Merry Christmas!
(Yes, it still counts because as of right now, here in Florida, it is still December 25th.)

This is for my awesome friend, Alejandra—hope you had a magical Christmas and hope you have many more.

Song As Old As Rhyme
Part I

Bright hazel eyes stared up at the intermittent jerks of the clock arms. Every second ticked by in tandem with his heartbeat. Two white marble statues guarded either side of the top of the grand staircase, but aside from them, this clock had been the sole survivor of the curse—the only one in the castle to have escaped any sort of…beastly transformation. He supposed the only reason it was spared was because of its simplicity. It had always hung in stark contrast with the lavish interior of the castle. Made of unpolished wood, glass, and iron cogs, it had always been out of place.

He'd always thought it ugly.

Ironic then that the ugliest piece in the castle was now the most beautiful.

It had been his mother's. She'd always had a love and appreciation for the simplicity in things—an attribute instilled by her rural upbringing. His sister had inherited that same admiration. He, on the other hand, was very much his father's son. He'd hated that clock—that damned, ugly clock which was the physical manifestation of the problem his father had caused by marrying outside the aristocracy.

He and his father loved his mother, true, but his parents' marriage was a black mark on the family, the brass piece in the hoard of gold. In an attempt to redeem their family, they consolidated their wealth, investing heavily and branching out their businesses to rake in the kind of profit that forced everyone else to turn a blind eye. From a very young age, his father trained him in the ways of finances and politics, raising his son to become clever and resourceful, but he also grew prideful and cold.

When his father died, the young man took over the family, doting on his mother and sister but turning a cruel, unwavering glare on everyone who'd dare to sneer down at him. His mother had urged humility and his sister forgiveness, but he would have none of it.

And now there he was. His regrets had now long since outnumbered the blocks of stone above, below, and around him.

The clock chimed noon, and he growled at the soft chimes ringing through the pliant, delicate wood. Hunching his shoulders, he turned and stalked away, letting the fourth, fifth, sixth, and following chimes fade behind him. The curtains had been ordered to be kept shut at all times, so each torch on the wall brackets flared to life as he passed. He was nothing but a shadow in his own home, and he preferred it that way.

Smooth, flat nails had thickened and rounded into long, curved black claws that clicked against the marble floors as he treaded across the hallways and corridors. He envied and pitied his servants. Envy in that they were simply transferred into candelabras, clocks, feather dusters, and wardrobes; pity in that they were surrounded by beasts—winged demons frozen in the middle of crawling up columns, horrifying reptiles mounted on pedestals guarding the entrance to every wing, mutilated bears, lions, and tigers immobilized as they roared at intruders on every outside corner of the castle, and one very alive monster silently lurking through the halls.

He'd heard the candelabra and the clock speaking once—Michel and Samuel, the men who'd once been his adviser and chief of staff, respectively. They'd spoken about the shock of seeing such a bulky animal lithely weaving up and down stairs, around corners, and through doors. It should've made him feel proud. It only sickened him.

He was adapting. He'd gotten used to this form, the physical sign that he'd given up on anyone ever lifting the curse.

He stopped and stared at the statue on the left of the top of the grand staircase. Face frozen in horror as she stared at him was his mother. He'd known that her expression had been fear for him at the time, but as he looked at her white, stone face, he could swear that her face now only held fear of him. He turned around to see his sister, the bright and mischievous little girl who should've turned fourteen today, and to see sadness. That expression, at least, was the same back then as it was now: disappointment at what had caused this curse and grief at what he'd become now.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he choked out, but even the sound of his voice made his stomach roil.

A human's voice was smooth, even. An animal's voice was rough, course—half-intelligible growls instead of legitimate words. He could feel the vibrations drumming against his throat, and though his own voice had been deep before, it was nowhere near as it was now.

