Title: Unworthy

Author: Rissa85-Stargazing85

Rating: PG13 to R

Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance

Part: Part Two (Inception to Equivocality)

Disclaimer: Yeah, I know that you know. I don't own any Disney characters.

Author's Note: I'm guessing this is going to be the part when...never mind, just read.

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It was a captivating story. A young maiden harbored disreputable revelations and was desperately attempting to conceal them from her future husband, all at the expense of the fear of propriety and favorable reception. Not as a rule one of her favorite genre of selections to read, she loved more adventures. But it was a different twist; a sort of subtle adventure and she loved variety.

Her father had left the day before, another convention for innovations to be held a few miles past the Forêt Noire, and one that she never particularly was fond of. Frustratingly silly that she should be afraid of just a gathering of towering trees. But she had an active imagination, and always despised the darkness and the ensuing dubiety that darkness gave the territory.

She heard some commotion outside and very close. Not the usual commotion that she heard during town hours. She ignored the noise, thinking that it was probably excess clamor from the continually excited hens or perhaps it originated from the usually tranquil goats in the stable. She almost thought to check them, but the manuscript was gripping.

She read a few more pages before she heard five urgent raps at her door, each rapid and in succession with the previous. Certainly, it was not her father; he would've not knocked. Perhaps it was that he had been hurt. This began her imagination to conjure plausible and unpleasant conclusions, and she laid her book open on the wooden table before treading to the doorframe.

Another one of her father's many inventions around his home. A sort of device, which let her see whoever was at the door before opening it. She had used it to her advantage at some points, not allowing Gaston to invite himself over. Being around him was taxing at best, and surely all but repellent at worse. She pulled the invention from its latch place near the door and looked into it.

Much to her irritation, she saw attentive clear-water azure oculars peer in at her. She thought of backing away and remaining quiet, but she was sure he had seen her already and was sure that he would bring the occurrence forward the next she made contact with him. Bothered, she took one glance at her book before rolling her eyes and undoing the door lock.

He opened the door and stepped in with so much ease and elegance that she had scarcely enough time to back away. He was dressed elaborately this afternoon in ruby, gold, ivory breeches, and his customary black boots all newly-shined. His overpowering frame caused her the usual uneasiness instead of comfort, and she forced a feasible smile, a guarded smile.

She utter in feigned pleasantness that it was a satisfying amazement that he should visit her. In his condescending manner, he sold himself, claiming he was full of agreeable surprises, to which she thought few of the pleasant. She kept her smile, though her thoughts were satiated by annoyance and strained persistence.

She brought her mind back to him; he was speaking of this peculiar day as one where her dreams would become alive. Dreams fulfilled, she had many dreams some more outlandish than others, and she kept them to herself. Despite her appearance, she had always realized that she was a very private person with a mind not easily understood by most.

She questioned with amusement, about what did he know of her dreams. He sat back in the chair she had previously occupied, reclining and placing his enormous galoshes on her book, placing mud all over the place, and announcing his dream, of a humble cottage with his hunt on the fire, and his wife massaging his feet and something about 'little ones'. At present, she noticed the smell emitting from his boots, and she covered her nose.

He inquired about her having quite the amount, of 'little ones' or dogs she pretended she was not sure and spoke questioningly of dogs. She knew that such masculinity in a male like him would do better with nothing but offspring, 'little ones', of males. Daughters of such men would either make him soften, which was impossible, or become second to the male in the female, which was a better possibility.

He queried her on who the 'little wife' would be, and she almost felt herself saying that the 'little wife' would be a beautiful girl with as 'little' a mind as he had, but she bit her tongue and remained modest, carrying her book, attempting not to bring attention to her cleaning the mud off, and placed it in the bookshelf. It gave her more room to back away, he was becoming close.

He exclaimed in his deep manly voice that the wife would be her. She kept her feigned modesty, as she headed toward the door, feeling him overpower her in such confines. Almost like a game of negligent cat-and-mouse, and she had never even as a child liked such animated games. She replied, neutrally, that she was quite astounded.

