Fable of Happiness (Fable 2)

That desire to rescue him didn’t absolve or forgive him. The feeling pooling inside me was borne from something far, far deeper than being mistreated and mishandled. It was honest and righteous and true.

It was the right thing to do, even if no one else would ever understand.

Even if I didn’t understand.

Even as I gave him a tiny shrug and a smile that took so much effort to conjure and watched him crash to his knees in tears, I still couldn’t name what unfurled inside me.

Our war was deleted.

Our status between warden and prisoner, slave and master, friend and enemy dissolved.

I was transcended in a way I couldn’t explain. Watching him bury his face into his hands and yell as if he was being eaten alive by demons shoved me into an evolution that freed me from hate, animosity, and every other emotion that suddenly seemed so trivial.

This wasn’t about what he’d done to my body against my will.

This was about so much more than that.

This was about his mind being trapped his entire life. About his lostness, his brokenness, his very immortal being.

I’d driven him to tears with just a shrug.

And I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t sit there and listen to his snarls suffocated by his palms.

It hurt.

He hurt.

I crawled to him.

The chain tethering us together clinked and hissed on the carpet, reminding me we were joined regardless of what happened here. And I suddenly understood why he’d bound me. He hadn’t done it because he was selfish about letting me go. He’d done it because he couldn’t survive knowing I had free will. Knowing I could walk away and never come back. Knowing I would choose others over him, just like so many people had before.

That was what scared him.

Free will.

Because he’d never had it.

Never been given it.

Oh, Kas.

I stopped crawling as I reached his huddled, bleeding shape by the wall. I did what others had never done and approached him softly, slowly, sweetly. And when I touched his knees, it was with a gentleness that made his spine buckle and entire body quake.

His skin was like ice as if he’d been in a blizzard. Wet with sweat and covered in shame, he trembled. He flinched away from me as if fully expecting me to carve him with a knife or set fire to his body with a match.

I had no doubt both those things had been done to him.

Silently, I caressed my way from his knees over his hands, his arms, his shoulders, to his face. I didn’t speak. I didn’t think I could. The pressure in my chest had lodged into my throat, choking me just as his own grief choked him.

If, on my dying bed, I broke my promise and spilled this secret, I would ensure whoever I told understood that treating this man with respect and tenderness wasn’t some misplaced ideology formed by a silly girl who’d been held captive against her will, but because the very same man who’d hurt her had shown such heart-shattering remorse.

His tears were genuine.

His horror was real.

That was what allowed me to forget about what he’d done and pull his face from his palms.

He fought me, burying deeper as if he couldn’t stomach to look at me.

I tugged harder, inching closer until I pressed myself against his quaking legs. Slowly, ever so slowly and with the utmost reluctance, he raised his chin and gritted his teeth.

And God, I couldn’t cope.

I’d never seen a man stripped so bare. So utterly flayed alive with guilt and anguish. His cheeks glittered with tears. His eyes were dark and glossy with eternal sadness. His lips were bitten and parted, panting for oxygen as if his lungs forbade him from breathing.

His gaze met mine.

And the stark, raw emotions crashing off him punched me square in the chest, tattooing his pain onto my heart forever, ensuring I would always remember him, always worry about him, always protect him.

Maternal instincts rose swift and sharp—a direct contrast to the feminine side of me that burned beneath his stare. I didn’t know how I could look at him and feel so many things. Too many things. I recognised a haunted man who could so easily cause me harm...and had. I saw a beast that ought to be put down to cease his suffering. And I also saw a lover who had the power to summon equal parts fight and desire, violence and passion, and the rarest forms of electrical, mystical connection.

He shook his head.

At what, I didn’t know. Perhaps, I was too close for him. Maybe, he begged even now, for me not to hurt him. He stayed coiled against the wall, a hulking shape of savagery but at the same time trembled—conditioned to expect torture instead of comfort.

He shook his head again, a guttural groan escaping him.