A/N: Dearest, dearest, DEAREST readers (if any of y'all haven't lost faith in me) - I want to apologize PROFUSELY for taking so dang long on this story. I know, it's been over a year (or is it two?) since I updated. But last year was my first year of college, and to be honest my priority list has fanfiction toward the bottom. I do a lot more original writing now, too, which means fanfics get pushed back on the list of projects I work on.

I WILL NOT ABANDON THIS STORY. But I can't promise speedy updates. Michael and Arabelle are still very much alive and in my mind. I just have to put my energy to other things at this stage of my life. God bless you all!

Chapter VIII

Torn Lips, Torn Words

Arabelle's eye had become somewhat accustomed to the hideousness of Michael's appearance, and though she still started a bit when she saw him after a brief absence, there was no longer as much of a fear as there had been before. After the emotion-charged night of Michael's revelation to her, Arabelle had clung to his visage in a desperate attempt to steel herself to his ugliness. It was hard, sorrowful work, especially when she could not bear to see that desperation in his eyes. But slowly, scar by scar, she began to commit his form to her memory, in order to prepare herself in his absences for his reappearance.

But these absences were seldom, and Arabelle had been horrified to discover within herself the tendency to lose patience with Michael, to become slightly weary of him. Now that he felt that there were no boundaries between them, the poor monster would seldom leave Arabelle's side, and then only with great reluctance. He followed her about, never more than five paces from her, often standing as close as he dared, taking every opportunity that was presented to him to touch her, whether it be a simple finger on the hem of her garment, or a slight brush against her cheek with his gnarled knuckles. He seemed to live only for her attentions, as if merely losing sight of her would be the end of him. And Arabelle, while she still loved him as dearly as ever, if not more so, and understood the desperation within Michael to avoid at all costs a return to his former loneliness, began to resent this stationary stance he had taken…much to her sweet heart's confused grief.

It was not so much the constancy of his presence that caused her such distress as it was the inability to let her tears fall. Resigned as she was to the truth of Michael's identity, be he fiend or disguised angel, she could not quell the black grief and wild terror that seemed to fester in her breast like a parasite, clinging to the wall of her heart. Oh, her heart still leaped to hear his voice, still longed for his conversation, his company…but she often wished that he remained hidden in the shadows, unseen…so that she could only hear the beauty of his voice. She didn't dare to close her eye when he spoke to her, fearing that he would divine her reasons for doing so; to avoid seeing him. No, instead she delighted him by constantly forcing herself to touch his face, tracing each harsh scar and irregularity in his cheeks, jaw and brow. He would merely sit, bending over her as she, her arms upraised to him, stroked his face with a tenderness that was half affected, half genuine. She could not help but fear him, yet in the same, confusing paradox, she could not help but grow to love him even more.

But it was the night that brought Arabelle the most conflicting emotions. Michael now slept as close to her as he dared. Arabelle almost believed that, had she not made a point of curling herself into a protective ball every night, he would have attempted to sleep with her tucked in his arms. But he seemed satisfied with sleeping at her feet, his face angled up in such a way that her own face would be the first thing he should see upon waking.

One night Arabelle had waited for Michael to fall asleep, hearing his heavy breathing turn into snores. She began to rise from the ground, silent as any forest creature. But somehow Michael sensed her movements, and came awake. He made no attempt to stop her, but when she knew he was awake, she simply acted as if she were shifting positions. He mimicked her, again positioning himself to see her face upon the coming of light. Arabelle had felt her heart draw to his once again. Tears stained the ground beneath her that night, even as she slept. Oh, to love someone and yet fear them without reason, knowing that the fear is unconquerable yet groundless!

Despite her frustratingly persistent emotions of fear towards Michael, Arabelle always found an argument against her fears each day. When the monster found an excuse to caress her, and she shuddered from surprise, still unused to real human contact that was not violent, he always withdrew his mangled hands, making profuse apologies for frightening her with his coarse touch. Arabelle's heart would melt anew for him, and she would turn to him and welcome his touch. So it was today. But today Michael's pure and utter devotion to her struck the blow that would lead to a lingering yet final illness of her fears.

"Arabelle…" his voice was right next to her ear, causing a soothing calm to come over her, coupled with that instinctive tensing of the muscles, like a hunted beast, "I would like to…to tell you more…about myself."

