The Eye of the Beholder (2012)

by Elizabeth Darcy

  "Aye."

  "Many times?"

  "Aye, many more than I care to remember."

  She was quite for a moment. "It was horrible," she whispered.

  Anguish washed over me and I closed my eyes against it. I had tried so hard to conceal from her the baser parts of my nature, though my conduct toward her was such that she had probably not imagined I could possibly possess a nature baser than that which she had seen. It was laughable how foolishly certain I had been that I could win her over despite my being what I was, laughable that I had thought it necessary to hide my hunting and my rages from her, as if these things would have been the deciding factor in my failure with her rather than my complete lack of worthiness. All my carefully laid plans had not mattered, for she had not only seen my unworthiness, she had also witnessed one of my black rages.

  "I cannot imagine what it must be like to experience such a thing," she said, her voice low. "It was as if you were not wholly there. I spoke to you, but you could not hear me."

  "I remember very little of what happens when I am in such a state," I said, my voice tight and gruff. I did not open my eyes, for I could not bear to see the expression on her face.

  She was quiet for a long moment. "It was not until I witnessed what you did to that corridor that I truly understood how dangerous you can be."

  Pain bloomed within me, bright and sharp. She was being fairer to me than I deserved, but her words still cut me like a blade. For the first time, it hurt me to realize how terrible I must seem in the eyes of another. I had no one to blame for this but myself, and my sense of self-recrimination made me feel ill. "Why are you here?" I asked, my voice made harsh by my storm of emotions.

  "Where else would I be?" Her voice was carefully controlled, and I finally opened my eyes and looked at her.

  "I was ill, injured. You could have escaped. You could have left me and returned to your home, never to see me again."

  "I could have left you to die, you mean," she said, looking into my eyes.

  Much as I wanted to look away, I forced myself to continue to meet her gaze. "You would have been well within your rights to do so."

  "I thought about it," she said, shocking me with her candor. "But I knew that, if I did, I would have to live with the knowledge that I held a life in my hands, and I chose to let it be extinguished. Who am I to make such a decision?"

  It struck me then just what sort of person she was. I had long known that she was my superior, but her words had finally forced me to truly examine myself, something not even the enchantress had been able to do. Mira had bestowed upon me a generosity and compassion that I did not deserve. Any other woman would have left me for dead and would have had no cause to feel guilty for having done so. But Mira had remained by my side, had cared for me, had nursed me back to health even though I had threatened her father, even though I had imprisoned her, even though I had grossly mistreated her, even though I had lost control of myself and exposed her to one of my black rages. To say that she was more than I deserved was like saying that the sun was sometimes bright in summer. It was such an understatement that it was almost disgracefully ridiculous.

  I nearly died. I nearly died, and she saved me. She saved me even though she was not obligated to do so, even though she would have been better off had she left me for dead and saved herself. She saved me even though I did not deserve to be saved.

  I felt a strange sensation within me, an urge that I had never before felt. I wanted to be a better man. I was flawed, I was twisted, I was wrong, and I was finally admitting it. The enchantress had been right all along, I was a beast. All this time I had wasted cursing her should have been spent cursing myself, cursing my own depraved indifference, my own heartlessness.

  "Thank you," I said to Mira. The words were difficult to speak. I had spoken them so rarely I marveled that I knew how to pronounce them.

  "You are welcome," she replied and, in a gesture that only served to further my sense of astonishment, she clasped her hand around my paw. Startled, my eyes shot up to hers and she looked down at me steadily. "It is late and you need your rest. We shall talk more in the morning." She pressed my paw gently, and then stood and moved away from the bed.

  "Good night, Mira." They were thin words; there was much more I wished to say to her. Even had I not lacked the courage, I knew that I did lack the right to say them.

  "Good night," she responded, looking back over her shoulder, through the veil of her hair. I felt a twinge of pain in my heart as she disappeared from my view.

  "You must learn to love another…" the voice of the enchantress rang through my head.

  I do love her. I love her with every fiber of my being. How could I not?

  "In return, you must earn her love…"

  Perhaps by some miracle I could earn it. Perhaps she could find something within me to love. But no matter, for I do not deserve her love and I never will…

  Wearily, I closed my eyes, but there was no escape in the darkness behind my lids, for her image seemed to be burned upon them. I knew there would be no escape in sleep either, for she had haunted my dreams for some time now, and I knew that she would continue to do so. I sighed, a deep, shuddering sound that I hoped she would not notice. If she did notice it, I hoped she would simply attribute it to some physical discomfort.

  I love her, but I may never have her, I thought. The pain that lanced through me was enough to rend my heart in twain. This, then, was to be what I would suffer as a result of the enchantress's curse. But what caused me the most agony was the knowledge that I deserved the suffering.

  Chapter 24

  A Frightful Illness

  From the moment I had decided not to flee the castle, to stay and help Lysander instead, I had ceased to think. There had been no hesitation when I had ordered him carried to my chambers, no hesitation when I had set about cleaning and binding his wound. He had become my patient, my responsibility, and I was entirely consumed with the immediacy of caring for his injuries. This lack of thought was partially a result of necessity; there was too much to be done for me to think about how I felt. It was also a defense. I was not prepared to examine the wisdom of my staying.

