"Master," Cisco gasps, hopping forward anxiously, "what happened?"

Dragging his bleeding left foot across the foyer, Barry pants heavily.

In three steps, he drops in a dead faint to the floor.


Forty-five-minutes prior.

The Beast charges the white mare.

Both horses panic, rearing and defying their rider's attempts to control them. Neither man can get in a shot, entirely focused on keeping their seats. Roaring to further panic the beasts, Barry closes in on them. It is exactly as Barry planned: a powerful bluff. He never lays a paw on either animal, but both respond as if he were about to strike, throwing their heads and screaming in fear.

When the white mare lunges back powerfully, wheeling and whinnying, her rider loses his seat, unable to balance gun and reins. The second the weight disappears from her back, the horse takes flight, disappearing into the brush. Shouting after her, Belle's father strains to keep his grey horse under some semblance of control, unable to help his companion as The Beast stalks towards him. He makes a point of crushing the fallen gun underfoot.

Pausing feet away from his quarry, Barry crouches, lowering himself from a terrifying eight-foot beast to one just shy of six, far from diminutive. "I'm not going to hurt you," he promises in a low voice, "and I need you to extend me the same courtesy."

Gasping, the boy keeps his back to a tree and defies, "You're absolutely mad."

"If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead," Barry points out. The grey horse refuses to cooperate, whinnying and seizing up whenever Belle's father attempts to get it to approach, backing step-by-step. "Why would I keep you alive, if only to break my word?"

"Why does any beast act?" the boy retorts. "The sly fox, the clever wolf - your silver tongue hides nothing." His gaze flits compulsively over to his companion. Whickering, the grey horse halts at the edge of their sight, breath steaming as it stamps its forefoot anxiously. Dismounting, its rider tethers it to a tree, stalking forward.

"Get away from him," Belle's father snaps, lofting a gun at him.

Barry does what he must: ignoring the boy's shout and protesting fists, Barry grabs him by the shirt and yanks him upright. "Shoot me, you shoot him," he says, pinning the boy in front of him.

Belle's father trains the gun at his head, still towering above the boy's. "So certain?"

In response, Barry sinks back onto his haunches, putting him behind his target. Straightening, he trains his gaze on Belle's father and says, "You would risk his life for a chance at taking mine?"

"Shoot him," the boy entreats.

"I will not shoot you," the man snaps back. "Release him."

"As he is my sole bargaining chip," Barry reasons, "no."

With a disgusted sound, Belle's father lowers his gun. With a slight incline of his head towards one side, Barry waits until he throws it down before releasing his bargaining chip. The boy scrambles, placing himself out of reach. In two powerful strides, Barry places himself on top of the gun Belle's father reaches for. "Now," he says, looming over the man. "Your daughter."

Recognizing the futility of reclaiming his weapon, Belle's father steps back. "If you think I will not make good on my word, you will be terribly mistaken."

If you hurt her, I will slaughter you.

"I have not hurt your daughter," Barry says, keeping his tone calm with an effort. The mere accusation annoys him more than he dares to show. I would never hurt her. He doesn't bother to mention the fact that he saved her life. Belle's father does not look like a man to be 'fooled' by such stories. "Let me take you to her."

The boy scoffs. "Do you hear this?" he asks Belle's father.

The man does not share his open disbelief, gaze drifting to Barry's foot, still pressed to the cold metal of the gun.

Self-consciously, Barry has the urge to hide his paw from Belle's father. He knows that he is not a man, but if he wears a cloak, then from haunch to shoulder he can pass for one. Above the collar, his horned head ruins the effect; below the hips, his tail and wolfishly arched feet shatter the illusion. Despite appearances, his heart is human. To be perceived as otherwise is strangely disarming: his claws seem mutinous, his bullish size unfair play.

Looking at Belle's father, he cannot bring himself to crush the gun. Guilt twists in his chest as he tries to shrink before the man to a more respectable height. It's foolish, but privately he wishes he could convey a simple idea: I'm human.

