Once upon a time in a far away land, there lived a small family of very
wealthy royals. The king was warm-hearted and generous, the queen was mild-
mannered and beautiful, and all the servants were obedient and loved their
masters.
It came to be one night that the queen would die during childbirth. The sorrow the king felt was soon replaced by the joy of meeting his sweet new daughter, with her bright red hair and beautiful blue eyes. The princess grew to be a beautiful young woman, who loved her father dearly. And all were happy.
One cold, cruel winter, the king became ill. All the best doctors and priests of the land could not save him. He died on the princess's birthday, the old queen's death day, and the new queen's day of evolution.
No longer did her eyes shine with kindness or sympathy, but a cold, harsh bitterness toward all before her. When the ice took her father, it took part of her as well, and left traces of itself behind.
Twelve months later, the princess was attending to a few documents in the dining hall by the firelight when a guard approached her, covered in snow from the raging blizzard.
"Your Majesty," he said, prostrating himself before the young woman, "a gypsy has found way onto the castle grounds and wishes a word with you." The queen sighed and tapped her quill impatiently, deliberating only momentarily before deciding to have the woman sent away. Before she could deliver this message to the guard, she found the woman to be standing in front of her, withered, old, helpless, and ugly.
"My queen," she said humbly, "Death is upon my old soul, at last I shall have a place to rest. Born traveler, raised traveler, and now with nowhere else to travel to, I can only request that you allow me to die tonight in a room with four walls and a ceiling, no furnishings, lights, or windows necessary."
"Born wild, raised wild, die wild." The queen dipped her quill with an elegant white hand. "Put her back where you found her, guard."
At that, every flame and candle burnt out. Around the old woman in the pitch blackness came the only source of light; a green specter of a light swirling around her, changing her body from old and worn to young and beautiful. From her cloak protruded the wings of an exotic moth. Hovering inches above the ground, she opened her eyes and the room was again illuminated, by strange and fantastic emerald light. The fairy had chosen to make herself known.
"Queen Phoebe of Nim," she began as the guards and monarch stood dumbfounded, "You have allowed the trials of the world to harden your heart and make you unjust. A cloud of melancholy and fear looms over your once- happy kingdom. You've not allowed yourself to love anyone since the death of your father. It is alright to mourn but you've allowed life to stop. You must change your ways." The fairy snapped her fingers and suddenly the princess shrieked. "This is the eve of your eighteenth birthday. You are now a woman and must find a man who could love you, regardless of your beauty or wealth, and you must love him in return. Only when your heart sings of true and unchained affection can you rule as a compassionate leader. You have until midnight on the day before your twentieth birthday."
No one noticed the disappearance of the creature for the pain that suddenly shot through their bodies. None felt more anguish than the queen. Her body stretched to a foot taller than it originally was. Her hips shifted, her forearms lengthened, and her upper body muscled itself grotesquely to support a primarily quadruped animal. The red hair on her head spread to the rest of her body like a scarlet pelt, with horns protruding from her head and fangs cutting into her lower lip until she tasted her own blood. When at last the transformation was complete, the Beaste fell to the ground surrounded by new furniture.
In a little town several miles south of Orleans, Beau Thibodaux awoke to the sound of his mother in the kitchen. With a smile in his large blue eyes, he rolled out of bed and set his feet on the ground. He'd get her this morning.
He looked out the door to see the plump, white-haired woman pulling croissants out of the oven, wiping away the steam with her fat little hand. He got his chance when she leaned over to top them off with the fruit. As he approached, toy spider in hand, she stood up.
"Bonjour, Beau," she said, rather tiredly.
Crestfallen, the man put his false bug away. "How do you always know?"
"I am woman. I know everything. Eat your breakfast, you're too skinny."
"Can't Mére, I've got things to do in town today." Nevertheless, he helped himself to a cup of coffee and a frosted croissant.
"D'Accord. Just don't forget I won't be here tonight. Your aunt is ill on the border of Nim and I refuse to miss the opportunity to see her."
"OK, have a good time, Mére." He leapt out the door, onto the street, and started his way to the blacksmith. Of course, he walked in a special way, allowing the town's girls to admire how long his legs were in their tight pants, how broad his shoulders and chest were, and how gloriously golden his hair appeared in its ponytail.
