Page 5 of The Beauty and His Beast

Everild had laughed, but the unease in his chest had not dissipated.

Camdyn’s family had sent several servants ahead to assist with the wedding preparations, but when Everild inquired about his future husband, he found their knowledge disappointingly limited. Many had only vague recollections of Camdyn as a child—memories worn thin by the passage of time. Some had known him from his early years at the monastery, but the boy had been sent there so young that few could recall more than fleeting impressions. They spoke of him in the vaguest of terms, describing a quiet child, well-behaved, largely unnoticed except by his mother and father.

One maid, a matronly woman who had taken charge of the castle’s laundry, had smiled wistfully when Everild asked about Camdyn.

“Oh, he was just the sweetest baby,” she had recalled fondly, shaking out a sheet with practiced efficiency. “Only ever fussed when he was left alone for too long. The lord and ladyworried he’d never learn to walk, you know, because Gibson was always carrying him around.”

Everild had tucked that away—a small, inconsequential detail, but one that made Camdyn feel a little more real in his mind.

Another day, while passing through the kitchens, Everild had overheard a cook’s assistant humming as he prepared fennel soup. When Camdyn’s name was mentioned, the man’s voice took on a thoughtful, almost wistful tone.

“He looked like his lady mother,” the assistant mused as he sliced onions, his hands moving with the ease of long practice. “Had his father’s coloring—brown hair, brown eyes—but his face was all hers. A real lady, that one. Very kind, very pretty. It broke her heart when the boy was sent off to the monks, though. Seems such a waste of all those years of heartache, just to marry him off anyway.”

He sighed then, dabbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve before tossing the onions into the pot.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he added hastily. “I mean no offense.”

“No offense taken,” Everild had replied, his voice quieter than he intended. “I agree.”

And he did.

It was, in many ways, a tragedy. Camdyn had spent his entire life preparing for a holy vocation, only to find himself thrust into a marriage for political and familial reasons. And the more Everild thought about it, the more he realized how unfair it all seemed—Camdyn was being taken from his peaceful, structured life and forced into this union with someone who had done terrible things. A man who had maimed, butchered, and killed on the battlefield. Everild had spent years training for war, and now he was being asked to trade that life for one of peace, but peace came with its own burdens.

And yet, despite all the horrors of his past, Everild was determined to make these days as pleasant as possible for Camdyn. The young man would never care for him—Everild knew that. He was a broken, scarred man, shaped by years of war, with a hoarse, rough voice and a body marred by battle. His appearance alone would likely horrify Camdyn, and Everild feared that the young man would never come to see him as anything other than a monster. But Everild would do his best to make sure Camdyn was comfortable in his new life. He would protect him, offer him shelter, and ensure he had no need to fear anything or anyone else.

It was one of the reasons Everild had staunchly refused the king’s suggestion to wear armor to the ceremony. The king and his advisor, Gerald, had both been displeased by the decision, citing tradition and perceived disloyalty. But Everild refused to meet Camdyn as the soldier he once was, as a killer in an executioner's garb. He had cast aside his armor after the war ended, and he would not return to it, not even for the ceremony.

Aldaay, the steward sent to oversee the preparations for the wedding, had been one of the few who had not pressed him on the matter. A small, fiery man with a sharp wit and an unwavering sense of duty, Aldaay had become quite fond of Everild over the course of their short time together. When the king and Gerald had pressed the issue, Aldaay had calmly dismissed their objections, explaining that wearing armor to a wedding was not customary in Camdyn’s culture. It was said to invite conflict, either through physical fights or spiritual discord. And Everild, it seemed, had made the right choice in rejecting it.

"It’s bad luck," Aldaay had said, "and very wise of you, my lord. Camdyn’s people don’t like to see armor at weddings—it’s a symbol of war, not of union. A man dressed in armor might as well be declaring war on his groom."

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Dustan’s presence was unbearable, as it always was, but on that day, in the grandiose church draped in tapestries of the finest silks and lit by countless gleaming windows, his vitriol heightened. It was as if the very air of the occasion made him swell with impatience and disgust, and Everild felt the tension in every word his cousin spat out. Standing at his left, Dustan’s sneers were endless.

“They probably trussed up a sheep, this backwoods lot,” Dustan muttered with distaste, his eyes scanning Camdyn’s family and friends, who were clearly a different breed from Everild’s own people. They wore clothes of striking fashion—although their fine garments were stained with soot and dust—and their faces were painted in eerie patterns of blue, running along their lips, down their chins, across their brows, and following the line of their noses. The imagery was not lost on Everild; Aldaay had explained it to him in a low voice as they walked to the church. The colors and designs were meant to mimic the appearance of corpses, giving their faces the pallor of death, and the ash signified that Camdyn’s old life had been burned away.