The best he can do is crouch on his haunches, which feels demeaning. Keeping his stance, he swallows arguments to the contrary.

You are not a man. You are a Beast.

Once Belle leaves, this is the life he will lead. It hurts far more than he wants to admit.

Without breaking his gaze, Belle's father says slowly, "Take us to her."

Wary but needing to show a sense of human courtesy, Barry steps back, leaving the gun where it is. The boy looks between them before carefully leaning down to pick it up, hurrying back to a safe distance by Belle's father's side. He lifts it and points it at Barry's chest, but Belle's father puts a hand on it, silently denying his offer. He's grateful that he doesn't snarl; it would do nothing to elevate their opinion of him.

You shouldn't care. They'll leave.

And soon enough, so will Belle.

Refusing to entertain the thought, Barry steps back again. I'm not going to hurt you.

Walking over to the grey stallion, Belle's father reclaims the saddle, warning, "Try anything, Beast, and we will not hesitate."

Nodding once in terse understanding, Barry puts his back to them. "This way."


"That went well!"

"That was a disaster," Caitlin says flatly, staring out the window.

Cisco hops up beside her, following her gaze to the men at the gate. "L'homme ennuyant left, did he not?"

"So did Belle."

"She will return!" Cisco assures. "I am certain!"

Caitlin watches the servant argue with his master before both take to the open gates, disappearing through them. "She will come to great harm if the wolves find her."

"She is sly as a fox! They will not find her."

"Wolves kill foxes."

"Quick as a cas-so-wary!"

"What on Earth is that?"

"A bird," Cisco says gravely. "Un oiseau terrifiant."


"Is one woman worth all this trouble?" Hartley asks, exasperated and tired.

"It is no longer a question of worth. I did not come this far to return empty-handed," Hunter replies sharply, mounting his horse.

"Perhaps we should rest before making any brash decisions," Hartley advises, mirroring him.

Hunter pins the pony hard against the wall, making him whicker in discomfort. Hartley holds his own tongue, but it is too late. "Brash?" Hunter repeats ferociously. "You mean to imply I am out of my wits?"

"No - I mean solely to imply-"

Hunter yanks a handgun from his belt and plants it hard between Hartley's ribs. Hartley's breath halts in his chest, heart pounding.

"Perhaps you could keep your implications to yourself," Hunter warns scathingly.

Nodding wordlessly, Hartley waits in tense silence for a gunshot, relaxing when Hunter retracts and replaces his weapon on his belt. Pulling his horse away hard, he snaps, "Come. Or I will feed you to the wolves myself."

Duly humbled, Hartley trails along silently, rubbing the sore spot between his ribs and pushing the pony to keep up with the warhorse thundering away.


Iris doesn't think; she just runs.

The Beast's roar alarms her, but it is the screaming horses which set her heart pounding. She knows that sound. Foolish though it may seem, she is certain she recognizes its owner - from a dream, it seems, almost twenty years ago.

The bear roared; Grey screamed-

The memory stirs a visceral reaction - she plunges through trees and across brush, moving as quickly as she can, because if Grey is here, it can mean only one thing -

Father.

The cacophony dies before she reaches them. She pelts down the same path as before, slowing to a halt when she sees the tracks in the snow. An equally visceral reaction stirs in her gut at the sight. She hears voices in the distance, approaching slowly.

"Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The silence."

"Our Beast has resolved the problem."

"Or our problem has resolved The Beast."

"Can any man take down that monster?"

"Nonsense. I heard no guns."

"He grows soft. He probably let them cut him down."

"We should finish the task at hand."

"Do you smell that?"

Iris is already halfway up the tree when all three wolves pause. She climbs carefully, but branches crackle. She swallows and chooses a seat as well-hidden as she can find it, hugging the trunk.

"The girl."

"Horses and humans. It has been too long since I have known a full belly."

