When Beauty Fell

Word Count: 3913

When Beauty Fell


The water was quick, sharp, and bitterly cold. She drew her face up, small shining droplets clinging to her nose and eyelids, and, with one hand, wiped at her cheeks. Then, cupping both hands in the stream’s course, she drank long and deeply. A bright, three-noted call sounded from somewhere beyond the nearby brush, higher up in the close-knit pine. Morning. It had to be.

She got to her feet, brushing with shaking fingers the mud from the edge of her shift. The air was still cool, and her arms had broken out in a thousand tiny bumps. She could see the lightening of the sky, and began to walk once more, carefully, near the edge of the running water.

North—if she could just make it into Winnowton, she could rest for a day or two, then take the soonest coach across the border, there he could never reach her. If she just kept moving.

The gentle flow of the little stream was calming, and the beginning of the forest-birds’ morning songs set her a little more at ease. She was a whole night’s run ahead of him, him with his wide open smile and tight heavy fists and his deep panting breath reeking of rum. He would still be sprawled in their—no, his bed, his bright tousled hair shining over the pillows, his arm stretched into empty space, one boot still clinging to his toes.

She smiled a little as she thought of him waking, hours later, to an empty house and a cold fire. No food ready, no horse saddled, no wife waiting. She wondered a little as to which would upset him more. After perhaps an hour of fuming and broken crockery, he would rage to the village square and march into her father’s home. Her father.

At that thought her shoulders slumped. She had forgotten—her father, her sisters. They would have no way of knowing where she was, if something had happened to her.

She almost wept, but didn’t. “If they had cared before, at some point, I would never have had to run,” she whispered, her voice blending into the burble and splash of the stream.

The day was still fresh in her mind, when she was given to that monster, that--swine. She had seen him in the village. They all had. Tall and golden with a brilliant smile, he was like some god-man among them. Some likened him to Hercules, others even to Zeus. All could agree, however, that he was the strongest, bravest man in three counties. He led all the townsfolk in the yearly fox and stag-hunts, and brought down the most difficult kills.

So it was with no little wonder and even a little hope that her father, the struggling merchant, took her aside. “He wants you,” the tired man had shrugged, cupping her shoulder. “Your sisters and I could not have even dreamed of a better match for you. Perhaps you will have some luck, once you too are away from this accursed old trader,”

Her mind had reeled at the idea. “But father, I hardly know him. We have never spoken in the market, I have no idea of his tastes, his likes, nor he of mine,”

Her father shook his head, slowly. “I would not have wished this on you, ma petit belle, but he can take care of you in a way I have never been able to. Your sisters have households of their own, now, and you deserve the same,” his eyes were achingly sad as he concluded “and he is the first to offer. A strong choice, and better to be the last.” He had turned away then, to carve at a bit of forgotten bread. “Perhaps Gaston has seen that something in you that all you love has seen. It is very likely that you two will come to understand each other, in the least. Please, daughter,”

And she had agreed, of course. How could she not? And she did feel, on that day when she stood beside that man before the parson, with all eyes upon them, small stirrings of pride. He was well-respected in the town, and she would never go hungry. And there must be some reason he chose her, so small and slight and clever with words and figures. Perhaps he did find beauty there. And if he felt something, anything for her, she could find within herself the same.

But that night, that night—after hours of her sisters’ giggles and the round after round of wine for the men and small honey-cakes with raisins that left her dry-mouthed, her family left her, her friends departed, and she was left alone with him—this huge, golden stranger she had been so quickly united with. She tried to speak, but could find no words. Not that it mattered. With a guttural moan he knocked her flat against the table, ripped with giant hands at her carefully worked wedding gown, and cruelly and quickly had her, whispering with slurred speech into her ear “That’s it—nice and easy, come back down here where you belong—high and tight little bitch. That’s right, that’s right.”

And so it went—every night for more than six months. She tried to fight, after the first, tried to reason with him, tried to cut off his supply to drink. But he was merciless. He’d hit her, then take her again, all with new little ways of torture. He tore her clothes, until she was left only in rags.

He would give her fine things to wear only to market, or to church, when he would smile and chuck her chin and wrap his arm around her and all called him a perfect husband and she a lucky girl and all the unwed maids would swoon. Within the walls of his house, however, her dresses were shreds, and her shifts were ragged, and they did not hide the welts and bruises.

