The Eye of the Beholder (2012)

by Elizabeth Darcy

  "You did?" she asked, astonishment evident on her face.

  "Aye, I did."

  Her eyes met mine and this time her smile was warmer. "You looked through your windows." It sounded almost as if she was proud of me.

  "Aye, I did."

  "I am very glad." She leaned forward to take one of my paws between her hands. "How did you feel about it?"

  Sharing my feelings with her was difficult for me. I was used to guarding my emotions very closely, except for my anger, which I had always been quick to manifest. But never before had I spoken with anyone of my hopes, dreams, fears, likes… Though I was becoming more accustomed to the intimacy I shared with Mira, I still found it disconcerting at times. I was used to being very much alone and I did not entirely trust the idea of confiding in another. I knew Mira was sincere and that she would never abuse any trust I placed in her, but it would take some time before I would be able to open up to her as completely as I thought she would like.

  "It was…difficult," I said. Even to my own ears my explanation seemed inadequate.

  "I imagine it was."

  My head snapped up to look for any trace of mocking in her eyes, but they were filled with nothing other than compassion. They were so dark, so intriguing that I did not want to look away from them, but I forced myself to do so. I would not be clumsy about this. It was more than just the fact that I could not afford to be clumsy. It was also that I felt Mira deserved something better, grander than a fumbling confession or a telling gaze from me.

  I could not think of a single intelligent thing to say and so I found myself telling her, "My chambers are much quieter now, thanks to the glass." Inwardly I winced.

  Mira shook her head and looked at me disapprovingly. "I do not know how you could bear to live with those broken windows. Did not the sound of the wind drive you mad?"

  "I grew accustomed to it," I said lightly. She frowned a little, and I knew that she had asked her question in the hope I might place more confidence in her and speak more of my fear of the glass, but I could not bring myself to fulfill that hope.

  We talked about my chambers for a few more moments and then I turned the conversation to the subject of the gardens. Mira told me of the plans she and the servants had devised and, though her voice was pleasant, I could sense something of listlessness in her. I studied her as discreetly as I could and decided that there was something different about her. Her spirits seemed low and that caused me to fret. I had never before seen her in such a state and, though I longed to ask her what had caused it, I could not. Instead, I would agonize over it and allow it to keep me up for hours.

  She is unhappy, I thought, pacing the floor of my chambers later that night. The longer Mira and I had chatted, the more dispirited she had become until she had finally excused herself with the explanation that she was tired after a long day's work, but I knew that any fatigue she felt was mental and not physical.

  Of course she is! Did I expect her to be happy caged in this ruin of a castle with only me and my mute servants for company? Could I be so foolish as to think that she would not long for her home, for the father for whom she was willing to sacrifice herself? No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to compensate for all the things she has lost--things I took from her.

  I knew this was true, but I rebelled against it. Aye, I had deprived her of much, but only temporarily--though she did not know that the deprivation was temporary. If she could learn to love me, if she could break the spell, there was so much I would be able to give her. She would be my queen, and I would be able to provide her with anything she could ever wish for, take her to places she had probably never imagined she would be able to go.

  When it is all over, when I am a man again and this spell is broken, I will see to it that she has everything she has ever desired. I will do all I can to see to her happiness. I will devote myself to doing what I may in my endeavor to deserve her.

  But what if she never does grow to love me? another voice in my head asked. This one was insidious and frightening and I knew it well. It was the voice of my doubt, a voice I had listened attentively to for many, many years now.

  What is there in me to love? The words resounded over and over in my mind, mocking me.

  What was there in me to love--especially for a woman like Mira? Once more, I felt a nearly overwhelming sense of futility, and I dropped down onto the edge of my bed, my shoulders slumped and my head hanging.

  I am a fool. I have always been destined to fail.

  It frightened me, my conviction that the voice was right.

  Chapter 32

  Toil

  My sense of longing continued to grow with each passing day. The first months I had lived in the castle had been occupied with thoughts and fears of Lysander and, though I had thought of my family, I had not thought of them with as great a frequency as I now did. There had seemed little leisure for thinking of them in those first months, when I had been trying to determine how best to navigate my way through life in the castle. Keeping thoughts of home at bay had also been a defense mechanism. It was simply too painful to think about Papa and to know that I would never again see him. Now that Lysander had begun to change, now that life in the castle was becoming more tranquil, I was finding plenty of time during which to think of the home I had left behind.

  But why did I feel such a sense of restlessness? When I had been at home with my father, I had longed for something different. Now that I had something different, I longed to be at home with my father. I could not understand my own contrariness.

  Though I made an effort to appear cheerful and calm, it was quite obvious to me that Lysander and the servants had noticed the agitation of my spirits. The servants seemed more somber and subdued than ever, and a sort of listlessness had overtaken Lysander. For a time, he had seemed so hopeful but, with each day that passed, he seemed to lose something of that hope. I feared that my low spirits had begun to affect him as well.

