She's always been fond of (ex_roses104) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-09-14 01:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | beast, door: tales, rose red |
Who: Rose and the Beast
What: The Beast's version of making things better
Where: The Castle
When: Right after the arguments with Justine
Warnings/Rating: None
Rose was a dervish of young girl and tears after speaking to Justine on the journals. It wasn't that she didn't know what she'd done with Charming was wrong. She knew that perfectly. It was the reason she had not gone to the Mundane world with her sister, and it was the reason she'd spent months with the merchant and his hateful family. She knew, but it was something between her and Snow, and Snow at least understood why, understood Charming's part, understood that it was all hurt and more hurt and being left behind. Childish, yes, but Rose had been a child then, and she wasn't much more than one now. A lifetime spent alone in the woods had taken a wild child and made her less correct around company. Her time at the castle had been terrible, and she knew that too. The merchant was penance, and maybe this was too, this castle in this dead forest.
Or maybe it had been.
But that was all changed now. If he really had a girl who could break his curse, then she couldn't stay, not if her presence meant this girl would not come. And perhaps Justine was right about everything. Rose had been bad enough to be wiped from existence, from the stories, just as Snow had wiped her from her life when she left her behind in the woods without so much as goodbye. It stung, as it had then. But she was a little older now, perhaps a little wiser. She did not want to ruin Justine's life, and she did not want to stay and ruin the Beast's. He wasn't very kind, but he hadn't eaten her or Snow, and Snow was very impossible, and it was normal to want to eat her on an almost daily basis.
No, she couldn't stay. A broken vow would only be a stain on her reputation, and she didn't have much to speak of. It was a far better thing than ruining his chances at salvation. And perhaps it was unselfish, but she didn't really know anything about being unselfish, so she didn't categorize it that way. She dressed in the blue dress that she'd washed in the water basin yesterday, and she grabbed an old cloak from the dresser in the room, the smell of age and dust clinging to its folds. Tugging the hood over her red hair, she picked up her bag and crossed to the room's window, trying to determine if she could make the climb down.
Perhaps she could, but it would certainly be at deadly risk. The height was such a distance from the nearest roof that unless she sprouted wings, she would risk breaking a limb or even her neck in a fall from the crumbling parapet. The candles had prepared the best chamber, which was not at the top of the tower but just at its heart, and it was the only room that still had a stained glass window that opened out into a view of the blackened valley, facing the east and the rising sun. Perhaps it was not a coincidence that there was such a drop from the pretty panel pressed in stained red and golden yellow.
The Beast had managed to cling to his temper just long enough to get through a page or so of text with the label “Justine S.” but the small miracle had not lasted. Eventually he had roared at the book, a sound probably audible at every corner of the bleak castle, and then knocked it aside with one paw. These people were intolerable. Undoubtedly the “Red” label was correct when it opined that the Beast would not like the man behind the door even if he did know him.
Forsaking his safe, warm nest in the west wing, the Beast grumbled as he stalked down his staircase, leaped the last level and dropped heavily on all fours in the Hall. He ignored the sound of the servants scattering out of his way and paced up the facing staircase to the east wing of the castle, growling without words in the back of his throat the whole time. He’d just spent eight hours out there in the early frost before dawn, hunting a scrawny doe, and now he had to go coddle the girl. Unbelievable.
She heard him coming, because it was impossible not to hear him coming. Castles shouldn't shake, but this one felt like it did, and Rose stared forlornly out of the window a moment longer before giving up. She had been hoping for a tree, a parapet, a drain to scurry down. She'd climbed so much as a child in the woods that it was almost second nature, but there was nothing close enough for her to grab here, even if she did break the glass. She would have to walk past him, and she didn't think that was going to be particularly easy. And she knew he was coming, of course, because the castle shook, and she could hear his large paws on the stairs.