He clenched his fists, claws digging into the thick animal hide of his palms. He could feel the growl thundering through his chest. The suits of armor lined against the wall stiffened on their pedestals, and the flames in the nearby torches flickered fearfully. He dropped his paws, scraping his talons against the marble and feeling the spine-twitching drag as he gouged ten lines into the stone. His jaw clenched against the anger roaring through his lungs. He could feel the hair on his back bristle as his upper lip curled over his fangs. His muscles bunched as he surged away from the frozen, cursed statues of his family and tore into the west wing, carelessly scoring his claws through the antique carpets and rugs, rage burning and overheating his skin under all the dark, almost jet-black fur.

He barreled into his room, ripping the twenty-foot doors off their hinges and sending them into piles of splinters on the floor. His room had already been in shambles, but he still managed to find tables and sofas to upturn, glass to shatter, paintings to ravage, and a rarely-used voice to abuse as his roars had the castle itself trembling.

The dark red haze of fury slowly ebbed as he leaned one arm against the frame of the balcony doors, his chest heaving and his fur matted with blood he couldn't remember spilling. Anger had numbed him. He spent over half of his time not even feeling anything.

Slowly, he turned his back on the cool, clear night and faced the soft pink glow of the enchanted rose. Small orbs of light fluttered out from between the withering petals and faded as they drifted down to the table. Stepping forward, he rested his hand on the cold, fragile cover, his heightened senses letting him feel the infinitesimal magical vibration that hummed through the glass. His other hand reached for the ornate, silver hand mirror. The metal was warm as he lifted it up—always high enough to look through, but never at an angle to see his own reflection.

His voice rumbled, low and hoarse in the darkness. "Show me the girl."

The mirror crackled with energy, humming violently before glowing a soft purple.

It was a stupid request, really.

The first time he'd commanded it to reveal her—whomever she was—the girl in the glass had been spinning around with a brilliant smile and golden hair weaved into an intricate knot at the nape of her neck. She was fair and delicate, a face worthy of a princess. Bright verdant eyes sparkled in the golden lights of the ballroom around her. He remembered her from a ball his mother organized long ago—Duchess…Something-or-Other. She was beautiful, and he'd once entertained thoughts of marrying her. So when he'd requested to see the face of the girl who would break the curse, he'd been floored to see her. Honestly, he'd thought that the mirror would show him some vague, blurred image, so seeing the duchess in vivid detail was more hope than he could have ever imagined for himself.

So it was only natural that he was taken aback when he made the same request the following evening, expecting to see gold and green, only to be met with ebony and mocha. Bright red lips and mischievous dark eyes flashed across the surface of the mirror in a flurry of vibrant fabrics that rippled out from her hips as the girl spun 'round and 'round. Smooth, flawless olive skin glowed in the candlelight as she vigorously danced—her movements sharp, smooth, and sensual. She glided along the floor, as if she was dancing on air. Long, thick curls cascaded to the floor as she bent back a the waist and extended her arms, fluidly sweeping them around herself. She was exotic and mysterious and…dark.

The next night brought a fresh wave of confusion when he requested to see the girl once more, and he was met with electric blue eyes that sparkled in the afternoon sun. Long, straight blonde hair streamed behind her as she lifted her skirts and ran—barefoot—across a field of clover, chased by a gaggle of children. Tan skin gleamed with a healthy sheen of sweat. She threw her head back when a little girl leaped up and tackled her around the waist. She laughed and hoisted the little girl up into her arms, bouncing her on her hip.

It was that same night he finally realized what the mirror was doing: teasing him. There was no glimmer of light at the end of a tunnel, no hope—only the same delusions of grandeur that led to his downfall.

When he saw her, he truly looked at her. He'd been exposed to women of the court who would only deign to make eye contact when it contributed to their flirtatious devices. He would know, having been the target of many a female mission. And yet this one shied away in initial shock when he stepped into the small circle of light but rallied herself in a way that many men would never have dared in his presence. Her diminutive shoulders were squared, chin high, eyes flashing with more authority than fear.

He thought she would demand her father's release and their safe passage out of his castle because she was a lady.

He was wrong.

