beauty of the beast ~ beauty

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

The market is a bright and cheerful place, with colourful stalls and lively music, but Dominick Cobb barely notices, winding his way through the crowd mechanically, concerned with only one thing. His daughter is sick. Phillipa’s health has been steadily deteriorating over the past few days, and none of Mal’s healing magic has done anything to help. There is only one person he knows that has any chance of knowing what to do, and that is the apothecary. There is a small, wooden sign declaring that the tiny shop is open today and Dom wastes no time. He pushes the door open, already untying his coin pouch from his belt. “Good morning, Yusuf.” A head full of dark curls pokes out from the storage room at the back of the shop and Yusuf comes out, setting two large bottles of colourful liquid on his countertop before walking around to greet Dom warmly. “Good morning. I’d normally assume you’re here to ask about Arthur, but you look far too serious for that.” “It’s Phillipa,” Dom grimaces, beginning to list the symptoms for Yusuf; a high fever that won’t come down, the delirium, her inability to keep any food down… he slows down when Yusuf picks up a quill, beginning to write on a sheet of paper. When Dom is done, Yusuf studies the list for a moment and then hums at the back of his throat. “There is a remedy I can make for this, but I don’t have any of the ingredients with me. They’re all up at the castle, I’m afraid.” This sends a jolt of discomfort to Dom’s very core. Yusuf opens his small store in the corner of town for a few hours every second or third day, but he doesn’t live here. He works at the Wolff castle—one of the very few people Arthur has retained after his curse—and he lives there, creates all of his medicine there before carting it down to the town with the permission of his master. Dom doesn’t like thinking about Arthur, unhappy and alone in the castle, no doubt hating Dom and his family for the curse that has ruined his life. His desperation to heal his daughter, however, is far stronger than any guilt attached to the thoughts of his old friend. He steels himself and says, “I will pay you any sum if you can get me the remedy by midday.” Yusuf hesitates, considering this. “You realise that I’d need to close my shop and go all the way back to the castle?” “It isn’t far,” Dom says, which isn’t entirely true. He places his money pouch on the countertop, satisfied by the way the heavy clink of gold captures Yusuf’s attention. “I’m sure the entire contents of this pouch will make it worth your while.” Yusuf frowns, stroking his beard in thought before finally saying, “It would be quicker for us both if you come with me.” “I’m not sure that’s a very good idea.” Dom raises an eyebrow. “Is it even safe for me to be anywhere near the castle?” “Arthur won’t notice,” Yusuf says dismissively. “He keeps to himself—he barely even notices the staff around the castle. We’ll be careful. Come. If you want your daughter cured as soon as possible, we’ll have to leave now.” “You’re sure?” Dom asks, but he barely waits for the final nod before he leaves to saddle his horse up for the ride to the Wolff castle. The forest is as dark and unwelcoming as Dom remembers it to be. His horse is unhappy to be here and he strokes her mane comfortingly, following Yusuf down the same winding path that he’s never really forgotten, past all the dead ends and to the castle. “We’ll take the servants’ entrance,” Yusuf says, leading the way around a small clump of trees and around the high stone walls. They leave their horses in the stable by the door and Dom follows Yusuf into the castle, careful not to let his footsteps echo too loudly against the marble floor. Yusuf has his own laboratory in the castle; it’s actually a second kitchen in case the first isn’t big enough, but it’s been so long since the castle has had enough guests to make proper use of one kitchen that the second just isn’t necessary. Yusuf makes good use of it, however, keeping the shelves well-stocked with all the ingredients he would ever need for his elixirs and remedies. “I have just the recipe,” Yusuf says, walking right past his large recipe book and taking ingredients straight out of their storing places, throwing them together into a pot. “I have better instruments here than in that tiny shop—I should have your daughter’s medicine done in ten minutes. You’ll be safely out of here in no time. Take a seat.” Dom sits, looking around the lab and marvelling at how much the castle has changed since the last time he’d been inside it—years ago, now, longer than he can even remember. Everything is different now; the place is darker, quieter, nowhere near as welcoming as Dom remembers when the rest of the Wolff family was still alive. Yusuf hums absently as he begins to brew the medicine for Phillipa, and he’s almost finished with it when they hear a loud crash and an angry growl from just outside. Yusuf freezes, almost dropping the bottle he’s holding, and Dom swears under his breath. “Yusuf,” the angry growl precedes its owner. Arthur makes an intimidating figure in the doorway, his furious expression making his features even more frightening. “Why are you letting strangers into my castle?” “Arthur—” Dom begins, but falls silent at the hateful glare sent in his direction. “I’m not sure what led you to believe that you’re welcome here.” Arthur’s words are bitten off and his entire body is tense, as if it takes all of his self-control to keep himself from lashing out. “But I would like to disabuse you of the notion right now.” “I’ll leave as soon as I can, Arthur. I just came here to ask for Yusuf’s help. Phillipa’s sick, and he’s the only one who can do anything to help her. Please.” Arthur lets out a bark of laughter, harsh and bitter. “Do you really think it’s going to be that easy? You’ve come into my home uninvited—you, of all people, who have no right to be here. What makes you think I’m going to help you? If you don’t have my permission to enter the castle, you don’t have my permission to leave. Yusuf, go and check if any of the dungeons are serviceable.” “Master…” Yusuf begins, eyes wide with surprise. He doesn’t protest any further, but nor does he move to obey the order. Serving Arthur for so many years has emboldened him. He knows where the line is, and he hasn’t crossed it yet. “Yusuf, go,” Arthur growls warningly, but he stands his ground. “Mr. Cobb’s daughter is gravely ill. Left untreated, she’ll certainly die, sir.” Dom flinches at the words, and Arthur does