Human Again

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  I cleared my mind and thought of Yarrow’s warning to me. I didn’t have much choice, time was running out and it was the only thing I could think of that might give me a chance of getting away.

  Without recourse, I reached into the void. Cold leaked into my limbs, to the very tips of my fingers and toes. I took an icy breath, whispered what I hoped would not be a final prayer, shut down my mind completely, and nudged open the bars of the cage.

  My hands tightened around my knives, my voice came out in a low snarl, blackness seeped in from the edge of my vision. And I set the beast free.

  I don’t remember what happened next.

  I only know that as soon my decision was made, the darkness that so willingly poured out of me confounded my vision in its zealousness to cause pain harsher than any I had nurtured within me all those years. Once unleashed, I didn’t try to fight it either, knowing full well it was my only possible means of getting out alive. The one thing I hadn’t anticipated was just how strong it would be when fed by the evil of the Forest. In some ways, it was a dark warning of things to come.

  I don’t know how much time passed before I returned to myself, before my eyes cleared and a temporarily satiated beast settled down inside me once more, leaving the rest of me exhausted.

  In the quiet, my mind scrambled for coherency.

  One, I had entered the Forest alone and had stayed alone all day.

  Two, I had stumbled upon a camp of four armed ogres.

  Three, I had given in to the beast.

  Four, I wiped the sweat trickling toward my eyes, and felt something smear across my face.

  I looked down. Blood, on my hands. Yet no cut on my body accounted for so much.

  The blood on my hands was not my own.

  I peered at the bodies, leaned closer to confirm the ogres really were dead. Two of the bodies had been mercilessly slashed, no doubt the effect of an untethered beast using a man’s knives like steel claws. The other two, however, had only a single entry point from the knife that had instantly brought them down. A dark object moved at one of their necks. Looking closer, I caught sight of an unnaturally massive bat with the wingspan of a glorious eagle drinking the ogre’s blood.

  A sudden movement near the body startled me and my knife was hurtling toward the shadows in an instant. I didn’t even consider what I might be hitting.

  The knife stopped as quickly as I had thrown it, stopped by the hand of a man who had caught it midair. The man was tall and formidable, though not comparable to me in either regard, about my age or even a little younger, though something about him seemed to be much older. There was also something fearsome about him, something about the way he moved that said this man was lethal, silent, and fast. I stared at him, unsure if he meant me any harm, slowly connecting the pieces of his skill to the other dead ogres.

  “What manner of man are you?” I questioned.

  The man responded with a deep chuckle. “Just a man,” he replied, as if it was such a small thing. He glanced at the carnage then returned his gaze to me, the dark gray of his eyes glinting like steel in the faded light, the purple ring around them marking him a Huntsman, barely visible. “And you, what manner of man are you?” he questioned in return.

  It was my turn to chuckle, but my laugh was mirthless. “I hardly know,” I told him honestly.

  The man nodded knowingly. “You’re from the Academy,” he concluded.

  “Are we so obvious?” I asked.

  “Your training is,” the Huntsman—for he could be nothing else—explained, “though I doubt you used it much to overcome those unfortunate two.”

  A part of me was ashamed at hearing the words out loud, though I quickly shoved down the anger because I knew he was only sharing his observations. Plus I was slightly in awe of him, even with proof of just what I could do at our feet.

  “Are you servant or master?” the man next asked.

  “Master,” I replied.

  “A prince?” he questioned.

  “A prince,” I confirmed. “His Royal Highness Prince Ignatius Azahr II.”

  “Your Highness,” the man tipped his head to me, a sly smile skirting about his words.

  “And your name?” I asked.

  The smile vanished. Our exchange had been polite, but, I realized, far from innocent. With my question, his guard went back up, his body tensed, his expression closed.

  “It’s safer not to know,” the Huntsman told me, his tone grave, his face devoid of any emotion. “Best to forget I was here at all.”

  With that, he disappeared back into the forest, leaving behind one sharp whistle which roused the bat from its feeding and sent him silently back into the night. I would say I watched them leave, but they were gone as suddenly as they’d appeared, leaving behind little trace but the bite marks on the ogre’s neck.

  Just like that, I was left to face the darkness alone once more.

  Over my almost seven years at the Academy, I continued to grow into the hulking, intimidating man I am now. At just about eighteen, I was sturdier than a brick wall, yet still lithe and quick, able to duck, dive, and strike with the speed and fire of lighting. Much of my physical prowess stemmed from channeling my fury and rage into all manner of physical training. Once my body finished reaching upward, I was easily a head taller than most men. I towered over horses, saw eye-to-eye with saplings, waded across rivers many others had to swim.

  What is most ironic is that I appeared to all the court as a most promising sort of man, in direct opposition to what I truly was. I’d returned to our palace in Panthrea with dignity, academic honors, and an unshakable sense of accomplishment. My build was not yet considered threatening, but strapping and tall; my blue eyes weren’t ice, but the runoff of melting snow, a sure sign of winter’s retreat. When I was in a good mood, I was as affable and gregarious as any prince could be. I told jokes, laughed, smiled, and socialized.