He knew he was handsome. He knew he was a lot of things. The handsome part was the only part he was right about, though. Make no mistake, he was a pleasant man of good character, but halfway through his nineteenth year he still behaved and thought like a child ten years younger.
He passed another eventless day in the blacksmith shop, working the bellows and daydreaming. When he got back home that night, the horse and his mother were gone but three night's worth of dinner sat on the table. He smiled to himself, thinking how self-sufficient he would be if he lived alone with someone to do the cooking, cleaning, mending, sewing, laundry, and shopping, as he hadn't a clue how to do any. But who needs one? He was a blacksmith, not a housekeeper.
Three days came and went and his mother didn't return. A week after her departure the horse wandered his way back into town, obediently taking his place in the barn without fanfare. From the scratches and small wounds around his legs and hindquarters, Beau and the doctor concluded he had run into a small pack of wolves, which in mid-attack had diverted their attention to slower, dumber prey.
Beau was heartbroken. The thought of his mother eaten by wolves haunted him that night, until he finally fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamed of his mother, locked away in a tower as the prisoner of a hideous, cruel monster. When he awoke, drenched in sweat in the cool summer evening, his mind was made up. He would go looking for her.
The very next day, he saddled up the reluctant stallion and followed his mother's tracks into the forest. On the trail to Nim, he wandered a little off the path but maintained a generally accurate direction, not wanting to miss anything, any sign of the struggle. They happened upon a fork in the road, marked by an unreadable sign and the horse became jittery, trying to turn back or turn to the right. Whenever Beau pulled to the left, he whinnied and directed himself the other way. There was no denying that whatever took place happened close to the fork and on the left side. Beau dismounted, leaving the horse to back up a few paces to a place he thought was safe.
Tracks in the soft ground told a story of ambush. The horse was not a big one, and if a wolf were hungry enough they might just take their chances in a forest devoid of natural food. By the light of the moon, Beau wandered a little off the path, finding where his little mother had jumped off the horse and taken her chances on foot. He followed the prints into thick, pitch-black underbrush, bracing himself for what he might find.
Without warning, he reached the edge of the earth. A steep embankment sent him tumbling head-over-heels fifteen feet down. He heard the horse respond to his outcry by roaring and tearing off toward home. Spitting out leaves and taking inventory of any possibly broken bones, Beau stood and looked for a place he could possible climb up to get back on the path. Against his better judgment, he had to move a little up and down the dried-out creek bed until he found a ditch a half a mile from his landing.
Crawling out just as the moon came out from behind a cloud, he found a castle in the center of the clearing. What he took to be a creek turned out to be a moat, and the towering fortress before him appeared a shell of its former self, just like the dried moat. The odds of someone living there were much less likely than of someone haunting there, but his mother was a holy woman and may have taken refuge from the forest, lost but protected from evil spirits by her prayers.
He now looked at his dream as a metaphor. The castle was her monster and her lost-ness was her prison. Puffing out his chest, he strode up to the door, deciding to rescue her one way or another. Before he could even lay his hand on the knocker, the columns he'd taken to be the supporters of a long-rotted-out balcony came to life and wrapped their iron decorations around his arms, paralyzing him. With one support beam in front of him, one on each arm, and one behind he allowed them to drag him around to the back. Even if he could have pulled his brain around this unbelievable occurrence, he would have been powerless to do anything.
Through enormous oaken doors he was taken and set on his knees before a huge chair, silhouetted by a blazing fire. Wordlessly, the columns backed out with bows that rumbled their granite structures. Beau stood motionless, finally regaining his wits.
"Speak your name," said the chair—or whatever was in it. Beau sat silent for a moment, unable to say or do anything. The voice was deep and hostile and somehow... feminine.
He cleared his throat. "Beau Thibodaux of Orleans."
The chair sat ominously for a moment, as though contemplating its—her—next move. "State your business."
"I'm looking for my mother," Beau heard his voice say.
