A/N: I drew from a few sources for this story: the Disney movie, the original tale, and a few of my own imaginings. So if you see things that are familiar, that's why.
I've labeled this M for future chapters. Warnings (and other notes) will be posted per chapter when necessary.
This will remain largely un-betaed until I can find someone willing to beta. Any takers?
Note: there is previous character death (a minor character) and there will be one small character death at the end of the fic. If you can't guess and want to know, please feel free to contact me on my Tumblr.
The market taverns are always noisy. They are few and far between in a business that isn't so portable—often, there is only one in the towns where the markets take place, and any other drink has to be had from questionable stalls with no place to sit and relax and repeat the day's gossip with other workmen and merchants before returning to wives or half-covered carts.
Burt Hummel has always enjoyed the noise. His visits to the market have been less frequent as of late, the travels having become something of a burden with his age. In any event, it was time to start training one of his sons—Finn, perhaps, being the more readily available with his big, open, honest face and easy company. People didn't buy goods from merchants they didn't like.
His thoughts swirled uncertainly as he sat at the bar with his ale, his brow wrinkled in a way that was etching permanently.
"—and gods blast the Beast Prince for not caring a whit about his attendants."
Burt perked up slightly at the oath, muttered from only two seats away.
"I say gods bless!" another piped in from further down the counter. "Over Carmel way, my Lord James hasn't collected nearly as much as he used to—suppose he's content with what he gets when he doesn't have to pay it up to anyone else and gets to act the boss."
"Yeah, well ours has gotten greedy, then," the first grumbled. "We pay our taxes and tithes double over from last year's, and I'm certain he'll be demanding more come next."
There were sympathetic groans, and someone called out, "Who's your liege, then?"
"Lord Smythe, I imagine," Burt cut in, spinning in his seat and facing the man two seats over. "I'm guessing you're from Lima way as well."
"That's right," the man said. "Not a day's travel from Dalton castle and none have seen that bastard prince in nearly seven years. The older Smythe was bad enough, but now that Sebastian's been made knight-commander of the regiment as well, it's only a matter of time before he takes over completely."
"What you mean?"
The man turned to face the rest of the tavern completely, which had become rather invested in the conversation at the bar.
"What I mean," the man said carefully, bold from ale and ire. "What I mean is that Lord Smythe is cousin to the Prince, and if the Prince continues whatever madness is going on at that castle, Smythe'll have legitimate claim. He can raise the regiment and storm the castle and become Prince himself, and then we'll all be for shit."
Mutters broke out, scandalous glares and whispers of portent.
"—wouldn't stick around if it were so—"
"—and where he might be, nobody's seen—"
"—heard he's cursed—"
"That's what I heard as well," someone in the back cried. "Back on that hunting trip everyone talked about. Prince Cooper was killed by the wolves, and they injured his brother, might've been bit—"
"So what, you think he's half-beast? Like in the stories?"
"Why else wouldn't he show his face?"
"Maybe the little Prince just killed his own brother off and couldn't get away with it," another voice snapped. "Got no truck with these fairy tales—"
"Well, I don't know about any of that," Burt finally said, raising his voice over the din. Everyone in the tavern instantly turned to him, for while not a particularly large man, Burt's voice carried and he had an imposing physical presence much large than his actual body. It was in the eyes. "But I've a friend who attends at the castle, and while he doesn't speak of the Prince, he's certainly loyal to him. I'm guessing a man who murders his own brother or turns into a wolf by the moon wouldn't command much respect."
"Yeah, and how'd you know that?" the man in the back called. "Have you seen the Prince yourself? Maybe they're all just afraid."
"Maybe," Burt said with obvious disbelief, "but maybe there's another reason. Damn me if I know it, but all I know is that our friend here is right." He slapped the man next to him on the shoulder, downing the rest of his ale and slapping the tankard down onto the bar. "He's a damn sight better than what Smythe would be, and I'll hold out hope that he'll step up before his twenty-first birthday and the Lord of Lima can lay an actual claim."
Without another word, Burt turned and left the tavern.