This could have gone on—forever maybe. She could feel the icy creep of habit freezing her once sharp and argumentative mind, and she could imagine no way out. Her sisters, who knows if they would even believe her, and her father could barely support himself. What choice did she have?

She could not act for fear.

She would have died in that house, if not for what she had discovered the night before. If she had not seen the light near the edge of the house, had not stumbled upon Gaston and her, her father in low conversation. If she had not heard how her father had given her up, for the promise of gold, and turned a tired eye from his child’s fate.

At that, she knew there was nothing more to be had in the once-bright village of her youth. And so with hidden understanding, she plied her husband with the heaviest drink had only in deep winter, stirring it into his broth and keeping his cup full. She endured his blows that night, when he could do nothing in his drunkenness. Before sleep, she even brought a full mug to the bed, and he drank—falling quickly into heavy slumber.

He had no notion that she was to run, and neither, for that matter, did she. She had been forced into his hot and twisted world and gotten very lost, until that night. She had considered, for an instant, as she stood above him, how easy it would be to carve a second bright smile across his throat. But she was shaking, her senses sharp and heightened. She had to leave. And so, stopping only to fasten a hunting blade at her hip, she crept from the place and into the forest.

She shook her head to clear it from the past. Even with her lack of sleep—her mind felt cool and alert. With an eye on the sun, and the direction of the lichen on the trees, she continued northward. For hours she trekked, hoping to reach Winnowton’s outskirts by the dawn the following day. She rested a little, in the afternoon, by a wild blackberry patch humming with wasps. She managed to pick some without being stung and then retreated to the shade of an old oak.

By the evening, sudden clouds had moved in from the west, and she felt the slow creeping of fear at the thought of a storm. By full night, her fears were realized as a great, thunderous crack rent the sky in blue light and unleashed a torrential downpour. Water quickly rose among the dry and ancient roots around her, and soon she was wading in soppy mud up to her knees. Clinging from trunk to trunk, she forded the rising mud as well as she could—but her legs became tangled in her shift and she fell, filling her mouth and nose with the dank, plastered soil. It stung her eyes and all was faded and foggy and she couldn’t help the cry that fled her, for an instant.

With heavy limbs, she managed to pull herself somewhat from the onrushing mud, and wrap her arms around an over-hanging branch. “But I’m free,” she found herself whispering. “He never did claim me—this at least, is mine.”

It was dark then, and she knew no more, but that her arms were detached from the branch and there was the overwhelming sense of warmth, and the smell of musk and fire and something soft pressing against her face.

She awoke to sound of singing. A pure, solid baritone rising and falling somewhere in the distance. She sat up. She had been wrapped in a thick blanket and laid upon a faded chaise. Her shift had dried to her body, and it stung a little as she pulled it away from her old cuts. Wrapping the blanket around her, she stood, unsteadily. The room was small, and ancient, but beautiful. Moth-eaten, though brilliant tapestries covered two walls, while a clear glass window had been placed into another. She went to it, and peered out. The sky was still dark, and the rain drummed on as hard as before. How had she come to this place?

She found a door, thick and well-worn, and padded softly into the hallway it led to. A few of the sconce tapers were lighted, and she followed them in the direction of the voice. Whatever house, or inn she was in, it was comfortable, but not large, scarcely a dozen rooms in total including the passageway, dining hall and sitting room. It was not long until she came to the kitchen, or perhaps the game-room, where the song seemed the strongest.

She breathed deeply for a moment, before opening the door. The music halted, abruptly, and there was a clatter of some sort utensil against the tile. She stepped in, hesitantly. “Hello?”

A fire crackled cheerfully below an empty spit. On a nearby table, a large bird lay plucked and gutted, a knife upon the floor beside it. She knelt, eyes seeking out the strange singer, as she placed the knife back on the table. “Hello? It’s—well, me I suppose. You brought me here?” There was no response. She moved to the fire, and put her hands out to it. “You saved me,” she said, more quietly, conversationally. “I might have been dead, washed away and buried with no one the wiser. Thank you,” She looked around, curious and a little bolder now. Whoever was here was more afraid of her—it was a strange sensation.

After a moment’s pause, she went to a nearby water bucket, rolled up her sleeves, and plunged her arms in up to her elbows, and scrubbed at her hands. Drying them quickly on a rag nearby, she continued “I have really no way to repay you, but I can start by fixing this goose,”

With a practiced manner, she pierced the bird over the fire, and settled herself on the little stool to slowly turn the poultry. Many minutes passed in this way, and she felt warmer, comfortable, and more at ease since before she had left her father’s house.