"We must catch them first."

"You doubt me?" Right below her, the first wolf finishes, "You shouldn't." Looking up at her, the wolf stands, putting its paws on the trunk and snapping at her. "Come down, little girl, or I will come get you myself."

Frozen with fear, Iris still finds the breath to gasp, "Wolves ... cannot climb."

"Dires do not observe the laws of ordinary wolves," the second wolf dismisses.

Clawing up the bark, the first wolf simpers. "You think you can escape us forever?" Backing off, it continues, "Fool."

Disappearing in the brush, it turns and charges. Iris has no time to react as a flying grey mass powers in three effortless strides up to the lowest branch of the tree, claws digging in with an audible series of cracks. In one more leap, it will be upon her.

"Now," the wolf says, leering up at her, "we can be civil, or we can be difficult. What do you choose?"


Over the steady hoof beats of the grey horse, Barry can hear nothing of wolves or men.

It does not set him at ease.

Belle's father and his companion stay quiet, humbled by the woods and what they hold. Barry offers no consolation. The woods, even beyond this deadly frozen kingdom, are no place for men. They are intermediate spaces, forgotten realms of existence. Humans set them aside when they moved into stone houses and stoked fireplaces, developing weaker hearts for bloodshed. The woods are where beasts belong and humans tread lightly, where wolves kill humans, and humans kill wolves.

Barry does not like that he can find no hint of either. Even though he dreads every step towards the castle, he aches for its walls and the people within them.

Then he hears - scratching on wood. He holds up a paw to halt Belle's father and the grey horse. The boy, walking alongside, stills. Listening closely, he closes his eyes, straining to hear the sound again.

A piercing scream sends him into a dead sprint towards the sound, outpacing horse and man behind him.


In the tree, Barry can see two wolves.

They have no reason to be there, but one.

Seeing red, Barry roars and nearly breaks the back of the third wolf standing guard at the base of the tree. Up above, he cannot tell what is happening, but a grey wolf the size of a man drops from the branches, landing upon him and snapping at his neck.

The grounded wolf latches onto his leg, teeth sinking deep. He roars at it as he sinks a paw into the formerly treed wolf's neck and throws it. It hits a different tree hard, throwing itself back to its feet and snapping loudly, "Rouge!"

Dent gnaws unrelentingly at his haunch, jaw clamping and releasing as Barry gets his hands on the trunk of the tree. Let the dog hang; he jumps and claims the lowest branch, hauling himself up. Griffe launches himself at them and lands on his back, gnawing at his neck with such ferocity his teeth punch through fur and muscle.

Roaring, Barry surrenders his hold. Griffe gets caught underneath him; Dent shakes his head, teeth to the bone, and Barry hears a terrible sound building in him as the pain mounts.

With a roar, he gets his paws around Dent's head. The wolf lets go of his leg, a sharp tearing pressure that sends nails against Barry's teeth. Dent snaps at him, lunging for his head. The wolf behind him squirms violently, straining to join its sibling as he struggles upright. He'll die if he doesn't get off his back - now.

They each weigh twice as much as an ordinary man, but he has still more combined weight than they do and puts every ounce of it to use. Dent is elusive and quick, hard to grab and all sharp teeth when Barry succeeds, but he only needs a grip, however painful, to give him the chance to stand. Arching upright, wolf in hand by the throat, the wolf's jaw locked around his paw in a grip that makes half of it go numb, he roars when Griffe leaps upright and seizes the arm locked in Dent's grip.

"Rouge," Griffe roars against his skin. As the dires drag him away from his target, Barry digs his feet in deep, refusing to go down. His left leg aches abominably, and he knows and he has to hope the wolves do not surmise that another bite will take him down. Too committed to their grips, they hang onto his right arm, pulling hard.

