Title: Unworthy
Author: Rissa85
Rating: PG13- R
Genre: Drama, Romance, Angst
Part: Part Eleven (Revelation and Roles Renversed)
Author's Note: As I look over these last few chapters. I begin to notice a plethora of typos, please forgive the abundance of them. I found at least five in the last chapter and three in the chapter before that. Because of my zealousness during the writing of this fanfiction, I sometimes speed through my writing trying to get all the words down. After the fanfiction is done, I'll go back and correct the mistakes; but for now, on to part eleven….
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Progressively, the ache in her mid-back grew from a dull sort of pain to a more sharp and attention-seizing kind. She had not realized it even, until fully sitting up and accepting the warm mug of extra sweetened hot cocoa from the Beast. Wincing, she had sat up straight as she could and began took the silver handle of the spoon, a ferocious dragon with hideous jutting teeth encircled the handle menacingly and shifting uncomfortably, Belle pulled her eyes away from it.
"My back feels very sore." She uttered in her customary soft and soothing voice, the perfect complement to the now slow and melodious waltz in the background, the odor of spirits fled some time before and left an almost sickish sweet lingering smell in its wake. Reaching behind her to press her fingers to the dull ache, she bit her lip involuntarily and her hand jolted back from her back, tinged red and a slight sticky, she gasped.
The tell-tale carmine color tarnished the pads of her cold fingertips and had settled into the ridges slowly and sloppily so that it looked as if she had been a child messily dipping her hands in oil-based paint and cursorily wiped them, smudging the paint unceremoniously.
"Oh!" her eyes grew wide and she breathed dismayed and confounded, then as though a reflex, she spun around and sure enough there were three marks on her pillow, drying splotches of blood that marred the even and immaculate creamy ivory and maroon pillows beneath her. No uncertainties as to their getting out, that was sure. Forever the pillows were to be besmirched with her blood streaked about them. Feeling almost ashamed, she turned back around to face the Beast.
Now, she would find the stains on the pillows he had laid her upon. Remarkably, he was little bothered by the obvious desecration of the pillows he dared to breathe on, much less touch; yet, now, they were permanently mutilated. Even if the servants scrubbed the satin and silk until the fibers unraveled, or steamed the material until straight and stiff as a sheet of stationary, the faded revealing patches would loiter.
She would have to know, needed to know. He pressed his pointed talons into her yielding flesh so she would remain alive. Wincing, he turned his profile toward the wall which carried a slightly salmon tint and pretended to scrutinize the evenness of the wall across from him.
"I did that." He mumbled mellifluously, "You'd die if you fell asleep." Finished with his explanation, he looked out the corner of his eye and saw her give a nod, her hands still raised. Wordlessly, he took one of the drying white sheets about her and gripped her small hands.
Not expecting this spontaneous display, she imbibed the whole image which if nothing else demonstrated his mild if lumbering movements and actions. Touched by his thoughtfulness, she smiled sincerely, her white teeth showing, letting him almost coddle her.
He wiped her hands, slowly, feeling their softness and smoothness even through the linen which he kept between her hands and his paws. Something oddly comforting and satisfied pervaded him, anything to be of aid to her. It had been so long since he felt so advantageous to someone. But her hands, they were still so frigid even though it had been hours since he hauled her from the dungeon.
Sensing her reticence, he glanced up hastily, but the scene he beheld was one which captivated him and frightened him. It was her smile. Intense and dazzling, affectionate and divine…and perilously disarming. A face that no doubt caused many men's hearts to race could possibly be the undoing of him. All at once he felt warmed and energetic and then terrified and uneasy. He wanted to touch her, in the way that her smile touched him; yet, he wished to throw her hands back away from his and dart out of the room.
In a look which reeked of indignation and astonishment, he gazed at her, his eyes hard as steel and cold as ice. Something menacing appeared across his features and the russet hue of his fur which enhanced the searing sapphire of his eyes served to only intensify the poignant emotion permeating the air around them.
Recoiling from him, her deep brown eyebrows furrowed together coupled with ginger eyes, she whispered, her voice still moderately frail and still melodious, "Is there something wrong?" So angelic, was it feasible that such a face could encapsulate the look of naiveté and blatant self-admonishment…
Capriciously, he shook his head with vigor, "You did nothing. All of sudden…" he paused and an almost pleading look surfaced. At the moment, he supplicated, he requested, he needed, he yearned. And what it was that he felt all this forceful channeling of emotions led to was her.
