Page 6 of The Beauty and His Beast

It was a horrible realization, one that struck Everild like a cold wave. His throat tightened as he watched Camdyn’s shoulders shake, his body hunched in distress. He wanted to do something, to comfort him, to reach out and tell him everything would be alright, but the overwhelming weight of the ceremony, of the eyes of the church upon them, prevented him from moving. The priest cleared his throat pointedly, sending Everild a sharp, meaningful glance, silently reminding him that the time had come.

With trembling hands, Everild reached for the veil. He lifted it slowly, the fabric heavy in his hands, as the weight of the moment pressed down on him.

The shock was palpable, like a wave crashing over the entire congregation, rippling from the front of the church where Everild stood to the very back, where the more distant guests murmured in confusion. There was a sudden intake of breath, a collective gasp, as the veil was lifted completely, revealing the face of Camdyn.

Dustan was the first to break the stunned silence, his voice harsh and undignified as he let out a squawk of disbelief. He had spoken so many times of Camdyn’s appearance, claiming it with the air of one who knew it all, but now that the moment had arrived, even Dustan could not hide the shock that laced his voice. They had said Camdyn was pretty, yes—that much had been agreed upon by everyone, spoken of with casual ease. But the word wasn’t enough. It never was. The truth of it hit Everild like a blow to the chest: Camdyn wasn’t just pretty, he was absolutely, impossibly beautiful.

Camdyn’s eyes were huge, bright, and a deep amber color, like dark honey glinting in the sunlight. But these eyes were not clear and calm—no, they were red-rimmed, tearful, filled with emotion that Everild could see but not fully comprehend. The long, delicate lashes that framed those eyes were wet, the tears still clinging to them as though they were too afraid to fall away. His hair was a tangled mop of brown curls that tumbled down past his ears, wild and untamed, as though he had no control over the way it fell. Camdyn’s lips were soft, the kind of pink one only saw on flower petals in the early morning light, almost too beautiful to be real. Freckles dusted his face like constellations in a dark sky—small, scattered marks that added to the sweetness of his appearance, making him seem like he didn’t belong here, like he was a figment from a dream.

A poet would have written sonnets about the vision of him standing there. A painter would have abandoned everything to capture the image of Camdyn in a perfect work of art.

But Everild? He was no artist. The beauty before him was wasted on him, and all he could do was stare, stunned and helpless, as words died on his tongue. The inspiration that struck him was not poetic—it was instinctive, fierce, protective. A surge of anger and helplessness rose in him as he watched Camdyn’s trembling figure. The terror in Camdyn’s eyes grippedhim, twisting inside him, igniting something far deeper than any admiration could. This man—this beautiful, trembling man—did not deserve this.

Everild couldn’t tear his gaze away, terrified that if he did, Camdyn would disappear. His betrothed—his future—could vanish just as easily as a fleeting dream. But the longer he looked, the more unsettling it became. He wanted to help, to fix things, to somehow ease the anguish that was so clearly written across Camdyn’s face, but he found himself paralyzed, unable to move by the heavy weight of uncertainty, by the unsettling vulnerability that Camdyn had shown him.

Then, there was a flutter of movement around him and the sound of low murmurs. Camdyn’s attendants were busy adjusting his veil, folding it into a cloak, pinning the brooches to the front of his robes. Camdyn flinched at the touch, his body quivering with distress as each pin was pressed into place. The simple act of arranging the veil into something more manageable should have been a quiet, routine moment—but in the context of this overwhelming, emotionally charged atmosphere, it only intensified Camdyn’s trembling. The sound of the brooches securing his robes seemed impossibly loud to Everild, amplifying the painful silence that hung between them.

The priest, however, didn’t seem to notice—or care. As soon as Everild had lifted the veil and revealed the tear-streaked face of his betrothed, the priest resumed his recitation, his voice ringing out with a practiced, steady cadence. The words he spoke were hollow to Everild, who was still rooted in place, his heart aching at the sight of Camdyn’s distress. The priest carried on as though Camdyn’s sobs weren’t echoing through the chapel, as though the visible fear in his eyes was just another part of the ceremony to be ignored.

Camdyn’s gaze flickered from Everild’s stunned stare to the king’s, to Dustan’s, who still wore an expression of wide-eyedastonishment, and then to the guests, their faces mirroring the same shock and disbelief. But in the sea of astonishment, one group stood apart.

Camdyn’s family.

His siblings were filled with barely contained rage. Gibson, the eldest brother, stood on the edge of control, his hands clenched at his sides, his posture rigid. If Everild hadn’t known better, he would have said Gibson looked like a man on the brink of violence, as if he might break free from the others holding him back and charge forward in an attempt to take Camdyn away from all of this.

