Title: Unworthy
Author: Rissa85
Rating: PG13 to R
Genre: Drama/Angst
Part: Part Eight (Irrationality Engenders Guilt)
Disclaimer: No I don't own Beauty and the Beast. Sorry.
Author's Note: Hurrah for the 15-month hiatus. I'm infamous for getting really into my writing and then cooling off for a probably lengthy period of time. But I'm back and have had a great chance to review this story and critique what I've written so far and how to make it better. So here it goes…
---
Instead of trekking back to the familiar room, radiating the faint smell of sunflowers and expensive spirits, a hand absent-mindedly traveled the length of the railing of a corridor quite far from the dining hall of the West Wing. Every now and then, her small and slightly beige-tinted hand would glide over some uneven part of the surface and the return to pass over the smoothness of the stone railing.
'How quiet it is here!' she mused, noting that she could hear neither sound from any direction nor her footsteps, muffled by the carpet she treaded upon and only heard during the brief intervals when the intricate rugs ended and then her shoes would come in contact with polished marble that would reflect the world on top it like a mirror.
As she took note of her surroundings, she observed quickly the contrast of the decorations outside her room to the details of the furniture and tapestry inside her room. The rugs were pretty still and made of the same plush-looking velvet, but the embellishments were formidable and hideous looking. How else could one describe the gray gargoyles woven into black velvet, mouths agape and eyes piercing or the vicious serpents, winding their way around columns with their tongues flicking, suspended as if frozen?
After ascending a few flights of stairs, traveling down another corridor or two, and ascending another few flights of stairs, she now found herself journeying up a narrow staircase. Somehow, it did not seem to have been touched by the contamination of serpents and gargoyles that the rest of the castle had been touched by, just as her room had not. The walls were a dark golden color and on either side were portraits of beautiful royal persons framed in either gold, silver or bronze which she guess symbolized the order of importance.
But a few particular portraits seized her attention. Two had been taken of a pale woman, her expression perfectly balanced. Neither frowning nor smiling, her intense stare was enhanced only by her eyes tinted the same shade as fresh spring grass. The painter had not flattered her posture, for she appeared very stiff and formal, almost cold, with her blonde hair piled high above her head.
But another portrait, obviously taken years beforehand, had left her breathless. The same woman, with the beautiful green eyes, was lying on a blood-colored chaise longue, her golden hair resembling corkscrews fanning away from her. Her body, modestly cloaked and concealed in amethyst-hued lace, was petite and her legs long. Though a paradox, she seemed modest and virginal but sensual as well.
Realizing that she had spent some time gazing at the woman, Belle continued on trudging up the staircase, lifting her satin skirts so that she may not become entangled with them and lose her balance on the narrow ascent. But another portrait interrupted her as suddenly as the other two had.
A young man, immensely handsome and holding a haughty stance, posed regally with a crown that easily cost more than what her father could make in a lifetime. The cape he wore was lined with black fur and nearly touched the ground. His hair was of a medium shade of brown, with the faintest traces of blonde and greatly complemented his eyes, a deeper shade than that of the lady's she had seen, and flecked with hazel. There he stood, square of jaw, a pointed nose, and his skin a slight tan, probably from the riding outdoors.
Wondering curiously who these people had been, Belle reached the top of the stairwell. Noticeably, it was darker up here as the torches along the wall became smaller and spaced farther apart so that one or two steps were completely shrouded in darkness. Perhaps she should turn back now, but she could not. Curiosity had always been one of her personality traits, and had always been encouraged by her father, and so she saw it to her advantage and entertainment to continue.
The rug stopped, and now as she stepped lightly along the marble floor along the corridor so narrow she could spread her arms wide and touch walls to her sides, she heard her footsteps, her heels clicking against the marble. She coughed, gripping a torch from the wall to carry with her, dust collected and clustered about thickly here as an absence of any drafts of air became all too apparent.
She came to a door and squinted, fumbling for the doorknob, she opened the heavy door slowly, hearing the audible click of the doorknob as she twisted it and stepped in. The room was pitch black, and no sooner had she let go of the doorknob and stepped inside then the door had swung shut behind her ominously, plunging her into an almost tangible darkness only interrupted by the dim glow of the torch that trailed her and lighted her face as a halo on top of the head of an angel glows white or yellow.
In a stuffy atmosphere immersed in blackness, Belle found herself nearly tripping over large chests in the middle of the room, and her hands felt large square frames setting along the side of the walls. At one point, her body knocked into a dusty ivory bookcase which she managed to keep from falling over but the small glass figures upon it had slid and crashed to the floor. And in the silence, she might as well have screamed so was the impact upon the silence the now shattered fragments had made. She stood very still.
The turning of a door could be heard, somewhere in front of her, she could judge by the sound and not in enough time, she paused, her fingers trembling and blew out the torch, but not before the door had swung open fully.
Now it was pitch black, and backing up, she fell over a small table before pressing finding her way to the wall which she guess to be facing north, her footsteps indicating her thunderous retreat. Her fingers trembled, and she stood quivering as they grasped the cold metal of the torch handle unsteadily, clinging to them as if it were the single thread of life to which she held on.
The slow and menacing growl continued, as it seemed to come close to her and the move away. From the way that nothing was crashed into nor was anything struck upon in an attempt to find a way; it was obvious that this was the Beast and this room was very familiar to him. As he passed by her form, she heard his growl and her fingers, shaking violently and palms sweating, she dropped the torch and it clattered to the ground.