A thunderous rapport almost makes him lose his footing. The gunshot precedes the whinnying of horses as they thunder into view. At first, Barry thinks it's Belle's father and his companion, silently praising whatever God looks after him that he didn't destroy the gun, but then the black warhorse comes into view and a gun points right at him.

Wonderful.

A great grey mass falls heavily upon the rider, nearly unseating the man. A single shot is all it takes to silence the wolf.

Immediate supersession kicks in. As one, Dent and Griffe release him. Barry stumbles and falls, roaring in pain when his leg gets caught underneath him. He aches to climb the tree, to find Belle - for it must be her, it can only be her - but the wolves charge the stranger's horse, Griffe lunging at the rider, still bearing the body of its dead sibling, and Dent going for the horse.

Something in his gut tells Barry not to act, but he can't let the wolves reign supreme. Shoving himself to his feet, he grits his teeth as his left leg scarcely supports him, fire coursing down his spine with every step. He can feel every puncture wound, deep bruises that bleed, and he wants to slow down, to sit, but he cannot afford it - the wolves do not rest, and neither can he.

The wolves fight, Rouge's deadweight in the saddle simultaneously impeding and saving the life of the man in it. Griffe cannot work entirely around the wolf's body, and thus cannot get a proper grip on the man to yank him down. He does snap at him, preventing him from firing a gun. Locked in a stalemate, neither of them can win.

Decisively, Barry charges forward. Pandemonium erupts: the black warhorse drops to his knees; the pony nearby reels and screams; the wolves snarl; the man in the saddle roars and wrestles his former prey. The noise is catastrophic, making it impossible to tell who is screaming, or indeed if anyone is not. All at once, the warhorse collapses and Dent dances out of the way.

With time only to grab Griffe, Barry yanks the wolf off the man's dying animal, and Dent turns upon him.

Staggering back with a wolf in one hand and a second charging him, Barry catches a glimpse of someone in the trees watching him, red dress masking potential injuries. "Belle!" he calls, unsure if he is warning her to stay there or come down and run, and then Dent sinks its teeth into his left leg and hauls on it hard.

There is no water, but his head is plunged beneath its proverbial surface as his hearing disconnects, muffling all sound. He sees himself beating the wolf's head, massive, damaging blows that the wolf must bargain its life against to sustain, but the wolf doesn't let go, and its sibling tears from his grip and charges the man. Barry sees the man rise from his steed, a gun raised towards them, and he knows Griffe sees it, too, knows what must be coming, but the wolf does not relent.

Strangling on a breath, he shouts, "No!"

The gun fires and misses, and Griffe tackles the man.

A second gunshot throws the wolf off, and the boy accompanying Belle's father approaches slowly, gun lofted, and watches the wolf reclaim its feet, shoulder bleeding sluggishly. Realizing just how outnumbered it is, Griffe takes one look at them before taking off.

At the very same instant, Dent lets go and bolts for its life into the woods after its sole surviving sibling, narrowly escaping another shot from the hunter in the saddle.

In the calamity, Barry collapses onto his back, left leg bleeding mortally, and watches the very man he saved approach him, standing over him. He levels a gun at him, and Barry stares at the barrel, at the man wielding the gun, and begs his humanness to show.

You would not kill a man who saved you, he thinks, and then the man's head jerks back, redirecting to the tree.

Barry aches, but he has no choice but to push to his feet, knocking over the man and fleeing like the wolf he is.


At his den, The Beast staggers inside and collapses in front of a horrified clock and candelabra.


It happens so:

The wolf lunges and Iris screams. The wolf's teeth catch her dress and the fabric tears at the knee, breaking free. Not expecting the lack of resistance, the wolf loses its balance and falls. Already scrambling for a higher perch, Iris hears it hit the ground with a powerful thud, its siblings converging anxiously before the wolf snaps and throws itself to its feet, rushing the tree before charging back to repeat its previous feat.