The very room itself seemed to take its breath in sharply. "Your mother," mused the chair, sounding softer. Without anything to pull or push it back, it moved six inches toward the fire and something left its seat at the speed of lightning. Beau jolted, and looked from the left to the right and even up to see where the thing could have gone. But he knew he was not wrong to feel the presence of the creature behind him.
He turned and stared into the deep blue eyes of the Beaste. He gasped and fell back, terrified by the sight of her, towering above him like the Boogie Woman.
At his terror, she took on a depressed look, ears briefly drooping and a sigh rumbling her enormous ribcage. Sadness turned to hostility in a flash, and she decided to show him exactly how scary she could be.
"Your mother?" she said, advancing on him slowly. "Is she fat, dim, old and senselessly afraid of wolves?"
Beau became defensive in a sudden fit of bravery—or stupidity. "She is a sweet old woman who hates monsters as much as anyone else."
The Beaste stopped in her tracks, smirking. "Brainless reason to hate something, don't you think? Because everyone else does."
"Sometimes everyone else is right."
"Yes, sometimes." She hoisted herself back into her chair, which lifted itself obediently up to the huge desk before her. "But not usually. Well, Monsieur Thibodaux I believe there is a way for us to help each other." Beau braced himself, feeling as though he was to make a deal with the Devil. "While your mother is not specifically necessary here, someone is. If you are willing to take her place until the next traveler happens upon my castle, I'll not only let her go, but I'll give her a carriage for Orleans." He hesitated, which seemed to anger the Beaste. She leapt over the desk and stood in front of him, black cloak shrouding her powerful shoulders. "I'm doing you a favor!" she exclaimed. "Anyone else and I wouldn't think twice about keeping both of you here, in separate wings! Choose quickly, mon ami. What have you got waiting for you that's so important?"
Thinking fast, he answered for her. "I'll have you know that I am a soldier who has taken a leave of absence to find my mother. If you let her go and keep me they'll come looking. If I leave and you keep her I'll go to the general and have the entire French army buckle down on your fortress."
The Beaste laughed loudly, slapping her knee. "Like I'm afraid of the French army," she said, wiping away a tear. "If I lived in a wooden box rather than a stone citadel I'd still have more than adequate protection. Even so, I believe you're lying. And you have ten seconds to change your mind before I withdraw my offer and you never see the light of day or your mother again."
As if activated by the sound of her voice, the sound of a million clocks ticking marked down the moments. Beau didn't need all ten to agree.
So it was that Mme Thibodaux was made to swear never to tell anyone of the Beaste or her castle, lest Beau be put to a death most unspeakable.
Summer faded into autumn and he found that what she needed him for was a somewhat pathetic reason. He was made to attend dinner with her nightly. The rest of his time was spent in various areas of the castle, which he found to be enchanted. Nothing he touched would neglect to touch him back. It took a few weeks to grow accustomed to his cherry wood dresser, which seemed to blush every time he changed clothes.
He grew disgusted with the Beaste, deciding that the only reason she kept prisoners was due to her dreadful loneliness. As intelligent as a smart human female, it must be terrible to be surrounded by inanimate objects which weren't so inanimate. Quickly his disgust turned to pity, and from there a sort of grudging respect. Before the first snow he found himself starting to enjoy her company.
The day of December 25th came without much celebration during the daylight hours. But when night fell and Beau was called to Christmas dinner, he was led to a different room than usual. A dance floor lit by glimmering candles awaited him through a set of doors he'd never seen. A piano plaid itself, Silent Night.
At the top of a gently spiraling staircase stood the Beaste, dressed in a flowing green sating gown and trying very hard to stand straight like a normal human being. She was almost beautiful.
Dinner was festive food and cheerful conversation, followed by an hour of dancing with surprising elegance. At the end of a lyric-less rendition of Little Drummer Boy, the Beaste stood stiffly and looked down at Beau with an awkward expression.
"Beau," she began, "there's something I need to explain, and then I—I have a question for you."
Cocking his head in curiosity, he followed her out onto the balcony, warmed by all the candles but still containing the luminous glow of Christmas snow. With a sigh, the Beaste opened her mouth to say something.
