Disclaimer: I do not own B&tB, but I do own a few twits and characters. Readers, I'll let you find the add ons.

A Royal Meltdown

"Why do you always mope dearest?" Matthew's mother asked worriedly. Opening the door, she saw him sitting on his bed, staring forlornly at a portrait of his late father.

"I am not moping, mother, I just don't want to see all those crazy people you call friends." The moody teenager said, "Besides, my father died only five weeks ago. Surely I'm entitled to a little mourning?" His mother sighed and took a moment to look over her thirteen year old son. He was on the tall side, about five foot eight. Thick, dark brown hair hung to only just before his shoulders and framed an elf like face, which was expected. His father the king had been part elf after all. Just as his father's had been, his eyes were a startling sapphire blue. There was an inner strength in his gaze, and elegant grace seemed to radiate out from him. If only he would use that grace to dance once in awhile. He was a wonderful dancer. Matthew saw the look she was giving him and slipped off his high canopied bed, brushing non-existent dust from his vest. It was of such a dark blue it was nearly black. Worked over with thorny vines of silver and grape leaves of somber green, it covered an ivory colored, billowy sleeved shirt. His black pants were close fitting and the boots he wore were high topped and shiny black. Every garment was trimmed in silver and sapphires. On a whole, he cut a dashing figure.

"Thank you, Matthew. I know how hard it is for you. I felt the same as you when your grandfather passed on." He turned and regarded her with one eyebrow raised. Matthew was about to say that she probably hadn't, when he noticed the look on her face. He knew she was thinking that he really looked remarkably like his father.

"Shall we entertain our guests together?" He asked, bowing and offering his mother an arm. The imitation of his recently deceased father was so good, his mother nearly did a double take. She smiled, a rare light coming to her eyes.

"Actually, Matthew dear, I would like you to do me a favor." He groaned. The favors he had done for her in the past had been less than pleasurable. In fact, they had been horrible. Worse. They had been painful, and, in some cases, humiliating. His mother laughed. She knew he was probably remembering the snow war where he had been dunked in the snow more than a hundred times and had a cold for weeks, all because she had asked him to play with the other kids as a favor. "It will not be like the others. There is a girl, Isabelle, and I think she likes this party as much as you do. Would you kindly take her for a tour?" Matthew would have liked to tell her to go away and not bother him for a week, but his father in him made him nod. He followed his mother into the hall, down the corridor, and descended the grand staircase to the entrance hall. As his mother slowed, he saw her. She was beautiful! She was as tall as him, if not a little taller. Her hair was the color of hazelnuts and hung to her elbows in gentle waves, restrained by only a thin circlet of silver that looked like it had seen many hands before hers. As she turned, her lavender gown of silk rustling like leaves in an autumn breeze, he caught sight of her eyes. They were warm and caring. The color of roasted hazelnuts and as deep as a water well, and just as dark, they captured and held his attention. He stumbled with his tongue and felt as though he had tumbled into her eyes and wouldn't hit the bottom for years. His mother smiled, I just knew he would like her. The poor girl, no family, no money, how awful it must be for her. She thought, watching him lead dear Isabelle toward some of the more interesting places in the castle once he had recovered from the shock of seeing her. She really was a beauty.

"You can see that this part of the castle was made in the middle ages, some four hundred years ago, by looking at the strong, hard, and practical stone work. Over there, we have a cannon that was used by Sir Francis Drake in his raid of the Spanish fort Castillo de San Marcos. My uncle was Sir Francis' friend, it was he who got that cannon. To the left…" How can he be so nice to me, and yet have such cruel, harsh, and uncaring eyes? They're such a nice color, but they need to soften. Show a tender spot, please! Isabelle thought as Matthew led her through the castle's many twisting corridors, and also giving her a running commentary on the castle's past. He noticed her intent gaze focused on his eyes and narrowed them in curiosity. She obviously mistook his look as one of anger, for she jumped half a foot in the air and a foot and a half to the side. The sight of a princess jumping like a lost, wild kitten was so comical, Matthew was forced to laugh, a short halting sound that none the less had a musical quality to it. Isabelle forgot her wounded pride for a moment as the sound of laughter filled the corridor. She turned to him, a hopeful look on her face, yet her hope was turned to disappointment. His laughter didn't reach his eyes, those icy orbs that scared her and enchanted her at the same time. Why does she stare at my eyes like that? Are they really so interesting?

