Once. And now…now he couldn’t even venture out of his gardens or approach a wounded stranger who might wander from the forest to his castle in the night without sending him running in fear.
What did Belle think of what little she saw of him by dungeon torchlight? But he knew, didn’t he? She’d called him a monster! Leave her to the servants, then; let them weave tales of his dastardly deeds! Let them confirm how vile and ugly he was. He cared not! After all, he was a monster. And monsters knew not feelings, especially the sentiment called love.
His anger and confusion were quelled as his head spun from exhaustion. He sat on the bed, wondering what to do next. The sisters implied that the girl was his only hope of escaping the curse. Liars! He could make her fall in love with him easily enough if he looked as he once had—handsome, well groomed, some might say arrogant.
Women were easily managed then. A few flowery words of love, feigning some interest in what she had to say, perhaps showing a pretense of vulnerability and the girl was his. And often he didn’t even need to resort to such nonsense; only if the girl was exceedingly beautiful would he bother to try to win her admiration. Typically, his looks alone were enough to catch them spellbound.
But the way he looked now…He had no idea how to go about this with Belle. He pushed himself onto his feet, feeling the rough and tattered sheets with the pads of his paws. Perhaps he should let servants in to make the bed, dust the windows, and mop the floors. To have him live more like a human being than the monster he had become.
He stood on shaking legs, still dizzy from the rush of animal anger he’d felt when he heard Belle call him a monster. He moved to the mantel, where he kept the enchanted mirror the sisters had given him long before. He stood there for a moment, taking a deep breath before he looked at himself. It had been far too long since he had seen his own reflection. He had to see how his odious deeds had etched themselves upon his face.
His paw rested on the sheet that was draped over the frame. Then, in one movement, he tore the sheet away and tossed it aside, revealing the looking glass and the tarnished reflection that stared back at him.
Monster!
The only indication of what he had once been was his soulful blue eyes, which teemed with humanity. Those hadn’t changed. They were still his.
But in all other respects, he had become exactly what he had feared. And, indeed, it was worse than he ever could have fathomed.
His knees buckled as his world started to close in. His scope became narrower until he found himself in utter darkness, spiraling into a vision of his past—of himself as he’d once been, before he became a monster. Before he became the Beast.
Before the curse, life had been good to the Prince.
To hear the sisters tell the tale of the curse would be to hear a story filled with examples of what a terrible person he was, a list of his misdeeds, tallied one by one, each of them worse and nastier than the one before, until the sisters swooped down on him with their spell, deforming him into the pathetic beast now lying on his bedroom floor before his mirror.
Eventually, that is indeed how the story will go. But the sisters won’t be able to spew that part of the tale at first. Not until the Prince has had his say, a chance to tell you how much fun he had.
Because there was a time when things were good.
It was a time when the Prince was just an arrogant young man, full of pride and keenly aware of his station in life. What young prince hasn’t found himself in exactly the same place? What do you think other princes are like? Are they just charming men venturing off hither and thither in search of sleeping brides to awaken with love’s first kiss? Do you fancy them as dandy gentlemen while they slay dragons and vanquish foul, murderous stepmothers? Perhaps they do that sort of thing without the slightest bit of ego or aggression? One moment they’re hacking their way through enchanted killer thornbushes only to find a fire breathing dragon primed for murder on the other side, and the next they’re expected to waltz with their new brides in pastel suits and golden sashes.
And what is up with those sashes, anyway? Horrible!
Our prince didn’t want anything to do with that romantic poppycock. He wanted a different sort of life, and he learned early on he didn’t have to slay a fire breathing beast to get a fair maiden to kiss him. Though swaggering in with the corpse of a giant elk or a fearsome grizzly bear slung over his shoulder for Old Man Higgins to stuff and mount on the tavern wall did get him his fair share of smooches from the young ladies—and as dangerous as it might have been at times, it was a far cry from poison apples, stinky dwarfs, or being burnt alive by an evil fairy queen. He’d take hunting and philandering over that stuff any day.
Life was good; everyone loved and worshiped the Prince and he knew it.
As he sat in his favorite tavern, his clothes covered in earth, grime, and the blood from his latest kill, he couldn’t have been more handsome. Or at least that was what he thought. The tavern was his favorite haunt. It had most everything he loved in one place. The wood walls were so crowded with the forest beasts he’d slain that Old Man Higgins laughed and teased him as he poured him another beer.
“I’m going to have to build a larger tavern, Prince!”
And it was true.
The only person who killed almost as many animals as the Prince was his good friend Gaston, who slammed a handful of coins onto the bar, startling poor Higgins before he could finish pouring the new round of drinks. “Drinks are on me tonight, Higgins! In celebration of the Prince’s engagement!”
The men cheered and the barmaids wilted into tears, their bosoms heaving heavy sighs of disappointment. Gaston seemed to enjoy the spectacle as much as the Prince did.
“She is the most beautiful girl in the village! You’re a lucky man! I’d be jealous if you weren’t the very best of my friends!”
That he was. Gaston’s best friend.
