Obviously not the library, I assumed the room was Arthur’s.
I should have left.
A polite and kind Goddess would have done so, but there are plenty of those and I’d never been interested in joining them.
Curious about the man and Beast who had dragged me into this curse, I traced my fingers over the titles of the books, careful not to disturb them. Books full of romantic poetry, sonnets and letters to lovers. Books of mysteries and one or two adventure stories. Arthur was clearly an avid reader, and as I sat to readChorus of the Colliding,a book of poems collected from two lovers over centuries, I understood my captor better.
Arthur was a romantic. A lover of the written word clearly, as his notes in fine penmanship littered the margins of most pages. It was as if I could peer into his thoughts with his markings and underlining segments, scratching out his own notes only to have written something more detailed.
I became lost, reading through each poem, each line that told the story of love between two fae who had found each other young and written words of devotion through every stage of their lives. One poem stopped me, tugging at something within my chest.
In all my forms, I’ve loved you.
In every new skin I’ve donned, I’ve loved you.
Every wake, every mossy morning written in dew, I’ve loved you.
If the Veil had cursed me, I’d love you.
If time had faulted me, I’d love you.
Within each moment of
Breathing,
Beating,
Sleeping, Eating, Loving, Living,
I’ve
Loved
You.
My first tear fell, spilling onto the page, smearing the carefully written scrawl of a man turned Beast. One line of the poem was underlined.
If the Veil had cursed me, I’d love you.
In the margin, he’d written,
Can you love the one you’ve never met?
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I gasped, slamming the book shut and rising from the chair. Arthur stood in the dark stone archway, his chest bare, breathing heavily, and wet as if he’d just come from the plains of snow.
“Apologies,” I said, regaining my composure. “I left, desiring to see the library you spoke of and I was brought here. I assumed the black door led to it.”
“It does not.”
“Yes, I see that now.”
“You should be resting in your room.” He walked to the bed, his back to me as he shoved something into the drawer of his bedside table. “Are you…in pain?”
“No.” I let the word settle between us. The wound did sting a little as if just to remind me I was in the presence of the one who’d delivered it.
He nodded and turned back to face me. “You must have questions.”