too. “Please, Arthur,” Dom says once more, and Arthur frowns in thought, looking away. “I’ll let you save your daughter,” he finally says, “at a price. You’ve trespassed and I’m not going to let you forget that.” “Name your price, then.” “Your older daughter, Ariadne. Send her to the castle as a prisoner, and I’ll send Yusuf with the medicine.” Dom laughs in disbelief, but Arthur’s expression doesn’t change, and Dom shakes his head. “No. I am not going to send Ariadne to be locked up in some dungeon—” “She’ll have the freedom to go wherever she wants, within the castle walls. If she has no access to her spell books, perhaps she won’t turn into a witch like your wife.” Arthur reaches for the bottle Yusuf has filled with Phillipa’s medicine, his claws clicking against the glass. “Leave her here until her magic dies out, and then she’ll be free. You want to save Phillipa, don’t you? Especially since—Yusuf, didn’t you mention that the witch was pregnant again?” “You…” There’s a look of pain, horror and disgust in Dom’s eyes. “You really are a monster with no heart, aren’t you?” Arthur smiles cruelly. “Just remember that it was Mal who made me like this.” Dom shakes his head, looking at the bottle in Arthur’s hand. He’s silent in thought for a long moment before he finally says, “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll send Ariadne.” Arthur nods, looking satisfied. “I’ll give you until the sun sets to send her. Then I’ll send Yusuf with the medicine.” “If I may…” Yusuf speaks up, looking between Dom and Arthur. “I’ll measure out a small dose to send with Mr. Cobb now, so his daughter’s illness doesn’t get any worse. She’ll need the rest of the doses to fully cure her, so I’ll take those with me after Miss Ariadne arrives at the castle.” “Do whatever you want,” Arthur waves a hand dismissively, placing the bottle back down on the counter. “I trust that after this, you’ll remember that you aren’t welcome anywhere near the castle, Cobb.” He leaves without another word, his coat fanning out behind him as he walks. Yusuf gives Dom an apologetic look, holding out a small vial. “I should have known better than to underestimate him. This is my fault.” “I’m the one who should have known better. He used to be my closest friend,” Dom sighs, pocketing the vial and handing over his coin pouch. “I’d hoped that he’d changed, even a little… if anything, he’s only gotten worse.” “You know how stubborn he is. I don’t think anything will make him change.” “It’s going to be the death of him. Just like the curse said.” Dom rubs a hand over his face, feeling incredibly weary the way he does whenever he thinks of Arthur for too long. “There really is nothing we can do.” • It’s been half a month, and the hunters are still looking for Eames. Half a month of hiding with Mal Cobb and her steadily growing family, sleeping in one corner to keep out of the way and helping to take care of Mal, due to give birth in another two weeks, and Phillipa, who is too weak to get out of bed. It keeps him from feeling restless, which is the last thing he needs while still waiting for the last bit of trouble he’s caused to cool down, but he can’t help but feel like he’s imposing on the family. Ariadne is sitting at the dining table, her spell book open in front of her, looking up when Eames walks out of the bedroom, having checked up on Phillipa. “How is she?” Eames sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve no medical experience beyond patching myself up after fights, love, so I can’t say. She’s asleep, though. Are your parents still talking outside?” Ariadne nods once. “I think I heard Mother yelling. I wasn’t brave enough to go and see what it was about, though.” Eames chuckles, “That’s a good idea. Your mother has quite the temper—especially these days.” “We’ll find out eventually, I guess,” Ariadne says, flipping the page of her book. As if on cue, Dom walks back into the house, looking harried. His gaze settles on Eames and he sighs wearily. “Eames. I have a job for you.” “You’d like me to shape shift as someone?” Cobb nods. “I need you to masquerade as Ariadne.” Eames and Ariadne exchange glances. With a quiet chuckle, Eames sits down at the table. “This one sounds like it has an interesting story to it.” “You have no idea.” With a humourless smile, Dom says, “Tell me, what have you heard about the beast at the Wolff castle?” • There’s an eerie silence that follows him out of the forest, broken only by the sound of his horse’s disgruntled whinny. Eames pats her mane reassuringly, dismounting and leading her along the path. The castle looms over them as they approach and Eames stops for a moment, taking a good look at it. Wicked-looking gargoyles snarl down at him and even in the late afternoon sun, the dark stone makes everything look bleak and depressing. Eames can see the remnants of what must have once been an impressive garden, now overrun with weeds, neglected and forgotten. Despite that, as he walks closer to the castle, he notices that the statues at either side of the long path are polished and when he reaches the tall iron gate, there isn’t the slightest bit of rust on it. Clearly, he thinks, whatever stories Nash is spreading in the village of a feral beast with no humanity left are absolute rubbish. Not that he’d ever believed them anyway; especially with Cobb and Ariadne insisting that the beast—Arthur, they’d called him—had a good heart, buried somewhere deep inside him. Not that Eames cares either way. He checks his shifted form one last time, making sure he’s holding himself properly and clears his throat to ascertain that it’s Ariadne’s voice he hears. He’s here for the gold Cobb has promised him for the job; a ridiculously high amount for hiding out in an isolated castle. If Arthur wants Ariadne locked away so she can’t practice magic, Eames can play the part. If Arthur wants Ariadne to warm his bed, Eames can play that, too. All he really cares about is getting the hunters off his back. The moment they are gone, so is he. A dark-skinned man approaches the gate from the castle and unlocks it, inclining his head in greeting. “Miss Ariadne. I apologise for this. I tried to talk the Master out of it, but you know what he’s like.” Eames hums, non-committal, leaving his horse in the stable before following the man into the castle. From the inside, it is breathtaking. The architecture is exquisite; broad arches and old, polished wood. Eames’ imitations of Ariadne’s boots click against the marble floor as he is led up the stairs and to a room roughly the size of the Cobb’s house. “You’ll be staying here. The