She offered an exchange, an unfair transaction: her freedom for her father's, her life for his. He was no stranger to sacrifice, but he couldn't help but balk at her daring. A young woman, who seemed to be barely out of girlhood, offering herself up in her older, middle-aged father's stead. The logic had been torn out of the equation and scattered in the wind. He glared at her, waiting for her doubts to settle in, but she was unwavering. And so he agreed. He was raised a man to savor his blessings, an opportunist. He was also raised a gentleman, a man of honor, and a man who could notice and appreciate someone worth his time.

But this one, this Rachel—this brash, audacious woman—was one he noticed very much, albeit not entirely sure if it was in a good or bad way. She wasn't of nobility, that much was obvious. Her dress was simple, her cloak rough but warm. She was nothing like the women he'd interacted with before, and it was…strange. Like stepping out onto his balcony after locking himself inside for weeks, he wasn't sure if he was refreshed or uncomfortable. She was…a lot to take in.

So he tossed her lanky, bespectacled father into the stagecoach and ordered it back to the village. When he returned, he found her where he'd left her. She was weeping at the window of the tower, murmuring softly about how she didn't even get to say goodbye. He watched the tears streaking down her face and the defeated hunch of her shoulders as she, in turn, watched the stagecoach skitter off across the bridge. However, she was still the woman who earned his respect and caution in less than a minute. Her utter refusal to even wipe away her tears or collapse onto her knees in hysterics had him torn between guilt and pride. And he didn't like it.

He softly growled for her to follow him, and he led her down to one of the guest quarters. Monster or not, he would not let her sleep in a cold, dark tower. Though he may look like a beast, he wasn't quite at that behavioral level yet. She tested that, though, when she refused his request to join him for dinner. He wasn't entirely sure to whom his anger should be directed: Michel and Samuel for forcing the idea on him, her for being so rude as to turn him down, or himself for being stupid enough to think his prisoner would enjoy having dinner with her captor. He shot one last furious glare at her door before stalking off, his anger stirring just enough to muddle his thoughts but not enough to rage through his castle again.

So be it then.

If she wasn't going to eat with him, she wasn't going to eat all.

Michel, Samuel, and Mercédes, his headstrong head maid and teapot, looked downright horrified when he specifically ordered them not to let her out of the room or take anything into it either, but damn them. He was still the head of this house. It was to him that her dues were paid.

His orders would be obeyed.

He smelled her before anything else, before she even stepped within five feet of his room. She smelled like heather and crisp, cool mornings; hers was a calming scent. And yet he was everything but calm.

He had been very clear and succinct. On top of staying in her room, she was not supposed to be anywhere near the west wing. She could traipse in and out of her balcony, play hide-and-seek under the bed, or even dance with the wardrobe, for all he cared. The one thing he'd emphasized on his very brief tour was that the west wing was forbidden. For many reasons, not just for his privacy.

He watched her, hidden in the shadows, as she tiptoed into his room, studying the broken furniture, the ravaged walls, his shredded portrait. She stopped on that one for a long while, lifting the limp cloth into place to piece his face back together. She knew. He knew she recognized him. The way she reached up and touched the painted hazel eyes told him as much. The low growl in his chest rumbled softly enough for her ears to miss it, but it was there. It was always there. That ever-present fury that ebbed and flowed began to crest as she continued around his room and finally peaked when she spotted the rose.

He stalked her in the shadows, muscles taut and ready to spring, and when she lifted the glass cover and set it on the floor, he quietly stepped behind her. He would never harm her, never place a threatening hold on her, but when her small, delicate fingers reached out to touch the rose as it hovered in the air, he very nearly seized her 'round her waist and dragged her out of the room. Instead he moved so he was nearly right up against her back and simply exhaled.

If he'd been more lucid, less consumed with rage, he would've given her credit for not jumping in shock. She turned around slowly, eyes wide and breathing erratic. Fear spiked her scent, making it sharp in his nose. As soon as they made eye contact, something in him snapped. Big, brown eyes made his bones creak and shift, made his entire being shudder. She swallowed, and he seized the sound to anchor him back into reality.

"Get out," he breathed. When she made no move to leave, he repeated himself loudly, feeling his control beginning to break. "Get out."

She stumbled back, glancing one more time at the enchanted rose.