"How do you like the castle, Isabelle?"

"They're too cold, too hard…" Matthew, who was already walking again, stopped and jerked around to face her.

"What?"

"Your eyes I mean. They're too cold, like orbs of ice chiseled to look like eyes. They don't look human. And another thing..." she paused, uncertainty in her eyes. Her bold streak won out and she continued. "How can you be so nice, and yet so cruel?" Matthew blinked and stared at her. His eyes were drawn to hers. All he saw was an honest question, concern, and a hurt looking light. In them he saw his mother, his father, his older half sister, the captain of the guard, the list went on and on. He turned away from the figures of his past, and little did he know, his future.

"Go away," he said, his voice rough and harsh with emotion and pain. He couldn't stand to be with her when she was right and he was a hard, cruel youth. Ashamed of himself and his harshness, he turned around to come face to face with her. Deep, timeless eyes, saddened, but not watering, stared back at him. "I'm not good enough to even be with you." he said, turning away again. He couldn't stand to look into her eyes for long. But why is that though? Why can't I look into her eyes as long as I want? He wondered. He heard the sound of her footfalls moving at a steady-stately even!-pace toward him. He would wonder later why she had been so close to him when he had turned to tell her why he had barked at her.

"Listen, if one of us isn't good enough for the other it's me. I may seem like the youngest daughter of a low ranking lord, but I'm really the orphan daughter of a poor fisherman." Matthew felt his mouth drop and found him self whirling around against his will.

"What is this you are saying woman? You are no fisherman's daughter, you are…"

"The handmaiden to the young lady of Finwright valley."

"I'm still too good for you." Isabelle cocked her head to the side and gave him a critical look. She smiled slightly, and gave her head a little shake.

"With all due respect your highness, it is as I told you before. I am the one who isn't good enough." As Matthew opened his mouth she took a leap and said, "Prince Matthew, by saying that you don't deserve me, you have shown that one day you may," she got a queer look in her eye, "Know this, dear Prince, when your darkest day has come and you are ready to give up, you will find your hope in the thickest rain. When your world is an unending rainstorm, you will find the brightest light in the darkest cloud." After she had finished, she twirled on her heel and glided away.

Time passed as usual in the royal castle. The one exception was that Matthew was learning his responsibilities as king, though he had yet to be crowned. He sent letters to Finwright valley, all addressed to Isabelle Niovia, all without response. As time wore on, he sunk farther into violence and depression. Exactly three years after the 'party', the Queen fell dangerously ill. Not even the highest trained and best equipped physicians could keep her stable for more than two days. Matthew decided enough was enough, and marched to his mother's rooms. Standing in front of the great, simply carved pine doors, which in and of it's self was odd seeing as all the other doors in the castle were of impressive, darkly stained oak with skillful engravings of the royal crest worked on and across the top and bottom. He nearly lost his nerve staring at those beautiful, special doors that hid his deathly ill mother from the world, those doors that reflected his parents so well. He took one final, steadying breath and said, his voice hushed and gentle with a hint of fear and weariness, "Mother?" Maria turned and smiled at her sixteen year old son as he entered the room. He moved over to his mother's bedside, Maria looking him over as he did so with wary, weary grace. He had grown in the time since that night he had met Isabelle, having filled out as his training worked him bone weary so that he collapsed into bed at night, hoping that Captain Marcos Flint, as the pages and Matthew called the Captain of the king's Militia and personal guard, wouldn't move him into the servants quarters with only a bamboo mat between him and the cold, hard stone. She could tell he had come straight to her after changing out of his sweat stained cloths. His hair was still wet. He bore a sword at his hip with an easy familiarity that she found herself envying. He would protect his country well when she was gone, of that she was certain. Her smile widened as he sat. Yes, he will do well. A strong young lad like him is just what we need. Oh, if only I could live to see him crowned! If only I could witness his wedding to his unusual princess. She thought to herself, yet said only,

"Dearest! I am so glad you're here. Would you go and open the bottom drawer of my dresser?" Matthew walked as calmly he could, which meant he walked slowly and tried to cry as quietly as possible, though the tears still streamed down his face. He knew what she kept there, and didn't want to have to get it just yet. He didn't want to hear her admit she was close to death indeed, knocking on his front door in fact. He pulled it open and, reaching in, pulled out a folder labeled with a handwriting he hadn't seen in three years and five weeks. His father's neat calligraphy. He handed it to Maria at her quiet wish.