Master will see you at dinner.” The man pauses for a beat and says, “My name is Yusuf, by the way. I’m the castle’s steward. Of course, Ariadne would already know this, but you aren’t her.” Eames raises his eyebrows, but says nothing to confirm or deny it. Yusuf continues, “Cobb wouldn’t agree to send his own daughter as a prisoner—certainly not as easily as he did. Considering it was Cobb who sent you, I’m thinking you’re the shape shifter Mal is friends with. Mr. Eames, I presume?” “You’ve done a lot of research,” Eames says, impressed. “It’s the Master’s research. I help him organise it when he updates his records. He keeps files on every magical creature in this area.” “Neurotic,” Eames mutters, and Yusuf laughs. “Does Arthur know that I’m not actually Cobb’s daughter, then?” “If he does, I doubt that he would have allowed you into his castle,” Yusuf says. “But you should be careful. If he does find out, I doubt he’ll take it very well. He hates all magical creatures as it is… and I don’t know how he’d classify a shape shifter, but I’ll warn you now that he’s particularly hostile when it comes to magical beasts.” Eames snorts. “He is one.” “Well, the curse happened afterwards. There was a bad experience with beasts a long time ago, so he doesn’t react to them particularly well. Or peacefully, for that matter.” “Okay. Make sure he believes I’m Ariadne. Simple. I am the best shape shifter around.” “You’re better off not underestimating him, and staying as far away from him as you can. He isn’t fond of company and his temper… can make him dangerous very quickly.” Yusuf checks his watch. “I need to deliver the medicine to the Cobbs. There’s a bathroom two doors to your left if you need it. Don’t wander around the castle on your own.” “Say hello to my little sister for me, won’t you?” Eames asks, his tone soft and concerned without even needing to pretend. Yusuf clears his throat, struggling to reconcile what he sees in front of him and what he knows. “You need not worry, Miss Ariadne. My medicine will have your sister back to full health by tomorrow morning.” “Thank you,” Eames smiles, all Ariadne; a flawless disguise that he wears without even having to think. “I’ll fetch you for dinner when I return,” Yusuf says and then he’s gone, leaving Eames alone in his room, in a castle that may as well be abandoned for all he’s seen of anybody else. He hears nothing; not the sound of any other servants, not even a sign of the beast himself. How lonely, Eames thinks. He is already wandering down the corridor outside his room. No wonder they say he’s mad. The castle is vast—even bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside—and Eames’ room is located in the south wing. From what he can tell, of the abandoned rooms he passes, with neatly made beds and unused tables, this side of the castle has been designed for guests. He searches each one individually, but they’re all bare, showing no sign of even having been used for the past several years. They are still kept meticulously clean, but the air is still and no matter how brightly furnished each room is; they all feel dull and lifeless, much like Eames’ own room. He unpacks what few belongings he’s brought with him onto his bedside table; three thick books and another smaller volume of poetry, a sketchbook and several pieces of charcoal wrapped in cloth. He puts them aside; he’ll turn to them once he gets bored but for now, there are still far too many things to explore. He’ll just need to look in the north wing—undoubtedly where Arthur is. Surely he’ll find more interesting things there. Eames is about to leave his room again to find the way to the north wing where he hears the front door open. Yusuf has returned and Eames curses under his breath, returning back to his room and settling into his overstuffed armchair, uncomfortably stiff from disuse, and picks up one of his books. He’s convincing enough, even with his gaze barely skimming the book’s pages, because Yusuf seems genuinely relieved to find that Eames is exactly where he’d been left, instead of wandering around. Eames, as he has learned to do with most people, lets Yusuf believe what he wants. “Dinner’s this way,” Yusuf announces, leading the way down a long hallway. Eames follows one step behind, humming in thought. “There aren’t any mirrors in the castle, are there? I haven’t noticed a single one since I got here.” Mirrors are important for shape shifters, but Eames knows that he’s skilled enough to wear another person’s face without slipping up. Still, it doesn’t make the lack of mirrors any less unnerving. “Let me guess. They went after the curse.” Yusuf’s smile is strained enough to warn Eames that this is sensitive territory and he drops it, distracted by his surroundings. The lower level of the castle is filled with open spaces, high ceilings with intricate chandeliers, wallpapers of rich colours and beautiful patterns. The marble floor is polished to a shine, and Eames takes some comfort in the reflection it provides; Ariadne’s face framed by her brown hair looking back at him. He’s far more relaxed because of it when they reach the dining room. Arthur isn’t there yet, but the table is fully set for two with an array of dishes laid out giving Eames more choice than he’s ever had in his lie. “You’d best be starting now, Miss,” a maid says seriously. “If you’re lucky at all, you’ll be done before the Master even joins you.” Yusuf sends her away with a calming hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing so bad. If you’re hungry, though, you might as well begin. The Master does everything on his own terms, in his own time.” “He likes to be in control,” Eames nods, piling food onto his plate because it looks far too appealing to be left sitting there. Arthur’s arrival is announced by the clear sound of footsteps and the way that the servants at the table—Yusuf included—tense immediately. Eames wonders what to expect. The town’s stories of the beast paint him as some sort of monstrosity; wicked, unpleasant and frightful. Arthur, when he enters the room, seems to be none of these things. He is not some kind of towering creature, he is not covered in scales or fur; he is a man. His skin has the pallor of one who has spent their days shut away inside and it’s impossible to miss the horns; large and curved, catching and reflecting whatever little light there is in the room. His eyes are a deep red and his hands are clawed. The rumours Eames has heard have been grossly exaggerated, he thinks, but without any real disappointment. “Ariadne,” Arthur greets curtly, and says nothing