Without daring to look down, Iris scales the tree, ice making her hands slick, fear making her breath catch in her chest. She doesn't get very far, but the wolf struggles, too. It is one thing to jump to the first perch, another entirely to climb the narrow, iced-over branches higher and higher. The coordination escapes the wolf, and a second wolf joins it, perhaps assuming two can accomplish what one cannot. Sick with fear, Iris hugs the trunk, aware that she will get no higher and may injure herself grievously if she falls from here. Whether the fall kills her is almost irrelevant: the wolf at the base certainly will.

She nearly falls when a beast comes roaring out of the woods, throwing its weight at the third wolf at the very base of the tree. The first wolf doesn't relent, but the second quickly joins its sibling on the ground, attacking The Beast together.

Dire wolves. Strong enough to kill a Beast.

She can only watch in helpless dismay as he struggles against them, straining ever towards her. He would be safer if he ran, even if only to divert the wolves, but his attention remains fixed on his target. When she hears hooves approaching she almost forgets the wolf on the branches just below her, silently assessing its next move.

A gunshot tears through the nearby branches, and a different fear washes over her. The hunter in charge presumes he will not miss, but Iris lacks his conviction. Fortunately for her, the wolf finally abandons his target to deal with this new threat, redirecting his attention entirely.

In one leap, and one percussive roar later, the wolf drops dead in the saddle.

The whole scene morphs as the wolves converge on the black horse and his rider. They bring down the poor beast, and the wolves nearly bring down the rider, too, but The Beast staggers towards them. He yanks the wolf from the man's saddle, giving him a chance to break free. The wolves drag The Beast away and she cannot find her voice, could not scream if she caught fire, but she can watch as they tear into him.

When the warhorse's rider stands, one of the wolves breaks free, charging him. She sees him level a gun and closes her eyes, knowing what's coming. Then a gunshot precedes a wolfish snarl. In due horror, she opens her eyes in time to see the wolf tackle the man. It's over - and then the wolf staggers under the impact of a different bullet.

In four seconds, the two wolves scatter. Iris' pounding heart does not slow. The man rises, and it registers unmistakably that Iris knows him from his bloody red coat.

Zolomon.

He marches over to the downed Beast and lofts a gun at his head. At last, in desperation, Iris finds her own voice: "No!"

Zolomon jerks towards her, and The Beast makes his escape.

"Iris?" Zolomon calls, but Iris ignores him, climbing down as quickly as she can. It takes an infuriatingly long time to reclaim the lowest branch, and once she is there Zolomon has caught on, standing beneath her and holding out his arms. "I will catch you," he assures her, and she would rather take her chances, but there's no time to argue. He keeps true to his word when she hops down, powerful grip breaking her fall and setting her down carefully. "Are you all right?" he asks, and he wordlessly strips the cloak from his servant and places it around her shoulders.

Dazed and half-frozen, she draws it tighter around her. From the brush, her father tramples forward, shouting, "Iris!"

Practically throwing Hunter aside, he breaks through to her and throws his arms around her, hugging her tightly. His grip is strong, like the horse pawing near a tree just ten paces away. A boy stands with it, gun slung across his back. In panicked snorts, the brown pony makes its way to their side, and the boy wordlessly takes hold of its reins, too. He looks almost foolish, holding the two terrified horses and looking no less terrified himself, but Iris feels her father's embrace and knows all is well.

All is well.

Closing her eyes, she sinks into his arms, relief and fear warring. "Father," she says, and nothing else, tears building in her eyes. "Oh, Father."

"Iris, Iris," he breathes. "You're all right?"

Nodding, speechless, she says, "I'm all right." Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she aches to stay in his arms forever, to leave this terrible nightmare behind and return to good, safe provincial life.

Zolomon pipes in, "Well! That was fun. Was it not, Le Fou?"

Somewhat timidly, his servant agrees mechanically, "Great fun, Your Highness."

Pulling away slowly from her father, Iris' gaze drifts inexorably to the dead: wolf and horse. The irony scarcely escapes her: predator and prey, killed by the avenging kin of their mortal enemies.

