With her hair she throws lassoes at me, with her eyes she catches me, with her necklace she entangles me, and with her seal ring she brands me (Song 43 in the Chester Beatty Cycle, translated by W. K. Simpson, ed., The Literature of Ancient Egypt, 324).

Thine head crowns thee like Mount Carmel, and thine flowing hair is like a royal robe. The king is held captive in its tresses. (Song of Solomon 7:5)

But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her: for her hair is given her for a covering. (1 Corinthians 11:15)

He Gives His Beloved Certain Rhymes

Fasten your hair with a golden pin, / And bind up every wandering tress; / I bade my heart build these poor rhymes: / It worked at them, day out, day in, / Building a sorrowful loveliness / Out of the battles of old times.

You need but lift a pearl-pale hand, / And bind up your long hair and sigh; / And all men's hearts must burn and beat; / And candle-like foam on the dim sand, / And stars climbing the dew-dropping sky, / Live but to light your passing feet. (by William Butler Yeats)

Then said Olaf, laughing, / "Not ten yoke of oxen / Have the power to draw us / Like a woman's hair! (from The Musician's Tale; The Saga of King Olaf by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

ON BEAUTY

AND a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. / And he answered: / Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her / unless she herself be your way and your guide?

/...And in the summer heat the reapers say, "We have seen her dancing / with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair." (from The Prophet, by Kalil Gibran)

…The maiden, wonderful as a wonderful dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed, blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment, with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a mantle. (from Chapter VII, Qup Vadis, a Narrative of the Time of Nero, by Henryk Sienkiewicz)

Her Crowning Glory, a Tale of Ardor

chpt 2

her attendant

It was one day while Belle and the Beast were walking through the forest that they had one of their impromptu games of hide-and-seek again. Belle got her hair stuck in some tree branches.

"Here," the Beast said gently, "Let me help…since it's my fault that you ran among the branches.

She was afraid he would pull her hair and entangle it worse in the branches, but she hardly felt a tug. In the process, he had to undo her ponytail.

"You have such beautiful hair, Belle," he murmured. "I'm surprised you don't wear it down."

She blushed at the sudden and unexpected compliment. She gulped, and murmured "Thank you," in response. "I left it unbound when I was a child," she continued. "My mother brushed it out every night. She would tell me how beautiful it was, too. She said her mother would say the same thing to her. Alas…I never knew my grandmother. She died young, just like my mother. And since that time, I've put my hair back in this plain fashion…very commonsensical, " she added, giggling.

"I'm very sorry," he answered, "Both that your mother should die so young, and that your beautiful hair shouldn't flow freely in the wind. He sounded both sympathetic and poetic. She was taken aback even more.

"I saw your hair unbound that first night," he continued, his eyes cast down, as though confessing. "You were so very beautiful in your fury."

The Beast's sudden bit of divulgence left Belle stunned and tongue-tied. He was referring to the night she had come to the château looking for her father, and consenting to be the Beast's lifelong hostage in exchange for her father's release.

The Beast had unleashed his own fury, angered at her refusal to dine with him, angered at her intrusion in the West Wing, and finally ferociously defending her life and limb from the ravenous wolf pack.

If she had known he was that enamored with her, things might have gone far differently…or maybe not.

It was that evening, when Belle was in her nightgown and dressing gown, that a knock came on her bedchamber door. "Come in," she said, assuming it was Mrs. Potts, or one of the other servants. The animated comb and brush were just beginning to groom her hair and braid it for her nightly slumber.

To her shock, it was the Beast who opened the door. "May I enter your room? " he asked quietly.

Swallowing her amazement and unable to speak, she nodded. She tried to say, "Please do," but her throat felt too dry.

With great boldness yet a humble deference, he took up the brush in his oversized paw. "May I?" he asked sonorously.

She nodded again, wide-eyed and a little nervous.

Standing behind her while she sat on the vanity stool, he first stroked her hair, smoothing it down. The touch of his hand along the back of her head sent an electric thrill through her that she felt down to her toes.

