Page 2 of The Beauty and His Beast

Just the day before, Camdyn had completed one full page, and today, after prayers and chores and even more prayers, he was determined to finish ruling another set of parchment by dinner. Ruling the pages, that most monotonous step of the whole process, was his least favorite task. The parchment was ready, its edges trimmed, and now it needed the carefully spaced lines to guide the ink. Soaking calfskin in lime and water for days, scraping off the remaining hair and flesh, was the part of the process he found strangely satisfying, as was the task of cutting the stretched and dried skin to the proper size. And while his penmanship was often praised, and he took immense pride in how elegant his letters appeared, he had to admit that he greatly preferred moments where he could get creative—when he could delve into the borders or decorateentire pages with vibrant inks depicting saints, angels, flowers, and intricate designs in hues of green, red, blue, and gold.

But ruling? That was pure drudgery. It was slow, tedious work—one that required such careful attention to detail that it was a test of patience. But if he did it right, he wouldn't have to repeat it. That was the only consolation. So he plodded on, resolving to finish it that very evening, no matter the cost.

“Camdyn,” a voice called from outside his cell, breaking his concentration. “The abbot needs to speak with you outside. It’s urgent.”

The sudden interruption felt unfair. He was right in the middle of his work, and as far as he could tell, he hadn’t done anything wrong that day. With a disgruntled sigh, Camdyn stopped what he was doing, put a stopper in his ink bottle, cleaned his quill, and straightened up his desk before reluctantly heading outside.

As he stepped into the yard, he squinted against the bright sunlight and the sharp, salty breeze from the sea. The first thing he noticed was a cart parked in the middle of the yard, and then the sight of five horses tethered in the stables. It was an unusual sight, one that had never occurred during his time at the monastery. The stable had never been so crowded. His gaze shifted toward the strangers—five men, lightly armored, their faces tired from travel, glancing nervously at the monks moving around them, as if unsure of what to expect, where to look, or what they were even doing here.

The abbot, standing among the strangers, caught sight of Camdyn and waved him over. The group of men turned toward him, and Camdyn noticed three of them, standing by the cart, eyeing him curiously. There was something about their gazes that made him uneasy. One man, around his age, met his eyes and blushed a deep shade of red, quickly looking away. Another man muttered something unintelligible—somethingabout lambs and a wolf’s den—that made his companion elbow him sharply in the ribs. The two men closest to the abbot regarded him with expressions Camdyn recognized—a softness in their eyes that reminded him of how Cenric looked at him before pulling him into a hug or ruffling his hair. But these two men were strangers. Still, there was something oddly familiar about them, something in their faces that tugged at his memory.

The older of the two, a man with dark blond hair and a beard, smiled widely as he stepped forward. “That couldn’t be—you’ve grown so much—I almost didn’t recognize you.”

The other, with curly brown hair, added with a cheeky grin, “Well, certainly bigger, but not that much bigger. I’ve seen children taller than him.”

Camdyn stared at them in confusion, his mind reeling. Something in the abbot’s face, along with the earnest looks from the two men, set Camdyn on edge. He hesitated, looking around at the other monks who were busy with their own tasks—scrubbing the walls, pulling weeds, feeding the chickens. He opened his mouth to protest but then looked at the two men again. As he really looked at them, fragmented memories began to surface—bits and pieces of a childhood long forgotten.

There was the sensation of being tossed into the air and caught again and again, of small hands exploring a young man’s face with curious, clumsy touches. Laughter surrounding him as he tasted food for the first time—slices of lemon that made him cry, spoonfuls of sweet rice pudding that were hurriedly shoved into his mouth.

And then it hit him. He knew these men. Gibson and Kenelm, his older brothers. But it had taken him this long to recognize them because the last time he saw them, he had been three years old, bundled up for the journey to the monastery. His mother, tearfully dressing him, had said her goodbyes. And now, nearly seventeen years later, here they were, standing beforehim. His heart ached at the sight of them, and yet, a part of him wanted to turn and run.

Gibson, the older of the two, was taller, with a full beard and a wide smile. He stepped forward, clearly eager to embrace Camdyn, but he hesitated and instead pressed a hand to his chest. “It’s me, Gibson. And Kenelm’s here too. It’s so good to see you, Camdyn. I’ve missed you so much—God’s truth.”

But Camdyn, still reeling, could only manage to ask, “What do you want? Why are you here?”