Rouge.

The wolf that tried to kill her, that wounded The Beast - and earned his mercy, at her imploring.

Stepping forward numbly, she ignores the hand her father puts on her shoulder to stop her, walking to the side of the wolf and crouching beside it and the horse. She reaches out, strokes the black warhorse's neck once, repeating the same for the wolf. Then she rises, shrugging out of her gift cloak and passing it back to the shivering servant. "Keep it," he says briskly, smile feigned. "It suits you."

She doubts that very much, but her argument dies on her tongue, surrounded by the carnage.

One character is noticeably absent from the stage:

The Beast.

"Well," Zolomon says, and with both hands he hauls the dead dire wolf upright, scruffing it. "What a nice rug this will make."

Sick with fury, fear, and nameless worry, Iris turns to him and says sharply, "You will do no such thing."

"An exquisite specimen. Surely the largest wolf I have killed!" he chortles. "Isn't it magnificent? How the townsfolk will talk!"

"We have no room to carry a dead wolf," her father snaps. "We have barely two horses between the five of us."

"Le Fou can walk," Zolomon says dismissively, tossing the wolf down like so much wood and striding over to the unfamiliar boy and his horses. "I'll take this one," he decides, taking up the reins of the grey horse.

The boy eludes him, pointing out in a neutral tone, "I believe your horse is there, good sir" with a nod to the poor dead beast.

Iris breathes, "Grey," and rushes towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, tears finally pressing against it. "Oh, Grey, I've missed you."

"You insolent boy," Zolomon says, a hand uplifted.

"If you touch him," her father says in a serious tone, "I will kill you."

Zolomon turns to him. There's a mad glint in his eyes - a man who has perceived nothing to lose. "You? You are no soldier." With a hard shove, he sets the horses whinnying, fearing a second bout of war. Iris rushes forward, but her father puts up a hand, righting himself. He still stands beneath the Distinguished Captain, but not by much.

"He may not be a soldier," the servant adds, holding a small handgun at arm's length, pointed at his master, "but one doesn't need to be a soldier to discharge a weapon."

Looking down at his belt, Zolomon looks back up and steams. "You stole-"

"You stole my cloak," the servant replies, gun clicking in hand. "Make your choice."

With a disgusted sound, Zolomon reels back, staring at all of them. "You think I have come all this way to walk away empty-handed?" he asks, fury sharpening his tone. He does not reach for his own gun - the servant has not released him from the silent threat - but he does kick the wolf once for good measure. "We will see who survives, and who dies," he says in a low voice, looking right at his servant.

Hard-eyed, his servant replies, "We will."

Turning his back to them, Zolomon storms off into the woods alone but for his gun.

No one settles until he is long gone, the woods falling eerily silent. Wordlessly, the former servant lowers his weapon, exhaling shakily. "I don't know what came over me," he admits, looking between them somewhat anxiously. "You must think I'm a dirty turncoat."

"I think you're a better man than you accredit yourself," Iris' father corrects, stepping forward and clasping him on the shoulder. "What is your name?"

"Hartley Rathaway."

"Thank you." Extending a hand, her father shakes Hartley's. "Come. It has been hours - if we are to reach the village before nightfall, we must leave immediately. Two wolves will have a time fighting four of us," he adds.

The nameless worry floods Iris again. "The Beast," she says. When they look at her, she elaborates, "He's hurt."

"And?" the boy prompts dismissively.

"And we have to help him," Iris insists, backing away, looking towards the distant castle. "Father, we-"

But he's already shaking his head. "He will be fine. Leave him to tend his castle. Before he changes his mind about you."

Straightening her shoulders, Iris insists, "He won't."

"We came all this way, and she does not wish to be rescued," the boy scoffs.

"Who is this man?" Iris demands.

"Wally."

She lifts her eyebrows. "Have you no surname?"