more. He sits down, turning his attention to his food and Eames watches him for a moment, allowing himself to settle into Ariadne’s character. “Let me go,” he says, knowing from Arthur’s expression that he’ll be refused. This isn’t a real gamble. He’s here, out of Cobol’s sights, for as long as need be. It just doesn’t hurt to play the role of unwilling prisoner if it means he won’t be discovered. “Please, Arthur. You don’t need me here and Phillipa’s sick. Mother is pregnant and—” “Your father should have thought of that before entering my castle uninvited,” Arthur says, and Yusuf stiffens. “No. You aren’t going anywhere. Just be thankful that I haven’t decided to throw you in the dungeons.” “You wouldn’t do that.” Before Eames had left for the castle, Ariadne had taken him aside and explained that they’d once been friends. Now, Eames presses the angle of the long-abandoned friend. “You wouldn’t do that to me.” “I would, very easily, witch,” Arthur spits, and Eames is quickly understanding that though Arthur may still look mostly like a man, his personality more than makes up for it – makes him the beast in truth. He keeps the thought to himself, but it’s a very close thing. He blocks his own thoughts out, immersing himself in his disguise, thinking and acting as Ariadne, asking questions, unafraid of pushing boundaries. Arthur tolerates it—barely—but he is ignoring Eames throughout dinner, but once they’re done and Eames is following him to the north wing, still asking questions about what he does and whether he feels lonely, Arthur turns on him with a threatening growl. It’s an utterly inhuman sound that makes Eames stiffen, his well-honed survival instincts making him instantly alert. “I have provided you with an entire room,” Arthur says slowly, “on the other side of the castle, for a reason. If you do not leave me alone, I promise that you will regret it.” Eames tilts his chin up, projecting the same defiance he sees when Ariadne is being told something she doesn’t like. Arthur bares his teeth, clenched in irritation, and this time, they’re standing close enough for Eames to see that they’re pointed. “I want to go home. You can’t just shut me—or shut yourself—away in this castle just because of your curse—” “Don’t you dare talk about the curse,” Arthur snarls, drawing himself to full height and now, Eames can definitely see the beast. Arthur points a dark claw at him. “I will remind you again; you are a prisoner here and you have no right to argue. The next time I have to remind you, it will be with shackles, in a cell that’s too small to sit. Are we clear?” Eames has a very good sense of self-preservation; he does dangerous things, but he knows when to draw the line. He is also very good at seeing through lies and right now, both of these instincts tell him that it’s wise to back down. “Fine.” Eames takes a step backwards, raising his hands defensively. “I’ll leave you alone.” “Good.” Arthur turns, walking towards the north wing, climbing the stairs and disappearing from sight. Eames watches him leave in silence, unanswered questions hanging in the air. He turns away with a shrug, returning to his own room. He’ll just have to find the answers himself. • By the afternoon of the second day, Eames is bored and restless. He hasn’t seen Arthur once all day—not even at lunch—and Yusuf has been in town since morning, so he’s not even there to break up the monotony. Eames puts his sketchbook down with a huff, the page littered with uninspired scribbles. He gets up, deciding to go for a walk, just to have something to do. Eames is good at a lot of things—he can lie, cheat and steal effortlessly—but sitting idle has never been one of them. He keeps track of the turns he makes, so he knows which way to return, but pays more attention to his surroundings than where he is going. This part of the castle is decorated richly, the walls here are covered with more paintings than Eames could ever produce—or forge—in a lifetime and the rooms are well-lit with ornate chandeliers, not as grand as those downstairs, but still far more beautiful than any others Eames has ever seen. He passes tall windows, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, covered by thick curtains that allow no light through. Eames pulls a curtain aside to peer out and the sun is beginning to set. The forest glows in the reds and oranges, as if it is burning, and Eames lets the curtain fall back in place, turning away from the unsettling sight. He continues to walk until the lights become dimmer, the candelabras spaced further apart, every other chandelier turned off. He reaches a staircase and realises that he’s found the north wing; this is the same place Arthur had left him in after dinner. He peers ahead, seeing the hallway fade into darkness. His curiosity spurs him onward and he walks towards the darkness, each candelabra becoming spread out further and further until they afford only the bare minimum of light. Eames can’t see any details here, must pass more doors than he can count, but he’s only interesting in walking forward, wanting to know what he’ll find at the end of his strange trail. The candle light, constantly growing closer and then further, makes it difficult for Eames’ eyes to adjust to the dark and he places a hand against the wall to guide him. He feels the wallpaper beneath his fingers, dry and smooth, but then there’s something else; tears in the paper, dips—gouges—Eames realises. Claw-shaped gouges in the wall; incredibly deep, doubtlessly caused by Arthur himself. He truly is a dangerous creature, Eames realises. Someone he definitely shouldn’t be underestimating. He’s about to continue walking forward when a hand settles on his shoulder. It’s only years’ worth of experience sneaking around where he shouldn’t be that keeps Eames from crying out in shock. He turns, ready to attempt disarming an angry beast, only to find Yusuf standing there, looking harried and unimpressed. In the dim, flickering light of the nearest candelabra, Yusuf jabs his thumb back the way Eames has come, and Eames has little choice but to obey. Yusuf doesn’t stop walking, and his body language makes it clear that Eames isn’t to stop following. They walk away from the north wing and down the stairs, into a room lined with pots and bowls and herbs of all kinds. “I knew I’d find you in the north wing,” Yusuf mutters, fishing his glasses out of his pocket and opening one of the windows. The sun has gone down by now, and the wind that blows into the room is cool. “Really.” Eames is still more shaken than he’d like to admit. “You seem