blake thorne doesn't believe in (anatkh) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-01-22 11:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | beast, door: dc comics, quasimodo |
Who: The Beast and Quasimodo
What: A face to face meeting at last.
Where: The hallways of the castle. (Fairy Tale Door)
When: Prior to the Beast tearing up the West Wing.
Warnings/Rating: None.
Quasimodo had been avoiding the Beast for years now. It had always seemed for the best. After all, the Beast was several times the size of him, and he had watched him return to the castle with game before - clearly, he was a hunting creature. He hadn’t even realized definitively that the Beast could speak, or had a thinking mind, until he’d begun to hear the echoes of his bone shaking arguments with Rose, someone else he’d done his best to avoid. It seemed Faust was determined to put a stop to that with her, but the Beast remained a risky prospect. If his other was to be believed, it was just as dangerous as he’d always guessed to let the creature know of his presence.
So, despite the fact that the other two castle residents knew he was there by now, Quasimodo still crept carefully through the hidden pathways of the castle to avoid the Beast.
He had begun to feel rather cooped up, though, and a trip down to the library couldn’t hurt anything. It had become drafty in the long halls, and his unexpected gift from Daniel proved very useful indeed. He wore the blanket wrapped around his shoulders under his usual heavily hooded cloak, lining the thin fabric and giving it more weight.
The network of secret passages emptied out onto one of the long, broad main hallways, dim and empty. It was late in the evening, and Quasimodo was counting on the girl, Faust, and the Beast all being asleep, or through the other side of the door. This whole strange development with the appearance of another world had made his life easier, in some respects. The castle was much simpler to navigate when it was now so often empty.
This ease, and the fact that only the Beast was still ignorant to his presence, was the culprit for Quasimodo’s guard being down. It also explained why he did not hear the approach of anything down the hall until it was much too late to disappear to safety.
The Beast was not asleep. He was not out hunting, either. All because of a little patch of woods that became something else not a fortnight past. It appeared that it had just been a vision, a very realistic, darkly ominous, incredibly painful vision. It gave the Beast much to think about, and he still marveled a little at the way his limbs still moved when he had been so sure they would never do so again. More than himself, he was concerned about the effect the experience had on Rose, who was acting even more erratic and headstrong than usual. He had almost given up entirely on trying to keep her in one place long enough to keep her safe; he could not even naysay her mildest requests, and though his own irritation increased, the causes of it only seemed to multiply.
He had not seen the Witch in months, and he was becoming complacent, even domestic. Like a dog. It was not a wonder he had not been able to avoid his illusory fate.
Pondering these dark thoughts, the Beast paced slowly through a freezing, slumbering castle. The silent, invisible servants did more scurrying these days, fetching and supplying the additional inhabitants of the castle, and therefore they slept more deeply. It was very, very quiet--and in the quiet, the Beast heard something. He stalked closer, unthinkingly softening his step by crouching lower and putting more weight on the cat-like paws and less on the hooves and mismatched claws. He pressed his wings close to his body so they did not rustle, and he followed something relatively big through the halls and down an unused passage.
He saw something dark up ahead--the Beast was not possessed of the kind of night vision you might expect from a creature whose eyes glowed in dim light--and he gathered himself silently before he sprang forward like a cat, claws extended. He meant only to pin and not to kill, just in case it was one of Rose’s many strays getting into places they did not belong. Then he got a face full of a very strange but surprisingly familiar scent. Man, oak-aged drink, neglect. “...Daniel?” the Beast rumbled, shocked.
Quasimodo didn't know he was in any kind of danger until a heavy weight slammed into his back, pinning him to the ground. He began to struggle immediately. Yes, he was wretched, and yes, the Beast was much larger than him, but that did not mean he would willingly lay down and allow himself to be eaten. He had considerable strength despite his twisted body, and when he felt the prick of claws against his back that did not rake into him, he wondered if the Beast thought he might play with his food. He would make him regret that decision, even if he did so with his last breath.
