The Eye of the Beholder (26 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mira…" he began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 25: Recovery

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

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.