After hastily changing gowns and tying my hair back, I went straight to the manservant who was acting as foreman. He gestured at me with great excitement, and I knew he was eager to show me the work they had done while I had been talking with Lysander. I could see that he was proud of what they had accomplished, and I could feel my own heart swelling with pride as I smiled and allowed my eyes to follow his sweeping gestures.
"It is as if you have worked magic. I can scarcely recognize this corridor," I breathed. "You have all worked so hard. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your aide."
That moment, that one perfect moment, was one of those rare, beautiful moments in life. It was a moment in which I felt at harmony with everyone around me, and I was filled with a sense of contentment and satisfaction so heady that it nearly made me giddy. The cynical side of me should have known that such happiness rarely lasts.
"What is this?" The voice was so filled with malice that it sent a chill down my spine, freezing the blood in my veins, and making the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
All motion ceased and, for one distressing instant, I could have sworn that the servants were made of stone rather than flesh and blood. The gray pallor of their skin, the blank orbs of their eyes, and the rigid set of their features made me feel as though I was surrounded by statuary.
"Lysander," I gasped, as I whirled around to face him. The look in his eyes was one of such danger that my throat was immediately parched with terror and my heart began to race. Without even being fully aware of what I was doing, I pushed one of the maids behind me, wanting to shield her from that look, from the fury that rolled off Lysander in waves. "It was my idea! The servants bear no responsibility for this! I asked them for the supplies and I began cleaning. If you wish to punish anyone, punish me!"
"You dare to defy me?" he snarled at the servants in the same awful tone of voice. They fell to their knees in soundless supplication, tearing at their own faces in fear. Their reaction terrified me, and my entire body shook.
I cannot allow this to happen! an inner voice screamed at me, and I fought the instinct that told me to shrink back in fear.
"You dare to defy me?" Lysander repeated. His voice rose until the sound of it made my ears throb in protest.
I knew I had to act. What would come would come. I had known the risks when I had started this foolish enterprise, and I was going to accept the consequences of my actions. I would not allow Lysander to take his fury out on the servants. It was my responsibility to protect them, no matter the cost.
"Lysander!" I shouted, my voice betraying my fear. I was desperate to redirect his attention to me. I took a step toward him and tried to take another, but several of the servants reached out and seized my arms, holding onto me with viselike grips, refusing to allow me to move any closer to their master.
"I will show you the price of your defiance!" he roared. His voice was so loud that I winced in pain. The servants scrambled away from him, except for those restraining me; they stood their ground and maintained their grasp on my arms. I opened my eyes just in time to see Lysander sweep aside a ladder as if it weighed nothing more than a leaf, sending it crashing through the window at the end of the corridor. The sound of the glass shattering was deafening, and I could hear screaming as it rained down upon me and the servants restraining me. I was so stunned and terrified that I almost did not realize the scream was my own.
"Lysander!" I called again, struggling desperately against the servants. They began to tug at me in earnest, doing their best to drag me away from him.
"No!" I cried, trying to free myself. "No!"
There was glass in my hair. I could feel it scratching against my scalp as Lysander lashed out with one massive paw and smashed a door that had recently been replaced. Splinters of wood flew everywhere, one hitting me in the face, but I barely felt the sting of pain. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I could not tear my eyes from the broken glass and pieces of wood that littered what had been an immaculately clean floor mere moments ago.
"Lysander, please!" I sobbed. I managed to wrench one arm free of the servants' grasp, but they soon regained their hold on me and began dragging me out of the corridor, away from Lysander. Servants cowered in doorways, fled into chambers, and scurried down the corridor and out of sight. I had failed them utterly, and the realization filled me with such a sense of despair that my knees turned to water and my legs crumpled beneath me, causing me to fall in a heap on the floor, dragging several of the servants down with me.
I watched in morbid fascination as Lysander continued to rage and destroy. Though every inch of his appearance spoke of his bestial nature, I had never truly thought of him as an animal until that moment. His rage was feral and his eyes were so blank that I wondered if he was even aware of what he was doing. Though his rage was terrifying to watch, it also made me feel a desperate sense of pity for him. I could not imagine losing myself to such base emotions, destroying everything around me with no thought for the safety of others. Or for my own safety, come to that.
The servants rallied and picked themselves up off the floor. There was no gentleness in the way they grabbed hold of me and hauled me up. They were frightened and determined to remove me and themselves from harm's way, but I did not wish to go.
"I cannot leave!" I cried, blinded by my tears. "I must stop him!"
But the servants refused to heed my words, and I had not the strength to fight long against the five of them. They were soon dragging me out of the corridor as I stared back at Lysander, calling his name over and over in the futile hope that he might hear me and return to his senses. Just as the servants managed to drag me out of the corridor, Lysander began slashing draperies to shreds with his deadly claws.
For some time after that, I was not aware of what occurred around me. I knew the servants had dragged me off to their quarters, but my eyes took in not a single detail of my environment. My fear and bewilderment had overwhelmed me, and I sat in a stupor for an indeterminate length of time. When I finally regained my faculties, the castle was deathly quiet and I knew that Lysander's rage had ended.
