Beauty and the Beast
A story by D.K. Archer
Based from the Fairy Tale
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Note: 1) this was written as a gift for my mother christmas 2000. All stuff is hers, in a sense.
2) as you read, you may notice problems with the word 'to'. There is an error in my program centered around that word. Please ignore it.
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Prologue

The hooves of the horse made little sound on the layers of dead decaying leaves that covered the path. It was hardly used anymore, having originated as an alternate route for the royal family to sneak out of the palace for leisure time. The currently reigning king had no need for it. Wherever he went, he went with much fanfare and attention, and the idea of a back road was almost obscene to him.

The rider looked every bit a shadow of death. The old woman who had sent him ahead with the message had made sure he was frightening, mounting him on an enormous black horse with red sparks in it's eyes, and clothing him in many heavy robes of black cloth. It seemed unusual theatrics for so simple a thing as delivering a message. He turned the small note over in his hands, examining the red wax seal on the front. It was pressed with the image of a bird.

The black horse snorted and turned it's head about, alerted by something nearby. The dark trunks of trees pressed close, their high branches blocking out any light the meager stars might have afforded. There! Something moved out in the dark, not so much that he saw it but that he felt it, as if the ground and stone and leaves were his flesh and fingers. He felt steps out there, as they crossed and recrossed. A low growl.....

The dancing horse let out a shriek and reared back, knocking him to the ground. He landed heavily on his side and groaned, feeling white pain shoot thru his ribs and shoulder. The horse's hooves barely missed crushing him as the creatures in the dark moved before and behind them. He recognized the lowered heads, the coarse fur, the brush tails held out straight behind them.

Wolves!

He screamed as they lunged at him, ripping the cloth of his robes, nipping at the horse's legs. The animal stepped back onto his downed body, crushing leg bones into useless fragments.

The screaming continued for a long while, before melting into growls and wet snaps.

Dawn dragged slowly up on the eastern horizon, bringing with it the songs of birds and the waking motions of the village. However, one old woman, said by the entire town to be a witch, sat by the door of her small house as if she were awaiting something. In fact, she was. She rocked back and forth on her old scrawny legs, watching the thin sheep of the neighbor be herded out of their pen to be sold in another town.

From down the road came the steady clop of hooves, and she looked up the see the long awaited sight. The black horse she'd sent the night before walked slowly, head hanging in exhaustion. It's rider, however, was missing. A scrap of black cloth hung from the saddle horn as if deliberately put there.

The old woman shrieked angrily and ignored the eyes turning to her. The messenger had been the last effort, the final warning to the King. She had gone many times to the palace herself, demanding he listen to her. The taxes he ordered to pay for his extrodinary lifestyle drained the life from the towns and cities he controlled. At current time it was a fifty percent tax on all purchased goods, as well as land taxes, road taxes, and even horse taxes. To pay the unavoidable fees the people had to sell what they grew. Half the money went to the tax for the selling of the product, the other half for the paying of standing taxes. Families found themselves going hungry with a full crop.

The king had no care for any of it. Seven times she had gone to the palace, and seven times she had been turned away. Finally she had sent a messenger. The note was simple; it put in danger the one thing the king might hold sacred. His wife was pregnant with a child, which was to be their only heir. If a man could not care for his people, he could surely care for his son! The old woman was a witch, a self taught one of the most powerful kind, and could cast spells over great distances. So she wrote:

Relieve the taxes or your child will suffer for your stubbornness.
--The Witch

The black horse, unmistakably hers, being sent back alone was all the indication of refusal she needed. In an angry storm she stomped into her cottage and pulled the iron cauldron out from it's place over the cook fire. It was already filled with water, in preparation for the making of the days soup. She took from her shelves several bottles and boxes and objects of curiosity and arranged them around her, ready for use. Taking a deep breath, she began to work her magic.

"Isthial, Liarcha, listen to me!
and grant me this thing that I ask of thee.
Take the new child of the king
and turn it into a hideous thing!
with pointed fangs and eyes so bright,
a dreadful manner and a fearsome sight!
In this form he shall stay till, unlike those above,
he learns the powers of kindness and love!"

***

Painful shrieks and gasps fell against the grey stone walls, covered heavily in tapestries and hangings. Disheveled lady servants scurried about, taking quick orders from a round chinned woman in her thirties who's hair was thinning around the cap and who's sleeves were rolled up around her shoulders. Her red cheeks were no comparison to the Queen's. In fact, the Queen's entire face was claret, as well as her neck and shoulders and probably the rest of her, too. Sweat fell from her forehead to the thin linen sheets and her fingernails were dug deeply into the palm of a servant, who looked to be regretting ever offering her hand.