"Iris-" her father intercedes.

Wally glares. "None of importance."

Realization clicks: "You're illegitimate."

"Me, too," Hartley introduces, stepping forward and thrusting out a hand. Wally transfers the reins of both horses to one hand and shakes it slowly, not looking away from her. "It's uncommon to find a brother."

"Not a truth one shares over the open hearth, either," Wally adds caustically in her direction.

"I do not care if you are 'legitimate' or not," Iris says in exasperation.

"Perhaps we can discuss this on the way home," her father proposes, clasping his hands.

Reality checked, Iris shakes her head. "The Beast-"

"Have you fallen in love with this creature? Who cares what happens to him? He is a monster," Wally snaps, passing a horse off to her father.

"He's not a monster," Iris snaps. "He saved my life!"

"After he almost took it," her father submits, frowning. "Daughter, I know you have flights of fancy, but this is surely the most fanciful. He is a monster."

"Did you not see him with the wolves just now? He fought them!"

"Sure," Wally concedes, sizing up Hartley. "He also attacked Zolomon."

"He did not attack him," Iris retorts heatedly. "He saved his life."

"Whatever you saw, I defy you to submit that he is anything other than a Beast."

Steaming but unable to find a quick retort, Iris shakes her head, stepping back. Wally turns to Hartley and says, "We can take turns on the pony. That will distribute the burden more evenly between us." Turning to her, he asks, "I don't suppose you wish to walk home?" He holds out the reins of the grey horse.

When Iris doesn't take them, her father does. "Come, Daughter. You are in shock. We will be home by sundown, I will cook us a fine meal, and we will forget all about this Beast."

Iris finds her voice. "I cannot accompany you."

"Of course you can," her father insists, reaching out. "Dearest Iris-"

"Father, you know I love you more than anything on this Earth," Iris says, clasping his hand in both of hers. "But this is something I must do."

Straightening his shoulders with grim determination, her father says, "I will accompany you."

"No." When her father lifts his eyebrows disbelievingly, she squeezes his hand. "I can do this. He promised to get me to the edge of the woods. You should get them home." Releasing his hand slowly, she says, "I'm sorry. I have to do this. And when I am done, I will come home."

He looks at her for a long moment, assessing his options. "You will return?" he asks at last.

She nods.

"And I cannot stop you?"

She shakes her head.

He drags a hand down his face. "Very well," he allows at last. Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugs him tightly. He hugs her back with one arm, keeping the dancing-out-of-the-way Grey on his lead. "I love you," he tells her.

"I love you," she replies, letting go. "Let me do this. I can do this."

"I believe you."

She looks at Hartley, who shrugs, and Wally, who shakes his head. "You are the woman who talks to sheep, aren't you?" Wally asks.

A little smile tugs at her lips in spite of herself. "You should try it. They're excellent listeners."

Stepping forward, he passes the pony off to Hartley and shakes her hand. "Well. I may not agree with you, but if you are determined to walk this path, I wish you safe passage."

"We will get you to the castle," her father determines. "And then - you may decide." There's a hopeful tone in his voice that she hates to dash, but she nods anyway.

"Thank you."


"I hate these tiny stick arms," Cisco says, prodding The Beast repeatedly with an unlit candle. Houblon whines anxiously near his feet, shoving his leg until Cisco snaps, "Houblon! No!"

Whining, the footstool backs off, sitting low nearby.

"If we cannot bandage the wound, he will bleed to death," Caitlin remarks worriedly. "As it stands, he's lost a lot of blood."

"Good thing he is a big beast," Cisco says, voice lacking its usual zeal as he prods unhopefully at The Beast's head. "Please, wake up, mon ami. You cannot leave us like this."

The door creaks open slowly and Houblon perks up. Guarded, Cisco hops over and warns loudly, "I am a candelabra, I will light your cloak on fire."

"I hope not," a familiar voice says, rather breathlessly, and Belle steps inside.