In her father's shop, where he built many inventions, some functional and some not, was an electrical battery. As a child, she had once touched the battery's twin terminals, and received a nasty jolt. The sensation that raced through her this time was far more pleasant.

The Beast began to brush out her locks, first from the crown of her head, along the sides and back, then from her forehead, brushing her bangs back from her face. After this, he brushed from her temples, guiding the brush around her ears and down her neck.

The floating of the bristles across her scalp felt soothing, and associated images arose in her imagination; images of water trickling in a brook and wind blowing in waves over a field of ripe grain.

The sensation of brushing the more sensitive areas, around her ears, and the back of her neck, produce a most delicious tingling; she nearly succeeded in suppressing an involuntary shiver.

He brushed under her hair up from the nape of her neck, bringing about a more pronounced tremble, and causing her to tighten her hands, and gasp, as though splashed with cold water.

She was astonished. She had never experienced so gentle, so meticulous, so unhurried a hair-brushing…not since the last time her mother had performed the service, before her final illness. And of a certainty, her mother's brushing did not elicit so sensual a reaction.

Belle at first watched the Beast's face in the mirror, above and behind her. He appeared as composed and intent as the carefulness with which he set about his appointed task. And he appeared not to have noticed her extreme responses.

With a contented sigh, she finally submitted to his gentle attentions. She found herself closing her eyes, tilting her head back, and murmured a soft moan of pleasure, hardly audible. His ministrations were hypnotic; she found herself drifting, and fought to stay awake; it would not do to drift suddenly into deep sleep and topple off the vanity stool, she thought wryly.

She had no doubt he would catch her if she did drift off…and she suddenly envisioned swooning in the Beast's arms. She felt a hot flush of embarrassment…or was it delight…at this scandalous fantasy. She was certain she must be blushing, and was afraid to look too intently at herself in the mirror to confirm it. But the Beast said nothing.

He even braided her hair, as meticulously and carefully as she used to, in her father's house in Molyneaux, and as the servants did here in the château. The slight pull on her hair was not at all painful, and the mesmerizing effect continued as she felt the plaiting of her tresses on the back of her neck.

"Thank you, Beast," she said softly, still surprised at the spontaneity of his self-appointment as her 'handmaiden'…she giggled inwardly at this thought…and was even disappointed that the tender treatment he lavished on her was concluded so quickly.

When he had completed his task, he stroked her head one more time, then rested his hands on her shoulders, and lightly gripped her upper arms. "You're welcome, Belle," he murmured in a basso rumble.

Belle's heart thumped and her entire body tingled at the touch of those mighty and gentle hands. The material of her dressing gown was satiny, and the material of her nightgown was of the sheerest silk, so there was hardly any sensation at all of a garment between his powerful hands and the skin of her slender shoulders and arms. It almost felt like the smooth fabric was slipping off her shoulders. In somewhat alarm, she clutched frantically at the neckline of her gown, as though to preserve her modesty.

But the Beast was not endeavoring to bare her shoulders, as that wretch back in Molyneaux might…her leering would-be suitor, Gaston. Instead, the

Master of the château had merely bestowed on her a tender affectionate touch.

She had to swallow the lump in her throat and suppress again the involuntary quivers that resulted at his final caress. She turned her head to murmur another heartfelt Thank you…and saw him already leaving the room. Sadly, feeling suddenly deprived of pleasant companionship, she turned back from the door to face the mirror.

She stared at the face she saw, as though for the first time. It was the face of her mother, Jeanne Marie Bricateur, as Belle remembered her…for, while Belle parted her hair on the left, Jeanne Marie had parted her hair on the right…as the reflection seemed to show.