"Again, your majesty, just give me one more push. The head is coming!"

The queen's face contorted and an odd sound issued from her throat. The servant who's hand she clutched winced and stared at the Queen's knee, not really wanting to know if her palm was bleeding yet.

"There, it's almost, just a little--" The sentence ended in a squeak and the face of the midwife drained slowly to a horrible, waxen color. However, she did not stop working. The queen hardly noticed the silence but servants, no longer being shouted orders at, stood around the door, whispering nervously. Was it dead? What was going wrong?

The queen gave a final shout and slumped back on the bed covers, finally releasing her servant's hand. The girl stared at the red marks and flexed her fingers a few times before creeping around to the end of the bed to see what was the matter.

Her strangled squeal sent the other servants forward. The midwife hastily wrapped the infant in a waiting square of cloth before they could see, and hurried off to the king.

Hardly an imposing man despite his status, the king was now terrifying. His fists were clenched and his upper lip pulled back a bit in an furious sneer, straight yellowed teeth exposed. The corner of his right eyebrow twitched rapidly as he paced.

"How dare you present this thing to me! What ghoulish prank is this!?"

"No prank, your majesty." the midwife said, readjusting the bundle in her arm a bit. The infant, though it had not cried, was quite obviously alive. Sharp black eyes were open and watching, observing the world with an odd intelligence usually absent at that age. A rough pink tongue was stuck between it's lips, which split on top into two halves, and the glisten of two white eyeteeth were already present in it's mouth.

"This..this thing is not even human! Not even the semblance of a human!"

"Your majesty, I assure you, it is your son. I have birthed enough children that I have seen the misshapen, the deformed. This one is perhaps the worst I have seen, but--"

He cut her off with a movement of his hand. After a long moment of his silent pacing, a guard that still stood by the door stepped tenativly forward.

"Your majesty, could this not, perhaps, be the work of . . . a witch?"

The king's head snapped up and he seemed to cling onto the idea.

"A witch! Of course! Some horrible old spinster cursed my son! They'll pay for this!" he paused "Who would do this?"

"Well, your majesty, there was an old witch from Burkitstown here several times demanding you lower taxes. It could very well be her."

"Fine! Bring her here immediately!"

The guard bowed curtly and hurried out. The midwife rolled her eyes, one finger absently stroking the infant's hand. It was beginning to sleep now, lids slowly closing. The poor, horrible thing. It would likely be dead by morning. It hadn't cried yet, and that was always an ill sign. Such accidents rarely lived thru their first year. Most didn't even survive their first night. That was a mercy of nature; to clean up it's mistakes.

The king dismissed her, and as she left, she saw the infant close it's eyes. Hopefully for the last time.

"Woman, you are under grave suspicion." the king said, hands folded in a deceptively calm fashion behind his back. "Are you the witch who has cursed my son, your prince?"

"Yes." she said, sounding equally calm, though she didn't feel it. The old witch was thin and greying, perhaps even more so than when she cast the spell. She was old. She had at least a good sixty years behind her, a remarkable age for anyone.

"Then undo it. Now. Or face the consequences."

"I will not undo it."

The only response, other than a tightening of the king's jaw, was a small sigh from the queen. She sat listlessly on a stool, face pale and eyes reddened. Though a while had passed since her pregnancy, she was not a all well. The misshapen nature of her son took it's toll on her.

"You, your majesty, are a cruel and terrible ruler. You tax your people to starvation and expect no consequence. This is your consequence. A son that will be hideous, not even human. It is yours and yours alone."

The king, entirely unused to being insulted, fumed.

"I will not be spoken to is such a fashion! Guards! Take her and behead her! Then burn the body and bring her head to me!"

The witch's eyes widened, but she said nothing. She had known to expect this. There was no other outcome. Truthfully, she couldn't undo what she had done. The way to end the spell was written into the spell itself, and no other way could reverse it. She walked beside them, refusing to be dragged. The executioner was brought and her legs were kicked out from under her, sending her smacking rather painfully against the wooden block, stained and trying quite hard to rot with all it's bloody weight. She closed her eyes against the darkness.

Isthial, will you help me?

be still, child. all is not done with

A shock, that for an instant was blue pain, then a cold, spreading darkness. Her open eyes faded to a vast black nothingness. And staring out at her, eerie pinpoints against the nothing, were two round eyes the color of winter ice. She shivered, was drawn to them....then silence.

-end prologue-