But even as he struggled, no bite came, and then that heavy voice rolled almost through Quasimodo’s body, vibrating down the paw that pinned him to the floor. "No," he said. His cheek was pinned to the floor, and he managed to get his hands beneath him, trying to push himself up against the Beast's weight. "And I did not steal it," he snarled, expecting that accusation next. Too many times had he been accused for crimes he had not committed when he made the mistake of going out in the streets, his face incriminating him when no more convenient scapegoat stood by. He would not die as a thief, nor as prey under the creature's claws, not if he could help it. "It was a gift." The edge of the blanket peeped out from beneath his cloak. His face was still hidden, since he lay on his stomach, and the hood had remained over his face when he was pinned.
The Beast was no kitten. He’d brought down full-grown stags in the height of spring, and even though he didn’t do it with grace, he did it fast and well. Being roughly the size of a large polar bear meant that he could pin a grown man without too much effort as long as he had a good grip, and theoretically if he leaned forward long enough he could crush the man’s breath right out of him just by standing there. He wasn’t doing that at the moment, but the possibility was there in the musty spread of the furred paw. One was striped, the other wasn’t. About halfway up the stalk of his forearm a strip of vibrant green scales crawled through the fur, as if a snake had somehow left his skin there.
The Beast brought his head up and shook it like a confused dog. “No. Not Daniel. You smell like Daniel. Daniel gave you this?” He brought his head back down and snuffled at the cloak, reaffirming his grip when the prey started to wriggle so he had long enough to figure out the scent. He had smelled it before, but it wasn’t as strongly human as a man. It smelled more of dust. The Beast had smelled Quasimodo before, but had dismissed old trails as no trail at all. “Daniel does not give gifts,” the Beast said, suspiciously. “Does he?” This now confused, uncertain. Another snuffle, and a very cold nose on the back of Quasimodo’s neck. “You are a man?” he asked, perplexed. At least he has stopped snarling.
Quasimodo flinched when that cold nose pressed against the back of his neck. He had struggled until that point, and the hood had finally slipped back, far enough to expose copper-colored hair, and that there was a scarf tied his face. Of course, the sight was, in part, an illusion, but it looked and felt as real as could be. Along with the scent of Daniel on the blanket, there was the dusty, musty smell of books, old cloth, and the black tea he'd had in his tower a few hours before. It was a lonely sort of smell. Aside from the strong scent of Daniel on the blanket, there was nothing on Quasimodo to suggest any face to face interaction with anyone at all.
Mingling with all of that was the sharp tang of magic already cast, a spell ongoing not magic inherent to Quasimodo himself. It was close to his skin, and he was completely unaware of its existence. "He must," Quasimodo said. "Because he gave me this blanket, and I was grateful for that kindness. I am no thief." When the Beast asked whether he was a man indeed, he bristled a little, partially covered face still pressed to the cold stone. Even in the situation he was now, he had heard that question in some form or another far too many times. "I am a man," he said, his voice raw in his throat. From this position, he could see the striped paw, the gradation into scales, and his stomach tightened, but he would not show his fear. "No monster. Only that. Now, I ask you to let me up, or kill me swiftly. I know that this is your home, and I am sorry for trespassing within it, but I promise you shall regret it if you intend to toy with me before I die."
The Beast took a last wet sniff of dust and fabric and Daniel, and he finally got a whiff of the actual thing he had pinned to the ground. His eyes weren’t the best in the dim light, but the speech and the tea finally sealed it for him. He grunted in reluctant agreement, sending a wave of warm air from his lungs through the darkened red hair of his temporary captive. The magic made his hair, fur, scales, and feathers all bristle. Everything stood out like pins on a pincushion. It felt like it was in progress and not permanent, nothing like his own transformation. “I have not decided yet if you will die,” the Beast retorted, clearly annoyed at being informed how he would and would not kill things in his own house.
Finally he shifted, just enough to take his weight off the man. His paw was still there, but there were not quite so many sharp claws in immediate appearance. His wings mantled slightly over his shoulders and his front legs sprawled, so he could catch the man if he attempted to run or jump past him. “You are using some spell to hide from me,” he accused, growling again in a manner somehow different than before, as if he was using a different set of vocal cords.