Suddenly an arrow whizzed by her head, missing her by inches. She roared and threw him to the ground, instinctively covering his smaller body with her own. Hundreds of men swearing could be heard from the ground, in the midst of them that of Beau's mother asking for forgiveness and praying her son was alive.
They crawled low into the dancehall just as the heavy vibrations of a log being thrust against the front door reached the floor. Taking his hand, the Beaste looked at him with pleading eyes. "Beau, I'm under a spell. I have to make someone love me as much as I love them before next Thursday or I'll die! Marry me, Beau!" He sat on his knees, feeling the trembling salvation floors below him and staring at the mad creature. "I'll turn back to my real self and you can be king of Nim! Your mother will be wealthy, your blood will become royal and you'll have everything you ever wanted. Marry me, please!"
She made a move to take his other hand but he crawled away. "No!"
Disappointment filled her eyes. "Don't you love me?"
"No! You're a—a" he searched for the words. "You're a Beaste!" At that moment a huntsmen burst through the dancehall window with his crossbow readied. He fired.
It struck the Beaste in the chest, a wound she would've been able to shake off if she had the desire to do so. But she didn't want to live if only for another lonely week.
With a final look at Beau, she closed her eyes and dropped her horned head. With the stopping of her heart a green light illuminated her body. She painlessly shrunk back to her original size, her hair, loose and golden- crimson hung around her face and her unchanging blue eyes, half open in death. A beautiful ivory hand clutched the arrow between generous breasts where a claw had been caressing muscle.
A single look at Queen Phoebe sent Beau to his knees. He took her in his arms and held her head in his hands, beckoning her to return to him. But she was gone. And people don't come back when they enter Heaven in exchange for a life of Hell.
"Shame," said the huntsman nonchalantly. "I've heard stories like this. She was kind of pretty, wasn't she?"
He yanked his arrow out of Phoebe's chest, not wanting to waste a thing, and once both were satisfied with the death of the queen they buried her in the courtyard and sent the servants—who had all appeared out of nowhere—to various parts of the country. Beau returned to Orleans, quit grieving after about a month, and never really thought about it too much. He was married a year later to a woman who did all the cooking, cleaning, mending, sewing, laundry, and shopping.
And he lived happily ever after.
Fin
It came to be one night that the queen would die during childbirth. The sorrow the king felt was soon replaced by the joy of meeting his sweet new daughter, with her bright red hair and beautiful blue eyes. The princess grew to be a beautiful young woman, who loved her father dearly. And all were happy.
One cold, cruel winter, the king became ill. All the best doctors and priests of the land could not save him. He died on the princess's birthday, the old queen's death day, and the new queen's day of evolution.
No longer did her eyes shine with kindness or sympathy, but a cold, harsh bitterness toward all before her. When the ice took her father, it took part of her as well, and left traces of itself behind.
Twelve months later, the princess was attending to a few documents in the dining hall by the firelight when a guard approached her, covered in snow from the raging blizzard.
"Your Majesty," he said, prostrating himself before the young woman, "a gypsy has found way onto the castle grounds and wishes a word with you." The queen sighed and tapped her quill impatiently, deliberating only momentarily before deciding to have the woman sent away. Before she could deliver this message to the guard, she found the woman to be standing in front of her, withered, old, helpless, and ugly.
"My queen," she said humbly, "Death is upon my old soul, at last I shall have a place to rest. Born traveler, raised traveler, and now with nowhere else to travel to, I can only request that you allow me to die tonight in a room with four walls and a ceiling, no furnishings, lights, or windows necessary."
"Born wild, raised wild, die wild." The queen dipped her quill with an elegant white hand. "Put her back where you found her, guard."
At that, every flame and candle burnt out. Around the old woman in the pitch blackness came the only source of light; a green specter of a light swirling around her, changing her body from old and worn to young and beautiful. From her cloak protruded the wings of an exotic moth. Hovering inches above the ground, she opened her eyes and the room was again illuminated, by strange and fantastic emerald light. The fairy had chosen to make herself known.