They had always been alike, Gaston and the Prince, and the Prince supposed that was why they had enjoyed each other’s company so well. Or perhaps he had felt it was better to keep his competition close at hand. But then again, he wondered if that was how he’d actually seen it then.
The Prince couldn’t help laughing sometimes while listening to Gaston go on about himself, bragging about his cleft chin, showing off his hairy chest, and singing his own praises up and down the town’s main thoroughfares.
However, there was another side to the Prince’s old friend, a vindictive cruelty about him.
Yes, they were very much alike, Gaston and the Prince, and that is what brought them together.
Gaston was the first to let the Prince know his fiancée, Circe, was from a poor farming family, in an attempt to prevent the Prince from shaming himself by marrying someone so low. Of course he couldn’t marry her, no matter how beautiful she was. How could his subjects take the daughter of a pig farmer seriously as their queen? The servants wouldn’t respect her, and she wouldn’t know how to act in diplomatic situations. No, it would be a disaster. It would be unfair to his subjects and to her, and most of all to him. He didn’t need anyone to tell him it was a poor idea; he came to the conclusion himself the moment he discovered her station in life.
Then the decision was made.
He couldn’t marry the girl.
The Prince sent for his fiancée the next day. Circe looked beautiful when she stepped out of the carriage to meet him. Her light blond hair and shimmering silver dress glistened under the morning sun as she stood in his rose garden. It was hard to believe she was a pig farmer’s daughter. Perhaps Gaston was mistaken. Where would a girl on a pig farm get a dress like that? Ah. Gaston was playing his tricks again. Trying to put him off so he could have Circe for himself. That wicked butt-chinned brute. He would have words with him about this soon enough. But in the meantime he had to make amends with his beautiful Circe. Of course she had no idea he had intended to break things
off, but he felt his heart had betrayed her.
“My darling, Circe, you look beautiful.”
She looked up at him with her pale blue eyes, with a slight blush that did not diminish the light smattering of freckles across her button nose.
Adorable.
She was simply that, adorable. How could he have thought she was the daughter of a pig farmer? He couldn’t fathom her mucking about with those dirty, horrible creatures.
Think of it! Circe feeding pigs! It was laughable when he saw her sparkling like a dew dropped rose, like the princess she was about to become. He would make Gaston pay for causing him to doubt her.
“Come, my love, to the morning room. I have arranged something special just for you.”
He didn’t mention Gaston’s trick to Circe; it was too nasty to repeat. There was no need to cause ill will between the two. Gaston would, after all, be his best man at the wedding. Yes, he was brutish, ill-tempered, and conniving, but he was still his closest companion. And he wanted his best friend to stand beside him at his wedding.
And there was something else. It would please the Prince to know Gaston would be seething with envy as he stood there, forced to watch the wedding proceedings, knowing his attempts to break the Prince’s faith in Circe had failed and he could not have her for himself. Yes, that would be very satisfying. Perhaps after the wedding he should send Gaston away on some errand for the kingdom—something distasteful and below his rank, to show him not to interfere again.
Who could blame Gaston, really, for trying to spirit Circe away from him? She was the prettiest girl they’d ever seen, and Gaston was only giving in to her beauty and letting it taint his better judgment. It was quite funny when you thought about it—Gaston, the prince of Buttchinland, trying to take his Circe away! Who would have a commoner, no matter how close a royal family friend he might be, when she could have the prince who would one day be king of these lands?
The Prince decided to laugh the entire thing off and focus on what he loved: hunting, drinking, spending the taxes collected from his estates, and charming the ladies.
Oh yes, and there was Circe, but he loved her the way one would love his castle, or his stable stocked with the finest horses. She was the most beautiful creature, and he treasured her for how her beauty would reflect on him and his kingdom. Sensible, he thought, and he felt beyond reproach.
The wedding plans continued even though Gaston kept on about Circe’s family. Not a day or night went by that he didn’t mention it.
“You’re starting to bore me, Gaston, honestly! Going on about this pig farm thing as if it were actually true. Why don’t you give up already?”
Gaston wouldn’t let the issue alone.
“Come with me, good friend, I will show you!”
So they rode several miles, until they reached the little farmhouse, which was tucked away beyond the woods on an uncommon path.
There was his Circe. She was standing in the pen feeding the pigs, the bottom of her simple white dress caked with mud. Her hair seemed dull, and her cheeks were flushed with hard work. She must have sensed them looking at her, for she glanced up and noticed the expression of disgust on her beloved’s face, leaving her stricken with horror and shame.
She dropped her pail and stood on the spot, looking at the two men.
She said nothing.
“Come out here, girl! Is that how you greet your guests?” the Prince barked cockily.
Her eyes widened as if she was coming out of a haze.
“Of course,” she said meekly.
Then she walked out of the pen and approached the men, looking up at them, still astride their horses. She felt small and meek and unable to meet their disapproving gazes.
“Hello, my love, what brings you here?” she asked.
The Prince scoffed. “What brings me indeed? Why didn’t you tell me your father was a mere pig farmer?”
Circe looked desperate and confused, hardly able to answer.
