Page 3 of The Beauty and His Beast

Now, as an adult, Camdyn stood in the same chapel, his hands no longer small and eager but strong and steady. Cenric stood at one of the chapel’s windows, his eyes closed, his face bathed in the soft, golden light of the sun that filtered through the stained glass. The sun’s rays highlighted his weathered wrinkles and the thinning patches of gray in his hair, but to Camdyn, he was still the man who had shaped so much of his life. There was something timeless about Cenric, something that seemed to transcend age and time itself. Camdyn felt a sense of calm settle over him, even as his cheeks were still streaked with the remnants of tears. The weight of the moment—of everything that was changing—pressed on him, but looking at Cenric, he found himself grounded, a stillness returning to his heart.

As he approached, Cenric opened his eyes, and without a word, he pulled Camdyn to his side, just as he had done when he was a child, holding him close. The gesture felt so familiar, so natural, that for a moment, Camdyn was a boy again, nestled beneath the shelter of Cenric’s presence. It was as if time had bent around them, and they had returned to the place where everything had begun.

“I’m praying,” Cenric murmured, his voice soft and steady. “I am talking to God. Do you know what I’m telling Them?”

Camdyn shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. “No.”

Cenric’s hand, though no longer as strong as it once was, squeezed Camdyn’s shoulder lightly. “Oh, I’m telling Them what a fine young man you’ve become,” he said, his voice filled with a quiet pride. “And that I’m thankful to Them for bringing you into my life and for all the joy you’ve given us here.”

Camdyn chuckled through his tears, a bitter-sweetness in his heart as he wiped his eyes. He thought of the countless times he’d gotten into trouble in his younger years—of the time he’d forgotten to close the livestock pens, of the many questions that had made the monks raise their eyebrows in confusion, and of the times he had caused a minor panic by running away, hoping for the excitement of being found. “All the irritation, more like,” he said, his voice cracking with laughter that was tinged with sadness.

Cenric’s smile softened, his eyes gleaming with affection. “It was a gift to have you, even for a little while,” he said quietly. His voice held a tenderness that made Camdyn’s heart ache.

Camdyn, feeling the weight of everything that had led him here, nestled deeper into Cenric’s side, feeling the familiar roughness of his robes against his cheek. “I thought I had time to wait, still. To take my vows. And now—someone else has chosen my path for me,” he said, his voice faltering. “I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave you.”

Cenric’s arm tightened around him, a warmth that reminded Camdyn of countless moments when they had stood side by side, working, laughing, living. “I certainly wished that you could have stayed by my side for the rest of my days,” Cenric said, his voice laced with quiet longing. “But come now, you could still write to us. I know we taught you how to use a quill, at least. Letters from you would be very welcome. Especially if they happened to coincide with the wine deliveries.” His voice lightened, a joke to ease the tension, and Camdyn couldn’t help but smile, a tear slipping down his cheek.

They shared a brief, quiet laugh, the sound a rare joy in the weight of the moment. Then they fell silent, both gazing out the window at the hills stretching far beyond the monastery walls. Camdyn felt the pull of the world outside, a world he was about to leave behind, and the knowledge that it wouldn’t take long to prepare to leave. All he owned were his robes, his knife, and his prayer beads. Everything else—everything he had once called his own—belonged to the monastery: the blankets, the bed, the desk...

The manuscript.

His heart twisted in his chest as he thought of it. All the hours spent working on it, all the careful words he had written, all the passion poured into the pages. It was going to be so beautiful when he finished it. He had dreamed of it. “Who’ll finish my manuscript?” Camdyn asked, his voice tight with emotion, the words almost too difficult to say. He blinked back the tears, but they came anyway, unbidden, stinging his eyes. He felt torn between the two possibilities: that they would simply replace him with another monk to finish the work, or that it would remain incomplete, left unfinished, a silent testament to his absence. In his heart, he selfishly hoped for the latter—that the monastery would feel the loss, that his absence would be noticed in the work left behind.

Cenric considered the question as Camdyn clung to him, holding him tightly, unwilling to let go. After a long silence, Cenric spoke, his voice thoughtful. “I think I’ll suggest to the abbot that we keep it as it is,” he said, his hand stroking Camdyn’s hair gently. “As an example of skillful work for the others, and something they should strive towards in their own efforts.”

And then, as Camdyn wrapped his arms around him and held him tight, sobbing into the rough cloth of his robes, Cenric whispered, “Oh, my boy. I do love you so.”