"Queen Phoebe of Nim," she began as the guards and monarch stood dumbfounded, "You have allowed the trials of the world to harden your heart and make you unjust. A cloud of melancholy and fear looms over your once- happy kingdom. You've not allowed yourself to love anyone since the death of your father. It is alright to mourn but you've allowed life to stop. You must change your ways." The fairy snapped her fingers and suddenly the princess shrieked. "This is the eve of your eighteenth birthday. You are now a woman and must find a man who could love you, regardless of your beauty or wealth, and you must love him in return. Only when your heart sings of true and unchained affection can you rule as a compassionate leader. You have until midnight on the day before your twentieth birthday."
No one noticed the disappearance of the creature for the pain that suddenly shot through their bodies. None felt more anguish than the queen. Her body stretched to a foot taller than it originally was. Her hips shifted, her forearms lengthened, and her upper body muscled itself grotesquely to support a primarily quadruped animal. The red hair on her head spread to the rest of her body like a scarlet pelt, with horns protruding from her head and fangs cutting into her lower lip until she tasted her own blood. When at last the transformation was complete, the Beaste fell to the ground surrounded by new furniture.
In a little town several miles south of Orleans, Beau Thibodaux awoke to the sound of his mother in the kitchen. With a smile in his large blue eyes, he rolled out of bed and set his feet on the ground. He'd get her this morning.
He looked out the door to see the plump, white-haired woman pulling croissants out of the oven, wiping away the steam with her fat little hand. He got his chance when she leaned over to top them off with the fruit. As he approached, toy spider in hand, she stood up.
"Bonjour, Beau," she said, rather tiredly.
Crestfallen, the man put his false bug away. "How do you always know?"
"I am woman. I know everything. Eat your breakfast, you're too skinny."
"Can't Mére, I've got things to do in town today." Nevertheless, he helped himself to a cup of coffee and a frosted croissant.
"D'Accord. Just don't forget I won't be here tonight. Your aunt is ill on the border of Nim and I refuse to miss the opportunity to see her."
"OK, have a good time, Mére." He leapt out the door, onto the street, and started his way to the blacksmith. Of course, he walked in a special way, allowing the town's girls to admire how long his legs were in their tight pants, how broad his shoulders and chest were, and how gloriously golden his hair appeared in its ponytail.
He knew he was handsome. He knew he was a lot of things. The handsome part was the only part he was right about, though. Make no mistake, he was a pleasant man of good character, but halfway through his nineteenth year he still behaved and thought like a child ten years younger.
He passed another eventless day in the blacksmith shop, working the bellows and daydreaming. When he got back home that night, the horse and his mother were gone but three night's worth of dinner sat on the table. He smiled to himself, thinking how self-sufficient he would be if he lived alone with someone to do the cooking, cleaning, mending, sewing, laundry, and shopping, as he hadn't a clue how to do any. But who needs one? He was a blacksmith, not a housekeeper.
Three days came and went and his mother didn't return. A week after her departure the horse wandered his way back into town, obediently taking his place in the barn without fanfare. From the scratches and small wounds around his legs and hindquarters, Beau and the doctor concluded he had run into a small pack of wolves, which in mid-attack had diverted their attention to slower, dumber prey.
Beau was heartbroken. The thought of his mother eaten by wolves haunted him that night, until he finally fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamed of his mother, locked away in a tower as the prisoner of a hideous, cruel monster. When he awoke, drenched in sweat in the cool summer evening, his mind was made up. He would go looking for her.
The very next day, he saddled up the reluctant stallion and followed his mother's tracks into the forest. On the trail to Nim, he wandered a little off the path but maintained a generally accurate direction, not wanting to miss anything, any sign of the struggle. They happened upon a fork in the road, marked by an unreadable sign and the horse became jittery, trying to turn back or turn to the right. Whenever Beau pulled to the left, he whinnied and directed himself the other way. There was no denying that whatever took place happened close to the fork and on the left side. Beau dismounted, leaving the horse to back up a few paces to a place he thought was safe.
Tracks in the soft ground told a story of ambush. The horse was not a big one, and if a wolf were hungry enough they might just take their chances in a forest devoid of natural food. By the light of the moon, Beau wandered a little off the path, finding where his little mother had jumped off the horse and taken her chances on foot. He followed the prints into thick, pitch-black underbrush, bracing himself for what he might find.