Gibson flinched at the coldness in his voice, and behind him, Kenelm shifted awkwardly, his gaze dropping to the dirt beneath his feet. The silence stretched, and Camdyn’s anxiety grew with each passing moment. The abbot, sensing the tension, placed a gentle hand on Camdyn’s back and suggested, “Why don’t we take a walk by the beach, the four of us? We can talk.”

But Camdyn didn’t want to show them the beach. The beach was his. It was the place he went to think, to breathe, to be alone. His sanctuary. When he was younger, Cenric had held his hand when they walked along the shore, pulling him away from the tide and showing him pretty seashells as they collected seaweed to dry and turn into medicine. The beach was his, and no one, especially not these brothers who had been absent for so long, would take that from him.

“No,” Camdyn said firmly. “I don’t want to walk with you. Not now.” His gaze hardened as he turned to the abbot. “Why are they really here? What’s going on?”

When the abbot didn’t answer immediately, Camdyn’s anxiety blossomed into panic. His heart raced, his mouth dried out, and his hands began to tremble. Something was very wrong. He could feel it in his bones.

Gibson seemed to hesitate, clearly struggling to find the right words. Finally, Kenelm spoke up, his voice forced, filled with a hollow cheer. “We’re here to take you home. Fatherarranged for you to be married. You’ll—well, you’ll be part of the royal family. The king’s cousin is to be your husband. He’s a war hero.”

Camdyn let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t marry. I’m—I’m a cleric—”

But Gibson, his voice laced with barely contained anger, cut him off. “You’re a novice. You haven’t taken your vows yet. The abbot can’t—Father still has the final say over your life.”

“And this man—this man I’ve never even met? Who is he? Why now?” Camdyn's voice cracked, and he looked helplessly at the abbot, whose eyes were filled with sympathy. “Please, you can’t do this. Everything I have, everything I’ve worked for, is here. I—I can’t leave.”

His voice faltered, and he wasn’t sure who he was pleading with—his brothers, the abbot, or anyone who would listen. The three men behind his brothers looked uncomfortable, and Camdyn could see their faces soften with regret, though they didn’t speak.

The abbot, seeing Camdyn’s distress, pulled him into a warm, protective embrace. Gibson, his face twisted with self-loathing, stood motionless, guilt apparent in his expression. “Camdyn, please,” he said, his voice breaking. “Don’t cry. We’ll look after you. You’ll be fine, I promise—”

But Camdyn, feeling the weight of it all, could only whisper, “Where’s Cenric? Does he know? I need to see Cenric, please.”

The abbot’s voice, softer than Camdyn had ever heard it, responded gently, “He knows. He’s praying in the chapel. Go and speak to him.”

Camdyn, desperate for comfort, rushed toward the chapel without a second thought, his heart pounding in his chest. Gibson and Kenelm started to follow, but the abbotstopped them. “You’ll stay with me. Camdyn needs time to speak with the man who raised him. Do not disturb them.”

With those words, Camdyn fled, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and sorrow. The life he had built at the monastery was about to shatter, and he wasn’t sure he could hold it all together.

???

Camdyn knew every chip in every stone that made up every inch of the monastery. He could trace the intricate patterns of wear in the stonework of the chapel, remembering how each crack had formed over the years, how each weathered patch in the masonry had its own story. The chapel, like the rest of the monastery, was a landscape he knew intimately, a world of corners and crevices where his feet had played and his hands had touched in childhood. When he was a child, it was as much a place to play as any other—sometimes more so. The monks would often find him slipping between the towering columns, his laughter echoing off the stone as he explored the spaces where only the youngest dared to venture. He would run his hands along the walls, delighting in how his fingers found the grooves, the rough patches, the smooth stones that had been worn down by centuries of use. Each mark, each imperfection, became part of his growing understanding of the world, a world he’d come to love as much as the stone itself.

When he was old enough to attend prayers but too young to seriously take part in them, Camdyn had been a whirlwind of energy, zipping between the rows of monks, darting past their robes and nipping at their prayer beads as they bent their heads in devotion. Cenric, ever watchful, would often be the one to catch him—his strong hand wrapping around the cowl of Camdyn’s habit, pulling him back into the calmness of theprayer circle, holding him firmly, but with the care that only someone who had raised him could understand. The firm hand on his shoulder, a weight that kept him in place, reminded him of the security he had always felt in the presence of the man who had watched over him like a father. Even as he wriggled in place, trying to squirm out of the hold, he never felt fear, only a sense of warmth and belonging.

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