Chapter 2b: The Morning After

It was a massive room, circular, with shelves that rose three stories high. Books in every language, every age, every subject. Some were bound in leather, others in crumbling parchment. Some had been eaten by worms, others were pristine.

She walked through the shelves, trailing her fingers along their spines. She read titles aloud, tasting the words on her tongue.

She hadn't realized how much she had missed books. In Ashford Manor, she had been allowed to read—her mother had considered it a harmless, useless hobby for a girl who was never going to marry well. But she had been limited to the old library, the one with the water-stained volumes and the broken shelves.

This library was different. This library was alive.

She pulled down a volume of poetry and opened it at random. The words were beautiful, aching, full of love and loss and longing.

She read aloud.

"Even in the darkness, there is light. Even in the silence, there is song. Even in the death of hope, there is—"

"You're reading."

She jumped. The beast was standing in the doorway, his massive form filling the frame.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." He stepped into the room. "You were reading."

"Yes."

"What?"

She showed him the book. He looked at it for a long moment. Then he said, "I know that poem. I know all of them."

"All of them?"

He gestured at the shelves. "Every book in this room. I've read them all. Some of them twice. Some of them dozens of times. There's not much else to do."

She looked around the library with new eyes. He had read all of these. He had spent centuries in this room, alone, with nothing but words for company.

"That sounds lonely," she said.

"It was."

She waited. He said nothing else.

"Can I read them?" she asked. "Or is that too much of an intrusion?"

He looked surprised. "You want to read?"

"Yes. More than anything."

"Then read." He turned to leave. "The library is yours."

She was alone again.

She read until her eyes burned.

She read poetry and history and philosophy. She read tales of love and war and betrayal. She read the journals of travelers who had passed through these lands centuries ago, leaving behind only their words.

And somewhere in the middle of all that reading, she found a book that changed everything.

It was hidden in the back of a lower shelf, half-forgotten, its spine cracked and faded. She pulled it out and opened it. The handwriting was elegant, careful, the script of someone who had taken great pains with their work.

It was a history of the curse.

She read it from beginning to end. Then she read it again. Her hands were trembling by the time she finished.

She found him in the great hall, sitting by the fire, staring at the flames.

"Alistair," she said.

He looked up. "You're using my name."

"Yes."

"I told you my name."

"Yes."

He said nothing else. Just stared at her.

She sat down across from him. The fire crackled between them.

"I found a book," she said. "In the library."

"Many books."

"One specific book."

He stiffened. "What book?"

"It was about the curse."

Silence stretched between them. Long and brittle, like glass that might shatter at any moment.

"You shouldn't have read that," he said.

"I know. But I did."

His claws gripped the armrests of his chair. "What did it say?"

She took a breath. The words came out carefully, deliberately.

"The curse wasn't placed on you by enemies," she said. "It was placed by the sorceress you loved. As a mercy."

He flinched. A visible, physical recoil, as if she had struck him.

"Stop," he said.

"Your power was too vast. Too uncontrollable. She trapped you in this form to contain it. To protect the world from what you might become."

"Stop."

"She cursed you because she loved you, Alistair. Because she couldn't bear to lose you to your own darkness."

He rose from his chair. His voice was thunder. "Stop!"

She didn't flinch. She didn't retreat.

"She left you a way out," she continued. "A way to break the curse. Someone who truly loves you can break it. But the person who breaks it—" Her voice caught. "The person who breaks it has to take your place."

He was breathing hard. His chest heaved with the force of his anger. His eyes were wild, haunted, full of grief and rage and something that looked almost like fear.

"You don't understand," he said. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then explain it to me."

He laughed. A broken, bitter sound. "Explain it? Explain it? I killed thousands. I burned a kingdom. I destroyed everything I loved. And you want me to explain it?"

"Alistair—"

"No." He turned away from her. "No. I won't do this. I won't let you—" He stopped. His shoulders shook. "I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me."

She rose to her feet. "I wasn't offering to sacrifice myself."

He turned. His golden eyes were wet. "Then what were you offering?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I was just trying to understand. To understand what happened to you. Who you are. Why you're like this."

"I'm like this because I'm a monster."

"You're not a monster. You're a man who was broken."

He stared at her. His expression was unreadable. Then he said, "You don't know me. You've known me for a day."

"I know enough."