(This story is written strictly for the free enjoyment of fans of the "Beauty and the Beast" television series. No copyright infringement is intended.)

Fear

Angie

Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
Fostered alike by beauty and by fear.

-William Wordsworth

Fear – wasn’t it the great leveler?

Vincent paced the attic room that was his and Catherine’s bedroom. He had awakened with a familiar angst, unalleviated by early morning lovemaking and the routine of breakfast.

He had been careful to mask the emotion along their bond. Catherine was now next door in the brownstone, taking care of the paperwork of the Foundation she had set up, and their miracle son, Jacob, was below in classes.

And so he paced. What was bothering him? It was November, dark, windy and cold. Why did these feelings always come upon him at this time of the year? In the days when he first came to know Catherine, he had looked forward to the shorter, darker days. They meant longer night hours to roam the world Above and more time to spend with Catherine on her balcony. Now, it just meant that his garden was dead and wet. He felt out of place.

He stopped pacing and stood in front of the mirror. There was nothing to equal himself in the world, as far as he knew. He could not even indulge in vanity, as there was no one to compare himself to. Catherine’s love defined him, made him whole, but it could not change what he was – and what those in the outside world would see when they looked at him.

What did they see, he wondered. Yes, his face most closely resembled those great felines, but the resemblance was not total. He had blue eyes – which they could not boast. His facial shape was more human than beast and even those most afraid saw that - eventually.

He had once told Catherine and Charles that he represented what humans feared the most – the unknown. But he was not unknown – not some bogey man, the stuff of nightmares barely visualized in the dark places of the mind. He was … something else.

He kept the bond quiet with an effort. He felt … confined. It was a feeling he knew well. He was over 30 and had lived his entire life underground, until he met Catherine. He had often wished he could walk in the sunlight like other men. He had contented himself with roaming the dark, and while that gave him some measure of freedom, it did not address the real issue. He had to go Above, or anywhere outside the home tunnels, cloaked and hidden.

That cloak was a part of him, he could not conceive of being anywhere without it. Even now, he knew exactly where it was. It might as well be a second skin – and in a very real sense it was. His clothes might hide most of his physical differences, but only his cloak covered his hair and hid his face. He could even keep his hands out of sight beneath it.

Looking in the mirror, he saw a man-beast in man’s clothing. He would never be more, nor less, than that to those he hid from – those who didn’t and couldn’t know him.

True, he lived Above now, but only nominally. He was confined to the brownstones and their gardens.

He knew only too well the effect a first encounter had on those he met. How often had he seen them cringe, felt their fear, like a stink? No one had been able to mask that reaction and he had learned to stay still and show no emotion while this indignity took place. Even Catherine had been shocked that first time. She claimed it was because he had sneaked up behind her while she was trying to see the reflection of her stitched face, but he knew better. Even then, he could sense her emotions.

He had not felt fear, though, and that was something he cherished. Perhaps the sight of her face had made her numb to other kinds of fear, fear of the unknown, of himself specifically. In any case, she had soon warmed to him, made him feel special, wanted, even liked perhaps. Her emotions were in turmoil then,and he had carefully not tried to interpret them.

Lena had felt shock too. He had felt that slight frisson, seen her stiffen ever so slightly. Her business had made her hard, impossible to frighten. How many fears had she had to face over a bed? In any case, she had seen his hands moments before she saw his face and that had been long enough for her to school herself.

Brian’s eyes had widened in shock that first time, when they had collided as the boy tried to escape. Was it fear of himself, fear of discovery, or fear of the unknown? A little of all three, Vincent guessed. Brian had said nothing, hadn’t tried to run from him – as he had earlier run from Mouse, he’d heard later. Mouse! Of all people to be frightened of? How could anyone be frightened of Mouse?

Brian had been shocked into paralysis. That was interesting – although not an unusual reaction. They had learned, later, that Brian lived in a kind of fantasy world. Vincent was sure those games he played included creatures far stranger and more dangerous than himself. Brian had not expected to see a fantasy become real, but he had come into the tunnels looking for something – and found more than he bargained for.

None of these reminiscences were any help at all to his present unease. Vincent looked in the mirror again. Even if he could shave off the excessive hair on his face, he would look no more human. His differences were too extreme. Oh, he could wear a ski mask or a motorcycle helmet – Devin had once brought him both - but they were not the answer he sought. He wanted to be accepted – to walk in freedom anywhere he chose, any time he chose. And that was something he could not do.

