Title: Unworthy

Author: Rissa85

Rating: PG13 to R

Genre: Romance, Drama, Angst

Part: Part Ten (An Ode to a Convalescent)

Author's Note: I really had a bit too much fun with that last chapter. Ahh….that research, I tell ya. slaps knee On to part ten…

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Unconscious still. How long could anyone remain unconscious until they finally died? Gripping a golden chalice, decorated with the royal crest of the Montague family, he downed nearly half the contents in one mouthful. Strange that his father should make the family a royal crest when most were designed by individuals for their own sole use. He had been taught as a child that most cavaliers in that land of imperialist fools and their equally scheming navy-England, made crests different even from their fathers. Why his father decided to make the family crest a frenzy of foxes, wolves and amethyst gems clustered about so that it was difficult for one to hold it comfortably was beyond him.

He had placed hot towels about her, careful to let them steam let up before setting them on her delicate and pale skin. The blue-tinge of her lips had waned considerably; but no other condition had improved. As soon as he felt her pulse and noted its semi-steadiness and her lip color returning to normal; he let her quit mumbling whatever he told her to and let her fall unconscious, perhaps sleep would remedy her. After all, she was safe now. He was here; and he wouldn't be a fool enough to let her rest if it would kill her.

But he was not as pompous and self-assured as he generally was. But, by God, this room! If he hadn't called for a bottle of Armagnac brandy, he was sure that he would've gone crazy. How small this room seemed now, why the sunflowers he strewn about the room made it appear even smaller. A direct contrast to the casting about of sunflowers across the West Wing around the anniversary of his mother's death each year- this alone took nearly two hours and a half at a swift pace. This had taken no more than about five minutes at most.

Perhaps he would read something. There had to be a book here somewhere, somewhere in these drawers. He stood, not the slightest bit dizzy or unsteady despite the downing of two chalices of brandy. Not casting a glance back at the bed, he began opening and slamming drawers shut, finding nothing but ladies' garments-chemises and different-hued corsets made of leather and cloth and complete with steel and ivory boning. Some other garments, perhaps a folded old gown or two, but no books. He shut the drawers closed with deafening bangs. At the sound of each bang, he whirled around to see if she had awaked.

Her eyes were still closed, barely illuminated by the candlelight, three sole and tall candles burning slowly and unscented. Her chest still, appearing not to be heaving at all, then an ever so slight heave. Irritably, he sank back into the chair. His hand brought the neck of the bottle to refill the chalice, but he slammed it down, not wanting anymore.

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The slamming down of glass on mantle and the ensuing splintering. A violent assault of heated brandy and an overpowering smell of sunflowers ambushed her nose, and in that one moment she became aware of the fact that it was the first time she ever associated sunflowers with masculinity. She felt incredibly weak, disoriented and very lethargic.

"Belle!" the Beast exclaimed, rushing over to her, fumbling with her small hands, still cold at the fingertips and only slightly warm at the wrists were he noted the small cuts his talons had made into them, this brought his mind to wounds he was sure she had on her back from when he pushed his talons through the fabric of her gown.

"Are you alright? Do you feel alright? Are you hungry? Do you need anything?" his words tumbled forth in a tempest of jumbled words.

For a lengthy period of time, at least five minutes or more, she gazed at him. He caused all of this with his almost bloodthirsty and sadistic vengeance, if he had only given her time to think to tell him she did not know where she was, all this could've been avoided. . All of this weakness, and hazy memories could have been avoided. Anger and hostility was a foreign emotion to her in that she never had a chance in her lifetime to experience the full extent of it- Irritation, yes. High annoyance, of course. But anger and hostility and wrath-all those emotions as foreign to her household as East Asian languages, were almost harrowing in their manifestation now, causing her blood to quicken and her pale face to acquire color most peculiarly swift.

But before she could open her mouth to speak, the sudden unbearable warmth of the room became insufferable and a wave of dizziness passed over her before receding. "You did this…" she whispered, challenging him.

He was very quiet, carrying an almost guilty feeling in his bosom. He was watching her, giving a start when he saw the slight roll of her head and the rapid coloring of her cheeks. But hearing her testy reply grated on his nerves and he restrained himself poorly, after all she wasn't well.

"Lie down," he commanded slowly with a bit of self-control. "You're not yet well."

"But, look what've done! How was I to know that was the West Wing? And then you lock me into a tower…?" she was cut off by him, who held up his hand so that she might stop talking.

"I rescued you, didn't I?" he hoarsely replied, not having been tried in years, not having been talked to in years in that tone of voice-a mixture of contempt and hostility. "And your ways! Prancing about someone else's castle…most mothers would teach their children manners but I see this didn't happen to you!"

All at once, she went sheet white and felt her blood nearly boil, he had hit a raw nerve, "You awf-" she began weakly before rolling into a fading blackness that receded just as quickly as it came. "…you!" She spat weakly, as her head began to roll again, ever so slightly. My, how this room was hot!

Too stunned and suddenly too enervated to finish her retort, much less lie upright, Belle could only stare at him with eyes of feeble antagonism and a degree of annoyance. If only the room would stop spinning for just a moment! Having collapsed against the maroon and white satin pillows, her dark hair and pale face contrasting sharply and giving her nothing short of an almost ghastly appearance so drained was her face of color. Her eyes appeared too large for her face, simultaneously full of wisdom beyond her years and then saturated with innocence and naivete and vulnerability unparalleled.