The girl turned to him, her single eye widened in surprise, "I'd like that very much, Michael…if you feel that you are ready to tell me. I know before you were never too eager to speak of your past, but -"

Her hand was taken in his remarkably gentle grip. That was something that had astounded her - his hands, so huge and gnarled with crushing muscles, would touch her so tenderly and carefully. He leaned in closer to her, his eyes fixed on her face as he cut her short, "You deserve to know all…it was unfair to hide before…but when I thought I risked losing you…" Arabelle looked down quickly, biting at the ragged shred of her lip, giving his monstrous hand an affectionate, encouraging squeeze.

Michael, encouraged by this physical reassurance, knelt down slightly until he was eye-level with the girl, "But now you aren't afraid of me…you don't hate me for my ugliness. There is no wall between us, Arabelle, nothing to keep us separate in anything! I want you to know everything, and I want you to understand the pain I have carried for so long…the pain you have soothed for me."

Arabelle looked into the yellowed, sickly eyes of the monster-man kneeling before her. She smiled shakily, raising his hideous hand to her half-lips and kissing his vast palm. She saw his face, in all its horror, take on a dull sort of glow. She gave a soft, low laugh, cradling her head in the curve of Michael's hand and saying, almost cheekily, "Don't tell me things I already know, Michael…tell me whatever you like. I'll listen to you forever. Your voice is…it's how I always thought the Bible, if it could talk, would sound…"

He is infinitely good…no evil dwells in him! I need not fear when he knows no wrong! I of all people should know that the outer shell is just that…a shell…a disguise we are charged with until all is made new.

Michael, who had given some sign of bemused pleasure at her comment about his voice, sat down with his legs crossed awkwardly beneath him, motioning for Arabelle to do the same. She did so, sitting close enough to rest her weather-hardened arms on one massive, malformed forearm. This gesture of trust and affection seemed to strengthen Michael, and he rhythmically stroked her wrists as he began his tale. At first the mere sound of his voice was enough to lull Arabelle, then, as his ragged fingers caressed her with endearing tenderness, she felt herself melting into his embrace, content to feel his pulse against her own. She thrust herself fully into his story, hanging on each syllable. He didn't linger on details or true narrative technique, though his story was compelling enough to ensnare any listener with the plainest of language. His strange, harsh birth into the world, the feeling of abandonment, the loss, the sudden discovery of pain and cruelty, the weariness that dogged him to his shelter, and the loneliness that drove him to observe the creatures that lived around him, oblivious to his presence.

"I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept."

Her arms had somehow wound themselves about his shoulders, and she felt the cruel texture of his skin tight against her fingers as she clutched at him. This was what had brought them together, the shared loneliness, the inability to combat the unfair foe, a complete helplessness. But the story changed when he began to speak of the family, of learning along with the one he called Safie. He spoke of learning letters, learning the craft of words, of learning. Arabelle had promised herself she would not interrupt him, but she could not hold back a sudden question when he paused for breath.

"How...how did you learn what the letters meant?"

Michael heard the slight quavering of her voice. She was trying to stifle her excitement, trying to refrain from the question he was prompting her to ask.

"I saw and remembered them. Come, I'll show you."

He took up a stick from near the fire pit, smoothing out a spot of earth with his gnarled paw. He turned to Arabelle, still feeling that sensation of bliss when he felt her breath wreathing his brutish face. He held out his hand, and Arabelle unquestioningly offered her own hand. She bit her tongue as the deformed fingers wound about hers...and then with an almost paralyzing sense of relief recognized the quickening of her pulse as a symptom of pleasure, not disgust.

"Two lines, like this…and a line just here."

Arabelle's eye lit up, "Yes! Yes, that's a letter! I've seen it before! But…" She felt a blush of shame heat her face, "…I don't know which it is…"

"It's called an 'a,' and it always comes first when a child learns his letters." He slid his free hand up her arm affectionately, and lowered his head to be level with hers, "And it's the first letter used to spell 'Arabelle.'"

Arabelle had never dreamed that she'd ever even catch a glimpse of her name spelled out in letters. It had always seemed too impossible, almost as impossible as finding a village that wouldn't drive her away from fear. She found herself behaving like a small child, almost wriggling from Michael's arms in her excitement as she spoke breathlessly, "Teach me! Spell the rest of it! Write it out all the way!"

And so with his hand resting gently but firmly over hers, her arm moved along with his to press out her name in the dirt. Her name was much longer than it sounded, and it was a pretty thing to look at. She gazed at it hard, unable to fill her vision too fully with it, content to simply see the name she had known her entire life.

"Now write yours…right next to mine - so close that they're touching."