"It's your father's will." She said, rather unnecessarily.

"I had my will put right beside his. It is time you had this Matthew. Call… the family together. You… are… only hope… counting on you… my son… Matthew." And with that she passed to the loving hands of God.

"Dear Lord, please take her to Father. I know they are both with you now. Let them know I have always loved them, even if I had a really twisted way of showing it. In your almighty name I pray, Amen." He felt strangely drained and so went up to bed for a nap. All in the castle whispered that the last of King Peter Darien Tavagonio had either died or fallen into a coma because once his wife died, he seemed to disappear from Prince Matthew. Throwing himself on his bed, the slightly depressed prince searched for sleep, the only escape from reality he had, but couldn't find it. Matthew got up and sat at his desk, grabbed his peacock feather quill, and started writing the invitations to the will reading.

Five weeks later, the entrance hall once again played host to hundreds of people.

"I would like to welcome you all here today. As you know, my dear mother, Maria Tavagonio, has passed from this world. You are here for the reading of the will. Also, I would like to thank you all for coming like you did for the reading of my father's will. Mother's last words to me were; 'Call the family together. You are only hope counting on you my son Matthew,' now, she lost me after 'Call the family together.' I don't know what the rest means, but I do know that once this is over and done, I will never see any of you ever again." there was an outbreak of disapproving remarks which he watched with an emotionless face. His sister called out,

"Are you leaving the family? Do you disown us? We are all you have left." her eyes were shining fiercely, yet when Matthew turned his emotionless gaze on her it caused her to draw back. Was this really the child who had run to her with some small hurt asking her to kiss it away? Was this really the same young man she had tutored in archery? She thought not, it must be a cold assassin that was magically disguised as her half-brother. He raised one eyebrow and answered her with this,

"I am not leaving the family, I'm just not seeing anyone ever again," he noted the look on her face and, misunderstanding it, added, "Do I cause you fright? Am I really that terrifying? Just forget about me as a family member if it will help. I am just some crazy teenager who moved here and is closing his gates." The rest of the proceedings went quietly and quickly. After it was over, Matthew's older half sister, Elizabeth, walked up to him and said,

"If you ever need me, write and I will come. Even if it takes me two years, I will come." He simply nodded, and as she cleared the gate, snapped it shut. She turned, her eye's wide with outrage, to see him calmly turn the key in the heavy padlock. Elizabeth felt her blood run cold at the sight of his eyes. They looked like pools of dark water frozen by winter's harsh temperatures. They were the eyes of a lost and weary soul that had nothing left to live for. Matthew had lost the will to live, and he didn't want anyone but the servants to see. She could see, or feel, which ever, the traces of their father fading. She swallowed loudly and resolved to come back in four years, even if she never got a letter from her brother. That night, Matthew felt a strange tingling sensation along his spine. It compelled him to go to the gates. When he arrived, he saw an old beggar woman

"What do you want old woman?" he asked the haggard old woman who stood before him.

"I will give you this rose if you will give me shelter for the night." Matthew looked her over and said,

"I have closed my gates ma'am, I'm afraid you must go away. You will have to continue to the village just after the woods and down the lane. I'm sure they will welcome you at the Nymph's Tale Tavern." The woman seemed bent on staying the night there and said,

"Do not be deceived Prince Matthew, true beauty is the inside, not the outer shell."

