What was it that stirred within the mistress? What darkness marred that perfectly chiselled tiara, those warm, welcoming eyes, what could possibly cause her to be weeping, to be adding her saline tears to the expanse of the ocean surrounding them? Why had he never seen it before, never noticed, never cared? All she had ever offered him was help, a friendship, and yet all he had ever felt was judgement, enmity and aversion directed towards him - all of which were grossly untrue. Was she always like this, so kind and yet saddened at the same time? So generous despite the despair that clings to her soul, that dampens her spirit? Did she simply push it aside, hide it beneath a façade of kindly smiles and gentle intonations, so that none might see the grim belle that resides within, the depressed and repressed little girl who deserved nothing more than the embrace of a strong and valiant saviour, a being who could offer her the support and gentle comfort she more than warranted. Was she always this way? Or had something changed the belle, had she been subjected to a torture he did not know of, a curse much like his own? When faced with the prospect of seeing others be subjected to a curse much like his own, he had reacted with a fierce protectiveness, an incessant need to prevent the darkness from spreading, a dire determination to save that which he could rescue - and this circumstance was no different. The prospect of 'fathering' the creature that rested within the orb between his forelegs had awakened something within Kiro he did not know existed, a deep sense of commitment, of guardianship, of loyalty and dare he think it, even affection.
The Beast's old, blunt teeth ground against each other, as the pain sliced through him, and suddenly he was weakened, overwhelmed and distracted to his former self, to his true selfish self, where he blamed the world for his curse, the old witch that had seen that had not only seen Kiro for what he truly was, but exposed it to the world. He was blind to this fact still, though hints of understanding were creeping through, trickling slowly, like droplets of water tumbling down the side of a glacier of misconstrued information. Then, she began to sing, and immediately he felt the effects - it was like a sedation, a drug, a sweet and blissful journey that sent him on the highest of highs. Her song penetrated his mind, it took him faraway, and he allowed it to carry him all that way, showing no intention of returning to this cruel world. He had no desire to fight it, not after feeling the fingers of her magic comb through him, coat him, infiltrate his mind and body and soul. It cleansed him, it wiped him completely of the infection brought on by the burns, and then it began to stitch him back together, to encourage the skin to repair itself as perfectly as if the incident never happened. He was glad to be rid of it, though some small part of him did whimper at the loss of the scar, for it was a sign of his effort to prove himself worthy of the orb, a mark of the moment where he became a parent, a guardian of something other than his own selfish wants and desires. But he happily willed it away, casting it on the wave of her magic that coursed through him, clinging to the memories that it stood for - the orb rested against his forelegs, it would be his physical reminder now, it wouldn't let him forget what he went through, the darkness he chased away, the promise of being a beacon, a light of hope for the last of its rare species.
He felt the magic sink in, it gave him energy, life, even a renewed will to live in this tired old, beastly body. He felt the song dip deeper into his form, he felt it interact with the curse that resided within - and then he felt a burning, an anger that didn't seem to originate from him. It was the magics colliding, his curse and her pure magic, meeting and clashing, repelling, destroying one another. He wondered, could she feel this too? The affliction that was always with him, whether the Sun or the Moon was out? The curse that the cruel witch had placed upon him, labelling him selfish, stealing away his handsome, youthful, proud bodice and giving him nothing but this old, decrepit, broken vessel - could she see it in her magical, physical examination of his very mind, body and soul? Would she recognise the beast within, the steed who had angered her so in the past, the one who had done nothing but reject her efforts and call her stupid, the one who had grown equally frustrated at her constant want to help, who now saw her for what she truly was, a stunning creature of light and laughter, whose spirit had been broken, dampened and devoured by some unknown dark force? He almost wanted her to recognise him, to fight for him, to continue to try and use her magic to thwart this curse - but deep down, he knew it would mean her demise if she tried to. Relentless, her harmonic voice continued its song, and it took all his efforts to open his eyes once more, to step closer to her, to murmur in his deep, croaky voice, "Hush, young belle. I thank you…" Though age still defiled his body, the wounds his curse had laid upon him were cleared, the burns the darkness had inflicted were knitted together again, leaving behind the dull grey, wrinkled flesh, that seemed to settle upon his face in a serene sort of smile, an expression of deep gratitude and even, longing. A yearning to hold his young body again, a yearning to be able to be all this maiden deserved and more, a longing to prove himself worthy of the gift of life she had just bestowed upon him. Only his eyes could show that yearning, their deep, violet gaze sought out her own chocolate pools, attempting to get lost amongst them.
Nervously, his muzzle lifted, and he tried to try the tears that had cascaded down the curve of her cheek with his roughened, aged maw. The Beast felt more alive now than he ever had before, and he had no idea how to express that, no idea how to show that he was finally beginning to understand.. "Why do you weep?" Why did he care? Why now, did he wish to know what upset her? Why did he want nothing more than to eliminate the source of her unhappiness, the demons that gave her nightmares, the darkness that marred her brow? Why now, was it so easy to forget the wrecked body he held, to stand before this belle, unafraid that she might push him aside, knowing, hoping, praying that she would linger and allow him to gift back to her what she had done unto him - what she had been trying to give to him time and time again but he had been too stubborn, too obnoxious and arrogant to see it, to receive it? He fought with the urge to retreat, to recede into the shade of a cave and await the time that he would be blessed with his true body again - he twitched, he shivered, and he sternly told himself to remain rooted, to wait, and see whether she would open herself to him.
@[Lena]
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