Steeling her shoulders and tipping her chin up, she crossed to the door, the tapestry bag still in her hand. She pulled the door opened, and she stepped into the hall. Despite the fact that the cloak's hood obscured most of her features, her bright red cheeks gave away the fact that she'd been crying, but she pretended no one in the world could tell. It was a childish thing to pretend, but she did it anyway, and she didn't really look at the looming creature rounding the top of the stairs.
"I'm going," she said, small and imperious in her stolen and dusty finery.
The Beast was surprised that she came out of her room to greet him, but the pleasure at the ease of address quickly faded as he took in her attire and smelled her distress. It took some of the growl out of his throat. The Beast was so big that he filled the corridor, and to retreat he would actually have to pace backwards unless he could ascend far enough to reach the upper landing and fold in half to go the other way. His wings pressed flat, what was visible was mostly his massive striped shoulders and furred chest, and he pressed the black wolf’s nose flat against his chest as he regarded her with large amber eyes that glowed faintly in the light leaking from her chambers beyond. “Going where?” he rumbled, attempting to find his patience again and licking his lips once so he could settle his awkward jaws and relax somewhat in the close quarters of the stairwell as it narrowed and spiraled like a snail’s shell.
Getting past him, she knew, would be impossible without his cooperation, but she was counting on him having spoken to Justine, to his being informed of the situation as it truly was. "Back to where I came from," she said. "Did you speak to her? Did she explain how it all is?" she asked of the hurtful girl from the Mundane world. There was a sniffle in the question, but she forced herself to hold the strong pose, despite the fact that the cloak's hood made it much easier to do so while hiding, and it was rather childish. "If so, then you know why I must go. She said she was glad I was written out of the story. Did you know that? I don't exist. It's telling, isn't it? To be so terrible you're written out completely." There was an intake of very damp breath, and then she took a determined step forward. "You will let me pass," she said, her tone the one she had learned from Snow during her months at the castle. Well, really, it was a little Snow all the time. Snow was always strong and firm, and people always listened to her.
The Beast’s eyes glinted with the sheen of copper as he regarded her red eyes and wet nose. His jaw loosened at her final command, not because he was angry, but because he thought it was funny. One visible tooth glinted like new ivory and a pink (perhaps even purple?) tongue lolled out to one side of his mouth. Such a silly command from such a small little sparrow. “Nonsense,” he said, in his deep voice. “Turn about so we may speak in a larger space. I am caught like a cork in a bottle on this stair.” And with that his hind legs, more hooves than toes in most places, scraped for purchase on the stones and he started to progress once more toward her. The shafts of his primary feathers slid harshly against the walls and he put his head down, ears pricked, to nudge her in the proper direction. “The Justine S. in the book has simply heard some tale with someone of your name, and your sister’s name. She is foolishly attempting to apply it to things she has seen in her book, in this case, us.” He gave a very horse-like snort.
She didn't recognize the entertainment as entertainment, but she wasn't scared either. Maybe she should be, but Rose was never scared of things she should be scared of. Even as a child, she'd walked right up to that bear that was eventually supposed to marry her sister, all while her sister hid behind a tree. Nonsense didn't sound like an angry word, and that made her more confident too. "We don't need more space. We need to leave the hallway," she insisted, but he was already moving again. She stood her ground, refusing to back up, even when he nudged. Unfortunately, she was much smaller than him, and she lost her footing and stepped backward twice, before regain her stubborn stance. "No, she said they removed me entirely. Snow has no sister. I don't exist at all, not anywhere. They replaced me with the other girl, the perfect one," she said, distress coming through the stubbornness, audible and (to him) probably scenting the air. "And I am very terrible," she admitted, incongruously retaining that same defiance when she said it. "I've done very bad things."
