Work Text:
Everyone has a purpose.
Ferdinand once said this to his wife years ago, back when his words were still clumsy, ponderous things. He wanted to see Marianne smile — oh, how bright a smile he knew she held deep inside — and he longed for her to be honest with herself. To embrace the lovely disposition she hid, wanting little to do with her noble obligations.
He couldn’t help but feel he was to blame as she wilted at the Officers Academy. What might he say to help open up her heart to the wondrous possibilities of joy? What could he do? As the circles beneath Marianne’s eyes grew darker, more defined, he wondered: did sleep evade her? What prevented her from resting soundly? Marianne always managed to slip away before she answered Ferdinand, before he could begin to truly grasp her as a person. He longed for answers. He longed to know her, to understand her. Marianne would turn away from him before too long, cutting their conversations woefully short — her powder blue hair spilled from her bun, trailing behind her as she fled — and her sudden absences always rendered Ferdinand speechless. How had he failed to get through to her yet again? What was there to learn from such incidents, and how could he approach her with more tact next time?
In the end, he won her over with passion. Ferdinand kept trying — reminding her how wonderful she was, how much strength she held within — until Marianne’s frowns turned to the sweetest smiles. She was the sun Ferdinand at last realized he was seeking all this time. Drawn to the fire of her kindness, her gentleness — just as it was with every living creature Marianne came into contact with. Ferdinand’s horse adored her, licking her palm once it lapped up every slice of apple. Cats and dogs alike would brush against Marianne’s ankles, begging for treats and affection.
When Ferdinand proposed to Marianne after the war, he already knew about her Crest of the Beast. That torturous inheritance: how it hung over her head like a storm cloud, forever drenching her with rain. Her Crest didn’t define her, neither who she was nor who she would become — Ferdinand helped her come to see this — and yet it remained a stain upon their lives. Marianne could not escape it: not its legacy, nor what it meant to her.
Ferdinand bent down on one knee, his pants staining green from the grass, and still Marianne’s humility swept through her.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her hands clutched to her chest. “Are you certain that is what you want?” She was as humble as ever, and some part of her still believed she was unworthy of Ferdinand’s love. Of the affection he wished to shower upon her for the rest of time. He vowed then and there that nary a day would pass in which he did not tell her how much she was adored. Ferdinand longed for her smile, for the soft flush of her cheeks that accentuated her ethereal beauty. The Crest of the Beast could not — would not — stop him now.
Her words churned in Ferdinand’s head, a steady hum, for he was never more certain of anything before that moment.
At last Marianne offered her hand to Ferdinand. Tears filled her eyes, glossy and beautiful as they dripped down her cheeks, as he slipped a ring of promise upon her finger. In all her grace and mercy, she said yes. She stepped into his embrace carefully — soft, slow footsteps — and once her arms were wrapped around him, she said: yes, if you will have me.
Even now, after nigh a dozen moons have passed, his love for her burns the same. More intensely, even. Ferdinand commemorates her with art: portraits and statues. Songs that sing of her kindness and beauty, spread all across the land.
With each and every morning, he honors her. Mornings roll out like a noble procession in his heart as he wakes up next to her, powder blue strands mingling with vibrant orange. Shutters open wide; sun pooling across them, making Marianne’s skin glow. And with every morning comes a smile as Marianne awakens, blinking away the sleep in her eyes yet again, surprised once more that her husband is watching her. As if each and every instance is bewildering, no matter how much time has passed.
Ferdinand is enraptured by her very presence. “I love you,” he says, reaching out to trace the slope of her shoulder. The words never get old, never feel stale. “I vow...”
To stay by your side, always.
Ferdinand touches her lips with his fingertip before leaning in to kiss her.
It is his memory of her finger upon his lips — to soften her worry, to affirm his devotion — that Ferdinand brings with him to the forest. Flattened now by Marianne’s monstrous feet: gnarled, scraping at the ground, destroying all in their path. Just as she always feared might someday happen.
I am a monster, she seems to cry. Her mouth doesn’t move and she does not speak — can she in this form? — and yet Ferdinand hears her all the same. Whether through magic or love, he does not know. But their bond ties them together. He loves her still, he loves her always, and so he remains. At their wedding, he vowed to protect her. To stay by her side.
“This,” he says, gesturing to the scorched earth surrounding them, “this is nothing.” He thinks of her smile, hard-won and resolute. It’s there now, deep beneath the elongated fangs, sharp as blades.
Why do you stay? she seems to ask. Why do you fight for me so?
Ferdinand kneels before her, against the grass and dirt and crushed flowers, just as he did when he proposed. This time, there are no blooms to greet Marianne. The rainbow of roses, the rows of lilies of the valley that Ferdinand arranged in commemoration of that wondrous day all lie in ruins. Swept away by one swipe of her clawed foot. But it wasn’t on purpose, of course. Marianne was simply afraid. Scared of anyone seeing her, of what Ferdinand might think of her now. As if his feelings for her could ever change, could ever dampen.
“You have not hurt me,” Ferdinand says. “You would not. Can’t you see?” He gestures again toward the trees: some have toppled over with their twisted roots showing like tendrils, but most remain whole. The wildlife might have fled, but Marianne hasn’t chased after them. She hasn’t even tried. Her current form might be beastly, but Marianne’s heart? Never.