“A wedding’s as much a time to mourn as it is to celebrate,” Aldaay had said quietly, his words a reminder of the emotional weight of what was unfolding. “Camdyn’s old life is over, dead. His new life will be born here today, with his hands in yours.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Everild couldn’t help but feel the sting, even though he understood the sentiment behind it. He had taken this young man from the life he knew, dragged him into a world of obligation and duty that he had no say in. In truth, Everild had become a monster in the eyesof those who knew Camdyn best. He could almost feel the cold glares burning into him from across the room as he stood there, helpless in the face of it all. The idea that Camdyn’s life had been “burned away” and that he was now dead to his family—well, it stung more than Everild was willing to admit.

“They never knew him,” Everild had muttered to Aldaay when he explained the significance of the ashes. It was a bitter truth that they could never fully understand what it felt like to be torn from everything they knew. Aldaay had responded gently.

“He’ll be lost to them twice over, then. Don’t worry. At the feast, they’ll be rowdy and celebratory, all of them, celebrating the life that Camdyn is making with you. It will all change.”

But in that moment, before the ceremony began, Camdyn’s immediate family stood in stark contrast to the vibrant, joyous atmosphere of the church. They looked as though they belonged in another world entirely. Their faces were drawn, grim, and hollow, as if mourning a loved one who had already passed. Everild saw the father, tall and lean with calculating eyes that reminded him far too much of the king, and the siblings, equally tall but more muscular and strong-built, their faces equally unsettling. Gibson, the eldest of the brothers, stood among them, his eyes narrow with hatred and fury, the intensity of his gaze as if he could rip Everild apart with a single glance. It was clear Gibson wanted nothing to do with him, wanted to destroy him. The second brother, Kenelm, looked uncomfortable, confused even, his gaze darting between the painted walls of the church and the guests around him, clearly out of place in that foreign environment. The two older sisters, Aoife and Cera, wore similar expressions of quiet, resigned despair.

Yet, among all the sadness, there was one figure whose innocence offered a stark contrast. Young Aoife, Aoife’s babydaughter, was utterly oblivious to the tension swirling around her. She nursed happily at her mother’s breast, her tiny hands clinging to her mother’s robes, while the adults around her stared daggers at Everild, at the king, at the priest. The girl was a bright, innocent light in an otherwise dark moment.

And then, the doors of the church swung open. It was time.

Camdyn was brought into the church with his attendants, three veiled figures who made their way up the aisle in quiet procession. Everild knew it was Camdyn in the center, his heart racing as he watched the young man walk toward him. The white robes he wore were blinding in their brightness, meant to ward off any curses or dark thoughts, but it did nothing to settle the churning knot of discomfort in Everild’s chest. Camdyn’s robes, loose and flowing, dragged across the ground with each step, the fabric catching the light as it swayed in perfect harmony with the delicate movements of the man within it. His sash, made of silk, cinched around his waist, its intricate weave almost too much for Everild’s eyes to take in. White stockings and slippers peeked out from beneath the hem, but it was the veil that commanded the most attention.

It was long, impossibly long, trailing behind Camdyn like a living thing, as if the veil itself was determined to cover him completely, to shield him from the eyes of the world. The veil, Everild noticed, was no ordinary cloth. It was embroidered with flowers, birds, and symbols of protection, all stitched by the hands of Camdyn’s family. The imagery was delicate yet striking—blue and green flowers entwined with hawks and sparrows, all caught in a sweeping pattern of golden wheat. The most striking feature was the large eye stitched in black, centered on the back of the veil, hovering just above Camdyn’s head. It was the Eye of God, symbolizing all-seeing protection, watching over the young man as he stepped into his new life.

The attendants, dressed in bluish-gray garments, walked on either side of Camdyn. Their presence was meant to protect him, to shield him from any harm, and to confuse any malevolent spirits that might seek to steal him away. Everild felt a pang of guilt, knowing that Camdyn’s true friends were not there with him. The people who had shaped his life, who had known him and cared for him, were far away in the monastery. Those attendants were strangers to him, just as Everild was.

As Camdyn was led up the steps and placed before Everild, he hesitated for a moment. His hands trembled as they rested at his sides, and Everild’s heart ached as he noticed the soft, stifled sounds coming from behind the veil. The young man was crying.

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