to be the type of person who believes they can handle more than they really can. I don’t think you realise how close you were to danger,” Yusuf doesn’t sound angry; working for Arthur must have done wonders for his patience. “Don’t do that again. Not if you value your life.” “You don’t have to be so dramatic—” “You found those claw marks. We both know that I’m not exaggerating. If he’s made it clear that he wants you to leave him alone, then you should be doing exactly that.” “And do what? Let my mind rot with boredom?” “At least you would be alive,” Yusuf says simply, and then turns to a pot on his stove, lighting the flame beneath it. When Eames is not kicked out, he looks around, realising that this is Yusuf’s laboratory. There are bottles of coloured powders and liquids on the shelves, and empty vials sitting on the bench top, waiting to be filled with whatever concoction Yusuf is working on now. “Arthur isn’t a very accommodating person, is he?” Eames says at length, to break the silence. Yusuf looks at Eames over the top of his glasses. “Is that a question?” “Not the real one,” Eames smiles. “Why does he let you into the town so often to your apothecary shop? If he’s really so hostile, I find it a little difficult to imagine that he’s so willing to let you spend all of this time away from your work at the castle, doing something that you want to do.” “You make it sound like he doesn’t benefit from it,” Yusuf measures the liquid from the pot into a vial and peers at it critically. “Who else would run errands in town?” “Of course. Because the beast doesn’t like being seen by people. Is that why the north wing is so poorly lit? Or is that just to keep people away?” “I’m not going to talk about the Master and his curse,” Yusuf shakes his head. “He won’t appreciate it and I’m not taking that risk.” “Because you’ve learned from experience?” Eames tries, but Yusuf is immovable. He simply continues with his work, measuring out ingredients and mixing them together without a single glance at the book of recipes that lies shut on the table beside him. Eames watches for a while longer, but his questions go unanswered and unacknowledged. Eames isn’t the type of person to be discouraged when things are difficult; he likes the challenge that it presents him with, and when he leaves the laboratory to return to his own room, he isn’t giving up. He’s only working out how to get the answers that he’s after. • Eames goes down to Yusuf’s laboratory the next morning after breakfast; once again eaten alone with no sign of Arthur anywhere. Yusuf isn’t going into town today and looks up from a set of calculations that he’s doing, not looking very surprised to see Eames. They don’t speak to begin with, but Yusuf is clearly waiting for the questions to begin again and there’s only so long that Eames can flip through Yusuf’s recipe book, not understanding every other ingredient that is mentioned. He asks about Arthur’s hatred for beasts, because of the way it makes Yusuf’s eyes darken. Bad memories, Eames guesses, and only feels slightly bad for pressing the issue. He gets nothing; Yusuf simply repeats the same things he’s already said about a bad experience. He is being purposefully vague, Eames can tell, and it’s impossible to glean any kind of information from his words. “I told you yesterday that I’m not going to talk about the Master’s curse,” Yusuf says, and then glances at the door, lowering his voice just a fraction, “So, Mr. Eames, why don’t you answer some of my questions instead?” Eames’ lips quirk upward, recognising the attempt to distract him. He decides to go with it, for now. “What would you like to know, then?” “You’ve willingly come here to be locked away in a castle, indefinitely,” Yusuf doesn’t pause for confirmation, “I can’t think of many people who would do that. Are you hiding from somebody?” Eames chuckles. “Somebody. Several somebodies. An entire coven, in fact.” “Not the Spinning Top,” Yusuf says, mostly to himself, “because—according to the Master’s records, at the very least—you’re part of the local coven. So a rival, then. I was right about you; you’re the type of person to find more trouble than they can handle.” “I’m handling my trouble perfectly well, thank you.” Eames’ eyes are bright with amusement when he adds, “It’s Cobol, by the way.” Yusuf puts the jar in his hand down so heavily that it nearly cracks. “Cobol. Are you mad? They’re ruthless.” “And here I am,” Eames spreads his hands out, “hiding in a castle they’ll never look, to avoid being cut up into several pieces by their hunters.” “Hunters,” Yusuf snorts dismissively. “Clearly, they’re no good at their jobs.” “Not like Arthur,” Eames prompts, finding the crack in Yusuf’s taciturnity. “The Master was the best hunter there ever was.” There’s a touch of pride to Yusuf’s voice. “He was ruthless. He would hunt his mark down until they were found. He would never lose track of them, the way Cobol’s lost track of you. I was apprehensive at first, but he was talented.” “And then he stopped.” “He had to,” Yusuf is so caught up in his memories that he doesn’t even pay attention to what he’s saying. “His curse forbids him from taking the life of any magical creature—” “Ah, there we go,” Eames smiles. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?” Yusuf purses his lips together with a frown. “You’re a tricky bastard.” “Now, that’s no way to speak to a lady,” Eames gives Yusuf Ariadne’s sweetest smile. “I’ll tell you why Cobol’s after my head, if that’ll make you feel any better.” “It better be good,” Yusuf grumbles, and Eames laughs, telling his story of tricking the coven by disguising himself as one of their members, working his way into the inner circle of the group and then making off with their ancient book of spells, leaving a blank forgery in its place. If anything, Yusuf definitely seems impressed. To Eames’ surprise, it’s easier for them to get along now, though he suspects that may have something to do with the fact that he’s no longer hounding Yusuf for information. They talk as Yusuf works and then out of both boredom and curiosity, Eames begins to help; first by locating ingredients, but then Yusuf hands him a second pot and a set of clear instructions. “To keep you out of trouble,” he says, but Eames can tell that Yusuf appreciates the company. The day passes quickly this time, with Eames and Yusuf exchanging stories; Eames talking about the past jobs he’s pulled and Yusuf talking about his life outside of the castle and his work. The long, flowing sleeves on Ariadne’s dress nearly catch alight several times and Eames