  It was not until several hours after I had cleansed and stitched his wound that it suddenly occurred to me that I had touched Lysander and that I had done so without the slightest sensation of fear. Amazed, I turned my gaze to his wretched form, lying sprawled across the bed. In a moment of crisis, I had not thought, I had simply acted. I wondered at myself, wondered that I had somehow found the courage to overcome my fear and prejudice and help him in his moment of need.

  The thinking began during the lull that followed those initial hours of frantic activity, and it continued unceasingly throughout Lysander's convalescence. At first, I thought I was mad for staying. But two days after his rampage, Lysander lay unconscious on the bed, moaning and thrashing, and I knew that if I had left, he would surely have died. I did not need to touch him to feel the heat that radiated from his body. His fever raged, the result of a combination of his exposure to the elements and his wound, which became infected. I sat by his bedside by the hour, spooning broth and water into his mouth when I could. When he was deep in the grip of his fever dreams, I dared not approach him lest one of his wildly flailing limbs dash me against the wall.

  During the worst of his delirium, Lysander often cried out. His speech was incomprehensible at times, but I was occasionally able to understand snatches of what he said. He babbled primarily of kings and enchantresses, saying things that were more fantastical than any fairy story I had ever heard. This was strange, for he had never before seemed given to flights of fancy, but then I had never before seen him in the grip of so serious an illness.

  Despite my best efforts and fastidious care, his wound continued to worsen. He was fortunate his illness had rendered him insensible for, had he been awake and in control of his faculties, the pain of my ministrations to his wound would have been excruciating. I was forced to cut back s
ome of the skin, to open my own careful stitches and scrape the wound out again to rid it of the infection and to ensure that I had not missed any bits of glass. For a time I feared that the infection would spread and grow gangrenous but, after several harrowing days, the wound at last began to heal, and I was able to breathe something of a sigh of relief. I had shaved the hair away from the site of the wound and my second set of careful stitches stood out against the skin in harsh relief. The pale skin was a beautiful sight compared to the lurid coloring of his once-festering wound.

  Once his fever had broken, my vigil consisted of long hours of quiet, as he slept and recovered his strength. I often opened one of my balcony doors just slightly and stood with my face turned eagerly toward the small slice of the outside world. Beyond this castle, my father and sisters continued on with their lives, learning how to live without me. My months in the castle had left me feeling strangely detached, as if I existed in some sort of bubble, removed from the notice and concern of the world around me. However, I also could not deny that I had felt more alive during these months than I had in years. I was living the adventure I had always sought, and my mind was engaged as it never had been while I lived in Everforest. Lysander was a terrible beast, but his was also one of the most subtle, intelligent minds I had ever encountered. My captivity in the castle was also a form of escape; escape from the expectations, disappointments, and mind-numbing boredom of the world outside its doors. The realization that I felt this way was entirely disturbing.

  I spent hours standing at those doors, finally giving in to the thoughts I had tried my best to ignore. The fresh spring air was extremely welcome after spending so much time in the stale, fetid air of the sick room. I watched as gentle showers watered the castle and the forest, as the trees began to show signs of their first buds, as the night sky blazed with countless stars. Always, there was a faint scent of roses in the air, and this scent had the effect of reviving me, even when I was at my most tired and despondent.

  What would Papa make of my remaining in the castle? He had worked hard to teach me to be a compassionate person. It was one of the traits he had loved best about my mother, and he had always encouraged me to live by her example. When we were wealthy, Papa and I had often worked with the sick and the poor, doing what we could to ease their suffering. Valuable as these lessons had been, I understood now that compassion was easy when it interfered little with the everyday course of one's life. Though working with the poor could be grueling and heart-rending, I was able to return to my comfortable home at the end of the day, free to enjoy the luxuries it offered. Extending my compassion to Lysander was infinitely less comfortable.

  There were so many questions I wanted to ask Lysander. Who--and what--had his parents been? How had he come to live in the castle? What had happened to him that had caused him to become so bitter and so cruel?

  Look at him, I thought. Is the reason for this not right before my eyes?

  Yes, he was hideous and he always would be, but I did not understand why he let that hideousness define him. It struck me as cowardice that he acted as he did.

  When he finally woke, I knew he was on the road to recovery at last. He was weak, but would regain his strength. I was rather surprised that he had found the will to live; I had begun to wonder if he had decided to simply succumb, to escape what had been a miserable existence.

  I had forgotten how startlingly vivid his blue-gray eyes were, though they had lost something of their luster. I was startled by the depth of pain I could see in his eyes when his gaze fell upon his arm. His admission that he had forgotten he was a beast provoked sensations of pity I was frankly amazed I could still feel. As I examined his wound, I studied him surreptitiously. He had changed in some way upon which I could not put my finger.

  His spirits were greatly depressed. That much was obvious to me. I had expected him to wonder about his illness, to question me about what had happened, but he seemed not to be the slightest bit curious. I could not understand this lack of curiosity, and it was what prompted me to ask him why he did not ask me what had happened. The flatness in his voice, the lack of animation in his eyes when he told me that he did not ask because he did not wish to know provoked even more pity.