"GET OUT!" he roared, the two words thundering throughout the castle and leaving him bone-dry of any energy.

She nearly tripped and fell at every step as she stumbled out of his room while he just slumped onto all fours. She squeezed through the crack, not wanting to expend more energy than necessary by opening the door wider, and he bowed his head, muzzle pressed against the cold marble.

It was a mistake. Not throwing her out with father was a mistake, not physically locking the door of the room was a mistake, hoping for…anything was a mistake. He let her go because she wasn't the one. No one was the one. This was his punishment, his curse. There would be no salvation from this.

Especially not from some hard-headed, illogical woman who would probably have accidentally fallen to her death because she leaned too far off the balcony one day anyway.

But then again, as he heard the wolves howling in the distance and the frantic whinny of her draft horse, he realized he was just as hard-headed. Illogical, daring, brash—he fit her mold just the same, every pounding step of his chase digging his hole ever deeper. He should've rid himself of this woman as soon as she stuck her chin up and said, "Take me instead." He should've let her walk out of his castle and never thought of her again. But there he was, tearing through the forest, following her scent and the mangy stench of the wolves that nipped at her heels.

Because there were three thing that propelled him out of his room and toward her, he later said to Michel when the candelabra followed him back to his room after she treated his wounds and sent him to rest.

The first was the way she looked at him when he screamed at her. She looked absolutely terrified, but she wasn't horrified. The two words were similar enough, but horror connoted disgust. She didn't look at him with disgust. She looked at him the way a woman would stare at a furious man who was about to throw a table at the wall, not the way a woman would stare at a monster with blood and viscera dripping from between his teeth. It didn't seem like much, but to him, it was a lot.

The second was when he replaced the glass cover on the rose and saw that the petals had contracted in on itself ever-so-slightly, as if clinging to each other to keep from losing another…as if the rose itself was trying to give him more time. It had never done that. It had bloomed and begun to wilt, but never that.

The third…was because he couldn't let her die. Not like that, not with those wolves out there in the cold. He didn't care if she ran off or tried to beat him with a stick afterward. He just couldn't let her die.

And if she'd just left him there to die or even dragged him back to the castle and returned to her village, he wouldn't have minded. But she stayed. Even then as Michel and Samuel began to examine the rose like serious scholars or scientists, he looked in the direction of her room in the castle. She stayed and tended to his wounds and thanked him for saving her life and excused herself to sleep "for a long, long time"...in her room.

The creaking and shifting of his bones had left him feeling different. His breaths were deeper and easier, his sleep longer, his appetite better, his fuse longer. The furni—servants stopped cringing as he approached and began bowing as best they could. It was truly a funny sight to see a mop trying to bow.

It was only funny for a few seconds until he saw Rachel glaring at him from down the hall.

That was also something that had changed. He had taken her as prisoner, and she saw that his repayment for emotional damage was saving her life.

"After all," she'd argued, "it was your fault and your short temper that spurred me out into that dangerous forest to begin with. It was your duty to save me. By saving me from the wolves, you've evened the score. Therefore my saving your life by not leaving you out in the cold makes you indebted to me."

And because of that convoluted mindset, she felt justified in trying to bring him back into civility. She'd glare at him if he was rude to the servants, chided him for scratching up the floors with his claws, relentlessly reminded him that in spite of whatever it was that changed him into a beast, he was still obligated to function by human standards, which necessitated a habitable, clean bedroom.

That last one had himself and most of the servants frozen in disbelief.

She really knew. And not only that, she had singlehandedly taken over his own home.

He'd initially tried to fight her. He genuinely put forth his best effort and his most intimidating growl. To no avail. As it turned out, Rachel's small stature belied her voice. Their screaming matches had the servants hiding in every nook and cranny, cupboard and cabinet, under rugs, and behind drapes. And she would never, ever back down from him. Not even when her hair was being blown back from her face, he was screaming so hard. Not when he threatened throwing her back out to the wolves, literally and figuratively. Not even when he threatened cutting her hair in her sleep, he was desperate enough to descend into adolescence. She would not back down.