Why did he feel these urges, now, after all these years? Each day was a blessing and he knew it. He was loved by a special community, had a wife and son. What more could he want?

Vincent pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the mirror. He had to work this out. It was ridiculous that he should be feeling such roiling discomfort at his time of life. What was wrong with him? Would he never be satisfied?

Something nagged at him. When he first met a stranger, he kept silent and still. He wondered if there was something he should be doing.

Should he put out a hand and greet them immediately? No, his hands were the most fearsome part of him, apart from his teeth. He definitely shouldn’t smile either. He knew the sight of his canines aroused Catherine, but her reaction was not usual. His snarl turned his face into that of a beast, his roar into something primal, untamed, horrific. He had no illusions on that score. He hadn’t seen himself in that state, nor did he want to.

Inside, he was still a man, even at his worst, and it hurt to be shunned, even for a moment, especially when he was being friendly.

Given enough time to prepare, he could meet a stranger fully-cloaked, his face hidden. Then he could let the power of his voice calm them, ask them not to be afraid and warn them that he was different. Their fright in these instances was less and more manageable, but it was still there. He had told them and they had heard him – even if they had been skeptical. But fear could not be allayed by words alone. They still had to see him, to really understand.

Fear. He could hardly expect people to forgo it when he knew it so well himself. His fears were different – but they defined him just the same. He had not forgotten Professor Hughes or the Silks. He could have easily died from either encounter - and almost had. That he had not was no tribute to his own strength or intelligence – those things he most valued in himself.

Catherine had saved him in the first instance and Howie in the second. He had fallen into the trap he feared the most – being caught Above – and had been unable to help himself.

He had seen that well-known fear of himself in the eyes of his tormentors, knew that these were people who would never see him other than as a beast. That was his greatest fear – to be misunderstood, dismissed as an unthinking animal. Yet, he had let both the Professor and the Silks think he was exactly that. It had been an instinctive reaction, but had it been the smartest thing to do? In retrospect, he was not so sure.

Just as surely, those seeing him for the first time Below, saw him as a freak. That was a word he hated more than any other. The Silks had called him that. It was an affront to his hard won dignity – and they probably knew it. Howie certainly knew, having been called that himself. Charles had called himself a freak. His life, compared to Vincent’s, had been horrific. No one Below had ever demeaned Vincent that way.

So first impressions were important. Only later, when their fear subsided, did those who were introduced know him as Vincent. So, fear forced him to let his enemies as well as his friends see him first as nameless. That hardly seemed logical, or even sensible.

What could he do? He could use the power of his voice to calm. He always spoke after a few moments anyway. Should he perhaps speak sooner, before the fear he saw went to the next level – fight or flight? He knew that his voice was his best asset, along with his eyes. Those two things separated him from the beast he resembled, more even than his clothes and stature. They were what ultimately calmed new arrivals, made him approachable.

Vincent considered this. Could he do more on that first encounter? Should he quote Shakespeare, Wordsworth or Blake? What if the person was illiterate? How would he know? Even if they weren’t and recognized the classics, would they be able to comprehend what he was saying while looking at him that first time? He suspected not. Fear was a powerful, overwhelming emotion. He could probably sing "The Marsellaise" and accomplish no more, he thought ruefully.

Vincent sighed and slumped in his chair, peeking at his reflection through his hair with something akin to disgust. How could he overcome the first shock at his appearance? Was it even possible?

He thought of saying "welcome" and then quickly discarded that idea. If he so much as pretended a smile, that welcome would almost certainly be misconstrued as an invitation into danger – like a spider inviting a fly into its parlour. He always tried to be studiously neutral, standing quiet, at ease, his hands hidden. That left the onus on the other person to stand and wait, which they usually did.

Catherine had shown her friends Kristopher’s portrait as an introduction. That had worked reasonably well, but he could hardly carry it around, or hide behind it!

He never carried anything in the tunnels, except what he could wear on his person. Should he perhaps carry a book? Not a bad idea, he reflected, but where would he carry it? Should he keep one in an inner pocket – a nice leather-bound, gilt-lettered volume of poetic works? Impractical. He had to run on occasion. A book in his pocket would be a very uncomfortable companion – unless it was a very small book.

Vincent mentally rummaged through his collection. Yes, there were several books which were literally "pocket-sized". He had one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, several from the various British publishers who produced the common man volumes of their day. Between them, they included just about every classic extant in plain, but sturdy editions. Then there were the Oxford University press books, nicely compact and beautifully bound. Why, he even had one of The Canterbury Tales.