Quasimodo began pushing himself up as soon as the pressure of the Beast's paw began to ease, though that heavy, warm breath made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That mouth, undoubtedly full of sharp teeth, was very close to the back of his head. "I am not hiding," he said, and turned his head to look back the the Beast over his shoulder. Many mistook him for a meek man because of his long years in hiding, and his cultivated habit of running from the sight of others when he thought he was alone. What he did to spare himself the pain other people had always represented did not make him a coward, however. He kept to himself, but he would defend his person if need be, and those that needed it. Or, he thought, with a pang, he would try. In the past, when it had been his duty to protect someone, he had ultimately failed.
Looking back at the enormous, mismatched, dim bulk that was the Beast perched on top of him, Quasimodo revealed dusty, dirt-smudged, unusually beautiful features. He had sharply defined cheekbones, a narrow nose, and clear blue eyes peered through the low light through the haphazard fall of red hair. Those eyes were the same no matter what magic changed the rest of him. "I have had a spell cast on me, against my will. I am not as I appear to be...or so I have been told. I look the same to myself as I have always been, for all my days." After so many years as the Hunchback, nothing more, he was still reeling from the possibility of change. Particularly when, looking down at himself, he saw none of what he was told he was. It made him feel like he was going mad. The growling radiated through him, and he kept his fingers flat on the ground, his toes pressed back and ready to spring away if the Beast changed his mind about tearing him apart.
The Beast knew just what a rabbit looked like when it was getting ready to run for it, and he kept the massive wings spread to encompass the corridor and his varicolored paws were stretched out to forestall any running. He no longer looked quite so large since most of the fur and feathers had tamped down, but he was still quite a monster made up of so many strange things--stubs of antlers, bears’ shoulders, tigers’ paws, boars’ bristles, lions’ manes, and various spines, teeth, and claws. Carefully he withdrew his paw and watched the man’s every attempt to stand.
The round eyes were set very wide to give a substantial amount of peripheral vision, with a horse’s starred forehead between them, but the golden glow appeared to hold enough intelligence to regard the man with a bland air. “How very torturous for you,” the Beast said. He drawled the words, and it came out with substantial more hiss than anything else he’d yet managed. His tongue was broad and purple but it had an edge. “How perfectly awful you look. Poor man, I may cry.” A substantial amount of yellow fang made itself known in the conversation.
When the paw finally pulled away from his back, Quasimodo got to his feet as quickly as he could, stumbling a little, leaning his weight onto his right foot. His left ankle was still healing from the spill he'd taken trying to flee Rose, though it was better each day.
Quasimodo faced the patchwork creature before him down with a quickly assessing eye and wariness, but not disgust. Some appropriate awe, perhaps. The Beast was like nothing he'd ever seen, like something from a story. He had seen some magic, but not magic like this. Where did such a creature come from, who looked thus, and could speak? How had he come to be in a castle as grand as this?
It was bizarre, how quickly the words from the Beast's mouth could distract from the strangeness of the rest of him. They stung like burrs under the skin. What was he, that the Beast reacted with so little understanding? What was he now, what kind of man, that he remained blind to? He was beginning to think that the mystery of it would drive him mad. "I don't know what you see," he said, frustrated, the adrenaline of escaping expected death still coursing through him. "Mock me if you like. I am not what you think." He blinked, and took a breath. "And you...are not what I thought, I do not think. And I am sorry. I am." Best to come clean now, since it was bound to out eventually.
"I have been living here for some time," Quasimodo said. "In a hidden place. I was forced to leave my home, because...there was nothing left for me there, and to have stayed would have been to die." Thoughts of that time were best left dusty and untouched. All they did was draw blood, and there was nothing he could do to change the things he had and hadn't done. He could only pray for forgiveness, and that business was between himself and the Lord only.
