AN: For those of you who are wondering what 'Stockholm' is referring to, it's the Syndrome that people who are kidnapped and held captive sometimes get. They develop feelings of loyalty and sympathy for their captors, which explains why certain people don't even try to escape, even when they've got the chance.

I don't know much about it outside that. It was just a starting point.

I decided to write a BatB story in which the Beast is NOT inherently good and Beauty is his prisoner (of her own accord?). It's odd. And darker than my usual stuff.

R&R.

Stockholm

I will leave you.

For all your fear-mongering—all your empty threats of curses and death—you pose no tangible threat to my father or myself. I came here, foolhardy enough to believe you would cast some atrocious malediction upon Papa if I failed to throw myself at your feet. To allow him to fall by your hand would have been unforgivable, no matter what sort of man he is.

You call him a coward. Yes, fine. Perhaps he is just that. You say I was a fool to come in his place. Maybe I am. I would sooner be a fool than be like you.

Love escapes your understanding. You know only how to possess.

Of course, all of our fears were completely preposterous. Your castle may be enchanted, but you possess as little magic as I. The moment that my father left your palace he was out of danger.

But fear is a powerful thing. And you had him afraid, Beast: more afraid than he had ever been in all his life. (Not that that was a difficult feat to accomplish, you say.) You knew that he would toss and turn in bed at night, thinking wretchedly back to your hideous, bestial countenance, wringing his hands over what horrible end you might inflict upon him.

It's ridiculous. How would you ever manage to locate him? You: the creature restricted to these grounds by his own shame and vanity! Would you run through the forest, darting stealthily behind trees to avoid the eyes of ignorant passersby? Scour each and every village, town, and city 'til you found him? Or are you so omniscient—so God-like in your knowledge—that you would know intrinsically where my father resides? Then you might curse him from the comfort of your own home!

But you have no magic at your disposal. You have nothing but the uncanny ability to make everything your own.

I want to believe that nothing holds me here but the promise I made you so many months ago. What is a promise, though? Just words. And words are not real; not in a physical sense, at least. My misguided vow will not barricade me in here should I attempt to leave. The palace itself would not thwart my plans.

You know it has preferred me to you, it's master, since the day I was unfortunate enough to come here.

No one—not even an enchanted castle—likes knowing that they belong to someone else. So I pretend that I am not at all yours.

You enjoy that, I think. You laugh at me, as a spider might laugh at a pitiful little gnat attempting to disengage herself from his web. Sometimes you tease me. Other times you just preen yourself on the knowledge that I am under your spell, despite my mind's protest. Despite everything.

Is it obvious? Is there something in my eyes? In my manner of talking? Of moving? How is it that you know?

I don't like being your victim. I don't like knowing that I am losing my will to fight.

This is a sentiment you do not share.

"You're falling in love with me," you say languidly, lounging back in your chair. The shadows fall around you like a shroud, making it quite difficult to see your face.

I've no doubts, though, that you're wearing that twisted sneer of yours.

"I'm not," I answer angrily: angry because I have the nagging fear that you might be right. "I could never love a creature as hideous as you."

A candle flickers in the middle of the table. It does not illuminate much, but I can see the perverse gleam in your eyes. You enjoy this far too much.

"Very well," you murmur, sighing disdainfully. "You hate me, then."

There is food before me, but I cannot stomach the idea of eating. Your awful amber eyes haunt my thoughts. My stomach churns anxiously. My head throbs.

Let me go. Please let me go.

"Something wrong?" You inquire whimsically. The goblet in your claw glimmers as you lift it to your lips. I think I can make out a sordid smile through the dim.

"Nothing," I hiss.

There is silence for a moment. I pray that it endures until you at last decide to dismiss me. I pray that you say nothing, for everything you say manages somehow to torment me.

"Do you pity me, Beauty?"

I can tell from your tone that you're mocking me.

"Of course not," I lie easily. "Why should I?"

You laugh. Is that sadness I hear? Is your laugh as hollow as it seems, or is this my attempt to justify my feelings for you? If you feel sadness—the loneliness, meaninglessness, and longing that all people invariably feel—than perhaps you are redeemable.

And if you are redeemable, then I am not wrong in needing to remain here.

"Oh, I don't know," you continue complacently, as if you know my thoughts and rejoice in them. "I am a curious creature."