“What do you mean, my dearest?”
The Prince was enraged. “Do not play coy with me, madam! How dare you keep such a thing from me! How could you lie to me in such a manner?”
Circe crumpled in tears. “You never asked about my parents! I never lied to you! Why should it matter? We love each other! And love conquers all.”
“Love you? Seriously? Look at yourself—covered in muck! How could I possibly love you?”
He spat on the ground and then turned his attentions to his friend. “Come on, Gaston, let’s leave this stinking place. I have nothing further to say to this filthy farm girl.”
And the two men rode off, leaving the beautiful maiden covered in mud and a cloud of dust kicked up by their wild horses.
The Prince sat alone in his study, sipping a drink by the fireplace. Images of Circe haunted him. They flashed between the bewitching young beautiful woman he wanted to marry and the sickening scene he’d witnessed earlier that day.
He almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
But he could not soften to her, not after she had tried to trap him into marriage by weaving such horrid lies. As he sat there, sinister shadows danced on the walls. These were created by the firelight and the giant antlers mounted on the wall above his chair. He remembered the day he’d killed the largest trophy—the great elk. He had almost been sad the day he finally took him down. He’d been tracking the beast for years. But when he’d killed him, he felt as if he’d lost an old friend. He sipped some more, remembering that hallowed day. Just then the porter poked his head into the room.
“Prince, sir, Miss Circe is here to see you.”
The Prince sighed with annoyance. “I’ve told you, numerous times now, not to admit her! Send her away!” And he turned back to his musings.
The porter didn’t leave. He stuttered his reply. “I haven’t let—let—let her in, my—my lord, she is standing out…side, but refuses to—to—to go. She says she will not leave until you speak with her.”
“Very well, then.”
Putting his drink on the little wooden side table next to his chair, he stood with a heavy sigh and made his way toward the grand entrance.
There stood Circe, a pathetic little creature holding a single red rose, looking downright diminutive in the gaping arched doorway. Her eyes were sad, swollen and red from crying. She looked nothing like the ravishing beauty that had once stood in his rose garden all golden, silver, and light. If seeing her mucking around in the mud that day hadn’t vanquished that memory from his mind, then this encounter most surely would.
He’d never again be tempted by memories of her beauty, trying to fool him into feeling sorry for the lying little creature! She had a ratty shawl around her shoulders that made her look like an old beggar woman. The light and shadow on her face made her look old and haggard. Had he not known it was her, he would have thought her an old beggar woman indeed.
She spoke with a small voice. She sounded like a little crow—her voice scratchy and hoarse from long crying.
“My love, please, I can’t believe you would treat me so poorly. Surely you didn’t mean the things you said to me earlier today.”
She broke down sobbing, her tearstained and swollen face buried in her small white hands.
How could he ever have thought her adorable?
“I cannot marry you, Circe. You must have known that from the start. I’m guessing that is why you tried to keep your parents a secret.”
“But I didn’t know, my love! My darling, please take this rose and remember the days you still loved me. Won’t you please let me come inside, away from this cold? Do you hate me so much?”
“Your beauty, which so captured my heart in my very garden, will forever be tarnished by the grotesque scene I witnessed today, and by this shameful display.”
When Circe’s shawl fell back, the Prince was
startled to see, her eyes were no longer swollen and her face was not splotched and red from long hours of crying. Her skin was pale and glowing as if she were infused with moonlight—and her hair was bright and shimmering with little silver adornments, like sparkling bits of stardust were captured within. Her dress was opalescent silver, and everything about her seemed to glow with enchantment, but nothing shined brighter than her pale blue eyes. She had never looked so beautiful.
“I’ll never be quite as beautiful again in your eyes because you think I’m the daughter of a pig farmer?”
Then he heard their voices, climbing out of the darkness, like a chorus of harpies swooping up from Hell.
“Farmer’s daughter?”
“Our little sister?”
“Why, she is of royal blood. She is cousin of the old king.”
He couldn’t see who was speaking; he only heard three distinct voices coming from the darkness. Something about the voices unnerved him. No, if he were completely honest with himself, he would admit the voices frightened him. He wanted nothing more than to slam the door and hide within the walls of his castle, but he stood his ground.
“Is this true, Circe?” he asked.
“Yes, my prince, it is. My sisters and I come from a long line of royalty.”
“I don’t understand!”
Circe’s sisters stepped into the light and stood behind her. Their grotesquerie made Circe’s beauty even more pronounced.
It was startling, really.
It wasn’t that they were ugly, the sisters; it was just that everything about them was so striking, and in such contrast to their other features. Each feature on its own could have been beautiful. Their large eyes, for example, might have looked stunning on another woman. Their hair, somehow it was too black, like one could become lost in the depth of the darkness, and the contrast of their bloodred lips against their parchment white skin was just too shocking. They didn’t seem real, these sisters. None of this did, because all of it was absurd. He felt as if he must be dreaming, caught in a nightmare. He was entranced by Circe’s transfiguration, and it made him forget his earlier vow never again to think of her.
The Beast Within Page 2
