Page 35 of The Beauty and His Beast

The matter had been thoroughly discussed with Everild. They both knew that, once things settled a bit, they could leave the castle in Aldaay’s capable hands and make their way to Aoife and her family for a visit, before journeying onward to the monastery. It was a trip Camdyn had been eagerly anticipating. In the months since he had left, there had been no word from Cenric, and the silence weighed heavily on him. He could only hope that something—anything—would come of his efforts to reach out to his former friend. Every day, he wrote to him, keeping up the correspondence in hopes of receiving some form of reply.

When Camdyn had still been at his family’s castle, anxiously awaiting his wedding day, his letters had been full of trepidation, laden with fearful thoughts and frequently splotched with tears. But now, his letters were pleasantly mundane—simple variations of his daily routine, his thoughts no longer weighed down by anxiety but rather filled with a certain peace. Each day, he dutifully recounted his breakfast, the books he read in the library, his progress with horse riding (which was improving, though not dramatically), and the meals he had put together in the kitchen under the stern but kind supervision of the cook. He also made detailed notes of the many gifts Everild had given him, though these often seemed far more extravagant than Camdyn ever would have chosen for himself.

The gifts were a generous and steady flow, each thoughtful in its own way. Camdyn had received a proper riding outfit, fine and durable, which would serve him well for years to come. He had been presented with a new hat to keep the sun from his eyes as he worked in the garden, a gift that Everild had clearly thought about, as it was perfectly suited for his outdoor tasks. There had been half a bushel of fresh, shiny apples—red and crisp—ready to be eaten or used in the kitchen, depending on his mood. And, of course, the bouquets—so many bouquets,changing with the seasons, bringing life to their bedchamber. When the flowers wilted, they didn’t go to waste but were either dried into potpourri or used as compost for their garden.

But then there were the jewels. Everild’s gifts were always elegant, yet Camdyn couldn’t shake the feeling that if he gave in, Everild would shower him in jewels beyond reason. The very idea made Camdyn uneasy, for he had no fondness for the ostentatious display of wealth that jewelry often represented. He had no desire to wear diamonds, rubies, or sapphires to flaunt his position. He had, after all, turned down Everild’s repeated offers to adorn him in such lavish items.

“It’d be too much, Everild,” he had said one evening, noticing how his husband’s expression had fallen at the thought. “There’s no need for them, and I’d look silly besides.”

Everild had kissed his hand, his gaze softening with affection. “You’d look beautiful. You always do. But if you really don’t want anything... I can get you whatever you’d like.” His sigh had been heavy, filled with a quiet disappointment, and Camdyn had felt a pang of guilt at the sight. Everild had looked so vulnerable in that moment, as if he had been denied something he truly wanted to give.

Eventually, Camdyn had relented, agreeing to accept just a few small pieces—nothing ostentatious, nothing too grand, but something to wear for special occasions. A week or so later, Everild had presented him with a velvet-lined jewelry box, which Camdyn had eagerly opened. Inside, he found a crown wrought with delicate gold vines and leaves, a choker and a few bracelets made from pearls, and a gold ring set with a shimmering opal. Camdyn had been taken aback by how lovely they were. The pieces were understated, elegant, and exactly what he would have chosen for himself.

“Oh, Everild,” he had murmured. “These are so lovely.”

Everild’s face had lit up with a smile, his chest swelling with pride. “You like them, then?”

Camdyn had smiled back. “Yes. They’re exactly what I asked for. You know me so well.”

His husband had preened, delighted by the praise. “Put them on?” Everild had asked eagerly. “Let’s see what they look like on you.”

And so, Camdyn had modeled the jewelry for him, smiling, twirling, enjoying the simple joy of seeing Everild so pleased. The moment had been perfect, and when Everild had suggested that Camdyn wear nothing but the jewelry, Camdyn had playfully obliged, crawling into his husband’s lap, ready to thank him in the most intimate of ways.

That, of course, had not gone into his letter to Cenric. The monastery didn’t need to know every detail of his marriage—only that Everild cared for him deeply and made him happy, more so than he could have ever imagined.

???

