The Eye of the Beholder (2012)

by Elizabeth Darcy

  I alone can decide what to make of my life.

  Why had I never before understood this? Why had I never before cared?

  I needed Mira to prove to me that there are many, many reasons to care.

  The enchantress had not punished me after all. I knew this now. What she had done was to offer me a chance at redemption. Not only had she offered me that chance, she had generously given me hundreds of years in which to work toward my redemption. It said much that it had taken me two hundred ninety-nine to understand that I wanted to change my ways, to understand that I truly wanted to redeem myself.

  Such an epiphany brought me no peace. In arriving at the decision that I wished to be better than I was, I was forced to finally acknowledge just how horrible and depraved I had once been. Now I stood at a crossroads, uncertain of which turn to take. How could I possibly atone for all that I had once been, for all the cruel acts I had once committed? How could I convince Mira that my wish to reform was sincere? She had so many reasons to doubt me, reasons with which I myself had provided her, that it seemed impossible she could ever believe me. I knew in my heart that I was sincere but, more than anything, I wished for her to know it as well.

  I ask too much, I brooded. The enchantress gave me a chance at redemption, which is more than I deserved. I do not deserve the gift of Mira's belief in me, no more than I deserve the gift of the compassion she has shown me. By rights, she should have left me to die, for my death would have been a small and entirely fair price for her own freedom.

  The more I thought of my past conduct, the more I burned with shame and regret. Knowing that I had been so cruel, so indifferent caused me terrible pain, but it was a pain I would bear because I deserved to suffer it. I was certain that I did not deserve anything good in life, for I had not earned the right to be happy, not when I had personally caused the misery of so many others.

  But when I thought of Mira, I clung desperately to hope. Though I knew myself unworthy, I longed for Mira's love with a fervor I could no longer deny. I felt nothing but disgust for myself as I thought back on the times I had spent with her. In my eagerness to protect my own pride, I had wounded her. How could I ever be deserving of her love now? But how could I ever bear the pain of being without her?

  My every waking moment was consumed with thoughts of her and, when I slept, I was with her in my dreams. I had thought her beautiful from the first moment I had laid eyes on her, but every time I looked at her it was as if I beheld her beauty for the first time. The softness of her brown curls, the bloom of her blushing cheek were my eyes' greatest delights. When she smiled, she dispelled the grayness, the gloom in which I had languished for so long. To simply be near her was one of the greatest pleasures I had ever known, though it was a pleasure that evoked an ache deep within me, for I longed for things I could not have, did not deserve to have. I longed to embrace her, longed to feel the warmth of her body next to mine, longed to kiss her.

  More importantly, as I gazed upon Mira, I reflected not only on the beauty of her person but also the beauty of her soul. I loved everything about her. I loved that she was impetuous, that she was outspoken. I loved that she proved to me time and again that she could not only match wits with me, but that hers was the superior intellect. I loved her honesty, even when it wounded me because it forced me to view myself with a critical eye. She was the most compassionate person I had ever known, and I wanted to learn from her.

  I loved, and that was the most overwhelming realization of all. I had never before loved anything or anyone. The love that I felt made me wish to see to Mira's well being, made me determined to place her happiness above that of my own. My world had always revolved around myself, and I would never have seen my selfishness if not for Mira. I wanted to become a better man for myself, but I also wanted to become a better man for her. Perhaps she might never love me, and I would bear her no ill will if she did not see anything in me fit to love. But she deserved to see that her efforts to save my life had not been for naught. I swore to myself that I would do what I could to repay her kindness by learning how to show kindness myself.

  After thinking long and hard about the first step I should take in an attempt to make amends, I decided to ask if she would recommence her work and help me restore the castle. I had allowed it to fall to pieces around my ears because it had suited me. I had never once stopped to think of my servants and how such a life would affect them, but I was thinking of it now. Though they were blameless, they had been made to share my fate, and I had repaid them by robbing them of all light, of all cheerfulness. The least I could do was exert myself to try to improve their surroundings.

  I slept late into the morning the following day, waking with Mira's words ringing in my head, "I will be here if you have need of anything." Little did she know that, merely by being here, she had provided me with everything I needed.

  Turning my head, I could see her silhouette out on the balcony, though the gauzy curtains obscured my view of her. What would I have given to be a man again, to stride out onto that balcony and take Mira in my arms?

  "Mira?" I called out, unable to bear the separation any longer.

  "Lysander, I am coming," she called, as she turned and stepped through the doors.

  My pulse quickened as it always did whenever I laid eyes on her after a separation, no matter how short the duration of that separation. A freshening wind blew gently through the open door, bearing the scent of the roses. Mira moved to close it, but I halted her.

  "Nay…please, leave it open," I said.

  She had turned from me, intent upon closing the door, and she turned back slowly, looking at me with amazement. The breeze had brought a becoming blush to her cheeks and her eyes appeared bright, vital. There was so much life in her, so much spirit, and I closed my eyes briefly as a wave of pain assaulted me at the memory that I had once planned to crush that spirit.