“What foolishness,” the Beast repeated. His voice was so low that it took to the stones and recalled what they were back when they were in the depths of the earth, and his disapproval was in the center of her bones when he spoke. “There is nothing that you could have done to compare with the things I have seen. There is no ‘they.’ I promise you that songs come and go, and I can change them as easily as any girl in speaking out of a foolish book. Stop this now. Come along.” He was close enough now that he was like a massive furry boulder blocking the rest of the stair. His broad forehead had short, sparse hairs like that of a horse, and they slowly shifted direction to circle at the very spot at the center of his eyes. A deep, spicy scent joined his heavy musk, and the golden threads of the mane at his chest seemed to shine in the scarlet light from her chamber window. He turned his head and opened a wide jaw as if to grip her by the shoulder when she refused to turn.
She stared now that he was close, and it wasn't very polite, but she did it anyway. He was so strange, so many things mixed together, and she wondered how a Weird even wove the kind of magic that made that happen. A bear was easy. Bears existed, there was a template, something to build from. But this was much more complicated, and she shuddered slightly to think of the magic the Weird who managed it had in her possession. She was staring at the golden threads in the scarlet light, wondering if it was all those years in the woods that made him less frightening than he surely should be. But then he turned his head and opened his jaw, and her reaction was to swat instead of running. "Stop that," she ordered, and then she remembered his comment about having seen worse. "I slept with Snow's husband," she blurted out. "Or I let him sleep with me. Same thing, when it's all said and done," she finished with a sigh, and she looked at him in anticipation of his moving aside.
The swat caught him on the end of a wet black nose that was much wider than any wolf’s should be, and he yanked his head back into his chest with a snort of surprise and further disapproval. For a few moments, his eyes focused on her hand as it wavered away, like a cat watching a mouse, and his tongue abruptly disappeared into his mouth as fought the urge to snap at it the way it had snapped at him. A moment later, however, he realized she was speaking, and some of his sanity returned. His nostrils flared with her scent and a slightly more sour breath erupted over the top of her head. The purple tongue made an immediate reappearance, falling out of the side of his mouth as he lifted his chin sharply and tossed his head. Dust motes escaped from his mane and his tapered ears flicked up and forward in attention and amusement. He made a sound like a dog barking, a quick yip. “You think it’s so terrible to warm a man’s bed now and then?” he rumbled, with a little yowl at the end of the last word. His eyes creased into slits of hilarity. These high-born women. “Enough now. Move on. I will get stuck.” He lowered his forehead and started pushing her forward low at the hips so she wouldn’t topple but couldn’t escape, either.
She made a face at that sour breath, and she gave him a look, as if he'd done that intentionally. The dust earned him the same reaction, and she frowned, forgetting the matter at hand for a moment. "You need a bath," she insisted, because being huge and furry- no - feathered - no - scaled - no - being whatever he was, it was no excuse for dust and bad breath. But then he was speaking, and she gave him a look that was incredulous. "He was married to Snow, and he wasn't supposed to sleep with anyone else while he was married to Snow." She moved, but it was out of sheer shock that he didn't understand this most basic thing. The push at the hip barely registered over her speech, now that it was gaining strength. "I did it on purpose. Snow abandoned me, you see, and I went to her castle and caused all matter of trouble. I slept with everyone, and I made scenes, and danced on tables, and got very drunk. It was badly done, but I was hurt. She promised she'd never go, and she went away and left me alone in the woods."
The look had absolutely no effect, and he was not all offended at her criticism of his personal hygiene. Women, especially his mother, had told him he needed a bath on a regular basis even when he’d been walking around on two legs. It was his opinion that in the end people would grow accustomed to a certain amount of dirt if only they would give it a chance. The Beast ate dead animals raw and he wasn’t all that fussed about his breath when he was hungry. He didn’t know why she would be either, but then to his nose she didn’t smell like a perfect lily, either. He could smell the stale water on her dress, her skin, the tangle of her hair, and especially the vague hints of her distress that smelled sweet to his predator’s nose. He made a huffing sound when she attempted to explain further. He understood, he just didn’t think it was all that terrible. “You enjoyed yourself at her expense. You are young and foolish. You are sorry. What more can you do? Cry?” He tipped his great shaggy head to one side and took in her state with one large glassy eye. “And what good does that do?”
