The wood groaned in protest, old age making them creak and crack with every step. The heavy footsteps marked the arrival of the mass of dark fur, dark emotions, and a dark cloud. No one said a thing to him as he entered the common room of one of his family's wings in the manor. No one spoke a word to the beast as he made his way back to his castle of darkness. The aura around him was dark, dank, and it rankled of anger and disgust. His own face, twisted into a thing of so many tortured emotions that no one word would ever describe it adequately, warned others to turn their eyes away. For the beast was on the prowl, and he sought naught but the quiet of his room as his head swam with emotions too conflicting to pay heed to.

They raged in his head like a whirlwind, like the river of the deceased. They were all shouting for attention and they all wanted it then and there. They clawed at him, demanding he focus on them, give them what they wanted; control. But Silvano fought with them, fought with the beast. And he found his eyes blurring and his head fogging. Book clutched to his chest and hand pressed to one of his eyes, the dark mottled man found his way to the door to his sanctuary, his dark little corner of the universe where no one else mattered but he, the caretaker of the silence. It was always better there. No one would bother him, no one would torment him. And he could writhe in his own agony in peace.

Silvano fumbled with the door handle as his numb fingers failed to fully grasp the cold metal. They slipped as he turned it, and the door only swung open with his fingers gripping the wood itself and almost tearing it open. As his large, tall frame slipped through the door into the dimly lit quarters, the door swung back into place with a loud crashing slam. He hardly heard the protests downstairs and nearby. They were no longer important to him here. Here, he was safe and he was secure.

Gently, the book was returned to it's slot in the shelves, filling in the toothy grin it had left behind. It had been a good story, but the beast could hardly focus on the words of the tale. His anger, despair, and hatred had been far too powerful to read a tale about a ring that was more powerful than all else. There was anger there too, but the mottled man could hardly focus on his own emotions. All else was far too much to handle. A single finger pushed the book properly in place, lining it up neatly in its row. The hand ran across the spines gently, a soft sigh echoing out into the silent room.

Leaving his books, his escapes, like leaving a lover was hard. But they provided no comfort to him now, not when his heart and his head were no longer in tandem. They raged against each other, trying to be the better. One screamed at him. The other screamed back, trying to be the louder.

She doesn't want someone so in love with books that he can't be called a knight, roared one with the taunting voice he hated so much in his head. You can learn it all, you can still be what needs to be, countered the other, the smart-ass side that he hated just as much. They were both right. They were both wrong. Silvano pressed his hands to his face, rubbing at his eyes as he had done before her. The tears were fighting as his common sense and sensibility tried to win the fight. But the sadness and the bitter pain of rejection found their way in, too. It was the worst kind of party, where too many people were invited that the host didn't know.

He found himself slumping against the bed, mattress, feeling it pressing against his lower back. The tail he claimed as his own was limply laying on the wooden floor. Those emerald eyes, so cloudy now, stared at the book case before him. Those old friends. They were his comfort. But when his body, mind, and heart needed them the most, they were silent like the grave.

Legs raised and elbows on knees, Silvano buried his face in his hands. Bitterness. She was just playing with me like some toy. Sadness. It hurts to breathe. Somewhere in the belly of the beast, there were other emotions, trying to win. But they were weak. Love, unable to be heard. It all doesn't matter. All that matters is you and how you feel. But it was failing. It was too weak, and the anger and pain were far too strong. All that remained was the way she looked at him not that long ago. The way her voice sounded as she yelled at him, accusing him, defending him. It was too much.

Guilt came to play. Silvano knew what he had done. He was in the wrong. But, no, he was in the right. What was what? His hands fell away as he looked out into the budding night. The moon, waxing, and the stars peeking out from the distances too long to measure. Was she looking at them too?

His hands found his face again, and it all broke apart. The emotions inside raced out, hands grabbing in the darkness of his mind as he fought them all at once. But the defenses simply fell flat on the ground and they roared past. Men didn't cry. Men were strong. But Silvano knew he was none of those things. So he let the silent tears flow. He had been hiding them for so long. Too long. In his sanctuary, he was safe, but still the fear and the guilt and the anger were still there. They followed him. As did the tears that came. The emotions won in a rush, and the evidence was nothing but silent tears.

The beast admitted defeat. There was nothing left to lose. He had lost it all already. Belle had fled and the beast had effectively locked the gates behind her. The sanctuary felt warm, and those old friends kept up their silence. They were his companions, and they were the only ones who stood their silent vigil on his sins.