When they finally left the chapel, the rest of the monks had gathered out in the yard. They were whispering quietly amongst themselves, their voices low as they busied themselves with the task of bringing supplies to the group of men who, when they departed, would have Camdyn amongst their number. The monks took the time to give Camdyn a reassuring pat on the head or a gentle clap on the shoulder as he walked by, offering quiet words of farewell. It was a strange feeling to be the center of so many unspoken goodbyes. Gibson, Kenelm, and their men were further along, organizing the cart for the journey ahead.

“We’re leaving today?” Camdyn asked, his voice breaking the stillness in the air. It startled the men near him, and one of the young servants, a man about Camdyn’s age, dropped a crate in surprise. His face turned an alarming shade of red when he realized that Camdyn had caught him in the act of clumsiness. He quickly scrambled to pick up the crate and stuffed it hastily onto the cart, his hands trembling slightly.

Gibson looked at Camdyn with a note of regret in his voice. “I wish we could stay the night, Camdyn, but we had to leave as soon as we could. I’m so sorry. The wedding—“ His voice trailed off, unable to explain fully the weight of what had happened. The urgency was there, though, and Camdyn understood.

“What can I help with?” Camdyn asked eagerly. He gestured to the supplies, the horses, anything he could manage. The group of men exchanged curious looks, unsure of how to respond.

“No, Camdyn, it’s all right,” Kenelm said, his voice soft and reassuring. “Just rest in the cart. We’ve cleared a space for you.” And indeed, they had: a small area large enough for him to sit comfortably, lined with soft furs to make the journey more bearable.

Climbing into the cart, however, proved to be more difficult than Camdyn had anticipated. He lifted his robes a little to move his legs more freely, but even so, the task was awkward and uncomfortable. The young servant nearby let out an exasperated sigh, while another servant made a sound that quickly turned into a loud, hacking cough. Gibson noticed Camdyn’s struggle and immediately stepped forward to help. With a hand on his waist, Gibson gently lifted him, pushing him up into the cart with surprising strength. As he did, he spoke casually, as though the memory was fresh. “I used to carry you all the time. Do you remember that? I’d throw you up in the air and catch you, too. Used to drive Mother crazy, but you loved it. I suppose that was too long ago, though.”

“No,” Camdyn said softly, looking down at his eldest brother. “I remember that. I remember you.” Gibson smiled, a rare, fond smile that spoke of long-gone days.

As the men continued to pack the cart, Camdyn settled onto the furs and watched the flurry of activity around him. Kenelm and Gibson were mostly silent, their focus on directing their servants or speaking quietly to each other. The three men discussed the weather, squinting up at the sky with suspicion, almost daring the clouds to pour down rain. From the corner of his eye, Camdyn noticed the young servant—the one with the perpetually red face—was frequently stealing glances at him. Every time their eyes met, the young man quickly looked away, only to be nudged along by the other two servants. It made Camdyn feel self-conscious, knowing that he was the subject of their curiosity.

This, in turn, brought up a question that had been gnawing at him ever since the news of the marriage had first been mentioned. He cleared his throat before asking, “Gibson? Kenelm?”

Immediately, both of them stopped what they were doing and approached the cart. “What do you need, Camdyn?” they asked, their expressions softening.

“Who is he? My—my future husband?” Camdyn’s voice was quieter now, a little uncertain.

Gibson set the crate he had been holding down with a sigh. Kenelm spoke, his tone matter-of-fact. “The king has two cousins that he favors above all else, because they’re his finest warriors. Father arranged for you to marry one of them, the Beast.”

“The Beast?” Camdyn repeated, raising an eyebrow. The term was an unpleasant one, and he couldn’t help but feel unsettled by it.

Gibson nodded. He leaned against the cart casually, though there was a hint of concern in his voice. “They call him Everild the Beast. His name is synonymous with devastation, the battlefield a place where he leaves nothing but carnage in his wake. His war cries, loud and fierce, echo through the chaos, a terrifying sound that strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies.”

The way he spoke made it clear that this memory was one that had been seared into his mind, a memory that he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried. There was a weight in his voice, a dark familiarity with the violence he described, as though he could still feel the heat of the battlefield and hear the screams of men in the chaos of war. His words hung in the air, heavy with the grimness of the past.

Camdyn’s shock and unease must have been evident on his face, for he felt his heart tighten in his chest at the thought of Everild, his future husband, being a part of that violent world. His stomach churned at the thought of what kind of man he was about to marry, and the image of Everild as a ruthless killer, surrounded by blood and death, wouldn’t leave his mind.

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