She made a sound that was all frustration when he huffed. "No. I didn't actually enjoy it. I hated every single minute. Every step on a table, every bit of mindless flirting, every scene I caused, and every single disgusting second with Charming." She tipped her chin. "I never said I was sorry," she added, though she was, and maybe he could smell a lie. She wasn't sure he could smell a lie, but he did have a very big nose. "I don't cry," she added, and that wasn't entirely a lie. She'd cried for years after Snow had left, and she refused to cry over her sister any more. She turned when he tipped his head, and she stormed back the way she'd come. In her bedroom, she sat on the bed in a flounce of cloak and dust, and she stared at the doorway. "I can't even go find your library now, because she kept talking about it." Maybe she was feeling the tiniest bit sorry for herself. She realized it, and she flopped back on the mattress with a dramatic groan. She was quiet a second, and then she pushed herself up on her elbows. "What if she's right?"
The Beast had left most of his regard for personal boundaries behind a few decades back, and after he managed to scrape, pull, and wriggle himself up the stairs, he proceeded to shoulder his way into the small room off the tiny little landing. Once he arrived, slicked down and grumbling, he gave a full body shake from horns to tail, the red fox fur whipping and the scales gleaming. He looked around at the room. It was absurdly clean, and smelled of the servants and the girl where it had been neatly assembled. It looked small to him, but in this case it was somewhat reassuring. The distress smelled good if he wanted to chase something, but when he didn’t it made him feel possessive and protective, like he might bite the next thing that came up that stair. So the Beast decided the cozy room would do (about halfway through Rose’s speech about crying), turned in a circle, and flopped on his side like an overgrown housecat. He flicked one ear forward and then back as the broad snow-gray wing settled over his flank. Sleepy eyes regarded her. “About the library?” he asked.
She pushed herself up further on her elbows when he circled, and she watched incredulously as he flopped onto his side. She almost told him that he couldn't stay there. He was a man after all, beneath all that beastliness. Maybe another girl wouldn't see it that way, but she had seen bears turn into men; she knew how it worked. But his question was so very frustrating that it eclipsed everything else, and she flopped on her back again and groaned. A few seconds later, she turned herself around on the bed, so her head was at the edge, and the cloak covered all of her but her face. "No. Not the library. About someone else needing to come break your curse, someone pretty on the inside, who isn't evil when she looks in the mirror," she explained, dropping her chin to the mattress with a sigh. "She's supposed to be beautiful and perfect." She tipped her head thoughtfully. "Do you think my sister will really kill the queen?"
The Beast snorted. Dust kicked up from the floor in front of his paws and chest, floating up toward the window. "Not a rat's chance in the mews," he said, using a very old phrase to make his opinion clear. He was making himself very comfortable on the stone floor, which was surprisingly warm in the right places. He thought he detected the remains of last night's fire in the tiny hearth at his back and he flicked the scaled tail back to circle around under his wings. For some reason his tail always felt cold, and he'd singed the fox fur no few times trying to warm up the scaled bit. The discomforts of being a Beast. He settled his furred chin down between his front paws, heaving a sigh. "You are not evil. I know evil, and you are not she. Besides, there is no person coming to break the curse."
"You're difficult," she said with a sulk, chin still on the mattress and a sneeze following immediately afterward, thanks to the dust on the cloak. But the cloak was warm and soft, and she was loathe to lose it. "Who did it belong to?" she asked tugging the hood further over her red hair and letting the furry edge obscure most of her features. She looked like little more than a little girl with red hair on a bed just then, and she kicked her feet behind her repeatedly, doing so until her shoes slipped off and to the floor with a thunk. "You can't know the future. Someone might come if I left. Someone who would make you kinder and better and handsome, I suppose. All cursed princes are meant to be handsome." She watched his tail flick with the kind of interest that a cat gave something that twitched in the distance, and she looked back to his maw after. "Where do you normally sleep?" she asked curiously, because she was a curious thing, when it was all said and done.
