AN: If you can't tell, this is a Beauty and the Beast rewrite. In this, he wasn't 'beast-ized' so much as lost touch with his subjects. I hope its liked!

~Topaz

Isabella remembered the day she and her father had left court. Up until her fifteenth birthday, her father had been the king's adviser. When she turned fourteen, the old king died, and his only son was crowned king. Kind King Conrad, had been the old kings nickname. The new king, Cecil Dorian, made it abundantly clear he was not anything like his father. True, it must have been hard, having the throne thrust at him when he was but three years Isabella's senior, but he took it poorly. Isabella's father, Duke Jasper, could only take it so far. His patience snapped when an old beggar woman appeared at the gates, crying out for help. The king had rudely sent her away. Even worse, when the woman would not leave, wailing about how his majesty's guards had taken everything she owned, all but the clothes on the back and her precious rose-bush, which they were threatening to cut down, he had her executed. Over a rosebush.

That day, Duke Jasper stepped down from his role. They moved back to their manor. Isabella remembered agreeing angrily with her father. When Cecil and she were younger, they had played together, and been good friends, to the point of a marital union being suggested at one point. But this was not the Cecil she knew and loved. She swore to never see his face again, if at all possible.

Oh how she would eat those words in the days to come.

(Two years later)

"Papa, I'm home," Isabella called as she walked in the front door. When she was sixteen years, her father had realized he had neglected her learning, and sent her to finishing school. She had finished within eight months, and was glad to be home. She was now seventeen years old.

She knew Papa worked hard to maintain their lands, and to keep a good relationship with the villages that lived there, but she couldn't help feeling hurt that he wasn't there to greet her.

Walking into the formal sitting room, something didn't feel right. The paintings Mama had painted while she was sick and couldn't get out of bed, before she died, were gone. The flowers that usually filled the room were gone. So was the warm, fluffy rug in front of the hearth.

"Isabella." It was so soft, she barely heard it. She whirled, and gasped. Papa was thinner than ever, and his clothes were worn.

"Whats happened, Papa?" she asked softly.

"We're in debt. I had to sell almost everything." He laughed harshly. "That fool king up there is taxing everyone to death. I don't know what to do." He took a rattling breath. "You must go back to court."

"What?! Why?!" she demanded angrily. Then she realized what he meant. "You want me to come back crawling at his feet, begging for money like a common street urchin?" Papa used to have pride! He wouldn't have stood for this in the past. Yet now he was convinced it was the only option.

"You must," whispered Papa, "He knows you, you used to be friends...maybe you can convince him to change his ways. There is no other choice..." He sank into the couch, looking exhausted. "I can't make the journey, but I've saved enough coin to get you there. You'll be welcome at court." Isabella held her head in her hands. Then she looked up.

"I'll do it."

Two days later she was in a carriage, her trunks not even needing to be repacked. She was on her way to court.