  I had tried to ignore it, but I was finally forced to confront my growing confusion about Lysander. The change in his behavior was remarkable, and his newfound mildness contrasted very favorably against his brilliant, witty mind. Time spent with him had become very enjoyable, despite my low spirits. Oddly, my satisfaction with the change in his behavior was edged with something like despair. What possible reason could I have for feeling despair? He was changing, he was becoming something more, but there was a part of me that felt it was all useless, that all his efforts were for naught.

  What is it I wish from him? What do I expect?

  There was no answer for these questions, and the lack caused my head to ache. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples, massaging them for a moment before opening my eyes again and walking slowly toward my balcony doors. I stood with my head resting tiredly against the window frame for some time before opening the doors and stepping without.

  The sky was tinged with the rosy hue of early day, and soon I would return to the gardens for more work. We continued to clear out all six sections of the gardens, and our progress had finally become noticeable. There was something cleansing about the labor, and I dove into it each day with a great deal of enthusiasm, for it was the only time during which I could turn off my thoughts and simply be.

  A soft breeze touched my face and I lifted it up toward the sun, wanting to feel its warmth upon me. I drew in great draughts of the fresh morning air and then carefully examined the scene before me. The forest still stretched endlessly before my eyes, but now the trees appeared far less sinister. In fact, there was beauty to be found in their green boughs, a beauty I had never before appreciated. Even so, I missed the songs of the birds, the soft rustle of animals in the undergrowth, and the chirruping music of insects. Silence was good for contemplation, but I sometimes felt the abundance of silence would drive me mad. The only sound that ever broke the silence of that forest was the lonely sigh of the wind as it whispered through the trees, a melancholy sound if ever I had he
ard one.

  How could Lysander bear it? I wondered. As he changed and grew, my compassion for him had deepened, and I found myself thinking often of what it must have been like for him to live alone in the castle. I did not consider myself the height of what one might consider scintillating companionship, but at least Lysander now had someone with whom he could speak. Yet with my mind as distant as it had been over the past days, I had not been much of a companion to him. It was hard to keep my mind on the castle when I will filled with thoughts of how desperately I wanted to return home.

  He would miss me if I left. He would be utterly alone, once again.

  Though this knowledge did cause me guilt, it did not lessen my desire to once again see those whom I had left behind. And, at any rate, was it really necessary for me to make such a choice? Could I not return home and visit the castle from time to time in order to see Lysander? Was it fair of him to expect me to remain in this castle with him for the rest of my life, forsaking the companionship of all others?

  I gave him my word, a stern voice reminded me, but I rejected it. Lysander's conduct had been dishonorable and, as a result, the bargain I had agreed to was not fair. He had no right to deprive me of my liberty.

  If I were granted my liberty once more, if I were to leave this place, I would also be alone, and I would miss him… a small, small voice whispered.

  In spite of my attempts to deny it, I knew that such was the heart of the matter. Lysander had significance for me, but of what sort I could not say. Could I call him a friend? His behavior as of late had improved, but had he ever truly shown me the regard that a friend shows another friend? I could have named him a companion, but such a title did not seem adequate.

  The heaviness of my thoughts caused the pain in my head to flare, and I turned away from the tranquil but unsettling scene before me. It was time for work and, with work, release.

  Many of the servants had already arrived at the gardens and, as I joined them, I could sense their eyes upon me. They seemed uneasy somehow, and I wished I knew why. Life in the castle had become much more peaceful and Lysander's temper had improved much of late, so what reason could the servants have for being anything less than joyful?

  Suddenly, I was impatient with the strangeness of my surroundings. I was impatient with the contradictory nature of a beast who thought and spoke like a man, of servants whose eyes were fathomless white orbs but who were capable of sight, servants whose faces betrayed no emotion but who felt deeply. I thought of the library, with its oddly outdated tomes, of the antiquated nature of the castle's décor.

  A sinister energy began to charge the very air, but I refused to succumb to it as I had in the past. The servants rose from their work, casting looks at one another, and turning their faces toward me.

  "There are secrets here!" I cried, speaking to no one in particular. "There are secrets and, whenever I begin to ponder them, I find myself denied, repulsed."

  "Aye, there are secrets here," a quiet voice said behind me.

  Startled, I whirled around to find Lysander. Something like happiness bubbled up from deep within me to see him finally outside the castle walls, but my frustration over my unanswered questions was too powerful to be ignored.

  Lysander's face was composed, but something deep within his eyes flickered. Though his body was still and his posture suggested calm, I could see that his fur was standing on end.

  "Why do you refuse to tell me what I need to know?" I demanded.

  I knew my behavior was making the servants nervous, but I could not rein myself in. Though I could see the flicker of sadness and something that looked strangely like fear in Lysander's eyes, I refused to relent.

  "I tell you nothing because there is nothing I may tell you," he said simply.

  The air seemed to crackle now, and the sky began to darken. I did not understand this, for the day had been fine and clear with nary a cloud in the sky. Glancing back over my shoulder, I could see that some of the servants were cowering.

  "What is this place?" I asked.

  "It is just what you have seen it to be: a castle inhabited by a beast and his servants," Lysander replied evenly.