finally decides to shift her clothes into something more practical. “You could just shift into your normal self,” Yusuf suggests, glancing at the door carefully first. “The Master never comes down here unless he needs to. He won’t notice.” “Are you sure?” Eames raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one who warned me to be careful not to let Arthur realise that I’m a shape shifter in the first place. I do imagine this would be a relatively safe place to escape Arthur’s notice, but I’d rather not take the risk at all.” It’s enough that he’s dropping Ariadne’s mannerisms when he’s here in the laboratory with Yusuf, he thinks, but the next day, he’s carrying a large pot of boiled water from one tabletop to another and nearly trips over Ariadne’s long skirt. He curses under his breath, dropping the shift for the first time since leaving the town, and it’s such a relief to be in his own skin that he doesn’t want to shift back. Yusuf makes no mention of it, but Eames is careful to make sure that he is perfectly disguised as Ariadne when he’s out of the laboratory. Not that he sees Arthur at any rate, but Eames knows better than to let this lull him into a false sense of security. It’s enough that he’s trusting Yusuf not to make mention of the shape shifting by virtue of the fact that Arthur will be equally displeased with him for going so long without telling him in the first place. Arthur, however, is far more perceptive than he is given credit for. It’s been four days since Eames has arrived at the castle and when he goes to Yusuf’s laboratory after lunch, he doesn’t realise that Arthur has followed him until it’s too late. He shifts back into his normal self and before he even has a chance to understand what’s happening, there’s a clawed hand wrapped around his throat, his back pressed against a wall. “Arthur,” Eames greets with a tense smile, “haven’t seen you for a while.” “Finally.” Every word is laced with contempt. “I’ve been waiting for you to slip up. You took longer than I expected.” Eames’ gaze flicks across the room to Yusuf, who looks equally surprised and terrified. Arthur follows the movement and laughs hollowly. “Did you think I needed to be told that you weren’t Ariadne?” Arthur’s grip on Eames’ throat tightens. “Did you think that I wouldn’t realise, when I didn’t get the rise I expected out of her parents? Did you really think that just because I’m a monster, I would forget that a parent would fight for their child’s freedom?” “And you got none of that,” Eames chokes out, his voice strained. He pulls on Arthur’s hand, loosening its grip, but only slightly. “You were counting on a fight, weren’t you?” Arthur doesn’t reply, which is answer enough. He growls and Eames swallows down the rising bubble of panic, managing a small grin. “You thought that the Cobbs were acting suspiciously calm about their daughter being locked away in a castle with a beast.” “I wanted to take something away from them. I wanted them to know what it’s like to lose something important, the way my entire life was taken away from me,” Arthur snarls. His grip on Eames tightens, lifting him off the ground, “and instead I get this. A shape shifter. Eames, I would assume.” “Wouldn’t do to kill me,” Eames gasps out, “I’m a magical being, remember? Wouldn’t want to go against your curse, now.” Arthur immediately lets go of Eames, turning on Yusuf. “You told him.” Eames laughs. “Please. Give me some credit. I tricked him.” “Of course you would,” Arthur spits. “If I could kill you—” “But you can’t.” Eames’ smile is smug and Arthur glares at him with loathing. “This changes nothing,” he finally says, crowding into Eames’ space. In his own form, Eames is almost the same height as Arthur, but the horns and the way Arthur carries himself makes him look far more imposing. Eames ducks his head backwards to avoid the pointed ends of the horns and Arthur’s lip curls. “You aren’t Ariadne, but you are still my prisoner. Just be glad that I haven’t ordered you to be locked in the dungeons.” Arthur turns on his heel and leaves. Eames watches him go, unperturbed. Nothing has changed; Eames is still staying at the castle for as long as it takes for Cobol to lose interest in him, and then he’s gone. He’s broken out of more heavily-guarded places before. • The atmosphere in the castle is tense the following day and Yusuf looks extremely relieved when he tells Eames that he’s going to be in town for the entire weekend. For him, this means three days away from the castle and away from Arthur. To Eames, this means three days of utter boredom, with nothing to distract him from the vague sense of unease that settles over him whenever he thinks of Arthur having kept an eye on him, waiting for him to make a mistake. Thankfully, it fades soon enough. Now that Eames is staying in his own form, he doesn’t need to worry about keeping in character. He’s free to let his curiosity take over and by the late morning, he’s exploring the north wing again. Arthur doesn’t bother to stop him, so Eames indulges himself, taking a candlestick with him as he walks through the darkness, opening doors and exploring the rooms on this side of the castle. There are many that have been left unused, but Eames finds a vast armoury, filled with an array of weapons. The edges of some of the blades have been dulled from extensive use and though they have all been cleaned and polished, Eames can easily imagine them being drenched in blood, held in Arthur’s hands when he hunted. It’s not the most comforting of thoughts. Eames turns away from the armoury, continuing to explore. There are several rooms with minimal furnishing that all look the same, but one of them catches Eames’ attention. It’s larger than the others, and there’s a couch positioned in the middle of the room, in front of an unused fireplace. He considers it for a moment before walking inside. Arthur had only told him to leave him alone; he’d said nothing about using any of the rooms and besides, Eames reasons to himself, there are plenty of rooms in the castle; he may as well put one to some good use. The castle staff have kept all of the rooms incredibly clean, and so there’s very little for Eames to do. He pulls the curtain aside, thrilled to discover that the window faces the opposite direction to the forest, looking out towards the faraway mountains instead. It’s a much more cheerful view, and Eames goes about rearranging the tables and chairs in the room, clearing a corner before going downstairs, finding one of the castle’s servants and begging painting supplies off them. They find him an