"I believe I told you to go away." the woman seemed completely un-fazed by his gaze and said,

"You are a heartless man, and for that you will pay," she said, her cloak falling to the ground, along with her ugliness. "Actormas darivian nocturnes dorivain!" As she spoke those terrible words the walls of the castle, which were gleaming white with moon light, turned black. The angels turned to gargoyles and the windows, once warm and inviting, became cold, dark and foreboding, but worst of all was the pain Matthew felt. His bones realigned and reshaped. Hair sprouted over all his body and his feet and hands became paws with the claws of a bear. He felt horns grow from his temples and his mouth elongate. Fire sired through his veins and he felt as if a beast within himself, which he had always kept caged, burst through his defenses and would not be subdued easily nor at anytime in the foreseeable future. "Since love you lack, love will it be to turn you back to your proper form." Said the enchantress icily. She handed Matthew the rose saying, "It will bloom until your twenty first year and then begin to wilt. You have till the last petal falls to learn to love and gain love in return. If not, you and your servants will stay this way, forever." The prince-turned-beast walked back to the castle after un-locking the gates so that any wandering women could seek shelter there. The next day, there were exclamations galore as the residents discovered their change. Cathreir, the cook, woke up in the kitchen as an oven stove with a central chimney and cross pieces. Dashieria, the seamstress, was a wardrobe, Bashiria, one of the chamber maids, was a duster. Lumière, the prince's chamberlain, was a candle stick, while his friend, Cogsworth, the Ceremonies Master, was a pendulum clock. Everyone who wasn't bolted to the floor stormed (if you could call a horde of strangely moving, living, talking, supposedly inanimate objects moving in one direction 'storming')to Matthew's rooms looking for an answer.

"Master Matthew? Might you have an explanation for this strange turn of events?" Asked Mrs. Potts, a grandmotherly tea pot, of the great oak doors.

"Yes, I do indeed." answered a gravelly voice from behind the door.

"Master?" they all chorused in unison. They were all highly concerned for him as this was not the usual soft, musical voice drifting though the door. A sigh drifted out, followed by,

"Move back, I'm going to open the door." as the door creaked open, they saw a great paw coming out. All of them felt their fear grow as he emerged from his room. "Well?" he said, "Don't you have anything to say? And why did you all turn into household objects? Is this some kind of twisted joke Enchantress? I ask because I am not LAUGHING!" The last word was truly a roar befitting his monstrous form. He went about his business, as did the servants, but he walked as one defeated and placed under house arrest for the rest of an immeasurably long life. The servants had seen him down before, but not this down. This was torture of the worst kind, like he was tearing them apart with just a glance. His eyes were often glazed and sorrowful, but they found ways to burn with barely contained rage behind that glaze only a broken man can possess. He began to lose his temper more and more often. It was apparent to all that he was telling him self that he was a monster un-befitting company, and was making himself believe it. The other inhabitants didn't know that it was that inner beast that made he so eager to leave the company of others. Everyone tried to help him as much as possible, but it is hard to help someone who has given up before the fight has even begun. As the months dragged on, Matthew's dark and hopeless mood spread to cover the whole castle. Walking down the hall, feeling beaten and dejected, Lumière heard his master's shuffling footfalls. He was about to put on a false display of cheeriness when to his horror, Matthew caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and, with a roar of pure, animalistic rage, smashed it and all but the magic mirror his mother had left him to smithereens. Later that week Matthew decided that his bed was too strong a tie to his past, so he tore it to shreds. Occasionally he could be heard muttering about the Enchantress and a woman named Isabelle. More and more he locked himself away, he also got to the point that he fled from anyone who had connections to his old training master, Captain Ivino. What none in the castle knew was that those people made the beast in him rise up and try to take control so it could wipe them out, and it hurt him to flee to keep them safe.

"It's hard watching some one die this way. It's especially hard to watch someone you love die this way, because you feel you are dieing right along side them." Said the kind Mrs. Potts a year after the spell had been cast. Matthew had sunk farther into anger and depression, and had become more and more violent, yet he seemed to grow more caring at the same time. He already knew about true love, he just didn't know it. Love for the servants gave him the strength to flee to his room and battle the beast back down. No one really knew the strength of Matthew's heart and mind, not even himself. The castle fell even further into gloom as midwinter came and went. Matthew refused to let a party be held, it brought back to many memories and made that horrible thing inside him want to hurt people. Winter reigned still in the hearts and minds of the castles occupants, especially the master of the darkened, relocated castle. Things would only get worse before it got better. The forest around the castle darkened and grew wilder as the years passed, less and less sunlight found it's way to the sad, lonely castle. It was as if even the sun didn't want to see the Prince in such a state.