And so he threw his head back, roared at the ceiling so loudly that the glass shook, and gave her the reigns to his castle. Her furious, defiant expression immediately brightened. She beamed at him and stalked away, listing off the "basic things to clean" in the west wing to the brooms, dustpans, and dusters that trailed after her.

"She'll be the death of you," Samuel said.

"If you don't kill each other first," Michel finished.

It was a strange progression, their relationship.

Their open hostility towards each other burned down the barriers that normal people would've had to work their way through. One day they were shrieking at each other about his tone or about her ludicrous standards, and then the next, they were sitting outside in the garden, talking about birds, of all things. He knew every single species that flew by, and he'd confided in her that before his curse, he used to be able to feed them straight from the hand. Now, they were simply too afraid of him to approach. So she sent for a bag of birdseed and promptly dumped all of its contents onto his head.

His problem of being too unapproachable to birds was resolved, and it was on that night that he began to lose sleep over this woman.

She would chatter incessantly and at inhuman speeds about the most arbitrary things like books and fairytales and recipes and plays and desserts and everything else under the sun. When she finally descended into talking about stoves, he thought she'd exhausted her supply of things to babble about, but once again, he was wrong. She moved on to ottomans.

At first, he thought she only did it because she liked the sound of own her voice. That's another thing that had eventually come to light. Rachel had a confidence and superiority that made even his eyebrows rise—if the fur above his eyes could be classified as eyebrows. At times she would sound vain and condescending, but the more he was able to catch up with her fast-paced speech patterns, the more he was able to pick up on the fact that she was actually painfully insecure.

She was talented, that much was certain. If their screams had the servants melting into the very walls itself, her singing had them floating out of their places and dancing in flurries of feathers, brass, and glass. One night, he was curled up on the wide sofa in his den when he heard her drifting around the hallways, singing a slow, sweet love song, and he curled up and fell asleep, her voice echoing in his dreams.

But her talent, brilliance, and certainty in both had enough force to drive people away. She'd dropped the occasional flippant comment about how the villagers she and her father lived near didn't seem to know what to do with her. As their conversations began to extend well into the night, her brightness dimmed with the fireplace as she mumbled about how it was hard to have friends when she felt it was her very personality that repelled them.

That's why she talked so much.

Because she never really had much opportunity before. Her arrogance was simply the overflow of personal reassurances that she was good enough. Apparently, she wasn't the prettiest in the village or the most charming or charismatic. He watched her perfect posture slowly hunch into insecurity, legs pulled up to her chest, chin resting on her knees. She wasn't like that green-eyed duchess in the ballroom, the exotic, red-lipped dancer, or the laughing blonde in the field—and she was all the more Rachel because of that. And there they were again: her ludicrous standards. She thought her smarts and her singing ability were compensation for being ugly. So when he interrupted her and stated that she was nothing but beautiful, she blinked at him owlishly, bid him goodnight, and then went up to her room.

The next day, she greeted him in a subdued tone, her eyes never quite meeting his. Until he insulted the perfectly delicious oatmeal and had her railing about his ungratefulness. And then he sat back, pleased that the fire in her eyes was back and wondering how the world had gone so wrong that a girl would react so negatively after being called beautiful, after being told the truth.

It was on that same day that she rushed into his den, skirted around the furniture, and threw her arms around his waist. He nearly had a heart attack. If simply moving the piano and a bookcase of sheet music into the adjacent den of her bedroom elicited this type of reaction, he should've done it a long time ago. However, he was still a beast. He wasn't exactly sure how to reciprocate hugs in his current form, so he settled for awkwardly patting her back as gently as he could and then stepping out from her embrace.

"Thank you," she said, grinning through the sheen of tears.

He nodded. "You're welcome."

And when she walked back out, he began to pace the room because he hadn't quite realized it until then. Hadn't realized how casually she'd been touching him, how she never hesitated to grab his paw or try to smooth some recalcitrant tuft of fur on his head, how she'd never showed any sort of trepidation at the slightest thought of touching him.

The same soft, sweet melody she'd sung the night before began to play on the piano, and his breathing hitched. His muscles tightened around his bones, and his chest seemed to cave in like a hole. Not even a heartbeat later, the hole felt like it'd been flooded with warmth, and he leaned against the mantle for support.

