Sporadically, when she mused of her mother's past, she wondered how her mother had transformed her life from one of harlotry to one of the married life. There was a disgraceful discongruity, of course. But the question seemed too risqué to even think of, much less inquiring someone of it.

She shuddered, thinking of herself being reduced to the concubine of a Beast. Subjected to his every whim, his every desire. A reduction of her integrity, a decapitation of her dreams, losing her self-respect. But what position was she in to refuse him? He was so powerful he could end her life by snapping her neck with the flick of his wrist. But...

Remembering his tone of voice, specifically when she desperately requested to pledge her life to his castle, she had took note of its softness in his inquiry. When she had questioned of the West Wing, she looked at his face as he had glanced back to inform her, guarded was his eyes whispering of refinement. Perhaps she had plucked a chord of benevolence.

For her sake, she believed in the latter. That she had brought out the vestiges of generosity in him. For the former contemplation deduced melancholy thoughts that would contriturate her already relentless heartache.

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He stirred, hearing the seemingly distant voices of male banter in the tavern. All resounding and intoxicated, all boisterous and masculine, some cultivated and most of them cloddish. All companions of him, that looked up to him. He who had been disgraced early in the afternoon by her, was nothing short of an idol in their eyes.

It seemed that the marriage proposal would be preposterously in her favor. The most handsome and masculine man in the village, best hunter in over ten French provinces, and a most eligible bachelor to be wed to a meek inventor's daughter capturing the utmost respect to humankind, all filled with kindness, and looks that would hold even the most finicky man panting.

She did, in fact cause him to stir late in the evening hours. Her light form, lengthy chestnut-brown hair, and dark eyes that were bright and lively, her small waist, and soft pink lips that were full. Certainly, she did cause a conflagration that he always desired to possess, to claim that he had acquired her, and to quench his fire. Often, when he was in Paris, he would rent various mistresses and once, even attempted to imagine that it was Belle he had in his custody. It did little to him, except to make him want her more. Especially when she was in his proximity.

Such as in the early afternoon, hours before, when he had managed to corner her against her front door, her hot breath against his face, her feminine scent mingling with his mannish cologne. He had wanted to press his lips against hers, press her body against his, wanting to satisfy himself. But he only received humiliation and thick mud that had ruined his look and completed his embarrassment.

How dare she refuse him! He was being generous, offering her the lifestyle that he lived, trips to Paris, all over France, on the arm of a man that could protector and caress her. They would be the most striking couple in provincial France, youthful and self-possessed, both beautiful, both serving as examples of strength. He was showing it, in muscles, and she, in prettiness.

He held the large mug of ale in his left hand, bringing his lips to it, and swallowing near half the contents. Drink would suffice for his humiliation until he figured another way in which a proposal might reap more positive results. No was not a word he heard often, especially from women. Why, in Paris, he spent much time visiting ladies who were zealous about entertaining him, all wealthy and powdered in satin and jewels.

Even three years before, when he had become new to physical encounters with women, he had been propositioned about it. The first had been a wealthy and blonde young woman, two years older than he, and sophisticated enough to tempt him instead of he tempting her, which was the normal order now. The experience had been thrilling, and put him into a powerful trance that clouded his mind for a few moments, a feeling that seemed otherworldly.

The women in town, though he lusted after few, save for a certain stubborn brunette, did not stimulate him. The three triplets with the same shade of straw-colored locks, all three dressed provocatively and in bright colors, stirred little in him. They would be too easy to secure. He needed a challenge. But was foreign to being answered in the negative.

All together, his experience with that brunette reminded him of hunting. Setting a proper range, concentrate, feel the suspense, find the proper position, being discreet, taking the position, and letting go. Instantaneously feeling the important rush that accompanied hitting a target, feeling the rush of triumph. He had not thought of his proposal as a challenge but more of a moderate catch. Perhaps he had been too cocky, planning the wedding before he proposed.

But he could not place the blame on his self but on her. She had refused, made him feel his importance with her modest smile, but made him feel his weight in humiliation by rejecting him. He had felt something less than human when she had rebuffed him, letting him fall into the mud.

He took another swallow of the moderately costly ale and swallowed the rest of the mug, throwing it in the fire as his assistant brought more to him. LeFou, he was the son of a vague priest in Marseilles, training for an apprenticeship in blacksmithing and doing poorly.

