This is my second Beauty and the Beast fic, written at first as a one-shot, but I realized that I can keep going and describe the years the prince spent as the beast before he met Belle. If you'd like me to keep going with it, say so in your review, and I'll start chapter 2!
Disclaimer: Not mine, these characters all belong to Disney.
The Spell of the Enchantress
The prince sat silently in the gigantic library, a goblet of wine held limply in one hand, staring straight ahead with unsteady eyes. His light brown hair hardly remained in the horsetail he had tied it back in; most swung in front of his face, hiding the bright blue color of his eyes. He had long discarded his jacket and sat in his breeches, shirt, and boots, the elegant blue and gold jacket in a pile on the floor. Mrs. Potts, the head maid, stepped forward from the side to pick it up, her actions calm, but her eyes were worried. She folded it, smoothing out the expensive material, and set it on a chair.
Finally she turned to him. Her gray hair was back in a loose bun, some pieces hanging down around her slightly chubby face, and her sharp eyes regarded the young prince with slight disappointment.
"Master," she said, "Let me take your cup." She reached for the wine goblet, but he jerked it back to him suddenly, looking as if she had woken him from a deep sleep.
"No," he said, and his voice was hoarse with drunkenness. "L-leave me be."
"Master, please," she said gently. "You're not well. Let me take your cup and Cogsworth will help you to bed." The short man stood silently in the open door, waiting, trying to hide his impatience. He had told her it was useless, but had she listened? No.
"I said no," he growled, staggering to his feet. He easily towered over the short woman, who put her hands on her hips.
"Master, you are not well," she repeated. "Please, for your own health, you should go to bed."
His nostrils flaring, his blue eyes watery and unfocused, he glared down at her. Before she could say another word his palm connected with her cheek, snapping her head to the side. The only noise in the room was the crackling of the fire for a moment, until the wine goblet clattered to the ground. The prince stared at his hand as Mrs. Potts turned away, placing a hand against the red mark on her cheek and walking slowly to the doorway, where Cogsworth gently put his hand on her arm. She glanced back at the prince and said softly, in a hurt voice, "I'm sorry, Master. Goodnight." She and Cogsworth left, the flickering firelight sending their shadows dancing on the wall until they shut the door.
His head started reeling. Reaching out, he put a hand against the mantelpiece until the room stopped spinning, his eyes shut, the heat of the fire gently beating on his body. He opened his eyes and again looked at his palm, a red mark like the one on Mrs. Potts's cheek marking the pale skin.
He called, and a servant came in and bowed low; Lumiere, who also had a disapproving look on his thin face.
"Oui, Mastair?" he asked, his heavy French accent painfully obvious.
"G-get me more wine," the prince said. "The cup's there." He pointed with a shaking hand, missing his target by a meter.
Silently Lumiere knelt and picked up the goblet, leaving and returning quickly with the goblet full of wine. The prince downed it in one swallow, and said, "You watered it." Despite how must water Lumiere had put in to dilute it, the prince's voice had begun to slur. The young man staggered over to the chair he was sitting in before and dropped into it, the cup once again resting in his limp fingers.
And then he was up again, dropping the cup carelessly on the floor. He paced the large library, unaware that Lumiere still stood in the room, watching with worried eyes.
The room started to spin again, and his arms flew out to balance himself. "God damnit," he muttered. He didn't see the way Lumiere's face blanched when he cursed the One Above, and if he had, he wouldn't have cared.
The dizziness didn't stop. He stumbled forward to grab at the wall, supporting himself against it with trembling hands. He lowered himself to the ground, feeling the alcohol seeping through his bloodstream. As he collapsed he heard Lumiere go, "Mon Dieu! Cogsworth!"
He saw the tall man hurrying towards him, and then it was all black.
When he regained consciousness his head was pounding painfully, and his stomach was threatening to empty itself. As he struggled to open his eyes he felt someone place a cool cloth against his forehead, easing the pain slightly.
He finally opened his eyes. Mrs. Potts was sitting beside his bed, a bowl of water beside her, and she was gently patting his face with the cool towel.
"I don't envy you, Master," she said, noticing his eyes open. "You're going to have one bad headache all day. That's what you get for drinking like that."
The first thing that popped into his mind was to swear at her and tell her he'll drink as he liked. Then he saw the slight bruising on her cheek and, for some reason, he felt guilty. Only slightly, though; it was such a small, unfamiliar feeling that he said, "I will not be sick in bed. I have things to attend to! I am the prince of this land! I cannot afford to be sick in bed all day!"
He pushed away the cool cloth and sat up, throwing off the sheets and getting to his feet. He had to stop and shut his eyes as the pain got worse, throbbing hard at his temples and the top of his head.
He shoved away the feeling and turned to Mrs. Potts. "I am in no more need of your services," he said. "Leave."
Her eyes downcast, her sigh echoed around the room as she gathered up the bowl of water and left.
He struggled to dress, having a hard time even inserting his limbs into the clothing. When he finally got his feet into his shoes, he walked slowly from the room. He forced his chin up, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The servants kept their eyes down as they walked along, and even Lumiere seemed troubled, not (as he usually was) flirting with the maid Fifi.
The whole day the prince kept his face blank, though really, his head was erupting with pain. He was sure that, soon, he was going to hurt something in frustration.
He was eating silently, alone, in the dining hall, the long table stretching out before him, the only light coming from the lit hearth. Through the tall, French windows the sky was dark early, with heavy rain clouds obscuring the light from the sunset.