The growling stopped as she knelt, fumbling for the torch. All was still, and as she desperately searched for it, her hand passed something furry and matted. In a fraction of a second, her small wrist was encircled by a massive paw that clenched upon her like the talons of an eagle on a bit of prey.
She cried, "My wrist!"
"You should have thought of it when you were trespassing here! Had I not told you? You don't belong in the West Wing!" his voice was murderously livid, and in moment she felt rushes of wind and drafts of sleet descend upon her bare head, her brown locks whipping about her face, and the blackness receding as light made it somewhat easier to see.
In her shock and horror, she had not noticed that he had taken her through the door he had came from, and she was now in a dim area where she could make out the outlines of objects and him, his massive form imposing and frightening her. Perhaps he would kill her and then what? How would her dear Papa ever know?
The sleet rapidly soaked through the thin satin of her gown, and she bit back a cry as he through her on the ground forcefully. She had no idea of where she was in the castle and not a very clear view of her surroundings, except for the wall facing west. Not a wall, the whole length and with of the west side of the room was gone, and had been replaced by bars that allowed one to see to the outside and be bombarded by the elements. The sleet fell upon her almost in sheets, and she shivered, her tresses sticking to the sides of her face and falling behind her shoulders, drenched.
"This will teach you about my anger!" he roared before drawing back into the darkness from where they had come.
Unlike the stuffy room, here it was not quiet, but earsplitting with the howl of the wind and the biting and miniature pieces of ice that pelted her skin and numbed her body. After a few minutes of this, she became numb; the world bleak and cold, her clothes clinging frantically to her body, and nothing to warm her, nothing except the salty trail of tears winding its way to her chin, where it wavered before falling.
'What a hideous beast!' she thought to herself, standing up and rubbing her hands together in order to receive some semblance of heat. All the hatred and dislike she ever experienced could not even amount or compare marginally with the intense aversion and repulsion she felt toward the Beast. Obviously, he was not human, he could have never have been human- not the way he treated her Papa and now her. It made difference to him if she froze to death or became irreparably damaged or starved, torture and punishment appeared almost fetishes to him.
To pass the time, though only an expanse of about fifteen minutes or so had gone by, she began to sing to herself the fleeting phrases of a memorable childhood song and when she tired of this, she began to recall every detail about her home that she could. Soon, she began to stop shivering much to her relief as a wave of sleepiness passed over her. Fighting to stay awake and to stay alive, she sniffled and began to recite the most favorite passages of her favorite books.
But like a gentle tyrant that can be neither rebuffed nor denied forever, she felt herself slipping into a strangely warm and oddly satisfying slumber.
Pacing the balcony of the West Wing, the sleet falling on him also, the Beast gripped the railing, feeling the strength of his muscles and the extent of his anger as his claws left marks in the marble barrier which kept him from falling over onto the rough roof and the turrets below. If he had stayed in her presence, he was sure that she would not be alive by this time.
"How dare she go here!" he muttered to himself, raising his voice at each word so that the last was a little less than a shout. Perhaps the girl had a death wish, first ignoring his insistence that she eat dinner with him, and then prancing about the West Wing as if she lived here and those were her things crashing to the ground in the dark room.
He had not gone into that room for over six years, ordering that no servant even so much as touch its doorknob much less dust and wax the floor. Everything was to be preserved as Madame Montague had last left it, everything in its rightful place, not open to air and her clothes still carrying her scent from a past trip still packed in the neat trunks.
Once the crash was heard, it was almost if something instinctive and violent awakened with him and everything rational fell asleep. With brute force, he pushed the door ajar and like he knew the triggers that made him drink, he knew that someone had been fumbling around by the way the bookcase had been displaced and the small fragments which had cut him, but in his rage he had not paused to notice.
It was as if everything about her and around her suddenly made him remember his mother. Chanelle Claire D'Aubigne Montague. And if that was not enough, it the guilt that followed him only intensified when he was around her. Belle. Her father yelled her name in vain as she made her decision in the dungeon. It fit her. Beautiful in every way and yet infinitely stupid for going into forbidden area.
"Belle." He murmured to himself, savoring the name and rolling it across his tongue slowly, clutching the marble and growing hot and cold at the same time before laughing at himself aloud brutally. He was captivated by her, becoming drunk with passion when he gazed at her, and full of guilt when he saw her vulnerable eyes.
Full of guilt now, he paused. Perhaps he had been too rude when he shoved her to the ground on the wet stone floor, and maybe he had been too crude when he gripped her arm, feeling his talons pierce her warm flesh, her pulse quick and permeated with adrenaline. She did not know where she was going, perchance she did not know this was even the West Wing.
He moved away from the shadows, away from the balcony.
Back where he placed her, the sleet dissipated and left only a violent wind to reign in its absence. The stone floor, drenched and collecting puddles of water, could barely be seen in the dimness. Through the bars which ran from ceiling to floor, nothing was visible except a sort of fog which fell and settled thickly so that anything besides the outline of the tall pines of the forests weren't detectable.
Petrified, he stood. A huddled mass of soaked satin and dark locks that spread about around her ashen face, Belle lay on the stone floor. All was silent except for the wind that whipped solitary strands of her hair about her face and caused ripples in the puddles of water around her.