Without warning, he reached the edge of the earth. A steep embankment sent him tumbling head-over-heels fifteen feet down. He heard the horse respond to his outcry by roaring and tearing off toward home. Spitting out leaves and taking inventory of any possibly broken bones, Beau stood and looked for a place he could possible climb up to get back on the path. Against his better judgment, he had to move a little up and down the dried-out creek bed until he found a ditch a half a mile from his landing.
Crawling out just as the moon came out from behind a cloud, he found a castle in the center of the clearing. What he took to be a creek turned out to be a moat, and the towering fortress before him appeared a shell of its former self, just like the dried moat. The odds of someone living there were much less likely than of someone haunting there, but his mother was a holy woman and may have taken refuge from the forest, lost but protected from evil spirits by her prayers.
He now looked at his dream as a metaphor. The castle was her monster and her lost-ness was her prison. Puffing out his chest, he strode up to the door, deciding to rescue her one way or another. Before he could even lay his hand on the knocker, the columns he'd taken to be the supporters of a long-rotted-out balcony came to life and wrapped their iron decorations around his arms, paralyzing him. With one support beam in front of him, one on each arm, and one behind he allowed them to drag him around to the back. Even if he could have pulled his brain around this unbelievable occurrence, he would have been powerless to do anything.
Through enormous oaken doors he was taken and set on his knees before a huge chair, silhouetted by a blazing fire. Wordlessly, the columns backed out with bows that rumbled their granite structures. Beau stood motionless, finally regaining his wits.
"Speak your name," said the chair—or whatever was in it. Beau sat silent for a moment, unable to say or do anything. The voice was deep and hostile and somehow... feminine.
He cleared his throat. "Beau Thibodaux of Orleans."
The chair sat ominously for a moment, as though contemplating its—her—next move. "State your business."
"I'm looking for my mother," Beau heard his voice say.
The very room itself seemed to take its breath in sharply. "Your mother," mused the chair, sounding softer. Without anything to pull or push it back, it moved six inches toward the fire and something left its seat at the speed of lightning. Beau jolted, and looked from the left to the right and even up to see where the thing could have gone. But he knew he was not wrong to feel the presence of the creature behind him.
He turned and stared into the deep blue eyes of the Beaste. He gasped and fell back, terrified by the sight of her, towering above him like the Boogie Woman.
At his terror, she took on a depressed look, ears briefly drooping and a sigh rumbling her enormous ribcage. Sadness turned to hostility in a flash, and she decided to show him exactly how scary she could be.
"Your mother?" she said, advancing on him slowly. "Is she fat, dim, old and senselessly afraid of wolves?"
Beau became defensive in a sudden fit of bravery—or stupidity. "She is a sweet old woman who hates monsters as much as anyone else."
The Beaste stopped in her tracks, smirking. "Brainless reason to hate something, don't you think? Because everyone else does."
"Sometimes everyone else is right."
"Yes, sometimes." She hoisted herself back into her chair, which lifted itself obediently up to the huge desk before her. "But not usually. Well, Monsieur Thibodaux I believe there is a way for us to help each other." Beau braced himself, feeling as though he was to make a deal with the Devil. "While your mother is not specifically necessary here, someone is. If you are willing to take her place until the next traveler happens upon my castle, I'll not only let her go, but I'll give her a carriage for Orleans." He hesitated, which seemed to anger the Beaste. She leapt over the desk and stood in front of him, black cloak shrouding her powerful shoulders. "I'm doing you a favor!" she exclaimed. "Anyone else and I wouldn't think twice about keeping both of you here, in separate wings! Choose quickly, mon ami. What have you got waiting for you that's so important?"
Thinking fast, he answered for her. "I'll have you know that I am a soldier who has taken a leave of absence to find my mother. If you let her go and keep me they'll come looking. If I leave and you keep her I'll go to the general and have the entire French army buckle down on your fortress."
The Beaste laughed loudly, slapping her knee. "Like I'm afraid of the French army," she said, wiping away a tear. "If I lived in a wooden box rather than a stone citadel I'd still have more than adequate protection. Even so, I believe you're lying. And you have ten seconds to change your mind before I withdraw my offer and you never see the light of day or your mother again."