Yes, surely a book in his hands would pacify quicker than any words he could utter. No one would expect a "beast" to be carrying a book – especially a nice little hardcover. They would have less to fear if they saw it, he reasoned.

He’d probably be able to put it to the test fairly soon. They still received refugees from Above, mostly recommended by Catherine. The Foundation helped those it could where they lived, but some needed more healing than the State was willing to accommodate. After a suitable screening and orientation session, they were sent Below.

Vincent always stayed out of sight for a while, but he disliked being an outcast, even for that short time. No one asked him to do so, but he tried to postpone the inevitable. He never got used to that first encounter. Well, sight was the key. A book in plain sight might just work. He’d try it.

Vincent went down to his chamber and began looking through his books. He piled likely compact editions on his table. Then, in a space he’d cleared on one shelf, there was a small whumph as a book fell down. He looked at the old, dull green cover with its faded lettering and picked up the small book.

It didn’t look familiar, although he knew the title. For some reason, he had never read it, never even considered reading it. He had never seen a copy below, never even thought to ask after one. He liked fairy tales for their historical value, like Beowult. but this one had no such connection, as far as he knew. He knew it was very old. No one had mentioned it to him, and it certainly had never been part of his studies. Had Father deliberately kept it from him? That would not have been out-of-character, given the topic and its execution.

Only one person could have found this book and hidden it so well. Devin! He must have brought it back from one of his forays above. His brother was secretive on occasion and even had places he went to be alone. Had he read this, Vincent wondered.

Looking around, Vincent realized that this chamber, despite his changes, had plenty of places where forgotten treasures could hide. And books were different. Once they were in a bookcase, and a full one at that, why would he move them?

He sat in his chair and opened the book. It seemed singularly suitable for his purposes, he thought. Almost certainly it would "break the ice", if it could be seen.

He began to read. It was not a long book. Something fell out of it as he read and he picked it off his lap and looked at it. Another puzzle, he thought, and lay it carefully on the table.

He had finished the book and sat musing on the contents when Catherine walked in.

"What were you reading?" she asked, bending down to plant a kiss on his upturned lips.

Vincent showed her the front cover and she smiled.

"Where on earth did you find that? It looks like it has been around since the French Revolution! Looks like it didn’t quite miss the guillotine either!"

He looked at the book more closely. Catherine was right. Two of the upper corners were shaved neatly off.

Vincent laughed, and immediately felt better. Catherine always knew how to lift him out of his funks.

"Why were you reading that, of all books?" she asked, her curiosity finally getting the better of her discretion.

Vincent explained his plan and Catherine sat on his lap and looked in his eyes.

"Vincent, I think that’s a wonderful idea. But the title on this book is so faded, I’m not sure anyone will be able to read it from even a foot away."

"No matter, Catherine. I could carry any book, but this one seems appropriate – even if only you and I know its title. And look what fell out from the pages. I think it’s a sign."

Catherine looked at the small flattened rosebud on the table. It would have been red once, but now it was a deep, russet brown. Vincent placed the book on the table and carefully lifted the flower onto it. It seemed to belong there.

"Yes, undoubtedly a sign," she murmured. "But that book doesn’t really reflect your life, Vincent. You will not turn into a poster-boy prince – thank goodness! I want you just as you are, my beautiful, beautiful beast."

Vincent sighed. Catherine was the only one who called him that, at least to his face. The words, he knew, came from a pop song she loved. From her lips the phrase was seductive, arousing. He pulled her close and gave her a deep kiss. He spoke softly.

"Catherine, your beauty has transformed me – and there is no life for me without you. I share that with the hero of that story."

"Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder," Catherine whispered. "I often wonder if our heroine, later, wasn’t a little sorry that the spell was undone. She had loved him for what he was, at the last, not for what he wasn’t. It seems cruel that she discovered that, only to be denied the chance to enjoy the revelation. To me, she seemed a little wistful.

"I’ll bet he would have been good in bed too."

"Catherine! You are incorrigible!"

Catherine laughed and after a moment Vincent joined her. The matching passion in their eyes soon had them move to the big bed, where in due course, they reaffirmed their love.

The little book with its rose adornment, sat on the table. Its faded gold title caught the mellow glow of the stained glass window.

"Beauty and the Beast - by Marie Le Prince de Beaumont"

END