Title: Unworthy

Author: Rissa85-Stargazing85

Rating: PG13 to R

Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance

Part: Part Seven (Prelude to Precipice).

Author's Note: The chapter seemed a bit slow, probably because I wanted to delve a little deeper into the thoughts of the main characters before the transformation of their characters begin. This part is takes place nearly all in the minds of Belle and the Beast, and so there is no dialogue, unless you count two words. But anyway, I'm rambling. Enjoy. P.S. I didn't add too many gigantic and Webster-worthy words in this chapter because all the description of the setting took place last chapter, so...Enjoy (again).

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Rigidity. As she looked up occasionally from her plate, which consisted of veal, vegetables, and fruit, she noticed that his gaze was invariable. His eyes appeared inflexible, so much so that she could not even detect when he was blinking. But she was also a little more than ten feet in length away. Conversation was withdrawn and at a very minimum and she was glad so; she had nothing to discuss.

Her eyes journeyed over the ostentatious display of food; it would be impossible to finish all the dishes on the table. But he was of affluence, and she was sure it would mean nothing to him if the unfinished food were fed to hogs. At any rate, the quicker the meal would terminate the better. The atmosphere was near intolerable. Evidently, with his presumptuous demeanor, he diagnosed his own success.

She shifted; her early obstinacy did not seem so principled as it did at the present time. Conventionally speaking, prisoners who exerted a deal of insubordination did not receive grand feasts or gowns to wear while attending dinner. And while she was indubitably grateful that she did not receive harsh treatment, she was slightly bewildered. There must be an ulterior motive in treating her with much attentiveness.

Thoughts of her captor's consideration brought her back to the dinner. More plates had been removed and now there were more fresh fruits, and an assortment of nuts. But also there happened to be crumpets and an intricate display of cake, more than a foot high and clustered with scarlet cherries. She did not bother to challenge his gaze and meet him, him who kept his gaze unbendable and on her.

Though the thought made her apprehensible, her active mind conjured a far-flung thought that she had earlier pondered. He was treating her as a concubine would be treated, the elaborate dinner, the gown, the room. She was in the process of receiving or having received them all, without truly delving into the concrete practice. A sentiment of contamination permeated her psyche and her feelings.

If she felt so and she had not even engaged in the act, she could not imagine would prostitutes felt when they were consorting with their patrons. It was unspeakable and very much unimaginable, almost surreal. And at once, she felt a seditious emotion toward her mother. A tinge of repugnance. She felt treacherous, but she felt it nonetheless. It was quickly replaced by an emotion of tenderness, for a woman who could entertain a deficient existence by her own soiled hands was truly something pitiable.

Discreetly, she brought her gaze to the beast. He was not peering at her from hardened blue orbs that spoke of untold brutality and suppressed leniency, instead his leer had voyaged to a painting where it settled there for some time. It was a painting of a rushing stream accompanied by silver colored fish painted with a type of hue that seemed to shimmer, even against the soft candlelight.

Inspecting him from afar, she swallowed his image with difficulty. Promptly, he appeared more beast than of man, and yet he was not. His unfastidious fur, his fangs that jutted from his mouth and his massive size all contradicted the image of man, made in the image of Himself. In spite of that, the most humane part of him, eyes that belied bestiality and conveyed emotion discredited the image of beast.

Despite teachings that it was mythical and even partly unholy, upon seeing her Master, she was sure that witchcraft was, in fact, very authentic. Though her town was not zealous on the prosecution and persecution of warlocks, werewolves, witches and sorcerers, she was not heedless of them. A few towns around Paris were popular sites for European tourists to witness the execution and trial of those suspected of consorting with the devil over enchantment, though the practice seemed to have waned nearly a hundred years before.

Indistinct clanking from what she estimated where from the kitchen floated over the almost tangible stillness and tautness. Sighing, she drew her eyes away as he began to blink and picked up his exquisite glass, handle encrusted with silver, and brought it to his mouth. He tipped his head back slightly and, decanter in hand, downed all of its contents, sitting it back to the table all in an effortless sweep. It was a coarse action, but then again he had to accommodate manners to what he could execute.

Boorish. A thought that simultaneously made her muse of Gaston. But the differences in appearances were salient. While Gaston would ludicrously be more attractive, the actions were quite parallel. Uncouth gestures that detracted from their looks, the Beast even more so, and overpowering auras that made one shudder as they thought of available strength that lie in the individual.

Having had her fill of dinner, she pushed herself away from the table an inch or so, causing the simple and soft sound to become magnified. He was watching her again, and she reflexively reached for her glass, though she was not thirsty, brought it to her lips. Perhaps it would detract from the noise she had caused, and would aid in braking his unrelenting glower.

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Remembering the last woman he had dined with, he drew disconcerting differences. The one had been haughty and self-centered, self-assured and cocky, all the while keeping the conversation on her and in her realm of knowledge. She had been dauntingly lovely, with auburn tresses that were piled high on her head accompanied by feathers and jewels, and a small waist. The night had ended in a pleasant note, with her warming his bed and leaving briskly after morning meal.

His prisoner, the lady that sat across from for the moment, was unlike the other. She was still arrestingly beautiful, having changed from the commoner light azure dress and white apron and now dressed in something that he deemed more elegant. A verdant satin and white velvet low-cut dress that spoke merely in a whisper, and reminded him faintly of those women who were stylishly salacious.