As if activated by the sound of her voice, the sound of a million clocks ticking marked down the moments. Beau didn't need all ten to agree.
So it was that Mme Thibodaux was made to swear never to tell anyone of the Beaste or her castle, lest Beau be put to a death most unspeakable.
Summer faded into autumn and he found that what she needed him for was a somewhat pathetic reason. He was made to attend dinner with her nightly. The rest of his time was spent in various areas of the castle, which he found to be enchanted. Nothing he touched would neglect to touch him back. It took a few weeks to grow accustomed to his cherry wood dresser, which seemed to blush every time he changed clothes.
He grew disgusted with the Beaste, deciding that the only reason she kept prisoners was due to her dreadful loneliness. As intelligent as a smart human female, it must be terrible to be surrounded by inanimate objects which weren't so inanimate. Quickly his disgust turned to pity, and from there a sort of grudging respect. Before the first snow he found himself starting to enjoy her company.
The day of December 25th came without much celebration during the daylight hours. But when night fell and Beau was called to Christmas dinner, he was led to a different room than usual. A dance floor lit by glimmering candles awaited him through a set of doors he'd never seen. A piano plaid itself, Silent Night.
At the top of a gently spiraling staircase stood the Beaste, dressed in a flowing green sating gown and trying very hard to stand straight like a normal human being. She was almost beautiful.
Dinner was festive food and cheerful conversation, followed by an hour of dancing with surprising elegance. At the end of a lyric-less rendition of Little Drummer Boy, the Beaste stood stiffly and looked down at Beau with an awkward expression.
"Beau," she began, "there's something I need to explain, and then I—I have a question for you."
Cocking his head in curiosity, he followed her out onto the balcony, warmed by all the candles but still containing the luminous glow of Christmas snow. With a sigh, the Beaste opened her mouth to say something.
Suddenly an arrow whizzed by her head, missing her by inches. She roared and threw him to the ground, instinctively covering his smaller body with her own. Hundreds of men swearing could be heard from the ground, in the midst of them that of Beau's mother asking for forgiveness and praying her son was alive.
They crawled low into the dancehall just as the heavy vibrations of a log being thrust against the front door reached the floor. Taking his hand, the Beaste looked at him with pleading eyes. "Beau, I'm under a spell. I have to make someone love me as much as I love them before next Thursday or I'll die! Marry me, Beau!" He sat on his knees, feeling the trembling salvation floors below him and staring at the mad creature. "I'll turn back to my real self and you can be king of Nim! Your mother will be wealthy, your blood will become royal and you'll have everything you ever wanted. Marry me, please!"
She made a move to take his other hand but he crawled away. "No!"
Disappointment filled her eyes. "Don't you love me?"
"No! You're a—a" he searched for the words. "You're a Beaste!" At that moment a huntsmen burst through the dancehall window with his crossbow readied. He fired.
It struck the Beaste in the chest, a wound she would've been able to shake off if she had the desire to do so. But she didn't want to live if only for another lonely week.
With a final look at Beau, she closed her eyes and dropped her horned head. With the stopping of her heart a green light illuminated her body. She painlessly shrunk back to her original size, her hair, loose and golden- crimson hung around her face and her unchanging blue eyes, half open in death. A beautiful ivory hand clutched the arrow between generous breasts where a claw had been caressing muscle.
A single look at Queen Phoebe sent Beau to his knees. He took her in his arms and held her head in his hands, beckoning her to return to him. But she was gone. And people don't come back when they enter Heaven in exchange for a life of Hell.
"Shame," said the huntsman nonchalantly. "I've heard stories like this. She was kind of pretty, wasn't she?"
He yanked his arrow out of Phoebe's chest, not wanting to waste a thing, and once both were satisfied with the death of the queen they buried her in the courtyard and sent the servants—who had all appeared out of nowhere—to various parts of the country. Beau returned to Orleans, quit grieving after about a month, and never really thought about it too much. He was married a year later to a woman who did all the cooking, cleaning, mending, sewing, laundry, and shopping.
And he lived happily ever after.
Fin