A loud clap of thunder made him curse and send his spoon skittering down the table. With a groan he dropped his head into his hands, his elbows resting on the table. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the whole hall.
He got to his feet, one hand pressed against his temple, and staggered towards the door, shoving it open with one hand. Very slowly he made his way up the hall and down the stairs, going through the entrance hall on his way to the royal chambers.
Just as he was in front of the doors a knocking echoed in the hall, nearly drowned out by a clap of thunder. The prince gritted his teeth together and, seeing no servants around, went and pulled the heavy door back about a foot. Rain quickly made a puddle at his feet, and a flash of lightning revealed a crouched old beggar woman, leaning heavily on a walking stick.
"What?" he snapped.
"Please, kind master," she said in a thin, reedy voice, "Give me shelter from the storm for just one night. If I were to stay out here I would surely die. I will give you this in return for shelter." In her free hand she held out a beautiful red rose.
A rose? he thought. She wants me to give her shelter for a simple rose? He looked her over in disgust. "No room," he said, about to shut the door. It was stopped, however, by the cane of the old woman.
"Please, sire," she said. "Do not let my appearance frighten you."
"Get away!" he said angrily, kicking the cane out. It flew from the old woman's hand and, despite how much she had seemed to rely on it, she still stood. The rose still was held in one outstretched hand, in a plea.
Just as the door shut it blew back open, as if by a great wind. He let out an angry cry and went to slam the heavy door, but the sight in the rain stopped him.
The old beggar woman was shaking her head sadly. She raised her weary head to look him in the eye, and suddenly there was a flash of light. In her place stood the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, with shining gold hair and spring green eyes, skin as white as milk. He gasped and fell to his knees, his headache forgotten.
"You poor man," she said, her voice ringing like a bell. "There is no love in your heart, not for an old woman, not for your servants."
"M-my lady," he gasped, "Forgive me, please, come in, stay the night--"
"It is too late for you," she said. "Beauty is not on the outside, as you believe; it is within. You relied upon your eyes to do the thinking for you."
She waved a long-fingered hand, and he was lifting into the air. His castle was being enveloped in light, as was he, though the whole time he could see the enchantress, for that's what she was, watching him with sad eyes. "For your punishment," she said, "you will be transformed. As will your castle and your servants, though I wish to do them no harm."
He felt something rippling up along his arms and legs, up his torso. He looked down at himself and was wordless with horror; dark brown fur was taking place of flesh. His hands and feet were turning into paws, with long, sharp claws, and he was growing bulkier, his clothes tearing. He felt his hair grow longer, and when he put his hands -- paws -- to his face, he felt the face of a monster. Two horns erupted from his skull.
He was dropped gently to the ground. He could feel the incisors beneath his lips, where there had been teeth before. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, feeling as if he had just woken from a long sleep. She shook her head sadly and held out the rose, which floated in the palm of her hand.
"This is an enchanted rose," she said. It glowed, the pink light pulsing gently. "It will bloom for many years. If you can learn to love another, and to gain their love in return before the last petal falls, the spell will be broken. If you cannot, however…" The rose floated over to him, hovering beautifully in the air just before him. "If you cannot, you will remain like this for all time."
He tried to say something, but all that came out was an inhuman grunt. She waved her hand, and disappeared in a flash of light.
He struggled to his feet, looking down at himself. His chest had expanded, as had his legs and arms, and truly looked like those of a beast.
He knelt and gently picked up the rose, which floated in his palm, just as it had in hers. He then ran, seeing that his beautiful castle had been transformed into a cold, dark place, with gargoyles leering from every corner.
He finally arrived in the West Wing, his living quarters. He threw open the door and ran in, seeing a strange mirror sitting on a table. Carefully setting the rose on the table, he picked up the mirror. His cry of surprise at his reflection emerged as a roar, and he threw the mirror at the wall. It didn't break, however; instead it pulsed with a green light. The edge was decorated with vines of roses, and he picked it up again, careful not to look at his reflection.
"What is this?" he said to himself, and his voice was rough, angry, coming out with difficulty through the incisors. Something in the back of his mind said, Tell it something.
Surprisingly, he followed the advice. "Show me…show me…Lumiere."
The green light grew stronger, and in the glass he saw what must have been Lumiere. The tall, skinny man had been transformed into a candelabra, and was standing, crying out something.
"Show me Cogsworth."
The short man was a clock, staring at his hands in surprise, feeling his face, which was now a glass plate.
"Show me Mrs. Potts."
The head maid was on the floor, transformed into a teapot.
"N-no," the prince-turned-beast whispered, dropping the mirror. "I'm dreaming, I have to be!"
He whirled to face the rose. It floated an inch above the table, mocking him.
The door at the end of the hall opened, and the candelabra, clock and teapot entered.
"Mastair!" Lumiere's unmistakably French voice cried. "What has happened?" His face was still somehow had that charm to it, even though he looked completely horrified. The three of them stopped in their tracks and stared at him, their wide eyes taking in every detail of his hideous appearance.
"A curse," the Beast whispered. "A curse, by an enchantress."
They stared at him. "Master," Mrs. Potts said, "Are you sure--"
"I am," he said, his hoarse voice seeming to frighten them. "Too sure." He slammed his paw-like fist onto the table, making a small crack at the edge.
"Mon Dieu," Lumiere whispered sadly. "C'est terrible."
"Leave me," the Beast said. Cogsworth started to protest, but the Beast roared, "Leave me!"
As soon as the door shut behind them the Beast let out a bellow of anger and sorrow, slumping to the ground, staring with his still-blue eyes at the rose that laughed at him.