Rosalind slipped her stole on the back of a chair. The hem of her silver gown was wet. Moving to the fireplace in her bedroom she attempted to dry it. In the embers, she saw the horses' eyes, black voids burning. The cold clung onto her. The fire attempting in vain to warm her.

Clasping her hands together, she flinched. Moments ago, the lord's hand was on her own, guiding it to the ghastly steed. But Caspian's touch had been gentle. His presence gave her an odd sense of calm as she stood in the proximity of the nightmare horses.

Rosalind made a fist and brought it to her chest. Underneath the thin sheath of silver, her heart banged against her ribs.

The fire crackled. The heat reached for her. Rosalind backed away. She put a distance between herself and the flames until she was no longer able to feel the warmth.

In the dining area, the table had been set and the food laid out. The meat which had been cooked well for Rosalind was a contrast to the lord's own raw dish. Blood pooled in lord Caspian's plate. The skin of the hare had been stripped. Tiny bead-eyes lay glassy in its skin-less head.

Two goblets awaited along with two chalices. One filled with wine. One with blood.

When Rosalind entered the room, the lord came to her side. His gaze moved over her slowly as though he was studying her. Rosalind caught his stare and held it.

"You are divine," he said in a low growl. His eyes drinking in the silver dress. "These gowns were made for you." Caspian moved around her and helped her with her chair.

"Thank you, my lord." Rosalind watched him move to his side of the table, noticing his long strides and the way his black cape flowed behind him with each step.

A shudder ran down her body as soon as she saw the hare on her plate. "A rabbit." Her voice was barely audible.

"It is a hare, my lady."

"Tell me what you'd like for me to bring you back from our hunt today. Your brothers are craving rabbit and we will not find them in our forest." Her father's voice invaded her thoughts.

The memory of her brothers and father leaving for the hunt swarmed into her brain.

"Father! The Borgo Beast!"

"There are no monsters, child. Simply men with imaginations."

Rosalind pushed the plate away. She stood abruptly causing her chair to move back with an angry scrape.

"I..." her words trailed off and vanished under the table and chairs. Rosalind's vision swarmed with her father's face when he told her the lord's deal. Her life for Julian's and Jacob's. A month of nightmares in return for their safety. Harlan Hershel looked like he had aged one hundred years that day. Tears fell from his eyes as he tried to speak and tell his beloved daughter of her ghastly fate. The last time Rosalind had seen her father cry was when her mother had passed.

"Forgive me, my girl. I beg of you."

Rosalind ran from the table, sobs erupting from her throat.

"My lady!" Caspian rose and chased after her.

Down the hallway she ran blindly, tears obscuring her sight. As Rosalind reached the bottom of the stairs, she felt the lord grab her by the wrist.

"Why are you upset?"

Rosalind tugged at her wrist. Her emotions wailed in confusion. Hatred rose like bile yet was pushed away by a foolish beat in her heart. "You!" Her face was stained with tears, and red with rage. She did not care about repercussions when she lifted her hand and slapped Caspian as hard as she could. "You are a beast," Rosalind howled as she struck him again.

Caspian let out an almighty roar, his face reeling to the side, stinging when she hit him. He brought his hands up, trying to ward her off. Rosalind ended up striking his arm instead. "Are you mad?" he hissed. The lord grabbed both her hands yet she continued to fight him.

"You deserve hell," she yelled.

Her words stung him. With a howl that reached the sky, Caspian pushed her against the wall and pinned her hands over her head. Inches from Rosalind, his chest rose and fell harshly with every sharp intake of breath. His blue eyes looked wild.

"I am in hell," he growled under his breath. He looked at Rosalind, of how nearly every inch of her reminded him of his beloved Calla. Yet Calla loved him, held him, calmed the storms within him. She had stood by him even though he was a difficult, cruel man. Now she lay motionless in a glass coffin, and before him stood the image of her. Yet this woman loathed him. Caspian let go of Rosalind's arms and stepped back as though burnt. His words ricocheted off of her, "I am in hell."

Silence crawled around them like the little spiders creeping in the corners.

"I beg of you to forgive me for what I just did." Caspian hung his head mournfully. "I should not have grabbed you like that."

Rubbing her wrists, Rosalind pushed herself against the sanctuary by the wall. Part of her hated everything he was, part of her pitied him. Without thinking, she hooked her finger under his chin and lifted his face up to hers. The side of Caspian's face bore a faint red mark, where she had hit him. "And I beg of you to forgive me for forgetting I am still a lady," she said.

Caspian winced, not because of the pain but because he longed for her touch so much. "I must tell you about something that happened a long time ago. Something that made me who I am." He stepped to the side and gestured for her to follow him.

They walked the length of the hall. Upon entering what looked like a private library, Caspian gestured to a plush armchair. "Please."