  I was also never less than perfectly presentable, my father insisted on it, and I also believed that following the rules would keep me grounded. I was the crown prince of the kingdom, after all, and even when I lashed out, there were certain things I never let go awry. At home, most believed my former raging had been curbed, that my perceived “childish” impetuousness and egotism had been set right by an Academy famed for turning boys into men. They thought I’d been nicknamed “Beast” simply because of my bulk and the tales of my ruthless successes preceding my return.

  Still, it was my intimidating size that led others to undervalue my mind and see only a body of brute strength. Once I was sent away, no one remembered my passion for music, no one repeated rumors of the hours I spent in the Academy’s library. No one remembered that I was anything other than what they saw me to be.

  And the more my thoughts were shut down, the more expression was denied, the more those oases of calm refuge began to dry up, my mind began yielding to the demands of my body instead of the other way around. When the Academy was through with me, I was and would be known foremost for my physical prowess. My instructors at the Academy and those at home relished it, caring little for the glaring lack of cultivation of the mind I had once been so proud of and focusing only on the beast emerging from the darkness. The beast I had created to protect myself from my own powerlessness.

  I soon grew frustrated from what had been left behind in my transition from curious child to hardened man. As my frustration grew, the walls of ice thickened inside me. I was often spurned into runs across the palace grounds, my feet eating up the dirt beneath me just as the darkness of my rage devoured me from inside. Cold violence became the answer to all the questions I used to ask.

  “You’ve changed,” Sir Garamond commented during a break in our first sparring session following my graduation.

  During my brief visits home over the years, I’d only managed to spar with him briefly. This was the first time he was getting to see what I could do. The rules of our sessions were simple: keep going until your opponent stops getting back up.

>   “I’ve been away a while,” I reminded him. “Children grow up, boys turn into men.”

  He nodded, though it didn’t seem the answer he was looking for.

  I pressed harder after we resumed, ensuring my defeat of him was absolute.

  “Your body may have grown into a man’s,” he called after my retreating figure as he dragged himself to his knees, “but you’ve become something else.”

  I kept on walking, not caring to hear what I already knew.

  I should add that I was capable of some real moments of kindness, the one lingering element that kept me grounded in humanity and somewhat in control of my senses before the curse ruined it all. The servants were never able to hide the look of surprise on their faces when I asked after their families with honest concern, when I remembered each one’s name, age, and stage. More than once, I personally gave a small bag of coins to a servant I knew had a broken roof to repair, or an ailing mother to tend, or another young one to feed.

  Perhaps I did so to ease a burning conscience, or as a vain attempt to balance the ferociousness of my brutality. Regardless, I like to think these actions were genuine, from an impenetrable source of light somewhere within me that would not be cowed by a beast. It had to be, or there was really no part of me worth saving.

  However, even those rare and ephemeral flashes weren’t enough to save me in the eyes of those I abused with my words and tight fists. Those glimpses of kindness couldn’t bring my brother back. They couldn’t remove the hurt or undo the damage I wrought. And they certainly weren’t enough to keep me from what would happen next.

  Perhaps I blame my own incompetency on others, but I learned in the years to follow about just how different my life could have been. I didn’t learn any of it from my father, my mother, Amellia, Azeria, my instructors, or fellow princes. I didn’t even begin to understand just how much had truly been lost until one innocent autumn day when Kiara walked into my life and brought with her an honest glimpse of the man I could have been.

  Not There Before

  My eighteenth birthday marked the end of the world I had known and heralded in the beginning of what was to be my new life and the eventual faery tale that would unfold from it. One day I was crown prince, the next I was cursed, the one after I was exiled to a castle tucked into a forgotten corner of the kingdom. I stayed there over two years without once seeing my family, with barely a letter or word of concern passing between us. Perhaps I should have been comforted by the solitude, the quiet of the forest, the lack of political machinations and disapproving glances, the simplicity of a life away from court, but every day I lived alone was a dagger through my heart, a painful reminder that I was there because I could not be home. Each morning I woke with the image of my father’s disappointment, each night I was rocked to sleep to the rhythm of my self-berating. And each day, my fury grew colder and colder.

  The tale of a sorceress who cursed me with the form of a beast until love and wholehearted acceptance freed me is mainly true. It was a faery who came to the palace, and I did refuse her entry, but there was more to it than that. Much more.

  Turning eighteen was a very significant milestone in our kingdom. It marked the age of maturity, when boys became men through labor and girls became women through marriage. While others had freer range within this new stage, for the future monarch it marked the day he began serving alongside his father at court, learning how to rule through experience and with a guiding hand. That should have been the first of many changes in my life, as I would soon after be expected to wed and produce an heir of my own, so potential brides were often assessed during the grand party planned for months to celebrate the auspicious day.

  In the weeks leading up to my birthday, the whole family sat for a portrait that would be presented to me with much ceremony during the celebration. I was to keep it in a prominent place in my study, a reminder of the tradition I was meant to uphold. No one mentioned the glaringly empty space where Adlard should have stood, but we all felt it.