old easel and some unused canvas with some pots of paint, and Eames takes them to the room he’s claimed as his own, setting everything up. He paints for half a day, riding a rush of inspiration. He paints the view outside, he paints the laboratory, he takes his charcoals out and uses those as well, content with the mixed colours, the feeling of physically creating something. He only notices he has an audience when Arthur clears his throat, standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?” “I think that’s obvious enough,” Eames continues to paint without even looking at Arthur. “Who gave you permission to be here? Why is that window open?” “Oh relax, Arthur,” Eames says lightly, “I’m not bothering you, am I? So kindly do the same.” “You are bothering me,” Arthur growls, taking a step into the room before he stops himself, taking a deep breath. He turns to leave, but pauses for a moment at the door. “You’re not welcome here.” “I know,” Eames calls after him, and it takes all of Arthur’s willpower to keep walking away. • Eames is there again the next day, working on a new painting. Arthur announces his presence with a frustrated growl, but Eames doesn’t even turn around. He’s humming under his breath, carelessly dripping paint all over the carpet as he works, the pages of his sketchbook rustling in the breeze that blows in through the open window. “I thought I made it clear that I don’t want you here.” Arthur’s voice comes from directly behind Eames, but he doesn’t jump, doesn’t react at all but to reply, “Well, you should have thought about that before deciding to make me your prisoner.” “You’re welcome to any room in the castle if you stay out of the north wing. Any room. Take your pick.” “I pick this one,” Eames replies, pointing a dripping paintbrush at the window. “Just look at that view.” “I don’t want the windows open. I don’t want to look outside.” “Oh, Arthur,” Eames’ voice is mocking, “does it upset you to see the outside world that you’re so afraid of?” “I’m not afraid.” Arthur’s voice has a warning growl to it, but Eames is not dissuaded. “Ashamed, then. You said yourself that you’re a monster. Just like all of the ones you used to hunt—” “I am leaving this room,” Arthur cuts in. “And if you value your life at all, you will be gone from here by the time I return.” “We both know that’s an empty threat,” Eames calls in reply, and Arthur’s only response is the slam of the door. Eames doesn’t go anywhere. He makes a concentrated effort to make this room his own; the carpet and wall in one corner are spattered with paint and there are pots and brushes sitting on every available surface. He lets his painting dry when he goes to eat lunch and returns with another makeshift canvas to work on. Arthur returns late in the afternoon and while he doesn’t look surprised to find Eames there, he certainly isn’t happy about it. “You are leaving this room,” Arthur declares. “I am not.” “That wasn’t a request. You have a minute before I throw you out myself.” “Really, Arthur. If you think that you can intimidate me—” a crash makes Eames fall silent. Arthur knocks a table aside, sending pots of paint to the floor. “Get out!” Arthur roars, advancing on Eames. “You’re acting like a child throwing a tantrum,” Eames says mildly, “and you’re spilling paint all over the floor. Now, you can look as murderous as you like but we both know—” “I might not be able to kill you, Mr. Eames, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. I’m sick of this—sick of you doing what you want in my castle. You aren’t even meant to be here, shape shifter, and if you don’t think I’m aware of the price Cobol has on your head, you’re sorely mistaken.” An unpleasant jolt runs through Eames at this. Arthur knows; every moment he spends at the castle out of Cobol’s sight is not on his own terms, but Arthur’s. He hides his unease beneath a smirk. “And yet here I am. Still in your castle as a prisoner, because kicking me out would mean admitting that you’ve been tricked. That Mal—a witch—tricked you, and you can’t bear that thought now, can you?” “Quiet,” Arthur snarls. “Don’t you dare—” “I don’t think I’m the prisoner at all, Arthur. You are, trapped here because of your damn pride—” This time, Arthur doesn’t even give any warning before lunging at him, claws swiping at Eames’ chest. Eames barely manages to step backwards out of the way and then Arthur is swinging at him again, the back of his hand connecting with Eames’ jaw with enough force to send him staggering. Arthur descends on Eames, kicking, punching, tearing at him, learning the way Eames moves to defend himself and countering every blow sent at him. “If you—aren’t going to—bloody stop—” Eames manages to say between blows, and then Arthur’s being thrown back, landing on the floor as Eames stands in a different form; thick-skinned with arms like tree trunks, his large fist punching Arthur with enough force that his head jerks sideways. “You cheater,” Arthur growls, spitting blood from where he’s bitten himself. He swipes his claws at Eames again, already calculating the strengths and weaknesses of this new form. It’s big and there’s a great amount of force behind every hit, but Eames is slower like this. Arthur is agile and he uses his smaller form to get past Eames’ defences, ready to strike him again when suddenly, the large, easy target Eames presents is gone, replaced by something smaller, more snake than any other creature, winding around Arthur and constricting. “You learn quickly,” it still speaks with Eames’ voice, “but I shift quicker. You may as well give up, Arthur, because I’m always going to be one step ahead of you.” In response, Arthur sinks his pointed teeth into the scaly skin that wraps around him. Eames cries out in pain, unwinding from Arthur, shifting again, not as large as before, but he’s muscled and intimidating, with a good balance of both speed and strength. Arthur blocks one blow, taking another to his stomach. He gasps from breath but Eames does not stop; he bodily lifts Arthur off the floor and throws him back down, standing over his sprawled figure and waiting. “Get up,” Eames barks, but he sounds tired. He waits a moment longer, but when Arthur doesn’t move—his face pressed against the carpet, mouth open as he pants for breath—Eames drops his shift, back to his normal self. They’re covered in smudged paint and a glance towards the corner of the room tells Eames that his easel is broken, the canvases with his completed pictures ruined. He shakes his head at the broken brushes, the cracked bottles, and turns to the door. “There, you’ve