When she collapses upon the ground in a heap of exhaustion and despair, the earth trembles beneath her. Trees quake, the very sky seems to shudder, and still Ferdinand von Aegir remains. He ambles up to her as easily as if this were a regular occurrence. An otherwise normal day for them. And in a way, although Ferdinand prayed that such an event might never come to pass, he still knew how it would play out all the same. With love. With patience, understanding, and a calm, soothing voice.
Marianne thought Ferdinand would be afraid. All this time she thought she would hurt others in her beast form. But this is nothing. They will overcome this hurdle as they always have. A thread connects them, thin and transparent like gossamer, and Ferdinand follows it to where Marianne lies.
Just a little further, he tells himself with each step. Just a little further and I will be there for you, Marianne. To hold you.
She towers over Ferdinand even while sitting, curled up as she shivers, and his heart aches for her. Each of her fangs is as long as his arm; her breath is scalding; her tail thwapping the ground in irritation.
But she is still Marianne. And that is the one thing that has not changed, the one thing that will never. When she turns her head toward him, as if in challenge, he can see the wetness of tears dripping down her snout.
Leave me, her eyes seem to beg. That voice that trills in Ferdinand’s heart. As self-sacrificing as ever. Marianne was so sure that she held this primal power within her, and she was right — but it isn’t the end. Ferdinand refuses to believe this. The fact that she is able to talk with him at all — of this he is sure now: her voice rings too true, too pure, to be fake — speaks volumes. He’s sure that she will change back, too; just as sure as she was that she’d change at all. The sun rises, the sun sets. All will be well, all will be wondrous again, and Ferdinand will kiss her lips, hold her in his arms, and they will dance again.
They will find a way.
“We can start a new garden,” Ferdinand says as he looks at the trampled earth around them. Flowerbeds flattened, plants tugged from the ground, and uprooted trees lying askew. “I wasn’t such a fan of what we had, anyway. And now — it will be bigger, even more beautiful.” And there: something positive for Marianne to look forward to. “Watch it grow with me anew, my love.”
Marianne looks at him. Stares. Wanting to truly believe there is any coming back from this. Once she had told Ferdinand that this was one of her greatest fears: that she would one day end up destroying all that she loves, all that she holds dear. Decimating the gentleness of nature that she has always adored. Watching animals skitter away from her in terror.
Plants can be regrown, the garden and forest born anew. But there is only one Marianne in this world, and thus Ferdinand gives her his unfailing smile: the one he’s sure Marianne will want to see, be greeted by, once she has turned back.
The longer Ferdinand stays, the more motionless Marianne seems to become. It’s nothing at all like you imagined, is it? he wants to reassure her. You are gentle. You are kind. Marianne’s mouth opens; her tongue lolls. Sliding across her fangs as if in thought. Perhaps wondering just how long her husband will wait here for her. How much he might be willing to endure.
“I’m not leaving,” Ferdinand says again. “I will not.” He reaches out to her and Marianne lays her head upon the ground, allowing Ferdinand’s touch. Her skin is warm. Firm. He pets her as lovingly as Marianne herself would pet a horse, a dog, a cat — any creature she loved. Ferdinand hopes he’s getting through to her. Hopes she knows that he still loves her, will always love her.
Ferdinand thinks of all the times he has seen Marianne at the stable, tending to the horses. Stroking their necks, brushing out their manes. Feeding them sliced carrots and apples from her flattened palm. Ferdinand thinks of the way she smiles, the beauty of her laughter when she assumes she is alone.
And yet Marianne always thinks she’s alone, does she not? Even in a crowd of people; even now, here with Ferdinand.
There are so many things he has left unsaid, hanging between them now, just out of reach. So many more kisses Ferdinand has yet to place upon her lips. And maybe it’s this profound patience that finally turns the tide, or perhaps it is Ferdinand’s touch, but at last Marianne starts to change. Her beast form shrinks and twists and glows, and even now, Ferdinand can feel that Marianne is hurting. That she is in tears. He can feel it in the air, like the smell of oncoming rain. Petrichor drenching them. Marianne weeps even as Ferdinand catches her in his arms, her clothes lying in tatters across the now-flattened earth.
“Why?” she asks, tears streaming down her face. Her powder blue hair is a mess of tangles, and yet Ferdinand has never found her more beautiful.
“You would have done the very same for me,” Ferdinand says. He smiles. “You never would have given up, never would have rested. Not for one moment, knowing I was out there suffering.”
Marianne touches his chin, his lips. They are both covered and dirt and yet it matters not at all; even Marianne’s nudity seems so far away, beautiful but irrelevant. Right now there is only the shakiness of her hands; her eyes, peering up at him; her fingers skating across his skin; and the smallest of smiles threatening to burst from her lips.
She leans up to kiss him now, the first time Ferdinand has ever known Marianne to be so determined not to let the moment pass them by. And upon her lips is, at last, the smile he always knew she held inside her, no matter what form her body might take.
“We will figure this out together,” Ferdinand says, clasping her hands against his chest. “My love.”