"I must go. I have to see what he has done," I said, standing up from a chair I was not even aware of sitting upon. At some point, someone had covered me with a blanket, and it fell off as I stood. The servants surrounded me and tried to prevent me from going, but I refused to allow them to stop me. Finally, they relented and allowed me to pass, and a few of them were even so bold as to follow in my wake.
When I reached my corridor, the destruction that met my eyes was unbelievable. I would have guessed that it would take a rampaging mob several days to wreck the havoc I saw around me, and I found myself shivering in fear as I came to the realization of just how much violence Lysander was capable. As I continued to survey the devastation, my gaze fell on a heap on the floor near the broken window. It took a moment for me to register that it was Lysander. A ferocious window drove sheets of rain through the window and onto Lysander's prone form.
Time seemed to stop. I had no idea if Lysander was dead or alive but, either way, he was clearly incapacitated. Though rain pelted him violently, he did not move at all, and it occurred to me that this was my chance to escape. I could flee from the castle and he would be powerless to stop me. I could return to my cottage, gather up my family, and we could run far from Everforest, far away from the beast's reach. The muscles in my legs began to coil as I prepared for flight.
It is over! I thought giddily. I am free!
But was I? In spite of all he had done, if he was alive, could I truly leave him here, knowing he was grievously wounded? I had not seen the slightest glimmer of good in him, but did I think that meant he deserved death? If I were to leave, I would spend the rest of my life wondering if I had appointed myself executioner. I would have to live with the knowledge that I had shown the same cold indifference and self-interest that I found so repulsive in him, and I did not think I could stomach being that version of Mira.
"Hel
p me!" I called to the servants as I rushed over to Lysander.
He was lying on his side, and it took all the strength I possessed to tug him onto his back. I could see a long, jagged gash on his right arm. His fur was matted and though the rain had washed much of the gore away, it was stained dark with blood. I tore the remains of the sleeve from his shirt and tied them tightly about the wound, praying that it would staunch the flow of blood. The servants at last overcame their fear and came to my aide.
"Take him to my chambers. Bring me boiling water, boiled wine, clean towels, bandages, a clean needle, and thread. Quickly!" I ordered, sending three maids scurrying.
It took eight strong male servants to carry Lysander to my chambers and lay him upon the bed. I was unaware of the passage of time as I frantically raced to do what I could to repair the terrible wound on Lysander's arm. The gash was very deep and full of tiny shards of glass that I painstakingly extracted. Next, I bathed the wound in the hot wine and the boiled water. To my concern, Lysander had reacted to neither. I firmly pressed the sides of the wound together and sewed it closed with the needle and thread. I had done this once before, when my father had badly cut himself with our plow, so I was not entirely unskilled. When I finished, I was exhausted, but certain that I had done my best. Though he remained unconscious, Lysander seemed to be breathing easily enough, but I feared that the combination of his wound and the time he had spent in the frigid rain would have ill effects. His deeply unconscious state greatly concerned me, and I knew I would have to observe him carefully. That left me with nothing more to do than sit in a chair next to the bed, watching and waiting.
As I sat, I thought of what I had witnessed. There was no denying that his rage had terrified me and colored my perception of him. I had always felt that he had the potential to be dangerous, but now I had seen proof of this with my own eyes. Still, I could not forget the blank look I had seen in his eyes, and I was certain that he had not been cognizant of his actions. This did not excuse his actions, but it tempered how I saw them. The rage seemed beyond his control, and I did not think he had consciously sought to injure me or the servants. There was a small cut on my cheek where I had been hit by the flying wood, but mine was the worst injury anyone had suffered, aside from Lysander himself.
Day turned to night and Lysander did not stir. I wearily adjusted my position in the chair. It appeared that my vigil would be a long one.
Chapter 23
The Savior
The world around me was gray: gray like the pallor of my servants' skin, gray like the feeble light that managed to find its way into the castle. Gray like the sky before the dawning of a new day…
I became aware that the grayness was dissipating, replaced by a bright light that hurt my eyes. I moaned in pain and moved my head feebly back and forth, but to no avail. Rather than diminishing, the light was increasing, and I was powerless to stifle its bright glow.
Almost of their own accord, my eyes opened and the world about me went from gray to a blinding whiteness. I made a harsh, guttural noise of pain deep in the back of my throat. The light seemed to ignite a white fire in my right arm, and I cried out. The pain was so strong that it made me sick, so strong that it caused me to lose consciousness once again.
The next time I opened my eyes, the light was much dimmer. My vision was strangely blurred and my very eyelids seemed sluggish as I attempted to make them open and close, open and close, as I fought to blink away the haze that obscured my vision. It took a great deal of effort, but I was successful at last and my vision cleared enough to see that it was night and the soft light I saw was the glow of candles. I wanted to move my head to better take in my surroundings but it throbbed mercilessly and I gritted my teeth.