  Mira must have noticed my grimace of pain for she asked, "Are you ill?" and crossed over to me with quick, light steps.

  "Nay, I am well." I opened my eyes and smiled weakly at her.

  "May I look at your wound?"

  "Aye." I lifted my arm and moved it closer to her. I did not tell her that the most thrilling part of my day, every day, occurred when she lavished her careful attentions upon my wound. It was then that she would touch me with gentle fingers, and I would have to fight to keep my breathing at a normal rate lest I make it obvious to her the effect her touch had on me. It was difficult to resist the urge to lay my paw upon her small hand or, better yet, to reach up and touch her cheek.

  "Mira," I said, finding it difficult to keep my voice steady as she continued with her careful ministrations.

  "Hmm?" she responded distractedly, focused on her task.

  "I wish to ask something of you."

  Her full attention was now fixed upon my face. She was wary; I could see it in her eyes. "You wish to ask something of me?" she repeated.

  "Aye," I said uncomfortably. "I…I know that I have no right to ask anything of you after all you have done for me, but I…had hoped that you might consider this."

  Her expression was unreadable, and I waited patiently for her to respond, though my heart was pounding so forcefully I feared she would feel the blood throbbing in my veins. I knew that my sudden change of heart must have surprised her and put her on her guard, but I did not know how else to behave. All I could do was hope that, with time, she would come to see that the change in me was real, not some figment of her imagination or some new tool I had decided to use in an attempt to deceive her.

  "What is it?" she asked at last.

  "Would you consider…continuing with your work on the castle?" I found that I was somewhat fearful of her response. By all rights, she should meet the request with anger, berate me for even daring to ask.

  "Lysander…" she sighed. She looked suddenly tired, her shoulders slumping as though she carried a great burden upon them.

  "I have no right to ask it of you," I hastened to
add.

  "No, you do not." She looked me squarely in the eyes.

  "Mira, what I did was unpardonable. I know that. I have had a great deal of time to reflect on my behavior and I…I repent of it." The words were difficult for me to speak, but I forced myself to speak them.

  "I do not know what to make of you now," she told me honestly. "You are not as you once were. I do not know if this change is sincere or if perhaps there is something sinister behind your actions."

  "There is nothing I can say to convince you of my sincerity. I know this. I can only hope that, with time, my actions will prove to you that I am sincere."

  "What has caused this change in you?"

  "Facing my own mortality," I replied, rather tersely. There was so much more I wished to say to her, but I could not find the words. I wanted to apologize to her, to tell her how sorry I was for what I had once been, but there was still a part of me that viewed this wish as a weakness, a part of me that would not be easy to conquer. Nevertheless, conquer it I would.

  "I do not know if I can trust you. But I hope in my heart that you are sincere and, because of this, I will give you the chance to prove it to me. I will continue the repairs to the castle."

  "Thank you."

  "If you do not give me cause to regret my decision, it will be thanks enough."

  I bowed my head to her, unable to say any more.

  "Now, I must see to your breakfast," she said, rising from her chair and moving to the door.

  Mentally exhausted, I leaned back against my pillows and allowed my eyes to drift closed. I listened idly to Mira talking to the servants, but the greater part of my mind was occupied with replaying the conversation that had just passed between the two of us. I felt the inadequacies of my words, but I could not help but feel some pride that I had managed them at all. Patience would be imperative at this point, for I had a long road ahead of me, and progress would take time. I could hear her footsteps approaching the bed and I opened my eyes.

  "How do you feel today?" she asked, as she settled herself beside me.

  "I am better."

  "I imagine you are not very happy to find yourself bedridden." There was a spark in her eye that she made no attempt to hide from me.

  "Oh?" It was the only response I could manage, for I was rather apprehensive about where she would take this conversation.

  "You have always been vigorous, I suspect. You believe weakness is a contemptible flaw. I cannot imagine it is very comfortable for you to find yourself weak."

  She was testing me, and it became apparent to me that old habits die hard. Her words had provoked a flash of anger, for my initial reaction was outrage that she would dare to say something of this nature to me. However, I would no longer allow my anger to rule me, and I managed to muster a feeble smile for her.

  "It is uncomfortable for me to find myself at your mercy," I said, resorting to my normal defense of trying to push Mira outside of her comfort zone whenever she tried to push me outside of mine. As soon as the words were spoken, I cringed but, fortunately, Mira saw humor and not rancor behind them.

  "Yes, I imagine you would find that rather uncomfortable indeed." She smiled.

  "Do not claim yourself the victor yet. I am far too addled from the aftereffects of my ague to be much of a wit," I responded, wanting to do whatever I could to prolong that smile.

  "You give yourself far too much credit and me far too little," she said haughtily. Her smile widened, and I could feel a smile spreading over my own face.

  "I believe it is the other way around," I challenged.

  At that moment, servants entered the chamber bearing a breakfast tray for me. Silently, I cursed their poor timing, and then resigned myself to the idea that the moment Mira and I had shared was lost.

  A temporary thing, I assured myself. There may be many more moments like that one. I sincerely hoped this would be so.