  I had vowed to stay in a good mood for my birthday, tried my hardest to refrain from any of my usual violent outbursts that were easily triggered in the frenzy of party preparations and the constant reminder that all this should have been for Adlard. The faint music in my mind then was a cacophony of triumph and bitterness, denial and joy.

  I remember how cloudy those days were, how the brightness of the spring sun was hidden, casting the earth in wan, gray light. Every time I caught a glimpse of those clouds in the sky, my good intentions faded away, as if blocking the light of the sun had blotted out the light of good humor as well. The sight of clouds shouldn’t have upset me so, but I felt as though I stood at the edge of a precipice, certain that one thing out of order would be the push to a perilous, possibly fatal, fall. Because then, more than in all the years before, the shadow of my brother hung most heavily over me. In some dark recess of my mind, he was the night holding back the sun. He was the one who wouldn’t let me shine.

  So it was with this mounting pressure that I went for a final fitting of the new suit I would wear at the celebration, which would start once I returned from a traditional hunt. The air was damp that day, the tightly packed clouds letting loose a slight drizzle that increased as the day wore on. It sunk my mood further, knowing my odds of a quick hunt dwindled with the worsening weather.

  My servants set to work helping me dress, each one careful and meticulous in their specific tasks. In line with the royal colors, my suit was a rich, dark blue, lined with silver stitching along the cuffs, collar, lapels, and down the ribbons on the outer side of each pant leg. A silver ceremonial sword, sharp, but heavy and unwieldy, was fastened around my hips with a silver belt-like sash. Everything was going relatively well, and then, just like that innocuous drizzle of rain, something small happened, a sudden shake deep within the mountain to trigger an awesome avalanche.

  It started when the servant near my shoe hesitated. It was done so quietly, I wouldn’t have noticed had I not felt the sudden, collective pause in the room.

  “What?” I questioned sharply, my voice too loud in the ensuing hush.

  Utter silence.

  “What is it?” I growled again, my expression blank, my voice more menacing as the beast bristled at being ignored.

  The servant, remaining bent over the shoe he was polishing, forced himself to look up. Even from my towering height above him, I could see his body tremble.

  “Th-th-th-there s-s-s-s-s-seems to b-b-b-be a t-t-t-t-tear in His-s Hi-highness’s-s-s-s p-p-p-p-pant le-leg,” he stuttered.

  “A what?” I asked coldly.

  Rather than repeat himself, the servant raised a shaking finger to the hole that snuck its way along the seam of my pants near my calf. I exhaled sharply and let my breath out in a short, frustrated huff, reminding myself that at some point in the past week I had been determined not to lose my temper. Control, I reminded myself, this can be repaired.

  “Fix it,” I snapped irritably.

  “Yes-s-s-s-s-s-s, Your High-highnes-s-s-s-s,” he said, even though the task should have fallen to someone else.

  The servant bobbed his head at me, absolutely gratified that I hadn’t ferociously kicked him, or leveled any of the other abuses I was prone to. He scurried away for some needle and thread, and it was when he was thus patching me up that the tides of change flooded my future, busting my dam of poise completely.

  “Bring me the menu for the party,” I commanded the room at large, my hand out in anticipation of my wish being instantly fulfilled.

  Someone hurried the thick paper over to me and, with characteristic impatience, I grabbed it with a sharp snap. I had already reviewed the menu countless times, but I was taking every precaution to make sure every single aspect of this day would be perfect. Nothing could betray expectations, everything would be beyond reproach. I knew even Adlard wouldn’t have put as much care into his celebration.

  I scanned the section of the main menu, read it once, twice, a tickle in my mind w
arning that something was off. I read through it more slowly, and then my vision blurred, making it difficult to make out the words before me.

  The traditional venison. The deer I would catch by tomorrow afternoon, which would be served during the festivities as proof of my dedication to provide for the subjects of my kingdom. It had been removed from the menu. Why?

  I forgot my decision to keep an even countenance, my hand shook with fury as my mind froze over. I seethed. I’d never wanted any of this. Yet I’d been subjected to sitting hours for a portrait I never asked for. I’d been cursed with gray skies and rainy weather right before the hunt. My suit was not ready, and now this.

  No one had consulted me. Why didn’t anyone ask before altering this very important detail? I was eighteen, a top graduate of my class, the heir and future king, and yet I was not trusted to make a decision as small as this? A decision that reflected on the success of my future reign?

  Dimly, I was aware that my heartbeat had slowed into the steady, measured thumps of cold, deliberate fury signaling the beast’s imminent takeover. Sensing the coming danger, the servants tried to back away discreetly, all but the one now working very quickly on my pant leg.

  Just like that, I had lost control of all my carefully designed plans, overcome with the familiar feeling that everything would continue to spin out of my grasp, spiral into incurable self-destruction I would never be able to stop.

  “ENOUGH!” I thundered, hoping my voice would drown out the chime of warning bells clanging in my mind. I yanked on the reigns of my fury and gave those gathered a calm, measured look, the calm even more disturbing than my outburst.

  “Where is my father?” I asked too politely.

  “In-in t-t-t-the f-f-front-t-t-t-t p-p-p-parlor, Your Highness,” one of the servants managed to sound out.