His arm tightened around her shoulders when she said this, and their arms moved entwined again, marking out his name directly beneath hers, overlapping it in a strangely tender way. Arabelle stretched out her hand and traced the names with her finger, letting Michael recite each character to her as she touched it. He did this several times, until she could do it herself.

Then it was her turn with the stick. She made painstaking copy of each letter in the earth beside Michael's script, pausing and smoothing the dirt whenever she was displeased with her result. Her single eye was squinted with concentration, her tongue between her teeth.

"Arabelle…"

She didn't look up, still etching out a somewhat squashed copy of the second 'L' in her name. "Yes, Michael?"

"Arabelle, did you ever learn what a kiss is?"

She giggled, looking over her shoulder, feeling the original repulsion at his appearance dissolve almost at once, "Of course I did! Everyone knows what a kiss is."

"How did you learn?"

"My mother used to kiss me - I only just remember. And I saw a man kiss his wife once when I was picking berries near a farm."

"But have you ever kissed a man?"

She stopped writing, turning fully to him and tilting her head at him, narrowing her eye, "Well…no. I don't know who my father was, and I had no brothers."

Michael shook his clumsy head, "No, I meant…a man - or boy - you liked. You know…like the man and wife kissed?"

Arabelle laughed again, though Michael sensed a bit of sadness in her tone, "I don't think anyone would enjoy being kissed by these lips." She raised two fingers and massaged the ragged lack of lips on the left side of her face. Her half-smile died, and she lowered her hand, along with her eyes.

Michael waited for a moment. Then he spoke in a low, halting tone, "Arabelle, would you kiss me if I asked you to?"

Her eye remained hidden from him, but he saw her shoulders tense somewhat. He cursed himself inwardly. Of course she didn't want to kiss him! Why should she?

But when her face rose to meet his it looked like she had swallowed a handful of stars, and her eye shone out like a bright blue comet. She leaned toward him, rising up on her knees to reach his head, and pressed her rough, ill-made mouth to his.

"Another one?"

She complied, kissing his mouth as many times as he asked. Each time she felt her uncertainty diminish, because she could feel the warmth flooding his skin as she lightly touched his shoulders. He had blood, and a heart, just like any human. And what a heart!

Michael sat still, not even asking anymore as Arabelle continued to kiss along his lips. The experience was so new to both of them that innumerable kisses seemed like too few. He closed his eyes, soaking in the feel of her breath before he broke the tenderness with a barely audible whisper.

"I killed a boy, Arabelle…"

The kisses stopped. Arabelle drew away, her eye wide and confused. She gave a nervous laugh, "What…what do you mean?"

"I strangled a boy, Arabelle…I killed him. And I meant to…"

She did not back away, as she had the other night, as he had feared. But she leaned her head back slightly, as if viewing him differently.

"Why would you tell me this?"

He lowered his eyes, timidly reaching for her hands. She did not draw them away, but he noted that she did not respond to his grasp, "Because it would be wrong to keep it from you. I have taken life, I who should never have received it. But I repent of it, Arabelle…it tortures me every day, and the dreams…" He laughed bitterly, "That's how I knew I was some brother to the human. No animal dreams such horrid dreams."

He met Arabelle's gaze, forcing a thin smile, "You've helped to drive away some of those dreams, sweet. But you have the right to know of it."

"Why?"

He tilted his head, puzzled. Arabelle clarified, "Why did you kill him?"

The answer was choked with shame and pain, "He was frightened of me…just like the other child. Just like the de Laceys…just like my own fath - my maker."

He could see that she was still unable to understand. How could he expect her to? Had she not gone through the same rejection time and time again? How many times had she been called ugly, unnatural, and seen the faces of children filled with fear and disgust? But had she ever killed any of them, ever gone mad with the grief of loneliness and let her anger forth into violence?

"Arabelle, I am weak. You have taught me what strength can be found in the human heart, even if mine is a half-heart. I need to learn more from you. But you must learn everything about me first."

The girl squinted at him for a moment, then laid her hand over his. Her fingers were stiff, but not cold. A watery smile creased her crooked mouth, her milky eye widening attentively at him.

"Then learn from me. But first learn that I am not able to save you."

"Arabelle, you are my angel!" Michael protested, but she shook her head resolutely.

"No, Michael. You call that doctor your maker. But he only crafted your body. Your soul is your own, and it was put into you by God. It had to be for a reason. Just as…" She paused.

"Just as he put me here…and made me the way I am." She blinked several times, as if to banish tears. Then she leaned into Michael, resting her head on his chest in a firm embrace, her arms around his torso.

"You've shown me my purpose. You've shown me why God chose to make me this way. Thank you."