Kenelm, the second brother, was no less agitated but less able to mask his confusion. He looked torn, as though he didn’t know where to direct his anger, nor how to react to what was happening in front of him. But Camdyn’s gaze didn’t stay on them for long. His focus shifted to his father, the towering figure of a man whose clenched jaw, reddening face, and narrow, hateful eyes were fixed solely on Camdyn. His expression wasn’t directed at Everild—not at all—but at the son he had failed to understand, the son who, at this moment, couldn’t hold back the sobs that wracked his body.

It was a moment too much for Camdyn. The last shred of control snapped, and he broke into loud, heart-wrenching sobs, unable to keep it in any longer.

And yet, the priest pressed on. His voice rose, louder, more insistent, as though Camdyn’s tears didn’t matter, as if this was all a part of the normal flow of things. Everild felt his chest tighten as he watched the man continue his sermon without a hint of mercy, without a shred of compassion for the trembling soul before him.

This was too much.

The heat in the church was stifling, the crowd oppressive, and the weight of the entire situation was beginning to crushEverild from all sides. There was too much—too much emotion, too much expectation, too much fear.

He glanced at Camdyn again, and the sight of him—tears running down his cheeks, shoulders shaking—broke something inside Everild. The overwhelming pressure of the moment, the stifling, suffocating air, the crowd of strangers, and the crushing reality of his own rage made him snap.

“Shut up.” His voice was rough, harsh, louder than he intended, but it silenced the priest immediately. The man stumbled to a halt, eyes wide with surprise, his mouth hanging open in shock. Camdyn’s breathing caught in his throat, and he inhaled sharply, then quieted, his body trembling even more violently than before. He stared at the floor, his head bowed in a mix of shame and fear. The weight of the situation pressed down on Everild, and his heart ached in his chest as he watched Camdyn collapse into himself.

But there was no time for hesitation now. Everild turned toward the priest, his eyes blazing with a fury that he could not contain. He stepped so close that their noses almost brushed. “You don’t speak again,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate, each word carrying the weight of an order. “Until I give you permission.”

The priest’s face paled, and he nodded frantically, his eyes wide with fear. The authority in Everild’s voice left no room for argument. The priest did not dare protest.

Everild hesitated for just a moment before moving toward Camdyn again, his steps slow and deliberate. He saw Camdyn’s shoulders shaking faintly, his breath hitching in soft hiccups that broke through the quiet, the delicate sound of distress. Every instinct in Everild urged him to reach out and offer some sort of comfort, to make the moment better, to calm the storm of emotions brewing between them. But he knew that first, he needed to get Camdyn to look at him, to acknowledgehim, to find some small thread of connection before he could do anything else.

With careful, trembling hands, Everild reached out, cupping Camdyn’s tear-streaked face with his large, rough palm. The touch was gentle, tentative, as though he might break something if he moved too suddenly. Slowly, he lifted Camdyn’s chin, encouraging him to meet his eyes. The young man stared at him, his dark, wide eyes as round as saucers, still filled with shock and fear. He did not pull away, did not shy from the touch, and for that, Everild was grateful. It was a small sign, but it was enough to give him hope that he might be able to help, to do something to stop this overwhelming terror.

Everild wiped away a tear that streaked down Camdyn’s cheek, his thumb grazing the soft skin. The action was a simple one, but it felt as if the whole world was contained in that small, intimate gesture. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke, the question slipping from his lips before he could stop it. “What’s wrong?” It was a vague question, one that did not even begin to scratch the surface of everything wrong with this situation. There were volumes to be written on the absurdity of the circumstances, the cruelty of it, the way everything had been forced together—this marriage, this ceremony, this life.

Historians, philosophers, and scholars would argue about the injustice of it all for generations. They would debate what aspect of the arrangement was the most heinous: taking a young novice who had devoted his life to God and forcing him into a marriage with a man like Everild, whose name was stained by blood, or perhaps Everild’s own outburst earlier, the way he had threatened the priest. It was all wrong.

But in the midst of this overwhelming turmoil, something shifted in Camdyn’s gaze. It was so subtle, Everild nearly missed it—a small shift, a flicker of understanding, of acknowledgment. It was as if Camdyn had come to some sort ofdecision in his mind, something that was both a concession and a plea.

“I’m sorry,” Camdyn whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the rest of the sounds of the chapel, but Everild heard it. “I’m so sorry. I’m scared.”

The admission was quiet, but it cut through Everild like a blade, leaving him raw. He leaned in, instinctively drawing closer to the young man, his lips near Camdyn’s ear. He whispered in return, his voice soft but firm, stripped of all pretenses. “So am I. I’m terrified.”

The words hung in the air between them, an unexpected vulnerability shared. Everild felt his heart ache as he spoke, his own fear mingling with Camdyn’s, making them equals in their uncertainty.

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