  Lysander took my suggestion and closed his eyes and slept. As he did so, I remained at his side, watching over him. He slept deeply, but it appeared to be a troubled sleep, and I did not think any lingering effect of his illness caused it.

  "I hope…" I began, my voice hesitant and whispered in the calm of the chamber. My emotions felt tangled inside of me, and I was not entirely certain what it was I hoped for him. I looked down at his troubled face for several moments before I found the words I had been seeking. "I hope that you find peace. It seems to me that you have known precious little of it."

  He slept for two and a half days after that, a long, healing slumber, and when he awoke the change in him was even more pronounced. I was astonished when he thanked me for my help, and I lay awake for some time after he had closed his own eyes, half-formed questions racing through my mind until my thoughts became utterly incoherent. Bone weary, I allowed my eyes to close at last and I, too, slept.

  The next morning was a beautiful one, and I left Lysander to the care of his servants while I bathed. I lingered in the warm, soothing water, allowing the calming scent of the lavender soap to lull me into a drowse. When I finally rose out of the tub, I felt refreshed. I dressed and went into my bedchamber to find that Lysander was awake, so I sent the servants to fetch breakfast for the both of us.

  "I was beginning to think you might sleep forever," I said lightly, as I sat in a chair at the side of the bed.

  "Was I not awake only a few hours ago?" he asked, his confusion evident.

  "No," I said gently. "It was two and a half days ago."

  Lysander sighed and settled himself against his pillows. "I was very ill, then?"

  "Yes, you were. I was not entirely certain you would make it."

  "You have been caring for me all this time?" He turned to look at me, and I felt the full force of his astonishment.

  "Yes, I have."

  He averted his eyes. "I do not deserve your compassion."

  "Perhaps not." My words had the desired effect, for he turned once more to look at me, obviously startled by my frankness. "But I do not wish you ill. I have never wished you ill."

  He looked as if he wanted to say something, but he did not speak and my words stretched out between us for several moments before the servants arrived with the breakfast trays. Their arrival was welcome, for the silence between us had been very heavy, and I was not certain exactly what this heaviness meant.

  "Can you hold this?" I asked, turning to Lysander with a bowl.

  "I believe so," he said, but he held his paws up with such weak listlessness that I refused to entrust the bowl to him.

  "What is that?" he asked, grimacing as I brought the bowl near him and took up a spoon, intent on seeing to it that he took in some sustenance.

  "It is a less than appetizing gruel, I am certain, but you are weak and should not try anything more than this."

  "I would sooner eat the ashes from your fire," he grumbled.

  I laughed gently. "If you wish, I suppose I could place those in a bowl and feed you them instead."

  Lysander smiled at me. "Do you know, I believe you would do such a thing?"

  "I see you have taken my measure, for I would indeed. Now, be quiet and obedient and eat your gruel."

  Reluctantly, Lysander complied with my wishes, but he was only able to eat half the bowl before he begged me to relent and relent I did, though I promised him the reprieve was to be brief. I was then able to turn my attention to my own breakfast, which had grown rather cold as I had seen to Lysander, but that did not prevent me from eating with relish.

  "How are you feeling?" I asked him between bites.

  "Weak," he said, the confession surprising me. "I feel as though all of my strength has been bled out of me."

/>   "That is hardly surprising. Your wound was infected, and you suffered from a very acute fever."

  "I shall remove to my chambers today. I would not wish to trouble you further." His voice was stiffly formal.

  "You can hardly be more trouble than you have already been," I said dryly, as I set my cold tea down. "You will not go anywhere until I say you are fit for it."

  "Mira…" he began.

  "If you truly do not wish to trouble me, you will not argue with me on this point."

  "Very well," he sighed. "But you are extraordinarily willful."

  "So I have been told," I said, picking my cup back up and taking another grateful sip of tea.

  I spent the day trying to converse with Lysander, but he seemed far away from me. His gaze was distant and he was unusually quiet, and I even began to worry that perhaps he was not as well as he appeared.

  "Forgive me for being so preoccupied," he said, when I expressed that worry. "I did not mean to be rude."

  For a moment, I stared at him in amazement and it seemed that he was abruptly conscious of the reason behind my stare, for he turned his gaze from mine, taking a sudden interest in the blankets.

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" I asked.

  "Nay. I…I suppose I am simply tired. I believe I shall close my eyes for a while now."

  "Of course. I will be here should you have need of anything."

  Lysander nodded wearily, his eyes already closed. Unsettled, I moved away from the bed and sat in one of the chairs before the fireplace. I took a book, but soon found that it merely sat in my lap as my mind mulled over what had occurred between me and Lysander. The change in him made me extremely uneasy, for I did not know what it meant. I was used to his behaving in a certain manner, and I did not like feeling as though I could not know what to expect from him.

  Chapter 25

  Recovery

  I had languished for some time, then, caught in the grip of an ague so powerful that Mira had feared it would carry me off. Perhaps it would have been for the best if it had, for the road ahead of me seemed so arduous, and I was so fatigued.