by Z.N. Singer
His silent language.
Very few of Sarumah's visitors came by an appointment. They were nearly always requests for help, and there was no putting emergencies to a schedule. She honestly never knew when she got up in the morning if she'd have the day to herself or spend it all helping the nearest king and perhaps a few peasants in the bargain. Despite that, days to herself were actually fairly common – she was freely available to all, but no one asks the help of a magi lightly. If something other than her magic could suffice, it was tacitly understood, then that something should be made to. You didn't bother someone whose time and aid were so valuable with trifles. There were exceptions however, and unfortunately her own most common exceptions were not entirely welcome. Sarumah was a magi, but she was also a beautiful and elegant young woman of intelligence who was currently eligible. Hence, she had suitors.
They weren't bad people, mind you, but she just wasn't interested. She also just didn't have the heart to go cold on them and convince them to go away. Eventually most of them picked up on the situation of course, and then generally they'd wander off in search of more receptive women, but by then somebody else had started in, and it seemed in the end the number she dealt with was always the same. Oh, none of them actually said they were courting her. They made up excuses – something they were worried about on their estate, or whether there would be trouble with the crops this spring, and so on. Far and away the most popular was a request for an enchantment on their weapons or armor – most popular because such enchantments had to be renewed regularly, thus making a perfect chain of excuses, one alibi covering many visits, potentially for infinity, or until – so they no doubt fantasized – she confessed herself smitten and rode home with one of them. Thus far, none had come even close to evicting such a thing from her, but she had at least four with regular appointments for their enchantment to be refreshed. All – as was usual with her suitors – were younger knights of varying degrees of birth. Marriage was as much a matter of politics in her country as in any other, but the power and prestige of a magi marriage meant this deterred few. Sarumah was the noble younger sons ideal marriage catch, and she was all too aware of it. She was still searching for some excuse she could use to make a permanent end of the farce – preferably one that she could still get out of later if she changed her mind or finally did meet someone. So far, none had occurred to her. And so, realizing that today was one of those days, Sarumah resigned herself to several hours of polite talk with a well meaning but really quite dense young knight whose sense of chivalry was more endearing than impressive. He clearly saw himself as her shining noble protector to be, which was really quite ridiculous considering the things she could do, and the fact that he didn't realize it only made it clearer how unsuitable he was. The sooner he did realize it the better – but there was little hope of it happening today. Sarumah resented it even more than usual this time, because she at last had other company that she'd far rather keep, even if he was currently very hairy. Frankly, the Beast was a better conversationalist.
She did not worry about what might happen if the thick Knight – she found not remembering names helped speed up the process of disillusionment – met the Beast, because the magi's law of peace was both ancient and sacrosanct. Because a magi's spells kept out all evil, all within a magi's lands were by definition innocent, and what's more, by definition, they were innocents in desperate need of aid. For someone who had come for her hep to be harmed on her grounds was unacceptable: to attack a person innocent enough to successfully seek her aid was by any respectable code of honor reprehensible. That knowledge was known to all: it had been the case since her great-great-great parents had settled here, and it applied to every other magi's home, wherever they might be found. So it never occurred to Sarumah to worry about the Knight. The idea that the Beast might be in danger from anyone, even him, was inconceivable.
She had underestimated the Knight.
It happened suddenly: as she was walking through a hallway she felt the magics of the land go into such violent turbulence as she'd never felt before: fear and shock and horror reverberating through her from the spells and wards as the knowledge came that the unthinkable had occurred: blood had been spilled on her land.
But as horrifying as that was, the bestial bellow of pain that followed was even worse. Only the Beast could have made it.
Sarumah wasn't even aware of tapping into the network of magics that encapsulated her grounds, so long attuned to her line that she could twist even time and space if she so wished. She was only aware of the all important need to be where the Beast was, right now, immediately.
It was like one of those bad dreams, where all the villains have familiar faces, and the victims as well. There was the Knight, waving his bloody sword and shouting; there was the friend who often accompanied him, clutching his sword arm and shouting at him. And there was the Beast, sprawled beside his flowers, blood splattered across the fur she'd spent so much time holding, brushing, smelling.
Sarumah – gentle life loving magi Sarumah – abruptly learned the meaning of true rage.
Sarumah let loose such a scream as she would have never believed could come from her throat: fury, pain, hate, revenge, all boiled from her in a wave of magical force that bent the very air around her and set every grain of dirt and blade of grass in the grounds to shaking; all the vast power at her disposal turned to express her unspeakable rage, churning everything within her walls into a terrifying maelstrom; the sky darkened as the lashing wind sent both Knights tumbling madly across the lawn. The only calm place was where the Beast lay: his fur waved slightly but nothing else disturbed his form.
Sarumah thrust out a hand: the force focused on the guilty Knight, closing in to crush him from all sides: he dangled, splayed in midair, stiff form struggling to resist the forces that sought to crush him and his armor alike: the heavy plate metal strained, creaked, began to crack as Sarumah's magic steadily, inevitably gained the upper hand.