"I walked until I passed into this land, which I am sure you know is barren. I could find neither food nor water for days. Not until I found this place." Quasimodo still looked ready to run at any second, despite the fact that the Beast would likely catch up to him before he got more than a few steps. "Your servants offered me kindness. They gave me food and water when I would otherwise have died, and I resolved to stay here until such a time as it seemed right to leave. I am not a thief," he said. He was adamant about it, in a sincere way, though there was guilt at the edges of his confession. "I have not taken anything that was not offered to me, except...books. I have read books from your library, borrowed and returned them. I did not have many books before. The man who raised me did not like them.” His gaze remained steady, but briefly took on a chilly cast. The warmed again as he went on. “They have taught me all kinds of things. When I came here, I was deaf, though I hear now, since my ears have rested in the quiet. The books helped me learn to speak again, the correct way. I have read them and learned about stars. About pesanteur, and les droits de l'homme. Philosophy, fiction, the sciences. They have been as important to me as the food and water, as the shelter." He shuffled one foot back. "I have been loathe to leave them, to be truthful. Nothing waits for me outside here. Until this spell was put on me, there was nowhere I might go where I would not face the same world I left in Paris. Even now, I have nothing. I have no surname. I do not know the nature of my birth. I have no trade." He hesitated. "I cannot offer you anything your servants do not already provide, except my gratitude. But I suppose I am asking you for continued sanctuary in your home. For the time being.”
It was a great many words to fall on inhuman ears. As a man, the Beast would have no interest in excuses; he would have looked upon this imposition into his home as thievery, even without the animal’s territorial instincts. The love of books would have only kindled disdain, as the young man who had dwelt within these walls assumed that books were the work of the idle, the vain, the useless. The young man’s mind had been filled with music, his memory alive not with symbols in ink but with notes and the worship of the people around him. He was sure of his superiority not because of his birth, but because he was sure that the ability to skin his own kills and earn his own bread made him better than the people who had the wealth and status to waste time in candlelight with scraps of paper. The young man was vain in a different way, foolish in a manner unique to the naturally gifted and well-liked. He was far away from the monster who now filled the hallway.
The golden eyes regarded the strange man steadily. The Beast didn’t seem to require as many blinks that a human did, and his unwavering amber gaze was alike to the sharpest hawk’s in very bright daylight. Little tips of his head were feline, flicks of his ears that likely indicated a total lack of understanding at the mention of these foreign words, l’homme, Paris. Yet he waited through the long explanation, even his tapering tail still along the awkward haunches of cat, horse, boar, bear. The large eyes narrowed dangerously at the mention of the traitorous servants. It appeared he had little control over what those who shared his curse did; he would need to correct that.
There was a pause empty of growl or movement, then the Beast shuffled his wings to rearrange his odd limbs into a more comfortable position. He said, “You found the library?”
Quasimodo paused. That had not been the reaction he was expecting - not nearly, not at all. "...well, yes. I did." He had found it while making his way through the various secret passageways and hidden tunnels of the castle, which had also been pointed out to him by helpful servants, apparently uninterested in seeing him driven out or eaten. "It seemed that it had been a long time since anyone had gone there. Dark, and quiet." And dusty, and full of priceless books. He had never seen so many in one place in his life. He did not think they even had such collections in the houses of noblemen. He watched the Beast for a moment. He had said nothing about driving him out, and Quasimodo backed up a step. "May I go?" It seemed better to ask than to break into a run. Though he could of course do that anyway, if the Beast responded negatively.
The Beast considered. It was not necessarily so harmful to have such a creature creeping about his castle, much like the wary rats that crept through the cracks of abandoned stone. The Beast was confident he could crush it at any time, should it become necessary. But for now, the scent of ongoing magic was temporarily conquered by the cringing man’s unintentional service. The amber eyes glowed for a moment as the Beast eyed him and his Rose-scented witchery, and then, very, very slowly, he folded one wing into the massive curve of his side, revealing a corridor with just enough space for a Quasimodo-shaped being to slide through. Now that he had his scent proper the Beast assumed he could find the library should he wish to take Rose there, and failing that he could send Daniel a note to persuade information whenever he should need it. Perhaps it would be useful to have a rat who could find the small places in the castle where the Beast no longer fit.
Quasimodo paused, then inclined his head, the only gesture of respect he felt capable of succeeding at. Bowing, however elegant it might appear under his current facade, would look ridiculous if anyone could see his hunched back. He moved to the side, keeping an eye on the Beast, and did not turn his back on him until he was within the passage itself.