"Where am I?" I tried to ask, but I had no voice, and I felt myself slipping back into the sweet blackness of oblivion once more. I sighed almost in contentment as I allowed it to overtake me.
When my eyes opened for the third time, they remained open. It was daylight now, and I had enough strength to turn my head to my right. I saw a wall of windows, their view obscured by gauzy white curtains. Where the two curtains met a small figure clad in a pale, light gown stood. Her right hand rested on the side of her neck as she gazed out through the partially opened door. I watched as the breeze that stole inside tugged at the hem of the curtains, at the hem of her gown. Her hair was arranged on top of her head in a mass of thick, brunette curls, curls that were touched with a tinge of red gold.
I could not tear my eyes from this divine creature. I lay staring at her, trying to make myself recollect how I knew her, but something was wrong and I could not access the memories that were there, just beyond my reach. I must have made a noise in my frustration, for the woman at the windows turned and looked in my direction, an expression of disbelief coming over her features.
"Lysander," she said, as she hurried over to me. The sound of her voice was so lovely, so familiar, that it nearly broke my heart.
"Mira," I rasped, as memories of her instantly flooded over me.
She appeared to be relieved as she leaned over me. Gently, she lifted my arm and the sight of it caused a spasm to rush through me. I closed my eyes against the sudden wave of pain and turned my head away.
"Lysander? Lysander, are you ill?" Mira asked, a note of concern in her voice.
"I forgot I was a beast," I said, the words spilling out of my mouth before I could prevent myself from speaking them.
Nothing was said in response to this, but I could feel her fingers moving gently over my arm, and it suddenly struck me that she was touching me. She was touching me! She had never done so before. The closest she had ever come was that day in the library, when she had thrown the book in my lap…
It all came back to me in a sudden wave, the library, the corridor, the black rage. I kept my eyes closed as her fingers prodded gently. Though her touch provoked twinges of pain, I did not protest. I was amazed that it had taken this long to manage to do myself harm in the midst of one of my rages, and I found myself wishing that Mira had simply let me be, that she had let me die.
But then I would never see her face again.
Unwittingly, I opened my eyes and focused on her sweet face. A look of intense concentration furrowed her brow, but her face relaxed as she finished her gentle probing of my arm.
"It is better," she told me quietly. I watched as she reached for a strip of linen from the bedside table and wrapped it firmly around my arm.
I turned my eyes away from her and stared resolutely up at the canopy of the bed as a new kind of pain filled me. Though I wished she would keep touching me, her fingers left my arm and I was alone once again. Alone, though I supposed it was the mildest punishment I deserved, especially in light of recent events.
A silence stretched out between us until she broke it at last. "Why do you not ask me what happened?"
"I do not want to know," I responded, my voice tight.
Her hesitation was palpable, but after a brief pause she spoke again, her voice rather uncertain. "You are not yet fully recovered, Lysander. Close your eyes and rest. There will be time enough to speak of all that has come to pass."
Oh, aye. Too much time. Or is it now too little? Why can I no longer remember? Why do I no longer care?
Exhausted, I followed her suggestion.
The next time I awoke, it was night again. Only a few candles were lit, their flames dancing in the warm, light breeze that occasionally wafted through the open doors. I could hear no sound other than the wind and I wondered where Mira was. Painfully, I managed to pull myself into a slightly more upright position, but by the time I was finished, I was panting from the exertion. To my surprise, I found that Mira was again at my side.
"Have you need of something?" she asked me. She was dressed in a white linen shift with a white linen wrap over it. There was lace at her wrists and lace at her throat and her vibrant hair tumbled around her face in a riot of unruly curls. I had never before seen her with her hair in disarray.
Whenever she had been in my presence, it had been carefully arranged. I found that I liked it better tousled.
"Water," I said, my throat and mouth so dry that I could scarcely speak the word.
She turned away from me to pour the water and I found myself staring at the curls that hung down to her waist. I became aware of her scent and found that I wanted, more than anything, to reach out and touch one of those curls, to know how it would feel. But I did not. There was little use in such a gesture at any rate. I longed to know the texture of her hair as it ran through human fingers, but I possessed the paws of a beast.
There was a harsh taste in my mouth as she turned back to me. I was too weak to hold the glass myself, so she had to assist me. The water was cool, but it did nothing to wash away the bitterness.
"I am in your chambers," I said, with a sudden dawning of awareness.
"Yes, you are." Her expression was somewhat wary as she studied me with her lovely eyes.
"Why?"
"It was closest. You were too ill to carry back to your own chambers."
There were many questions I wanted to ask her about my illness, none of which I currently had the strength to ask. Instead, I knew I must speak of that which troubled me the most. "You saw it," I said, turning away from her.
"Your outburst," she said, her tone neutral. Even so, I could not help but grimace.
"The black rage," I elaborated, feeling my body tense. I stared up at her canopy again, for I could not meet her gaze. I was afraid…and I was ashamed. I had spent far too long denying what I felt, but I could do so no longer for I simply had not the strength for it.
"Black rage," she repeated softly. "You have had them before?"
The Eye of the Beholder (2012) Page 17