“The hood?” The Beast’s black nose came up and his nostrils flared in the air as he blinked slowly, sniffing. He had no sisters, and his mother’s things were all in the west wing, with him. But the red cloak was still in good shape, so it couldn’t have predated him by that long. The Beast examined his mental map of the castle. It was blurred in many places. He hesitated. “Perhaps my father’s mother. I do not recognize the scent.”
Both wings twitched and his ears came forward to focus on the drop of the shoes as they fell over each other onto the stone floor. She needed more rugs in here; the stone was pleasantly cool under his furred belly but it was undoubtedly unpleasant to walk on. His mouth gaped a second in silent laughter again. “I am not to be made kinder, nor better.” He dropped his chin again when the shoes stopped moving, feline for about two seconds until the big wings fluttered together, out and in, rearranging in soft thumps as his heavy back legs sprawled flat. “The west wing,” he replied, hmphing a warm gust of breath over his dusty paws again. “It is draftier than this wing. You would not like it.”
She nodded when he asked if the question was in regard to the hood, but she didn't press and ask after his family. Families were a touchy business where Rose was concerned, and she didn't want to embark on an even greater conversation about her own. Instead, she watched his wings twitch and his ears come forward, and she had the childish desire for something else to drop, merely to see if the reaction would be the same. As for the coldness underfoot, she did not think on it much. Her room in the merchant's house had been nothing but the pantry, and there had been no fire and no rugs there; this was a comfortable alternative. "You are to be uncursed, and the curse is what makes you so terribly difficult," she informed him, as if she was an expert on these things. "What were you like before?" she asked. "You can be honest. I know all princes to be quite dreadful." She didn't comment on the west wing. It made her curious, though, which showed in her eyes. If she changed her mind about running away while he slept, she would go seek out his chambers.
The Beast was not paying much attention to Rose's expression. As a Beast he was better at reading body language (interpreted, of course, in his own animalistic way) and there was no scent for curiosity. He was relaxing even more, with big heaves of his sides under the soft down high on his wings under his chin. He curled up his head to stick it along the first primary just over his right paw, and shut his eyes. "The curse is not what makes me difficult," he rumbled, as if offended (hardly, with fur flat and eyes low). "I was as I am, except as a man. I do not think it is that complex." The Beast was not at all going to share what happened to him when he left the immediate vicinity of the castle. He wanted to keep the girl here, not scare her into insensibility.
"See," she said, smug in her certainty and warm and sleep-cozy beneath the hooded cloak, "all princes are dreadful. But the proper princess can make you sweet and kind and wonderful." Her words were sarcastic, entirely too old for her, and yet they were laced with hope. Perhaps such things were possible. Perhaps not all men were like Charming and the other lords at Snow's castle. Perhaps the problem was merely with princes. "Snow's Bigby seems decent enough, and he seems to care about her. But he was a wolf once, and I don't precisely know how that works," she admitted with a crinkle of her nose, as her eyes drifted shut. Time enough to run away in the morning, she thought, not questioning the surprising safety she felt in the presence of someone who wasn't safe at all.
"You have foolish ideas about men. They do not change. They are what they are, and if you are lucky, perhaps there is something great that you have simply not seen before. War reveals such things. Women do not change men. It is foolish to hope they will." The Beast's voice was honey thick and lazy. The stones were starting to warm a little bit, but not too much, and even the icy circulation in his tail was starting to abate. The soft tuft of red fox fur slid slowly back and forth in the soot at the edge of the hearth, and his breathing slowed to admit long pauses between the heave of his sides under the feathers.
"I know men don't change; Justine is the one who thinks they do. But maybe they all aren't so very terrible," she said. "We had so many people die in the war," she added, quiet and slow with the curtain of sleep starting to slide down upon her. "But the Adversary isn't here," she said with a satisfied sound, one that said whatever Ravenna could bring could not be as bad as what they had lived through in their world. "It's safe here," she added, a sleepy sigh indicating the fight given up, acquiesced to sleep.