"Why?" I gasp. "Why? You seem to know the answer, so why ask? Because you enjoy watching me squirm?"

You cluck your tongue.

"That is unkind," you scold. "I have nothing but respect for you."

That is more than I have for myself. I glare at you, trembling wrathfully.

"You don't. You don't respect me. You are terrible. You are nothing more than what you appear. Nothing."

My ever-diminishing sense of pride rallies valiantly.

Hate him. Don't fight it.

Your eyes, glowing eerily golden in the dark of the dining hall, hold an enigmatic expression.

Have I hurt you?

No. No!

"I'm not lost," I laugh, feeling a great levity all at once. "You haven't won just yet."

You make no reply at first.

After a pregnant pause, you speak, your voice gruff and low.

"What exactly do you think I mean to win?"

A pertinent question.

I have no definite answer. My love? I cannot allow myself to believe that true, though it is my heart's dearest wish.

My last shred of dignity? My last feeble scrap of hope?

Your desires are as baffling to me as real love must be to you.

"I don't pretend to understand you, Beast," I reply. "Tell me what you want of me. I have no qualms with helping you, even if you are unworthy. I don't care. I'll do anything, gladly, if you would cease with your games."

"Help me?!" You snap. Your voice is bitter and grave: chilling in its sobriety. "Help me? Is that what you want? You think I can be saved? You think you can save me? What exactly is it that you wish to save me from? Myself? Hah!"

I hardly know what to say to you. You've frightened me.

"I don't know," I mumble precariously. "I don't know. I would do anything. Please. Let me go. Please just let me go."

You've remained in your grand wingback chair the entirety of our conversation. You rise now, pacing pensively behind your chair, your clawed feet scratching at the marble floor.

Your shadowy silhouette is all I can see. I wonder what sort of expression you have on your face.

It is probably fortunate that I cannot see it. It might give me cause to feel sorry for you, and that is the last thing I need.

"I do not keep you here," you say evenly. "You know this. The doors are not barred. I would not stop you if you tried. Nothing keeps you here. "

"But you do," I retort weakly. "You do."

The scratching stops.

"I do, don't I?"

You say this seriously. No laugh. No sarcasm.

"You have no reason to hate me," I tell you, my fists balling of their own accord. "You shouldn't torture me as you do. It's not fair. I cannot help what I feel, but you can. Tell me to leave. Release me. Please."

"But I don't want you to leave. I want you here, with me. Always."

Your tone makes it clear that you do not say this out of love.

I stare at you dumbly before lowering my eyes to my plate dejectedly.

I would have helped you. I could have loved you. I still want to help you (foolishly!), but you are wrong. I am not falling in love with you. I will never love you.

You will never love me, either.

And so you will remain as you are: hardened in your bitter ways.

"Good night, Beauty," you say at last, dismissively. "'Til tomorrow."

You're convinced that the morning will still find me here.

"Good night," I answer.

There is nothing more to say. I rise and go.

You are right, of course. I will be here tomorrow. And perhaps I will be there the morning after that, and the next, and next…

I may be losing my will to fight, but I am not hopeless, Beast.

I am not.

There will be a day when I will no longer need to help you. There will be a day when you will find me gone.

I hope that you'll feel something then. I hope for your sake that you'll realize what you have lost.

But more likely than not, you will feel nothing. This saddens me—infinitely more than my loneliness ever could. It is never easy to realize that some souls are lost. It is even harder to accept that they choose to remain so of their own accord.

No more of this talk, though. My heart aches for you again, and that simply will not do.

Because I will leave you. I must.

I must.

AN: This will probably be revised later on, as the ending feels a bit sloppy... But then again, I won't edit it, 'cause I'm lazy. So yeah: that's probably not gonna happen. Moving on...

I like the sort of intimacy you get from writing in partial first-person, partial second-person POV. It's almost like a letter. Kind of. And it just felt right for this story because of the subject matter. I wanted the reader to feel her despair and sort of empathize, if possible. Hopefully no one reading this has experienced Stockholm Syndrome (I haven't, so this is most likely NOT a realistic portrayal of it), but I digress.

I'm guessing I was unwittingly channeling Answer, who has written several 1st person/2nd person POV stories. It didn't occur to me until after I was done (now I feel so unoriginal), but I think there's a reason she does it. (Refer to above paragraph.)

Well, it's good to have this out of my system.