He pressured her lightly, allowing for no other alternative but to say 'yes'. Instantaneously, she wished that her father were there, any one else besides just the two of them, against her door frame. She began fumbling with her words, his scent strong and thickly pleasant looming, she found the door latch just as she finished saying, with modesty, that she did not deserve him.

She heard light music playing, and saw at once, a large table held with plenty of food, and a large amount of townsmen outside, waiting intently, speaking and a band playing near a large tree under the shade. The three triplets, pretty blonde girls, looked up starry-eyed at Gaston. She closed the door, once, but noticed his boots, and set them out as an after thought quickly.

-----

Someone was here. Someone uninvited. He had seen heard the shrill opening of the dark gates, shrouded in thick dense fog, as he stood quietly leaving his encased blossom and stood at one of the many balconies that the West Wing had. It was the Wing of the castle that presented the most balconies and the most mystery.

It was Lady Chanelle's favorite Wing, it in fact, was her wing. Adorned with various portraits of the famous and influential of past centuries, gilded in gold, silver and bronze depending on the degree of importance. Various statues of ivory angels and of peaceable paintings of countryside and of the life of aristocracy had been plentiful.

She was a great interior embellisher, expensive tapestries with the bold colors of light amulet and cream paired with the dark hues of dark goldenrod and midnight cerulean was some of her favorite tint combinations. And as she decorated her surroundings in this way, she dressed just as luxuriously and ornately in all sorts of silk, satin and lace all colored as brightly as her Wing.

But when he had become overcome by the Enchantress' spell, the beautiful angels had turned to hideous gargoyles and the tapestries had darkened into tarnished and molded colors that no longer paired together, but ran together and clashed ruining the scene and lending a horrible effect. The pictures had changed from the regally important to heinous images of scathing serpents, framed in dark onyx rock.

After seeing himself transformed, he had managed to break all the large mirrors his mother managed to place about. She had forever loved appearances and in these, thud seeing the unsightliness he had broken nearly everyone with his massive paws. One of the elaborate portraits he had had created, was one of the first articles he managed to slash with his claws. Pained he was, that he former self seemed to be gloating at him eternally in such a portrait.

Presently, he heard voices in the hallway. It was an advantage to the Wing, the sound echoed from the tall castle entrance all the way to the West Wing, and he heard a masculine voice, humble and surprised, probably by the lack of gentleness and power that such a place exerted. He heard the shrill voices of the castle's various 'people', real persons enchanted, like himself, into various cutlery and objects, some more useful than others.

He went to investigate maliciously curious, he had been led into the fireplace that he almost never himself attended. It was one of his father's most cherished rooms, and one of his orders was that it be kept to smell of the costly port that his father loved to drink and the cigars filled with opium that he used. It was a worthy of note odor that did not reek, but was not all-together pleasing.

He smelled tea, as a rush of air accompanied him, extinguishing the light from the fireplace, he knew before he turned around the stranger had managed to wrap around himself the thick wool blanket not even he had touched since his father passed. A stranger had managed to invite himself in, and tamper with expensive articles that held to the heartless beast at least some forms of sentimental value. He could feel his customary anger and indignation.

The cutlery grew scared, as most enchanted objects backed away or either scattered. The man was quaking now, and he brought his face to the stranger's, which was pale accompanied by hair with shades of gray, he was hair was thinning, and his eyes were astonished and filled with consternation. He mumbled about needing a place to stay, and for his insubordination, he paused at the aging man, before replying in a controlled voice that he had a place for him.

-----

She waited for an hour or so, until she heard the last dying commotion of the people outside before looking out of her door. She had managed to finish two more chapter in the thick manuscript before setting the book, still a little soiled from mud, on the table. She was thoroughly shocked, and a little restless the latter having no real cause.