Camdyn was sitting at the large wooden desk in the quiet of the library, his fingers idly flipping through the pages of a book on beekeeping. He had always been fascinated by the process of making honey, and the monastery’s small apiary had sparked a deep desire within him to one day create his own. His eyes scanned over the intricate instructions on how to build a beehive from straw, mentally noting the steps as he imagined the sweet rewards of his own source of honey. The calming scent of old parchment and beeswax filled the air, blending with the natural, earthy smell of the library. He was completely absorbed in the task when suddenly, the stillness was broken.

Aldaay appeared, a sharp figure in his dark robes, and dropped a heavy stack of letters along with a bulky parcel onto the desk with a loud thud. The sudden noise startled Camdyn, and he looked up from his book, blinking in surprise.

“Solved the communication issue, Camdyn,” Aldaay said, a smug expression on his face. “Your letters were being delivered. The monastery’s letters were being stopped at the border.”

Camdyn’s eyes flickered to the pile of letters now resting in front of him. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the edges of the neatly stacked parchment. There was a sense of relief at finally seeing these letters, which he’d been waiting for with impatience. He could feel the weight of them in his hands, and it struck him that Cenric must have been writing to him just as often as he had been writing back. “Everild was right,” Camdyn said softly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I just had to be more patient.” His mind lingered on the weeks that had passed since his wedding, the emotional toll it had taken, and how he had longed for the letters that never arrived. “What was the problem at the border? Some sort of tariff?”

Aldaay cleared his throat, a nervous edge creeping into his voice. “Well... It appeared that, uh, your father was holding them back.”

Camdyn’s brow furrowed in confusion, and he stared at the advisor in disbelief. “What?” he asked, his voice tinged with shock. “W-why? What reason would he have to do that?”

Aldaay shifted uneasily, his gaze lowering slightly as though unsure how to explain. “Your father... spent a lot of time and resources arranging your marriage. It needed to be a success. It was his thinking that if you received any letters from the monastery, then you’d be—well, homesick, I suppose.”

Camdyn couldn’t help but feel a pang of frustration at this revelation. The scent of the letters—slightly fragrant withthe herbs and spices of Cenric’s apothecary and the beeswax candles from the monastery—made his heart ache a little. His fingers lingered on the edges of the bundle as he absorbed Aldaay’s words. “I was already homesick,” Camdyn said quietly, his voice soft and full of emotion. “It would have been nice to have had these in the weeks before the wedding, when I was scared and lonely.” The memories of those days, when everything had felt overwhelming and uncertain, flooded his mind. He had longed for a piece of home, a connection to the familiar faces and places of the monastery. But instead, he had felt abandoned.

Aldaay’s face softened with a look of genuine regret. “I’m sorry for it, Camdyn,” he said, his voice gentle. “I think the concern was that you might either be so distraught as to refuse the marriage and demand to be returned to the monastery, or that you and Cenric might have concocted some sort of plan for you to run away and escape back to the monks.”

Camdyn let out a quiet hum of acknowledgement as he reflected on Aldaay’s words. His mind raced, piecing together the puzzle of his father’s actions. Instead of simply letting him experience the natural grief of homesickness, his father had, in a misguided attempt to protect him, made him feel even more isolated. It wasn’t just homesickness Camdyn had endured; it was a deeper sense of abandonment and loneliness. He had been left to navigate the unknown, without the comfort of letters or guidance. He couldn’t help but think that had he been allowed the chance to communicate with Cenric, things might have been different. Perhaps the fear and confusion that had plagued him during the wedding could have been alleviated, saving both himself and Everild a great deal of time and tears.

But there was no changing the past. With a sigh and a small shrug, Camdyn asked, “I suppose they got lost in the shuffle after the wedding?”

Aldaay’s expression became more uncomfortable as he cleared his throat once again, visibly uneasy. “It appeared that after the incident the morning after the hunt, he chose to... forget to rescind the order to waylay the letters.”

Camdyn let out a small, exasperated sound, rolling his eyes as he processed the explanation. “Ah,” he said, his tone dry. “That certainly sounds like my father.”

Aldaay, looking like he might burst with something unsaid, hesitated before speaking again. “If I may be so bold, my lord?”

Camdyn raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yes?”

“Your father is a fucking prick.”

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