The roles seemed inverted, she was now the Mistress he was the Servant. He felt an overwhelming compelling urge to do whatever she wanted, to retrieve whatever she needed. When he realized that he had begun to stare at her, he let dropped her hands brusquely and stood up, his height imposing and gargantuan in the feminine room, the moment lost and the feelings dissipating.
"Send for me if you need anything." He croaked before fleeing the room in quite a hurry which contrasted against the softness of the notes still spewing from an unknown source from within the castle. Flutes, cellos, violins. All combining together to form a quiet winter melody.
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Winter. Casting brown eyes to the window, nothing could be seen due to the thick sash which covered the impeccable glass that showed her reflection even in the dim light of the room. Glancing toward the door to make sure the Beast would not come in and urge her back into bed, she slid her legs over the edge and slid off the midnight azure satin/
The soft soles of her feet glided against the cushiony rug with the numerous colored florets dancing about the border, woven with lemon thread which wound its way around the perimeter of the fabric in an interminable S-shaped path. When the rug came to an end, she met the cold marble floor and the sash covering the window.
Drawing the golden sash from the window, she gazed out and could see little. A harrowing blizzard had begun and whipped out, tossing handfuls of snows against the windowpanes and marring her vision, so that all she could see from the height the castle was constructed from was the shadowy forest, the trees nothing but even more obscure forms jutting out of the colorless ground and naked except for the large pines that always seemed immune to all weather.
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How yellow he was! Running from a lady like she was Satan himself and acting like a little schoolboy afraid of a taunting bully! In the comfort of the West Wing, he seemingly slid across the room, accustomed to the broken chairs and vestiges of other furniture scattered across the floor combined with cracked light cobalt and gray vases turned on their sides complete with dozens of fabrics torn and shredded lying about dark-tinted dressers and a nearly broken canopy; he pursued his striding.
It was not a novelty for him to be infatuated with a woman that occurred many of times before this moment. This was unique, pristine and harrowing. Never in his life had he longed for a lady so much that anything would gladly be sacrificed for it. Of course, he did not love her. That was silly. But…this emotion he could not specify nonetheless, emerged.
Like an addict, now he was lacking her presence which he immediately craved. Once he would have called himself ridiculous for targeting a commoner such as Belle, the daughter of a man with limited means. Once he could have shot himself for panting at the sound of her voice like a canine following every command of its master with the utmost attention.
Sauntering out of the wrecked room, he descended the velvet-covered burgundy flights of marble stairs and moved smoothly through the corridors, laughing aloud to himself and mentally chiding himself on lowering his social position by experiencing the feelings he had for a common girl.
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With the agility of a feline, he noiselessly shoved the door open, and faced Belle, her back to him in a warm room, uncovered except for the chemise and corset she donned before. Virginally clad in snowy white, she remained motionless except for the slight heave of her breathing, her dry and chestnut hair tumbling with the slightest wave to the middle of her back. Her skin, regaining its peach undertone and rosy tint and her small feet were immediately dwelt on and noticed.
She was common, plenty ladies notches above her in social standing clamored for his attention years before and like the haughty stunning young man he had been with the slightly tanned and lean frame, muscles slightly pronounced from hours of riding and archery, he reveled in their unmasked adulation of him. Blonde ladies with verdant eyes, brunette ladies with grayish eyes and women with flaming hair all catered to his whims, allowing themselves to be stroked by him in nearly every way conceivable, proper or not.
They did not hold a light to her before him, which was in and itself all the more bewildering. Father and Mother especially would have all but disowned him from becoming obsessed with a second-rate and mediocre merchant class girl with no prominent or even known social standing. Nothing but her exquisiteness and stubbornness to steady and back her in a society fixated on the family names and classes of its people.
He chose that moment to exhale audibly, and without delay she turned to face him and carried one of her softer looks. Seeing her feet upon the cold marble floor, he grunted, a slight vexed a little more than concerned. Still not fully recovered, but still inquisitive enough to glimpse out the window.
"Why aren't you in bed?" he inquired attentively, glancing from her feet to her ankles, and reluctantly permitting his eyes to travel her form until her reached the top of her head, where his eyes rested on hers. Opening her full lips and donning a culpable expression, she uttered softly, "I wanted to see the snow. You see, my Papa and I always made a snowman during the first snow…" She trailed off, and briskly glided back into the embrace of the warm satin.