  Fortunately for me, Mira did not subject me to the gruel she had forced me to eat the previous day, and instead had ordered a hearty porridge. Though not my favorite breakfast meal, it was a decided improvement over the previous day's fare. I was tempted to allow Mira to feed me once more, but I felt that I was strong enough to hold my own bowl and so I forced myself to tell her as much.

  Mira remained beside me as I ate, chatting animatedly about a diverse number of subjects. I could not help but smile as I listened to her ramble. Her mind was so quick it was all her tongue could do to keep up, and I found this rather endearing.

  "You laugh at me," she accused when she finally noticed that I was smiling.

  "Not at all," I told her as I unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a chuckle.

  "I believe this is only the second time I have heard you laugh," she said, effectively causing my laughter to die.

  "I have never had much cause for laughter," I said tightly.

  "I suspected as much. That is a great shame." Her voice was very serious, very sober. "I cannot imagine many things worse than a life without laughter."

  "Perhaps there are those who prefer not to laugh," I replied, my irritation getting the best of me.

  "Then they do not know what they are missing. Now, if you will excuse me, there is much to be done if I am to continue my work on the castle. I shall need to make plans and recruit what servants I may. I shall have a manservant look in on you." She rose from her seat and walked away.

  Teach me how to laugh, Mira, I thought, watching her leave the chamber. I had not the courage to speak the words aloud.

  Chapter 26

  A Gift

  Not surprisingly, I found it rather difficult to persuade the servants to assist me in the renewed renovation project. When I asked them for their help, their bodies grew rigid, their fear palpable. It took a great deal of explanation and assurance that it was what their master wanted for them to agree to help me. I did not ask Lysander to tell them because I knew he was struggling with his pride, but I was not as concerned about protecting his feelings as I was about not placing too much weight on a situation that felt precariously balanced.

  All things in due time.

  Had Lysander truly reformed? That I did not know. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I could not completely dismiss my wariness. His motives were mysterious to me. It was not difficult to believe that his brush with death had caused him to view his life in a different light, but only time would tell if his conviction was truly sincere, or if it would be abandoned once it proved too cumbersome. Resolutions were easily enough made; I wanted to see proof of his determination.

  I could not entirely suppress my sense of hope. I wanted to believe that it was possible for anyone to be redeemed, but I would not allow Lysander to play me for a fool. If I came to believe in him and found that my belief was unmerited, I would be unable to live with the knowledge that I had squandered my one chance at escape. While I was glad that I had not left him to die, I was not entirely convinced that I had done the right thing by saving him. Had I merely forced myself to adhere to a moral code that would ultimately prove to do more harm than good?

  My renewed projects for the renovations served to keep my mind from such unpleasant subjects. Once again, I found contentment in industry, just as I had when I had learned how to clean and cook in our cottage, just as I had when I had first begun renovating the castle--and, if I was honest, just as I had when I had attended to Lysander during his illness.

  He had now recovered enough that I did not scruple to leave him to the care of one or two of the servants while I roamed the castle drawing up lists of what needed to be done to each chamber, procuring supplies for the work, and trying my best to decide where I should begin. The memories of what had occurred in the corridor leading to my chambers were still too fresh for me to feel comfortable with renewing the work there. It would have to wait for a later date.

  That left me at quite a loss as to where else I should begin. My initial idea to begin where work was most needed was soon discarded, for no chamber in the castle w
as in more desperate need of attention than any other. I thought of restoring the ballroom, but quickly rejected the idea as impractical. The library seemed like a good choice, but I felt no real eagerness to begin there.

  Suddenly, I realized where I should begin, and I wondered why I had not thought of it sooner. Where better than Lysander's chambers? He would need to remain in my chambers for perhaps another fortnight, for he was recovering and required a good deal of attention. As this left his chambers vacant, it made a great deal of sense to begin work on them now. Moreover, if Lysander was sincere in his wish to change, I thought it only fitting that his chambers should be symbolic of that change as well. Where once there was menace and darkness, I would bring light and beauty. Most importantly, his reaction to the work would tell me a great deal about his sincerity.

  The decision made, I went to examine Lysander's chambers so that I might determine what needed to be done within them. I was both astonished and disturbed when I began to survey them. There was so much damage that I stared about me with dismay, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work that needed to be done. Broken furniture was piled in every corner, and the broken, chipped marble floor was strewn with a combination of splintered wood and shards of glass. Every window in Lysander's chambers was broken, and even the cheer of the bright spring day without could not prevent the shiver of dread that suffused my body.

  Did he truly hate his own reflection with such passion that he felt this destruction was essential to his peace of mind? I wondered as I carefully picked my way across the floor and to the windows.

  Lysander's chambers offered what should have been a splendid view of breathtaking gardens. Visible evidence of geometric patterns remained, though weeds clogged the stone paths, and the hedges had been neglected until they grew wildly every which way. There were pieces of statuary that might once have been magnificent, but had been reduced to rubble over time, crumbling and falling apart where they stood.