“It’s a pheasant,” a voice issued from the pantry.

She started. She had almost forgotten the stranger—his song and his cleaning of the bird. She was very careful in her response. “My apologies—sir. My eye for birds doesn’t often go past their feathers. It’s a good catch,” She stopped, hopeful for a reply.

She was gratified by a low chuckle. “Understandable. So, if wildfowl are unfamiliar to you, am to assume you were not hunting then, through my grounds?”

She gasped, then shook her head vehemently “No, no, of course not! I had no idea these were even private grounds. Your pardon, please,”

A long-suffering sigh “Most are unaware. It has long been kept in trust, but it is very recently that the landholder has returned to his property,”

“I, I see,” She continued turning the bird, but her entire being was taut with curiosity. What kind of a man was this, claiming land deep in the forest and hiding in a pantry? Someone who had helped her, which spoke stronger than all of his peculiarities, no doubt. She dearly wanted to see him, though.

“If—you are perhaps hungry, sir, I would pleased to carve and serve your game. It would be the least I could do,”

“You must be hungry yourself, please—eat.”

She took a breath “Not until you have. Respectfully, sir,” She steeled herself, waiting. That sort of talk had earned her punishment not long ago, but she wanted to see what kind of a person this was.

There was silence. Then a soft breath, then deep laughter. “That is a fair request, though perhaps a foolish one. You will wish you would not have asked,” A shadowed figure took one step from the pantry. She watched, heart high in her throat.

The stranger continued, “I will make a request of my own. I would ask that you remain on your seat for a moment once I have entered. You may look to your full for a short time, then you may find serving forks and a carving knife near the far wall and plates in the above cupboard,”

She wondered at this, but answered, her voice stronger than she’d thought “As you say,”

Then, with slow, conscious steps, he stepped forward.

She clenched the edge of her little stool, and looked. He was tall—that was the first thing. He towered over her, would tower over anyone she’d ever met. Some sort of chestnut hair, was it even fur? covered his entirety. And his shape was all wrong. He stood on two legs, but those legs were oddly bowed leading to enormous feet with, could it be, nails like claws? His shoulders were wide, but curiously hunched and bent. His hands were strange, as though some unfamiliar merger between a man and a beast’s. But his face—broad and guarded below ears like a wolf’s, housed eyes that were human and almost kind, that seemed to be begging the same thing as hers. Just let me be.

She let herself look for a moment more, noting his sturdily made tunic and altered trousers. For some reason that comforted her, and she found herself rising gravely, nodding to him, then turning to fetch the dishes. After a short pause, she heard him washing himself briskly from the bucket. She turned just in time to see him shake his head to dry it—much like one of the village hounds, and the ghost of a smile lingered over her face before she caught herself.

He must have seen her look, and his face hardened, then turned almost bashful. “I apologize, it’s been—some time since company,”

She was startled. Who was this person? This—man? He looked more likely to rend her from limb to limb, and here he was, asking pardon for bad table manners? And, it had been some time since she had been given an apology, of any kind. She shook her head, what kind of a strange world had she awoken to?

She smiled weakly, “Sir, this is your property, and your supper. You are free to do as you choose,”

He looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth, and then closed it, before finally saying, “Let’s come to the table now,”

The pheasant was excellent, if a bit over-done due to the—unforeseen events. He carved, his hand surprisingly sure and deft, and stronger than her own. They said little, and ate exaggeratedly slowly, though her stomach was roaring with hunger. He must have shown even greater restraint, as he continued to eat after she had finished, almost unbearably politely, until only the well-cleaned bones of the large bird remained. Afterwards, she immediately rose and cleared the plates and washed them, then turned to find him watching her, his brown, human eyes incongruous within his face.

“What is your name?”

She flushed for an instant. “A-Abella,”

He nodded. “From?”

She froze. Gaston’s golden, smirking face rose in her mind. “Nowhere,” A deep weariness came over her, and her face became strained. “Please—I—is there somewhere I can wash myself and my things?” She lifted her covering blanket to expose the mud-stained, torn shift.

While obviously unsatisfied with her answer, he nodded, and appeared, as much as he could, appropriately concerned. “Ah-of course. The bath-chamber is near where you can sleep.” And, with a business-like turn on his heel, he led the way. She was surprised to see, and even almost amused, that he had a tail, elegant and bushy like a retriever’s, or a wolf’s.