Gaston had proposed to her. After knowing him since he had settled with his family a few years ago, and having caught his attention then, he had finally proposed. Being thoughtful, she knew that one day his flirtation and closeness would lead to a proposal but the blatant way in which he praised himself all the while proposing to her, led her to believe his conceit as a liability to his personality.

She stopped, imagining her life as Madame Gaston, dressed as sexily as the three triplet girls that followed him near incessantly, and waiting patiently for her 'loving' husband to come home from hunting so that she may pamper him and treat him like a King, consummating their marriage each night in her bedroom chambers, after all he was manly and at his prime. At this thought, she felt herself somewhat embarrassed.

And although he was handsome, that was a poor excuse for wanting to marry. Almost as poor an excuse as marrying to duplicate the life of an old companion, marriage was too permanent to consider lightly and to take chances at. It lasted a lifetime and how awful it would be to spend a lifetime hearing Gaston boast of himself from the beginning of the ceremony to his grave, and she knew that it would be luckier for the wife, if she would die before he.

Marriage was supposed to be that connected link between two like minds, full of love and passion that would make such a permanent cementation strong and able to survive years and years of life. Perhaps she had read too many fairy tales, but unless she felt that spark she read about, that led one to believe that one could find no other in a lifetime, she was sure she would die unwed. She now passed the farm and found herself on the meadow near the house, all adorned with fresh green grass and just passed the meadow was a steep hill that led to a tranquil and wide blue river. Most of the trees were beginning to shed their brightly-colored leaves, either red or golden or perhaps a slight red-orange, in time for the coming and merciless winter.

Passed the river lay tall cliffs, almost canyons colored brightly in brown- reds, gold, and lush greens. She had never been as far as those picturesque canyons that stretched almost as far as she could see, seemingly to touch the sun as it lay on the horizon line, she often dreamed of going there, but having no reason was content to gaze upon it and imagine. And she had energetic thoughts.

Often she wished that her vigorous imagination was understood entirely by herself and by others. Her ideas, though she never shared them with anyone, she knew, were almost as liberal and her father's inventions. She could not apologize for them however, her adventurous spirit and imagination was what made the core of her personality. And for her persona she could make no apologies. Still, it would be reprieve if someone could relate to her.

She lay on the soft grass, and noticed the dandelions that were scattered about. She picked one, and realized she had been singing to herself, so very into her thoughts that she was not cognizant and she blew it lightly, seeing the feathery parts dance and fly into the light wind. Hearing a close neigh of a horse, strangely familiar, she looked up and saw Phillipe gallop across the plain agitated and highly dynamic.

But as she saw her father's invention wrapped and unmoved as when he left the day before, and her father no where to be found, the harness still on Phillipe, she grew immediately worried. Something had happened, terrible. Almost wanting to panic, she felt her heartbeat travel and pulse swiftly until she was sure her heart was lodged in her head and not her bosom.

She dislodged the harness, and placed it in the farm before retrieving her coat, and as she talked to animals, she knew Phillipe would know where father would be, as she asked Phillipe to take her to her father. This unfamiliar feeling of dread did not sit well with her and if anything had happened to her father, she was sure she would never let herself see the end of her culpability.

-----

Phillipe was brisk. And she noticed the thick fog that hung here. The Forêt Noire, unusually dense and chilly fog, almost something out of the radical frightening manuscripts that she was indifferent to. Wolves howled in the distance and the tall trees had blocked what ever remaining sunlight from the sunset to nothingness, causing the forest floor to look darkened. They had to hurry, it was quickly approaching night.

Phillipe stopped at a very tall and wrought-iron gate, easily three times the height of her own house at its peak. It was a horrid looking castle, tall and thin in some places almost piercing the sky and not much shorter at others, reminding her uneasily of Gaston in the overbearing aura that set around the spiking towers complete with dark clouds that loomed over head looking as if rain was imminent.

She looked around, and on the stone ground, she noticed a familiar brown hat. It belonged to Maurice, her father.