ruined everything,” he mutters to Arthur, still lying on the floor. “Are you happy now, you insane bastard?” Arthur gives no response, and Eames doesn’t wait for one. He limps away from the room, from the fight, trying to find satisfaction in the fact that at least he’s still standing. He isn’t sure why, but he can’t. • The next morning, Eames is in so much pain that he can barely get out of bed. The rags that he’s used to bandage his wounds have bled through and he strips them off in the ornate bathroom, washing the blood away. He remembers seeing something in Yusuf’s recipe book; a remedy to help wounds heal and restore energy. It takes him much longer to make his way to the laboratory in this state, but it’s worth it in the end; once Eames finally manages to follow the instructions, the medicine makes him feel much better. It’s a slow process, but by the time lunch has been set out, Eames’ wounds have stopped bleeding and he’s no longer limping. The food definitely helps and the pain has faded to a dull throb by the time he’s leaving the dining room. He stops in his tracks when he comes across Arthur, clearly on his way to lunch himself. Arthur looks much worse than Eames—even in the morning. He holds himself like there’s nothing wrong, but his movements are slow and pained, and Eames can see the way he’s just barely resisting the urge to curl in on himself, against the pain. “Arthur,” he says, mostly in surprise. This is the first time they’ve come across each other in the castle by chance—Eames highly doubts that Arthur would allow himself to be seen like this on purpose. He glances back over his shoulder, at the dining room. “…Do you need any help?” Arthur’s only reply is a snarl. Eames doesn’t push the offer, but watches the painfully slow way Arthur moves and before he can stop to question why, he’s back in Yusuf’s laboratory, making a bigger batch of the medicine. He already has a small bottle of it in his pocket for when he needs it, but he fills a small vial with the red liquid, slipping that into his pocket too. By the time he’s done, Arthur is no longer in the dining room; a maid that Eames passes says that he’s most likely in his study and looks at Eames like he’s mad when he asks for directions. Carrying a large candelabra with him to the north wing, Eames walks down the dark corridor, past the art room that still lies in disarray, past the armoury, and stops at a large oak door, knocking once before pushing it open. He knows he’s in the right room when he’s greeted with an angry, “Get out.” “Good to see you too, Arthur,” he says cheerfully, walking further into the room. Unlike the hall outside, Arthur’s study is well-lit. The walls are lined with bookshelves and Arthur is sitting at a large desk with books and sheets of paper stacked neatly on top of each other. There’s a large window like the others in the castle, the heavy curtains pulled shut. There’s a small table sitting in front of it, with a black cloth draped over a curious shape, but Eames decides he’ll look later. He crosses the room, placing the vial in front of Arthur on his desk. “What is this?” “Medicine. From Yusuf’s laboratory. It helps—I thought you could definitely do with some.” Arthur eyes the vial with distaste. “And why would I trust anything from you, shape shifter?” “Perhaps because I look and feel a lot less like death than you do.” Eames takes his own bottle out of his pocket. “See? It’s the exact same thing and I’m not limping around like I’ve had the shit thoroughly kicked out of me.” Arthur growls at that. “You think I don’t know how easy it is to slip poison into drinks that look perfectly harmless? No, I’m not that stupid.” “You’re impossible,” Eames huffs. “Is it always this difficult to convince you to do something that’s good for you? Just take it, Arthur. Don’t make me force you.” “You wont be forcing me to do anything,” Arthur snaps, picking the vial up and peering at it critically. “You’ll drink it, then.” Arthur snorts derisively, and crushes the vial in his hand in reply. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Eames growls, and he’s reaching across the table, taking hold of the collar of Arthur’s shirt and dragging him across the polished wood, paying no mind to what is knocked over in the process. Arthur’s breath hitches in pain and though he scrabbles to break free of Eames’ hold, he is too weak for it to be effectual. “What are you doing?” he demands, too stubborn to stop struggling as Eames drags him out of the room and through the dark corridor, down to the laboratory. “Sit here.” Eames pushes Arthur towards a bench, glaring at him with enough force to keep him where he is. “Now, shut up and watch me.” Arthur growls quietly, making himself as comfortable as possible on the stone bench, reminding himself that this is his castle, no matter how far out of his depth he currently feels. He’s silent as Eames sets out several jars of dry ingredients, naming each of them as he adds them to a bowl of boiling water. He stirs it for several minutes before holding it towards Arthur for inspection. “See? It’s the same bloody thing you refused to take before. Not a drop of poison, is there? Now, unless you’re inviting me to show you just how much more I can make you hurt, you’ll be drinking this one.” “Why are you doing this?” Arthur mutters, accepting the cup that Eames offers him. “Are you going to take it or not?” There’s a determination in Eames’ eyes that tells Arthur that he won’t get any answers even if pushes, and he knows better than to do something so pointless. “It takes a while to kick in,” Eames explains, pouring the rest of the medicine into a bottle and placing it in front of Arthur. “I know that. I’ve taken Yusuf’s medicines before.” Arthur pockets the bottle without looking away from Eames. “I’ll warn you now. Manhandle me like that again and I’ll make sure that you regret it.” Eames chuckles, shaking his head. “Really, Arthur. I’d like to see you try.” •

next

Comments

[their-darkness.livejournal.com]

Kii, this is so gorgeous.

I must admit Beauty & the Beast has always been one of my favorite Disney movies, but even if that weren't a fact, I would still think this is amazing. <3

I read it while listening to the original Beauty and the Beast prologue (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PatZzMEc_nY), and it was just sgmlhqsdlfs. <33

ON TO THE NEXT PART!

[kiyala.livejournal.com]

So glad you like it! ♥

I love Beauty and the Beast too, so I absolutely loved working on this :D

And oh oh oh, that music. I love that music so much, it makes me so happy ♥