  "That is not all it is." As I stepped closer to him, lightning forked across the sky.

  "Mira, you are intelligent and inquisitive. But has it never occurred to you that perhaps you are too inquisitive at times? Have you never thought that perhaps there are things you are not meant to know?"

  The anger and frustration I felt abruptly disappeared, and I was left feeling drained of all vitality. Head drooping, I allowed the trowel I had been holding to fall from my hand.

  "I am tired of not understanding. I am tired of having no say in my own life," I said. My voice was very small.

  The darkness that had fallen promptly began to clear, and the energy was gone so quickly I could almost have sworn it had never existed. All was peaceful once again and the sun shone benevolently down upon the scene.

  "Mira, if I could…" Lysander began, but I shook my head and took a step away from him.

  "Pardon me. As you can see, I am overwrought. I shall go to my chambers and rest."

  He lifted a paw as if to stop me, but he let me pass. I was glad, for though I knew I had left him in a state of agitation, I did not feel I had the strength to talk to him at that moment. I had come to understand a profound truth, one I had never before understood: the lack of control I felt over my life--that I had always felt--had begun to wear me down. Adept as I had proved to be at adapting to my changing situations, I had always been forced to simply allow the tide to carry me along. More than anything, I wanted to make my own decisions about how my life would proceed.

  When I reached my chambers, I moved over to my bed and collapsed upon it. As if a dam had burst, tears flowed from my eyes with such power and volume that I feared they would never cease. I knew not for how long I remained with my face pressed against the coverlet of my bed, weeping and weeping until the well of my tears had run dry.

  At that moment, I heard a knock on my door. I stilled, holding my breath as I debated what I should do. The loneliness I felt was oppressive, but I also found that I craved solitude. I took a deep, shuddering breath and heard another knock upon my door. Almost against my will, I rose and crossed the chamber, opening the door.

  Lysander stood without, just as I knew he would. The concern in his gaze discomposed me, and I was dismayed to see that the expression only deepened when he caught sight of my face.

  "Are you well?" he asked.

  "Not in spirit," I admitted.

  He looked as surprised as I felt. I had always done my best to hide my vulnerability from him, and I could hardly believe that I was showing any to him now, just when I felt the most afraid.

  "May I come in?"

  I stepped back from the door and he entered the chamber. Rubbing my hands over my face, I walked over to the fireplace and sank down into an armchair. A moment later, Lysander sat across from me.

  The daylight had waned and the room had begun to grow dark. There was no fire and none of the candles were lit. I was chilled, and I shivered slightly. Lysander must have seen the movement, for he rose from his seat to pull the servant's bell and stepped over to the door. I could hear the low rumble of his voice as he spoke to someone in the corridor, but his words were too quiet for me to distinguish them.

  He returned to his seat and sat silently with me for several moments. Servants appeared and began lighting candles and building a fire. After another few moments, two more servants came in, bearing a covered tray and a tea set. Lysander waited until the servants had left the room before he spoke.

  "Mira, will you pour some tea? I would do it for you, but I cannot."

  The admission startled me out of the torpor I had fallen into, and I lifted my gaze to his. I could see that he was deeply troubled, so I nodded. My fingers were somewhat numb, and it was difficult for me to hold the pot, but once the cup was securely cradled within my hands, I found its warmth comforting
. I took a sip of the fragrant, steaming liquid, and closed my eyes as I felt something of life returning to me.

  "You are very strong," Lysander said, his rumbling voice low. "But even the strong feel weak at times."

  "You cannot imagine what it is like to feel as though the world is constantly shifting beneath your feet. You cannot know what it is like to have everything that is familiar stripped from you, without warning." My voice was hoarse from tears.

  There was a momentary silence. I stared into the growing fire and heard Lysander shifting in his seat, but I did not look over at him. My thoughts were on my mother, and I unwound one of my hands from the cup so that my fingers could wander up to my miniature.

  "You are unhappy here," Lysander said, the words a statement and not a question. Though it seemed that he had tried his best to keep his voice neutral, I could hear a tinge of sadness in his words.

  I sighed deeply. "I have been unhappy for many years."

  "You have told me little of yourself and I have not wished to press you," Lysander said, his voice hesitant.

  "Because you did not wish to intrude upon my privacy or because you did not care to know?" I asked bluntly, turning to look at him.

  He winced. "Both," he admitted. His candor disarmed me and it must have shown, for he smiled humorlessly. "I will not insult you by being anything less than honest. When you first arrived, I did not care to know anything of you. It was of no importance to me.

  "But, Mira, I have changed. I am not who I once was. It is the truth, whether you believe it or no. I did not ask sooner because I thought myself indifferent, but I now hesitate to ask because I do not wish to intrude upon your privacy. But if you wish to talk, I am here and I will gladly listen."

  I was very touched by this unexpected gesture of friendship, but I was still uncertain. My fingertips moved over the surface of my miniature sadly. My mother was the only one with whom I had ever really shared everything. She was the only person who had ever known just what was hidden in the depths of my heart.