Rosalind sat down, her hands resting on red velvet upholstery. Curiosity gnawed at the anxiety welling up inside her belly.

Upon a rectangular table was a small wooden box carved exquisitely. A pair of deer stood among a cluster of trees. Underfoot grew flowers: lilies and roses. Above the deer's heads, a swarm of butterflies flew, some swept down the sides of the box and vanished in the crevices.

Caspian placed his hand on the box. His gaze was solemn. As he opened the lid, Rosalind strained to look inside. The lord's fingers, long-nailed and pale, curved around something set within the satin interior.

"My lord?" Rosalind realized she was holding her breath. Inching up, she tried to see what his hand was touching. Is it a memento he longs to show me or a device to torture me for slapping him? She dug her fingernails into the velvet and tensed.

Caspian remained silent. Taking hold of a long, thin object he set it upon the table so that Rosalind could see.

A pipe, something akin to those she had seen men use to smoke their tobacco rested on the smooth surface. The stem of the pipe was mahogany, the bowl silver. The end of the pipe was carved as a dragon's head.

Drawing a breath, a familiar scent wafted to Rosalind. It took her a minute to realize it was the same scent that she had found in the hallway not too long ago. With a trembling voice, she asked, "My lord, what is that?"

Lord Caspian set out a drawstring pouch and long-stemmed matches. He placed them by the pipe. "They call it Dragon's Tongue. Originally used in the Orient in the thirteenth century as a way to relax."

"Relax?"

Caspian stood stoic. "Yes, my lady. And more."

Breathing deep, Rosalind realized the scent ebbed from everywhere. It was on the armchair, on the table's top. In the curtains and the books. Feeling dizzy, she closed her eyes and listened as the room breathed in and out. Closer it came, like a mouth to hers. A touch. And it breathed its scent inside her.

"My lord." Rosalind's eyelids found it difficult to open. Her heart beat loudly. "The room, it..."

The sound of rustling wings filled the space in the air which the scent had not. Caspian fell to his knees before her and reached for her hand. "The room is just a room," he uttered.

"Why am I here?" She barely recognized her voice. All that was to it was a ghostly lilt.

"I want you to know," Caspian kept his tone soft, although the gruffness kept piercing through, "what I am."

Her fingers felt small in the lord's grasp. So small and fragile.

"You call me Devil. You call me a beast. Not all monsters start off that way, some were once men." When he paused, the silence was deafening.

Rosalind was drowning. In the momentary silence, she felt suffocated. She grit her teeth and spoke. "You are the Borgo Beast. One who has been spreading pandemonium for so long." She thought of pulling her hands away but inside his, they felt like a bird in its nest, where no one could harm it.

"Yes. I am what they say I am," he growled low. "I have killed many. Slaughtered them while they begged for mercy." His eyes, those fragments of glacier blue, narrowed into slits as he added, "And I enjoyed causing pain."

When Caspian felt Rosalind's hands tense, he bowed his head into them and groaned. "I have been upon this wretched Earth far too long. I have surpassed my stay yet I remain here, damned and stranded."

Upon Rosalind's lap, the beast who had spread terror to 19th century Transylvania breathed with slow, unsteady breaths. "Why do you do the things you have?" she asked yet feared his response.

"I was cursed," he said without looking up.

Slipping her hands out of his grasp, she cupped them under his chin and lifted his face. "Why?"

"Because..." Memories swarmed around him like angry hornets. They stung and burned. Caspian saw his beloved Calla fall. He felt her die. If he lived to be a million, he would never be able to erase the pain he felt at that very moment. Not even the painful transformation of his from man to monster hurt as much. Not even when his bones cracked and his skin stretched. Not even when the black wings ripped open his back and spread behind him like an eternal shadow. His jaw tensed. When Caspian finally spoke, it was more animal, less human. He knew Rosalind was right in calling him a monster. "I am what you say I am. Horrid. Wretched." He grabbed her wrists and hissed. "A monster."

Rosalind looked at him silently, unflinching. His confession sinking in like acid upon her skin.

"I was a man," he groaned, "pitifully human until a witch put her curse on me. I am eternal, my lady. Never to die. Forever to roam this world in this reptilian skin. Look at me." He brought her hands to his face. "I drink blood and find pleasure in pain. I no longer resemble a lord. Why should I act like one?"

Rosalind birthed a sorrow for him she did not know she was capable of bearing. Inside, she ached. His words were daggers that thrust into her very soul. Words jumbled up inside her. She had so much she should have said. So much she could have uttered. But Rosalind remained silent

As the silence burst before her, deafening and vile, the lord rose and headed to the pipe. He bowed over the carved box. His gaze would not reach her. When Rosalind saw the pipe in his grasp, where her hands had been moments before, the pain inside her grew.