Monsieur Relieu's bookshop in Molyneaux, where Belle used to browse almost daily, had a book of fine art and paintings in European museums. The face Belle saw in the mirror might be found in a Titian painting, or a Rembrandt. The eyes were lustrous, the nose was pert, the mouth had the slightest hint of pensiveness, and the chin was dimpled. The braided hair was as dark and smooth as polished maple wood. The blue of the hair ribbon matched the rich blue of the dressing gown. The neck was slender, and the neckline of the immaculate white nightgown was revealing enough to show just a hint of cleavage. Such a face was what Belle might visualize as belonging to a lovely princess when reading one of her fairy tales. And now such a face was hers.

She went to bed, drawing up the covers, with an almost childlike regret…that the Beast had not tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, as her mother used to do. And she realized with a shock how endearing he was becoming to her.

She sat up abruptly in bed, aghast at the sudden realization of her feelings of fondness for him. But another part of her was not amazed in the slightest. On the contrary, her expectations would have been upset if no gradual closeness were taking place between the gentle Bestial master of the château and his increasingly-willing hostage.

There's something sweet / And almost kind / But he was mean / And he was coarse and unrefined. / But now he's dear / And so unsure, / I wonder why I didn't see it there before.

Belle herself was unsure, and was aware of an inner conflict. Her mind was thoroughly unsettled and confused. But her heart was as content as a weaned infant, and as placid as a lake on an unwindy summer day.

For her heart already comprehended what her mind had yet to realize…like a reader skipping ahead in a book and find out what the book's protagonist did not yet know.

Oh! Isn't this amazing! / It's my favorite part because, you'll see! / Here's where she meets Prince Charming / But she won't discover that it's him 'til chapter three!

Sighing, she lay her head back down on the pillow. The languor of the

Beast's extraordinary grooming, and the delight of being primped and fussed over, stole over her. The placidity overwhelmed the confusion, and a slumber most sweet overtook her.

A / N

This chpt's composition actually precedes that of the 1st chpt. It was inspired by a couple things.

First, this is a portrayal of the Beast that tries to conform more to the classic literary tradition of the original story than the Disney adaptation. In the original story, the Beast is less a spoiled immature brat than he is an afflicted sovereign, imprisoned in his own tiny fairy tale realm. Within that realm, he is a veritable magical king; he holds absolute sway, bringing inanimate objects to life, and controlling the forces of nature. But to reclaim his original status, he must woo a girl.

He courts Belle from the very beginning of her stay at his castle, asking her to marry him, which she politely declines. He is the perfect gentleman, the very picture of decorous deference, asking her at every juncture if he might dine with her, or walk with her, or otherwise spend time in her company.

In the old French movie, La Belle Et La Bte, directed by Jean Cocteau, and released in 1946, the Beast goes so far as to tell Belle that she is now the mistress of the castle, and he is her servant. She is equally courteous, demurely telling him that she craves his company, and misses him when he isn't with her. I'm an incurable romantic sentimentalist at heart; their courtship is sweet and fragile; it's a most magical movie, and I can't recommend it strongly enough.

The second inspiration is something called A.S.M.R.: Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. Those who experience it describe it as warmth, tingles, and a sense of wellbeing. It can be induced by touch, sight, and sound. Like fanfiction, cosplay, and many other trends, an online subculture exists to promote and share the interest. A plethora of videos exist on Youtube, where the uploaders brush hair, rustle fabric, clink beads, perform backrubs, and give softly-spoken recitations, all to induce the physical sensations.

There's a fierce debate as to whether it exists. Detractors insist that, like acupuncture and chiropractic, there is no clinical data to support the claims of its adherents. What do I think? For years, I've loved the shows on public television where the painter shows how to paint a picture. I love watching a masseur / masseuse at work as much as being the actual recipient of a massage. I can most def feel the intangible caress on my psyche. There's some kind of psychological or neurological dynamic going on, whatever people may call it.

This fanstory was written in the vein of my other two BaTB 'Ardent' fanstories. I continue to compose my fanstories the way Leonardo da Vinci reputedly painted the Mona Lisa, a few brushstrokes a day over a period of twenty years. Once in a while an idea hits like Isaac Newton's apple, and I finish a fic in a few days or weeks instead of a few years.