He looked up to him, Gaston, especially. And questioning him on more ale, Gaston responded negatively. Ale did not help him dispel his thoughts, only clouded them lightly and made them unclear. He turned his chair, hearing LeFou loudly attempt to cheer him up, stating all of his celebrated attributes.

Exhaling, he looked around at the gazing faces, all bright with anticipation of any certain comment that would assure them of his greatness and he stated loudly of his decorations of antlers, all the animals having been killed by him, all the animal heads in the Taverne Rose, redounding to his credit.

The familiar rush of importance and of prominence entered his mind, and he wafted his eyes over all the admirable gazes. He was powerful, he was not to be humiliated, and he would think of a plan that would work so that she would be his, to show everyone that he would not be embarrassed and always would get positive results in the end.

-----

Something moved out of the corner of her eyes. Her dresser, it was moving. The lights flickered on, and a lady's voice was behind the door. Looking up from her recent weeping, she opened the door, expecting to see someone, but noticing only a pot that hopped across the marble and the rug. Almost as if she was living a dream. Objects that could converse.

"But, but you're a..." she stuttered, bewildered. She sat on her bed, noticing the moving dresser, a lady's voice that spoke in a moderate pitched voice, rested itself on her bed, causing it to dent.

She rested on her knees, and looked at the porcelain pot, reminding her faintly of her grandmother in her softer moments, when her mother was not the topic of atrocious conversation and when her gentleness resurfaced. The pot was porcelain with a bullion handle and lavender, rose, and azure decorations. She introduced herself. Mrs. Potts.

"That was a very brave thing you did, my dear." Mrs. Potts spoke softly, in the maternal voice that she had always wanted to hear, a voice that soothed and calmed just by the tone, never mind noticing the words.

"But I lost my life, my dreams, my father. Every thing." She muttered quietly, to Mrs. Potts, feeling as if she had an audience. A smaller cup, announced himself to her as Chip the son of Mrs. Potts, bounded over, filled with tea for her.

Thanking Mrs. Potts and Chip both, she took a sip before he questioned rhetorically if she would like to see a trick. Suddenly, her tea bubbled, and he was quickly admonished by his mother, who commented that everything would be right in the end and mentioned dinner while her and her son leaped out.

The dresser had set a beautiful gown out for her, a moderate verdant and white, with ivory bell sleeves, and a green bodice that tied with white strings in the front. Dressing libidinously was not something she loved to do, as she glanced over at the green satin, it was very low cut, and probably troublesome to don. At once, she decided since she was not being pained by hunger at any rate, it would be unfeasible to attend dinner.

"You'll look lovely in this." The dresser's voice was vibrant and trusting, seeming to aggrandize and compliment. All buoyant and jovial and upbeat. "It's a lovely green, I considered satin...." She trailed to herself.

"That's very kind of you, but I'm not going to dinner." Belle shook her head self-effacingly, attempting to stop the conversation so that she may wallow in her own thoughts for a while before retiring.

In a voice that sounded alarmed and anxious, the dresser replied. "But dear, the Master... you must!" A sienna-colored clock made of wood and gold pieces bounded in, proclaiming that dinner was finished and the Master was awaiting her presence. She paused tentative, not wanting to incur his hostility, but not wanting to face him.

It would be in her favor to not speak with him at the moment. She dwelt momentarily, glimpsing at the satin dress, at the dresser, then at the clock silently. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes. Attempting to recapture semblance of strength. Vigilantly, she began to declare. The consequences of her insubordination did not seem execrable to her as much as facing him all while trying to feed a stomach that was not ravenous. Indubitably, he would not keep her in the dining hall when it was impractical.

She shook her head with ease, seeing the attentive gaze of the clock, and feeling the scrutiny of the dresser as she spoke. "I won't be going to dinner, tell the him that. I can't possibly attend, I am not hungry nor feeling well." There was a composite stillness, then the clock backed away gradually, questioning her on the assurance of her choice. When she did not modify her preference; he left.

The weight of the atmosphere had suddenly appeared to be ten times as heavy as before. The thickness of uneasiness, trepidation, and commiseration upon her had appeared and settled, crushing the atmosphere and making her feel at the very least perturbed and uncomfortable. Perhaps she would be exposed to his temper, he had declared that she would be present at dinner as a directive. She had defied him, she knew so, and she would answer to him. She was his captive.