The room was modest and ordinary, with a large, standing tub and clean, musty towels. As he turned to leave, she unthinkingly called, “And what are you known by?”

He stopped, as though considering whether to answer, and she waited, unmoving. Finally, he looked over his shoulder, replying “Luc. You may call me Luc,”

“Thank you, then, Luc,”

His shoulders seized at her voice, before nodding once and shutting the door with a click.

She wanted to muse over her host’s strange—behavior for one, but the call of bath was too strong, and with a quick ducking out of her shift, she folded herself into the lukewarm water. Carefully, tenderly, she soaped her many remaining bruises and cuts, hissing whenever one stung badly. Then she cleaned her hair, combing through it with her fingers.

There was a large, and thick bathrobe folded nearby, and, with only the slightest hesitation, she pulled it on. Then, she attempted to clean out the worst of the mud from her shift, but with little luck.

Then, with a hesitant tread once more, she left the room into the darkened hallway. He was farther down, cupping the end of the long tapers to blow them out. He nodded to her. “The chaise is the best I’ve to offer, I’m afraid. There are a few more pillows and blankets to make it more comfortable, but it is the best repaired room,”

“I’ve slept in much worse,” she attempted a smile. “Thank you, really. It is more than most would have offered,” she waited, somewhat awkwardly. He said nothing, merely watched her. “But, why? Why me, why all this?”

He turned at once to extinguish another light, before answering. “We will discuss this more tomorrow. You are tired, please,” His mouth seemed to quirk, slightly, though his eyes were quiet. “I know I am,”

“But-“

“Tomorrow,” he replied, gently, but firmly. With a nod, he turned and left down the darkened hallway.

She watched his retreating figure for a short time, returned to her own room, arranged the pillow and blankets as well as she could before closing her eyes.

It was not long until the dreams began. Gaston was there with her, suddenly, and his Apollo-like face broke into a sunny smile at spying her. “Oh Abell-a! My darling sweet, how so alone you are, how very wet—like a cat in heat caught in the rain,”

She was very still—the breath caught in her throat, unable to look at him. He came up behind her, his hands at her shoulders, his voice almost a purr, “You know what we do with cats that have strayed, don’t you, pet?” One of his hands crept around her neck. She moaned, a high, animal-fear sound. “We can drown them,” his arm tightened. “Or toss them in a bag and strangle them,” his arm was very tight now—colors danced across her vision. “Or even,” his mouth was hot near her ear, as he began panting. His other hand seemed to be fumbling with something behind her “spit them,” With a vicious hand he ripped up her robe and she screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Then suddenly there was a loud, painless thud and something soft and warm and familiar was around her, wrapped her, and the smell of musk and flame was bright and chased away the lingering dream. She didn’t open her eyes, quiet tears fell from them, and she buried her face in the warmth.

“Whoever has done this,” the voice was deep, and furious, and pained. “will answer for it,” He held her carefully, but tightly, and his words were a stream, “I have heard of such—things, but never seen anything such as yours. The marks left behind on the body, on the mind,”

It was so good, to simply weep long and deep for the first time in more than a year. He continued, his voice painfully soft “I had kept an eye on you since the river. So young, and so hurt. It would be wrong to let a caged bird kill herself for freedom, I could not let you die.” His voice dropped even more. “I too know what it is like, to be expelled from a place, to long for death. We-we are not so different,”

She could feel the words from his chest, rumbling and soft. She pressed her face tight against him, her hands curling into his hair.

A giant sigh, then, as he lay his face for a moment on the crown of her head. “Sleep now, I will stay with you,”

She tucked herself into him, and her breathing slowed, her “thank you” hardly stirring her lips. She had never felt so safe, she had never felt less alone. There was something warm, and almost familiar about where she lay. This—her mind began to drift as she thought it—was a good place. And he, whatever he may appear, was a man, surely, a good man.

He was quiet, watching her breathing slow. Then, softly, looking to the window and the ebbing rain “What fools men have become, to throw away their treasure with the refuse,” He looked down at her, and his face grew soft, his voice almost inaudible “I know you—I felt I knew you from that first moment. It, should not have happened this way. But—I will make it right, now,” She seemed so small against him, her face upturned. His breath caught for a moment. “You will find what you are looking for, and I will make sure you are—safe,”

He stayed with her, while she slept, until the early sun rose over the east.