What a foolish move! She chided herself. Not yet fully recovered, not thoroughly invalid…No wonder he questioned her in that bizarre tone of voice. Having recently saved her from the throes of freezing and now here she was in a thin chemise away from the candles and heat, pressing her head and hands against chilled glass. If she appeared to be obstructing herself from getting well, then no wonder his tone conveyed that-it would seem as if she was undeserving of his rescue.
Settled into the soft hold of exotic fabric, she sighed, bringing the now half-empty porcelain mug of hot cocoa to her lips, alleviated by some sort of minute and fleeting distraction. Silence reigned for a full moment before he inquired about something tremendously personal and a tad meddlesome.
Upon hearing her cursory explanation and the reference to her father, he began to ruminate on all of her words that evening. Always she spoke of her father, her 'Papa', as she termed him; but never had she spoke of her mother except in her hypothermic stupor when she professed adamantly that she had wished not to resemble her.
Of course, if she questioned him about his Mother, he would all but respond to the nosy inquiry. After all, he felt unpleasant having discourse with anyone over a subject, though long-standing, still caused him a great deal of unease and remorse; nevertheless, perhaps she would reply, if only because she was his prisoner.
"What about your mother?" he questioned slowly, then realizing how crudely he sounded, he elaborated disgracefully, "I mean to say, you always talk about your father, but never your mother." He stopped abruptly when he realized her expression, a perfect blend of veiled anguish and a hint of unhappiness.
Biting her lip, she paused, before mentioning slowly unhurriedly, "She passed in…in childbirth." Contemplating on the randomness and the officiousness of the query, she glimpsed at him. "What made you ask that?" her voice, small and sweet, met his large ears.
"You were mumbling earlier…" he answered vaguely. Silence returned for a few minutes or so before he noticed she had opened her mouth, then closed, waited a minute or two, then did the exact same thing. Twice. Something must have really compelled her to comment; he doubted her hesitation would be over something trivial. "Yes?" he invited her to speak.
Wringing her hands in a way he thought infinitely adorable, he watched as she finally clasped them together on her lap before speaking. "Well, what about your mother?" She watched as his balanced countenance mutated into a grimace which perceptibly soured the agreeable ambiance.
"She died." He muttered, succinct and nearly uncouth in its brusque declaration. "Those glass figures in the West Wing. The ones you smashed, those were hers." With pain, he glanced at her. A testimony to God, his Mother and he did not have a special and dear relationship toward the end of her life; nonetheless, the things that belonged to her meant an immeasurable amount to him. Impractical and futile it was to keep her possessions concealed in a dusty attic where no human nor object risked breathing on them save for him, when he grasped it would not make amends nor relive him of his blameworthiness; nevertheless, it consoled him that she had once owned what he touched with his paws, she had once doted on what he caressed with a talon. And now it was in a million pieces dispersed unforgivably about a wooden floor.
He should have never mentioned the subject of mothers. Why not fathers? The subject of fathers would have not made a variation in his mood one way or the other. The theme of fathers, paradoxically, would have made for an impersonal and trifling topic of conversation for him.
Feeling remorseful for ever mentioning the matter, he uttered hastily, "Sorry for asking such a question." In that one sentence, a stirring of gentlemanliness flitted through him and he looked to her for anything, something, some sort of confirmation of her acceptance. Apologies were scarce among him all throughout his life, and recurrently when he was mistaken, they were conspicuously absent; now, it seemed he was vulnerably exposing his soul.
The brown of her tresses framing her delicate face, slightly rosy with color, she nodded with a soft smile paired with a quizzical look. Her astoundment was finalized when capricious he reached over and stroked her face with a lone talon tenderly before sprinting away from her, leaving the memory of talon on skin and the confession about glass figures to linger.
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Usually, I don't leave Author's Notes at the end; but this was a longer chapter than usual. Somehow, this ended up sounding way more sappy than I cared for it to be. But hey! We're finally getting a smidge of romance here, so bear with me. Belle seemed a little…eh to me in this chapter. Mostly, it was from the Beast's perspective but oh well. Sorry for hiatus, but you had to see it coming right? Nothing to do+ Winter break fanfiction update. Also I hated the ending of this chapter. It wasn't all light and flowery and pretty like last chapter. Oh well, I'm trying to watch it with the typos from now on, so…look for another update with the next 10 or so days. ) Rissa85