Forest Of Beasts

Chapter 1: Fall From Grace

"And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul"

~John Muir

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"Belle. You came back..."

Between the rain, lashing down on their bodies, and the Beast's hulking form above him, Gaston twisted the knife, and allowed himself a few seconds of hateful satisfaction.

A few seconds were all he had, before the Beast's form descended, and then Gaston realised he was falling too.

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There was an irritating warmth cast across his face, which he cursed at first. Then he realised that perhaps he wasn't dead. It wasn't so irritating anymore, but it was confusing.

Gaston opened his eyes, suspicious more than relieved about the revelation. He might still be dead, after all. He'd never been one to dwell on the abstract or else unknown (or much else for that matter), though he did wonder if he might be in hell, and perhaps unconsciously, the thought didn't entirely surprise him.

Above was a beautiful canopy of green; trees swaying in a gentle breeze, and streams of soft white light occasionally peeking through the leaves, reaching his face and bathing it in that not so irritating warmth.

He hauled himself upright, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It was a ragged, uneven gasp, almost like a sob, and Gaston immediately and fiercely chastised himself for it. He wiped a hand across his forehead, sweeping away locks of hair which were still wet with what had happened only moments before.

Was it moments? Gaston briefly cradled his head. It ached, but not with injury. More like a persistent and throbbing headache.

Testily he stretched out his legs. He wasn't so worried about any damage there anymore. The only pressing damage at the moment was that of his shattered pride and ego.

He grimaced; the image of Belle and her face was a permanent fixture in his mind's eye. He knew he wouldn't ever forget it, and perhaps that was the most telling clue that this might actually be hell.

At least, for a few seconds it was.

There was a grunt, like a deep exhalation, and Gaston jumped lightning-quick to his feet, because he recognised that sound far too easily now.

He turned slowly around, and attempted to disguise his braced expression.

The Beast stood a few feet away, yet his shadow still managed to reach and cover Gaston. His face was unreadable, a dim silhouette of danger which Gaston couldn't properly gage.

"...you," his voice quivered, but hopefully not enough to give away his nerves. "I-I killed you."

The Beast snorted, as though he might have told an awful joke, before turning slightly to the side. He seemed to glare at the ground, and Gaston noticed he was staring at something half-hidden in the grass. It shone against the sunlight above them, and he realised it was a hunting knife. His hunting knife.

Instinct reached him before anything else, and he leapt forwards to retrieve it. At the same moment something crushed severely into his side, and though he expected to meet the ground (and perhaps die again, oh what luck), he found himself being elevated off the ground, in a scenario all too familiar.