Dinner had been hushed. Perhaps because of his earlier outburst, none the matter, it had reaped the exact results he aimed for. Hunger had broke her, and now she was at dinner with him as he had initially planned. He had been indignant, an insubordinate prisoner, it was almost an oxymoron. Almost laughing now, he gazed at her, perhaps he could break her into also falling in love with him, release him from his Hell.

An affliction it was to see such a beautiful lady in front of him and know that the evening would not end with them both in his chambers. As a rule, he had made it somewhat of a ritual to dine with a likely-looking lady and almost as a diversion, attempt to guess the minutes it would take until his companion would end the night next to him under satin sheets and linen.

Reminiscing about the primary situation he had dined and bedded a woman all in the same night, he chuckled softly as he poured himself more wine from the violet carafe near his decanter. It was the same night, twelve years before, that he had became aware that with sophisticated charm and his stunning looks that he could woo with a few phrases that would tenderly coax.

Boasting about his encounter with a few elite friends had made him revered among them, and along with his fiendish companions and himself, he managed to make it somewhat a pastime to compare encounters and rate them among most provocative and most manipulative. The women he bedded, he cared little about, except when it concerned a certain organ that became rigid.

The plates removed and replaced, he gazed at the female in front of him, she was not looking at him but at her food. It was a meal that he deemed one of his favorites, a feast consisting of veal, fruits, and vegetables. Side dishes were common and elaborate and spread about him just within arms reach. His prisoner did not eat much, she was dainty and had not bothered to have her decanter refilled, perhaps it had been touched. He would not be surprised if she did drink imported Italian brandy, Vin blanc de Venise, most commoners were acquainted only with beer and gin.

He wondered at her again, vulgar thoughts complementary to his wonder. She was temperate, she was determined, and had been dressed virginally. It was very likely that she had never known a man, but equally likely that she had, she was very beautiful and could have a handsome man with ease. He opted on the first thought, that she had never shared a bed with a male, and if he were his former self, how he would've coaxed her throughout the evening. But something told him that even so, she would not be unproblematic to bed outside of matrimony.

Bringing the plum decanter to his mouth, he paused. A wild thought entered his mind, as his gaze became fixed on the initials on the picture in the river. Chanelle. Perhaps her virginity, that belonging to his prisoner, reminded him of his mother. Though the latter was discussed quietly as a whore dressed in royal garbs. The grace and modesty of his mother brought him to the diffidence of his prisoner, though her gown was not so reasonable or concealing. Her aura made the gown seem less lewd, though it would have been shocking to see on another lady.

Bringing himself back to dinner, he had heard a sound of wood sliding across the floor, and he noticed that she seemed a few inches farther from the table. Her dessert, having been brought promptly remained untouched and she it seemed she was finished. But not wanting to release her, after all, she would have to wait for him to dismiss her, she was his possession.

More brandy had been brought for him, and refilling his glass, he downed the contents slowly gazing at her from the corner of his eye. Her dark and roaming eyes wafted across the room languidly, taking in each sight as if she had just arrived, she must be observant or if not, very uninterested in the atmosphere and attempting to find a way to keep occupied until he finished.

Setting his decanter to the table, he mused with satisfaction about his own triumph over her. A fleeting thought to force her to become his mistress entered his mind, but as quickly it flew, almost before he fully realized what he had been thinking. He shifted, simultaneously becoming rigid at the thought, and feeling satisfied sat across from her and cleared his throat.

She gazed at him, with the curious brown eyes that wanted to become familiar with all and desiring as much knowledge as a child interested in a certain pastime. Her posture was lithe and she focused on him as he spoke to her with firmness. "Leave me." She confirmed her fluidity, when she rose and left the room.

Something was dissimilar about her than the other women he had been in the presence of. She was not the most dazzling woman he had ever met, though she was a rival to the one he had came in contact with, the latter having been all powdered and full of self-importance. It was almost as if the former had exerted an aura all her own, and filled with tranquility and another sensation he could not place his talon on.

He then stood, realizing his head was spinning from drink. Customarily he would have glided his way to the room in the East Wing, but that was unfeasible now. Since his captive now held that room in her possession. It donned on him now, that he had given her a room that was almost as consecrated to him as the whole of the West Wing. All to the applause of the frivolous sentiment of remorse. He had his former and younger self to congratulate.

He sat down again, attempting to refrain the spinning that assaulted his head when he stood. All at once, his gaze traveled to the portrait, which held the distinguishable initials, etched into the bark of a tree and signifying the endowed painter, all the while remaining slight. It was something she had always been, never ostentatious but noticeable in her own right.

He stood once more, the room seeming to be more warm than he liked, and equally more personal than he cared for. Drawing his maroon cloak about him, velvet meeting against his unkempt fur, and he moved toward the door. Standing in the doorframe, he began to become adjusted the revolving environment and the coolness of the hallway. Everything had a slight skew and he exhaled.

He would not go toward the East Wing, though it was routine to do so when his head was rotating with drink. The room, which he deemed sacred, was taken, and at once he felt almost emotionally crippled. For years, it was the room that he sat in under intoxication. Drawing in breath, he paused, there was one place he could go. With as much agility and swiftness as someone who spent their whole life in sobriety, he stole himself to the West Wing.