Talons piercing the velvet armrests, he watched her intent on controlling his receding yet potent anger. For a while he had felt equally guilty and unworthy of gracing her presence so detached from human dignity he had felt; but now, when she managed to challenge him in her tone of voice and her eyes staring sharply into his, his feelings of worthlessness dissipated and were exchanged for fury.

But, gazing about her, she looked so frail! So pale! At this very moment, she could be slipping, perhaps passing and he would remember her with futile anger and gazes directed toward him, who could alleviate her sickness and slow convalescence but chose to magnify her discomfort and illness. He felt as wicked as an imp, as guilty as a blood-soaked murderer before a constable.

He must do something, anything, but what?

An a moment or so passed, all the while, her lids would close and then open, her eyes rolling ever so noticeably before the lids would cover them, conceal them, cloak them in an inviting and spinning darkness and silence. Then an idea arose in his head, clamored for attention and seized his concentration. Why, but of course, something to soothe her, something a bit of a comfort.

Noting that she had begun to close her eyes once more, he stood swiftly and gracefully, silent as a feline and sauntered to the door, opening it and closing it behind him before roaring, "Music! Music for the Mademoiselle, I want something peaceful, gentle! Piano, violin, play what you may!" An immediate scramble by all sorts of objects began without delay at his command, and he winced, realizing how loud his voice must have been to the delicate woman lying sickly in the room.

Opening the door once more, he left it ajar and sat in the armchair again, bringing it closer to her, so that he sat nearly right next to her bedside. Her eyes were closed, her face still exhausted of its color and healthy glow; but at least her lips weren't blue anymore yet still far from carrying the coral hue of their health. Gazing at her, he wondered vaguely if she even felt the first throbbing pains of the injuries on her back and then he sat back, waiting to hear the first notes of music.

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Light, breezy notes, not at all morose and heavy- something of a calming waltz but not quite so suited to be a ballroom dance. At times, the notes rushed together, not wanting to miss the chance to be heard, jumbling, tumbling, a tumult of soothing sound, and then at once, becoming slower, reminding of faintly of clouds, unhurried and traveling across a blue sky. All the while, her eyes were closed, enjoying the sounds and her dissipating dizziness.

What a lovely piano, and the violin-soothing, too, in its own right. The flute coming in at just the right moment, enhancing the unheard of and unrecognized piece. She did not know how long the notes had been playing, did not care if the composition went on forever, she only wanted to hear the melody continue to settle her mind and lessen the effects of her illness. Except for the music, she could hear nothing.

Opening her eyes, her eyes might the emerald-colored eyes of the Beast. In fact, he was close enough that she could make out the faintest hazel flecks immersed in their verdant tint. Familiar. Those eyes seemed so familiar, as if she had gazed at them sometime before. Shaking, her head, she focused on the door, feeling her cheeks flush with color as she mentally reprimanded herself for staring at him, not understanding why she felt so embarrassed.

Her face was gaining color again. She was blushing! Relived that for once, he was not the only one of the two feeling discomfort when they were together, he paused, trying to consider why she was reddening so. Then, he found the reason, and was thankful he, himself, could not redden like a beet under all the ruffled and matted fur, not that he usually would flush- as a human, he was much too confident for that. She was a maiden, and to finally come to her senses and know she was clad except for a thin and drying chemise and corset was nothing short of improper, especially for a rural girl such as herself. Then, too, he was male and in the room with her, in front of her. That had to be a factor as well.

But, she was covered, in satin and embroidered linen so that her form was barely visible now. Perhaps she was blushing for something else….But what?

"Belle?" the name spewed forth roughly and as dry as sawdust, and just as unappealing as sawdust would be to his tongue was her garbled name to his ears. Grimacing at the roughness of his voice, the low growl which suddenly seemed unfit to say a name so beautiful and airy, the Beast glanced at her, her form beneath the linen and her eyes wafting over everything and settling to something across the room.

Her eyes cut to him, her blushing ceasing, and she looked at him with a rather gentle acknowledgement. "But…you," she hesitated as if trying to piece together her jumbled thoughts, "…you saved me…Thank you." She murmured, taking her eyes from the picture once more and was very still. Both of them stared at each other, in a comforting silence, an easy sort of atmosphere where one was neither accusing or receiving the blame.

"You're welcome." He muttered, finally looking down and noticing her smooth and unblemished hand lying on top of his massive paw. Then all at once, she grew very still, gazing at him, at she opened her pretty mouth as he seemed to hang on her every word.

Comfort. That was what she gave him. A sense of well-being. So much strength and forgiveness and innocence and beauty coming from such a small person. So much she had not seen of life, and so much was she quick and easy to forgive. Even though he almost killed her. He could have killed her, if it hadn't been for the guiltiness bestowed upon him from the Great God only knew where.

"Your eyes…" she began, so softly it could not qualify even as a whisper, then unexpectedly she stopped abruptly, not wishing to continue, knowing it would be silly to ask so a question. Of course that portrait could not have been him, he was a Beast! What a way to ruin the silence and waste the beautiful melody in the background by mentioning something so thoughtless. A sudden wave of exhaustion drifted over her and she lay back, adjusting comfortably into the satin pillows, the Beast's soft gaze upon her.

She was so very gorgeous, in a way in which words would never do her any amount of justice. Bonafide exquisiteness rarely paralleled. It calmed him just to sit and watch her relax and fall into the gentle embrace of warm pillows; she would get better. If it cost him his own health to watch her day and night, he would see to it.

But for now, he would lay in the hold of the consoling armchair and listen to the soft and unhurried notes of the sedative music in the background. The perfect composition…an ode to a convalescent.