Glass Coffins
From my window, I stare down at the garden. A light
dusting of snow has fallen. The stone form of the angel in the garden is
adorned with a soft mantle of white. Its face is somber, with empty eyes,
wreathed in tendrils of black roses that have not shirked against winter’s
chill. It is a dark idol in the shadows of this cold night.
My
heart aches with longing.
***
I
place my hand against the cold glass of the mirror. I stare back, a haggard,
lonely soul.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall: who is the fairest of them all?”
The
reflection in the mirror morphs and changes, and there I see her. She is in the
snow, her face deep within a hood. But that is not enough to obscure the
brightness of her eyes, eyes that enchant me, eyes that haunt me.
I
leave the mirror. I find myself in the garden, staring at the bright smile of
the shadowed moon. The sky is frosted
with stars, the air lonely with cold. I kneel before the statue of the angel,
the shadows of its wings swallowing me in darkness. My fingers caress the dark
petals of one of the flowers.
Desire pierces my heart.
It weeps and bleeds. I cry out.
A
choir of wolves answers.
***
When she
arrives, she is hurt. The wolves had to draw blood in order to bring her to me.
Her eyes are closed, and a stream of red pours down from the cut on her brow. I
touch the blood with the tips of my fingers and taste it. It is sweet to me.
I lay
her in a bed. There I bathe her wounds and dress them. I whisper spells so that
her perfect skin will not scar. I cannot tear my eyes away from her lovely
face, her lips so full and perfect that my desire to kiss her threatens to
drive me insane.
I
watch her sleep through the night.
When she
awakens, I am there, standing near the window in the light of the rising sun. She
is frightened of me. No doubt it is because of my appearance.
After all, who could ever
learn to love one such as myself?
But I
explain to her that I rescued her from the wolves. I cared for her, and healed her,
the tender creature that she is.
The
fear in her eyes subsides for the slightest moment.
***
When she
is well enough, I show her my home. The long, dark corridors, the tall towers,
the spacious rooms. She gazes at the paintings, the suits of armor, the library
with its menagerie of books and stained-glass windows.
“This
is a fairy tale…” she whispers.
I
smile at her words.
I insist that she is not well enough to leave
the castle. And though I can see her nervousness, she obliges. She has begun to
trust me.
And why should she not?
After all, I love her.
I knew that I loved her from the very first
moment that I saw her.
In a
week, I watch her eyes fill with wonder as she devours the books in the
library. I hear her singing to herself in my garden. I taste her scent when she
passes me at the dinner table, as intoxicating as the first dawn of spring.
She
seems to be curious. The angel in the garden intrigues her, I can tell. Despite
the cold, she will sit next to it with a book. Every few pages, she looks up at
the statue, as if it is some marvel of nature. She gazes at it with awe, taking
in its beauty.
I
know it too finds her beautiful.
***
One night, I ask her to
dance. She puts her hands in my own—I am careful not to nick her with my claws.
We listen to the harpsichord that I enchant to play on its own, and we spin
across the marble floor.
I can see it in her eyes. Without mistake, I
can see the love she has for me. It has grown, and she wishes to cast it upon
me. She just has not found the words to do so yet.
We go
out on the balcony. The moon bathes the winter night in startling white and our
breath mists the air. Her hand is warm in mine.
She
asks about the angel in the garden.
The
old ache swells in my breast. “It is a grave marker. She was my first love.”
I see
the change in her face, a sea of emotion. Pity, sympathy, questions that touch
the tip of her tongue.
She
says that she is sorry. She asks what happened to her.
Before
I can quench it, a familiar spark of anger and pain flares within me. The words
come without thought.
“She did not love me in
return.”
A
familiar, dark shadow flits through her eyes. Ever so quickly, she draws her
hand away, and a heavy silence fills the space between us. She gives me the
same look that first appeared on her face when she awoke to find me lingering
by the window, watching her sleep.
She
says she is tired. She withdraws back into the castle, to her room. I watch her
go, in the dark gown that I gave her for the evening. I am left alone with the
stars.
***
Oh,
why does she shirk from me? She will not share meals with me at our table. She
will not sit with me in the library.
She will
not leave her room at all.
My
window looks down on her room. At night, I can see her graceful shadow silhouetted
against the glass. She is looking down; down on the angel, standing vigilant
and sorrowful in the garden.
It
has been days since I have seen her beautiful face. I come to her door, but she
says she is tired. She is ill. But she will not let me heal her with my magic.
I can hear the distrust in her voice behind the heavy oak door, a fear of me
and what I am. I try to open the door, but she has locked it.
Ah.
So she has come to fear me.
That
is when the old spark ignites into a hungry, devouring flame.
“You
plan to escape!” I roar. My claws rake against the door, leaving deep gashes. I
pound with my large fists. “You fear me! After all I have done, I thought you
would see me for who I am and not be concerned with the vileness of my face. I
love you, and how do you return my love? I just want to share my heart with
you! Love me! Love me, curse you!”
There
is the sound of shattering glass. Going out the window, is she? Is that her
plan? No doubt she will try to escape through the garden.
But I
will not let her.
It
will not let her.
She
is mine.
***
She
struggles in the snow. She is covered in black roses, the thorns pricking deep
into her skin, cascading in serpent-like tendrils down from the angel. Her eyes
are full of fear, like a rabbit who has been snared by a hunter’s trap.
I
kneel next to her. The anger is slowly ebbing away into a dull ache, like cold
seeping into bones. “Stay with me,” I say, pleading. “You can have anything
your heart desires, just stay with me, my love.”
For
the briefest instance, the fear in her eyes flares into hate. “I do not love
you,” she says. “You are a beast.”
I
stare at her. Her words cut deeper than any blade. I bow my head and close my
eyes.
“Nevertheless,
I still love you,” I whisper. I raise a hand. “Now sleep, my beloved.”
I
whisper the words of a spell, and she falls into a deep slumber, wrapped in the
embrace of flowers and thorns.
***
I carry her into the secret chamber that is hidden
beneath the angel. I lay her in a coffin made of glass. I close the lid and
seal it, watching her sleep. The cuts of the thorns start to fade away till her
skin is perfect once again.
“I love you so dearly,” I whisper, though I know she
cannot hear me. Still, the words must be said.
I look around the chamber at the other glass coffins,
resting on the stone floor, surrounding me in a large circle. I gaze at the
beauties sleeping, their hands folded on their chests, in dreamless slumber. I
love them all, from the very core of my heart. Each of them rejected me, but
still I love them.
On the far wall of the chamber is my mirror. It shows the
terrible, horrid beast that I am. But I know there is beauty within me, beauty
that will cause one to fall in love with me. I just have to find her.
I place my hand on the cold glass, staring at my
reflection, the bright yellow of my eyes, the sharp fangs that protrude from my
mouth. I will find her. I will find her…even if I have to search forever.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall: who is the fairest of them
all?”
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