“How dare you....how dare you...HOW DARE YOU SHED BLOOD ON MY LAND?!!
“My lady, please—”
“Be silent! I won't spare his life for this! He had broken the magi's peace on the body of my dearest friend, his life is forfeit to me!”
“My lady, please!” It was the friend, on hand and knees, the other hand reaching out. Begging. “My lady, I know he did wrong, but he hasn't killed your...your friend, not yet. Punish him if you must, but please don't kill him, not when he hasn't killed. You know how he is, my lady. He meant well. Surely your magic can still save the – the victim.”
“He is a man, and a far better one that your friend will ever be!” Sarumah snapped. But she was already calming. Murderous rage simply did not come naturally to her. “He is a man, a good man, under an enchantment. When I couldn't break it, I promised him safe haven. A promise this...this oaf...has broken. A promise based on a sacred trust that everyone with the brains of a mouse should have known better than to break. A peace never to be violated. And you ask me for mercy!”
“I know he did wrong,” the friend said. He'd always been the smarter one – Sarumah had often suspected he came to protect his friend from himself. “And I know it cannot go unpunished. It is your right to exact what consequences you will. But please, not in anger my lady. And not death. Not when he hasn't killed. Please.”
She almost resented it, this draining of anger, this absence where the will to punish, to ravage, to give hurt for hurt had welled. But it happened anyway, because it was in her nature to do so. She let him drop with a clang that made his friend wince. She glanced towards the Beast, and felt the hollow in her begin to fill with despair, and knew she only had a little time before she broke down entirely.
She locked eyes with the Knight, summoning the anger that remained and slamming straight it straight into the wide, terrified gaze beneath his helm. “I curse you,” she proclaimed deliberately. “I curse you, by the steel with which you sinned, and by the blood that was your sin. Never again will metal
aid you to shed blood, nor will it shield your own. You are barred both arms and armor, for all of time. Now go! Get out of my sight. If you dare to set foot in my lands again before a year has passed, I will kill you on the spot. If the Gentle Beast dies, I will kill you anyway, wherever you are, you will die where you stand! Now go! Get out!”
“My lady, I want to—”
“Get out! Now! Go away! Leave us be!!”
They did. The knight was only half conscious, and it took several minutes of awkward clanging and limping to get back out through the main gate. Through it all, Sarumah never stopped glaring at the Knight, holding herself together with the sheer outrage he evoked in her. She held it till the instant the gate closed behind them.
Then she burst into sobs and ran to fling herself on the Beast's prone body, so overwrought by shock and misery and rage that despite all her training for a while all she could do was lie there, face buried in his bloody fur, clutching and crying, “Oh my Beast, my Beast, my Beast, oh Beast,” unable to even manage anything more, until she finally pulled herself together enough to shakily sit up and try to treat him, desperately casting spell after spell as she cried. “Oh Beast, how could they, how could they, my Gentle Beast, I should have, I should have killed him, if you die I will kill him., he'll be the first thing I ever kill but I will. I promised...I promised again...I promised you'd be safe...why, I should have been able to keep this one, I should have, it's not fair, there shouldn't have been a second time, I shouldn't have failed twice, oh Beast, oh Beast don't die!” She was working magic, working it for all she was worth, but she had no way to tell it was working; she knew the spells but had never used them, knew nothing about what the body could or couldn't take, and in any case the Beast's body was so different. Was he dying or not? Was she helping or not? Could he be helped or not, she didn't know, had no way of knowing, could do nothing but sob and cry over his body, and pour the spells, all the power and wish for life she had, into his body, over and over again, as many times as was safe. And when it wasn't, she lay sprawled against him, tears wet on her face, matted sticky fur against her cheek, and stroked his side and prayed, like she had never prayed before. All through the evening she did this, until the sky began to turn slightly orange with approaching dusk. And then she felt the Beast stir, and when she pulled away and looked, she saw that the wound had closed. And when she sat up and moved back, hesitant and hopeful, her world came back to life with the Beast's waking, as slowly, slowly, he raised his head, and then heaved himself to his feet. His body, clearly healthy once more, was more brilliant to her eyes than the sun it was silhouetted against. He looked at her, and seemed slightly dazed. His mouth opened.
“You are bigger,” he said.
His voice was deep and gentle and steady, exactly the voice she would have imagined for him. And now her tears were flowing again, but they were so different it seemed they should have an entirely different name then tears, and her smile seemed sure to break her mouth open at the corners as she told him the truth, the truth she could clearly see as he stood there, dark against the sky.
“No Beast,” she said happily. “You are smaller.”
She had to scramble through old rooms she hadn't visited for ages to find clothes for him – from the looks of it, he would have need of them by morning. The change was proving continuous, slow but steady, and most likely would finish sometime during the night.