"Damn," he muttered aloud, trying to calm his breathing. "Damn it."

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the cold stone because damn it to hell if he'd fallen in love.

She'd wormed her way into his castle, into a ridiculous agreement, into the hearts of his servants, into his good graces, into his life, into his very being. She brought the sun back into the corridors, the rooms, the hallways, the ballroom. The shades of gray his castle had fallen into were suddenly rejuvenated into sparkling golds, gleaming silvers, vibrant reds, deep blues, vivid greens, and cool violets. She made sound a good thing again, something to look forward to in the mornings. She brought back music. Michel and Samuel were singing and dancing like the fools they were. Mercédes wouldn't talk to him without having some sort of melody against her words. The servants would occasionally break out into familiar songs.

The dull blur of his life sharpened. He became so acutely aware of her presence that no matter where she went in the castle, the stables, or the garden, he began to feel a magnetic pull toward her. He could find her wherever she was, and he used that to his advantage quite often. He'd surprise her, scaring her into screaming at pitches he never thought were possible. And she would hit him so hard, the servants would gasp in fear. But then he would laugh, low and gravelly, and they would marvel up at him. And then Rachel would hit him again.

He took her up to the crow's nest one day after lunch. He gently advised her to please, for goodness sake, dress warmly since it was still snowing outside, and she acquiesced. Then they walked to the south wing, and he guided her up the winding staircase that led up to the tallest, most narrow tower of the castle.

"Okay, stop here," he said once they reached the trapdoor. He pulled out a small yellow blindfold and handed it to her.

"Really? What if I trip on the stairs and fall to my death? You should've just left me with the wolves—at least that would've been a more honorable death: fighting 'til the very end compared to simply falling."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm going to lift you up so you won't have to walk anymore, but if you'd prefer, we could go back out to the wolves."

"Oh. All right." She took the blindfold and tied it behind her head. Then she reached out and grasped his paw as if she innately knew where it was. "Lead on, good sir."

He took a second to swallow at the feel of her hand in his and then pushed the trapdoor open. He stepped forward first and then gently lifted her out into the gazebo his grandmother had insisted be built as the highest tower.

"All right, I feel open air. You're not going to throw me off the castle now, are you?"

"Would you like me to? You can check to see if you can fly."

She glared at him even through the blindfold. "No, thank you. May I take this off now?"

He led her right up to the railing, released her hand, and then said, "Go ahead."

She pulled the blindfold down, and couldn't close her mouth for a good two minutes. A roof was supported by three columns, and the stone railings kept them from plunging to their deaths. Everything else was wide open. It was a full 360 view of the valley to the north, the mountains to the west, the river to the east, and meadows in the south.

"I know it's probably not the adventure you prattled on about the other day. I would take you out there myself, but I'm…a magnet for trouble, so we'll leave that to a later date," he said. "I do know how much you liked windows, though, so I thought you'd appreciate this."

She continued to gawp at the view.

"You can come here whenever you like, but you might want to avoid it when it's raining. Unless you do want to fall off, then by all means. The railing is good for jumps." Apparently it was his turn to babble. He cleared his throat. "It's great for, uh, stargazing as well. Just pull this lever here and the roof slides out so you can see right above you."

She just reached out and slid her arm into the crook of his elbow and leaned against him. "Will you tell me about what it's like? Out there, I mean."

"It's big," he answered. "It's... Frankly, it's terrifying. Makes you feel like no matter how tall you could get or how big you could try to be, you'll always be small."

"Is it exciting?"

"Most terrifying things are exciting," he reminded her. "But it's definitely worth it. You have to have the wide spectrum of life to really live, you know? You have to take your hits to make the desserts that much sweeter, have to have lows to have peaks."

"Will you come with me?" she asked. "When I go?"

He took his time answering, trying to find the right answer. But when he thought about it, he could only come up with one thing. "Of course." He would never be able to deny her. Not with things like this.

After a few minutes of silence as she stared out at the landscape, she asked, "Where have you gone before?"

