Page 7 of Beast’s Surrender, Beauty’s Revenge

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE BEAST

Washing.

Walking.

The sun.

Everything was new, even as he—I. I understood that it wasn’t new at all. I had walked in the sun before, even if it had been so long ago that I didn’t remember it.

I’d taken baths, even baths in streams and rivers, when I had to. When I’d been... traveling? I didn’t remember why I’d done that, and something in my mind shied away from the subject. From even thinking about it too much, let alone trying to remember more.

The other memories surfaced, of the dead people.

The dead family.

Had . . . had I killed them?

My mind reeled back from that notion, sickened at the idea of murdering innocent people. And yet... the blond boy, Tival. Tingardian blood. Just considering it lit a fire in my chest, sent my blood rushing in my ears, and put that metallic taste in the back of my mouth.

Spots danced before my eyes, and I longed to end every Tingardian that had ever lived.

I had to pause, grabbing a nearby tree and holding myself up as I panted, staring at the loamy ground.

“What’s wrong?” Almas asked, and he actually sounded... concerned.

Like I was a person who was worth worrying about, not just a beast he’d uncaged and was taking home with him to commit murders.

But... murders for his father. His father, who was being imprisoned unjustly by a corrupt lord. It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?

Right?

Murder is never right , a voice in my head said. Sometimes we’re forced to kill people to protect ourselves and our own people, but murder is wrong. Indiscriminate killing is never the answer.

But if murder was wrong, then why was I filled with a need to kill every man, woman, and child of Tingard? Surely that made me wrong?

I turned to look at Almas, and just my gaze was enough to make him flinch away. He had been wronged. That was easy to see. No one would free a monster and set it upon people without reason, especially not with that frightened look in their eyes. The way he constantly kept a healthy distance between us. It all meant something, but my mind was thick and slow like cold honey, and I couldn’t understand it.

“I . . . I don’t . . . know,” I finally managed to tell him.

“Are you hurt? Are you”—he glanced down at my feet and winced—“you’re bleeding. Because you don’t have shoes.”

I looked down and for the first time, truly looked at myself. No shoes. He was right. What kind of jackass went about out of doors with no shoes on, after the age of twelve? My trousers were tattered as well, and worse, I didn’t have a shirt either. No wonder he thought me a beast.

No wonder I thought myself a beast.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, and the words came out by rote, as though I said them a dozen times a day. “I don’t mean to be a bother.”

He stared at me, mouth gaping open like a fish, before he snapped it shut and stood suddenly. He marched over to sit down on a fallen tree nearby and reached into a small pouch on his belt. “This isn’t going to be much. We don’t have things to make real shoes. But maybe if we cover your feet, it’ll help.”

He tore fabric from the bottom of his own shirt, taking needle and thread from his pocket to it, and setting to work with impressively nimble fingers, snipping and tearing and sewing the fabric into a recognizable shape. It was a wonder to watch—he was quite talented with his needle and thread. “You... are very good at that.”

His head snapped up and he stared at me a moment, before ducking his head, then nodding. Surreptitiously, he wiped one eye. “Thank you. I—I used to be apprenticed to the village cobbler. Before Lord Uther decided that anyone who helped me would be ruined. Flogging my best friend and refusing to let any of his men go to the cobbler I worked for and”—he broke off in a sob that he quickly stifled—“and now my father.”

Gently, slowly, I reached out and patted him on the shoulder. He jumped and started to pull away, but when he stopped and looked at me, at my posture and the placement of my hand, he burst into actual tears. I continued to pat his shoulder, and he let me. Actually, he leaned into it. It almost looked like he wanted to fling himself at me, and I started to understand.

He had been violated. This Lord Uther had tried to steal his right to his own singular possession that no one could ever take away: his body. And when he had resisted, the man had tormented him by taking away his friends, his job, and now his family. So here, now, when someone tried to touch him, he was frightened.

He wanted to be touched—everyone wanted to be touched. It was part of being human, the longing for connection. But now, because of what this lord had done, he was also frightened of touch. Suspicious of it.

As when we had bathed and I had... well, frankly, I had forgotten how, and to remind me, he’d demonstrated rather than used his own hands. Because he needed his touch to be his own choice, as we all did. As was our right.

Yes, this Uther deserved whatever fate Almas intended for him, and I would give it.

But, some part of me realized, what Almas actually needed wasn’t simply Uther’s death. It was to feel safe in his own skin again. As though he could live his life while doing the correct things, and be treated in accordance. Not to have his entire existence made unlawful simply because he didn’t want the touch of one man.

When he finished his makeshift shoes—more socks, really—he slipped out of his seat and knelt in front of me, sliding them onto my feet. They were perfect. Incredibly well done, particularly considering what he’d had to work with.

“They fit okay?” he asked, as though it weren’t obvious.

I nodded. “They fit perfectly. Thank you.”

For some reason, the thanks made roses bloom in his pale cheeks, and it was especially fetching. I could see why his lord wanted him. Obviously, though, that could never excuse what the monster had done.

“No” was a simple concept, and it applied to lords as much as everyone else.

He smiled up at me. “You’re welcome, um... Beast.”

I cocked my head, considering for a moment. That wasn’t right, was it? I had been a beast. Acted the part. But it wasn’t who I was. It wasn’t my name. So what was my?—

I smiled back at him, remembering suddenly. “Percival. My name is Percival.”