“The Forest's magic is immersive,” she explained, as she prepared a proper room for him. With his shape, he'd had little use for a bed until now. “We knew that from the way it affected your mind and sense of time, and from the fact that the others don't even remember they're not really beasts. Because of your Green Touch your mind wasn't entirely taken, and once you left the Forest your sense of time went back to normal as well. But most of you was still caught in the Forest's magic: your subconscious still perceived the shape the Forest had given you as its natural one, and actively strove return to it. That should have worn off as well in time, except that you emerged to find yourself alone. You were forced to go without human contact, and without that reinforcement the metamorphic spell stayed in effect. You needed a human anchor, a counter-influence to the Forest's, in order to remove yourself completely. When we spent so much time together, we became close, and I was able to become your anchor. Even if this hadn't happened, you would probably have begun to change in another week or so. This just made it happen faster.”
She finished preparing the bed, and turned to face him, simple happiness on her face. “I was able to keep my promise after all,” she said softly. “I'm glad. You were too good a man to be trapped as a beast. In fact...now that you can tell me...what is your real name?”
For a long moment, he didn't answer. Finally he shook his head. “It...doesn't fit anymore. It is...not my name anymore.”
At first Sarumah frowned, but then she nodded. “I guess a change like the Forest makes must feel a bit like being reborn. You were something else, for a while. And with all that time in between...I suppose it's not so surprising to feel like someone else now, just a little.”
He nodded.
“But Beast – I mean there, see, I can't call you that now can I? I can't go around calling a man Beast. It's...horrible.”
And now he smiled, warm and unhesitating. “Gentle Beast,” he corrected her. “From you, it is enough.”
For a moment, she stared – stared at this new being, still shaggy and with unnatural shoulders and face but still unquestionably humanoid. Then she, too, smiled. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Very well, as you wish. Gentle Beast you remain. And my offer of hospitality remains as well, of course.”
He nodded. Sarumah instinctively began to reach out her hand, and hesitated. During the time the Beast had been with her, touch had come to be very natural, even frequent – a brush on the shoulder, a hand on his side or the ruff by his neck. But the shape he held now made those touches seem very different. She almost lowered her hand – but she changed her mind. Instead she reached out and laid it briefly on the curve of his shoulder as she walked past.
“Good night. I look forward to seeing your true form in the morning.”
She did indeed see it in the morning.
In fact she got up with a good deal of enthusiasm over it, but he was still asleep, or so she assumed after listening a moment by the door. So she went to find something to do until he woke up, since she planned to eat breakfast with him: it would by their first time eating side by side, using the same utensils and servings. It occurred to her that she spent so little time in the herb room, she hardly knew where things were, the way she did the library. That was no good – what if someone needed something from it quickly? So she went down there to browse the shelves.
There was a man in her herb room.
He was fairly short – only an inch or so taller than her – but there was a broad blockiness in his build that made him seem larger, and spoke of great strength. He seemed somehow made of chunks. His face was the same. He was quite homely really. But she would have known him anywhere, under any light, at any time. She could tell it was her Beast. It was in the gentle air, in the silence, and in the warmth. It was in the way he moved, that knew the silent language.
He smiled, the open warmth in his face and angle of his body his own special way of saying 'Good morning'. Even though he could talk now, he still preferred the silent language being a Beast had taught him. Sarumah was glad. She'd come to love it too.
“Good morning,” she replied, and walked over, both to be closer to him and to see what he was holding. She smiled when she saw it was the jar of Mengever's Root. The herb that had started it all. The herb that, in the end, had brought him to her.
“I wonder if I should find a lower place for it,” she said thoughtfully. “In case someone needs it in a hurry.”
Gentle Beast frowned absently at the jar, turned his head questioningly her way.
“Well, I suppose I don't need to really, it's har
dly ever called for. But I do so hate using that stool.”
For an answer, he smiled, and put the jar in her hand.
“What...surely you can't still—”
But it appeared that indeed he could – he lifted her almost as easily as when he had been a beast. Sarumah laughed, startled, pleased, and delighted all at once. “Well that makes things easier,” she said, putting the jar back. The Gentle Beast obligingly began to lower her again.
“Unless...” She said softly, as her feet hit the ground.
Gentle Beast frowned – she could hear it in his silence and his grip, as clearly as she could hear his question, and the concern at the tone in her voice.
“...you don't need my protection anymore, Beast,” Sarumah said quietly. She still hadn't turned around. “No one is going to attack you. And this is far from your homeland.”
The Beast was quiet. Of course, that meant nothing: he nearly always was. If she turned his way, if she looked at him, even for a moment, she would know the answer: his silent language would tell her everything. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. All the changes he'd made in her life – she didn't want to lose them, not a single one. She never wanted to go back to the days before her Gentle Beast. But she was a magi. And a magi has a duty.“If you ever wish to leave,” she said. “If that is what you want, then...wherever it is you wish to go...as a magi...I will make it happen. I promise, I will, I...I...” Words couldn't get out of her mouth anymore: something was lodged in her throat that made her gasp strangely when she tried. She could only swallow, swallow down the not-sobs. And wait.