"Germany," he said immediately. "I traveled a lot with my parents and my sister, ever since I was a child. Some places I can't remember that well anymore, but Germany is still very vivid in my mind. That's where I was harangued into taking Kurt on my staff. He nearly grabbed me by the noose, dragged me into his shop, and forced me into his outfits that actually were very nice."

Rachel laughed and any cold he felt from the weather evaporated.

"He asked me if I needed a valet, and so I offered him the position."

"Then why is he in my bedroom?"

He shot her a bland look. "I'm not in any shape to model the latest fashions, you know."

He thought she'd somber at the mention of his…form, but instead she giggled. And he rolled his eyes and shook his head. When was he ever going to learn that he was always going to be wrong with this woman?

"What was Germany like?" she asked. "What about Blaine and Rory? I know Blaine is Captain of the Guard because he's the most elaborate suit of armor in the main hall, and Rory is the head cook because he's the stove. They said you met them in the British Isles. What was it like there? A-A-And—"

"Can you relax? One at a time," he said, laughing and shaking his elbow a little so she shook along with it.

"Sorry," she said, grinning up at him. "Well, go on then! Before we turn into popsicles up here."

He stepped closer to her, trying to lend her as much warmth as he could. "Well, Germany—oh, Germany was a blur."

She nodded knowingly. "Because of Kurt."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Well, not just because of him but because of the lager."

"Do I really want to hear about this?"

"You don't want to hear about the way he nearly got me killed?" he teased. "Or about how Blaine proved himself to a worthy captain by framing me for murder? Or about how Rory nearly poisoned me because he went through an experimental phase involving a mish-mash of the most popular dishes of the Isles? Let's not forget Tyna trying to run me over with five draft horses."

Her expression darkened. "Tell me now."

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

And enjoy it he did. Even after the sun set and they went down to dinner, he continued to regale her with tales of his experiences in Germany, the British Isles, Morocco, Greece, and even China. She always seemed on the brink of scolding him before she finally gave up and just laughed. The more he went on, detailing the various escapades he'd had with various members of his staff, he fell more and more in love with her laughter. Loud, boisterous, and infectious, it warmed him through and through. They ended the day back in his den in front of the roaring fireplace. He was sprawled out on the rug, and she was laying on the sofa, her hand dangling off the edge as she smoothed back his fur. She fell asleep in that position, fingers still settled on his head.

It was then that his doubts crept up on him again.

There he was falling in love with a woman not because of a curse but because of her, and she could very well only see him as a friend, a companion, a talking dog. She was different from the others. She wasn't airy and superficial, she wasn't sparkles and ruffles, she wasn't always sunlight and laughter. She was real. She was a river in it all its fury and splendor; she was a mountain with all its strength and majesty.

And he? He was never going to be good enough.

She was rough and middle-class; he was a prince. The softest material she'd ever owned was rougher than his finest silks. She was everything he never knew he wanted but could never have. She was his prisoner, and he was cursed. She had options; he had no choice.

No matter how hard the rose tried to keep itself together, no matter how much pity its magic could have for him, it was still withering. It was down to its last seven petals. Time was slipping through his fingers, and his fate and the fates of his servants, his friends, rested on his shoulders. The burden, however, paled in comparison to whatever feelings for Rachel he kept from bubbling to the surface. He couldn't…

He couldn't expect her to love him when she was a prisoner. A friend, but still a prisoner. He couldn't expect her to stay with him of her own accord because she had a life outside of the castle, a father she loved and doted on. He couldn't expect her to want anything to do with him if he did give her the chance to go because she'd said it before: she does the best she can to make the most of unhappy circumstances.

Even if she cared about everyone in this castle, this was still, for all intents and purposes, an unhappy circumstance.

He may not have had much experience with love, but he knew enough about it that this…this was not the basis for it. This was not healthy, not right, not good.

And with that, he stood, gently lifted her up and cradled her in his arms, carried her to her bed, glared meaningfully at the wardrobe, and left the room.

End of Part One

Because I haven't finished the other half of this yet.
=D