It was a clear, crisp winter night, the kind where the beauty of snow and sky is only enhanced by the cold. But inside the castle it was warm and lively. Dinner had been served and ignored by the prince and his companion, who had settled in front of the fierce fire in the great hall.
The girl was pretty enough, doe-eyed with long black hair and pleasing curves beneath her plain clothes. Very pleasing. He didn't know where she'd come from, but he'd spied her as he came to dinner and whisked her away from her duties to join him in some merriment in the great hall. He preferred his conquests in public. He'd never been shy with the ones from the village, but the paths out of the woods were deep in snow by now and were not conductive to travel. In honestly, he preferred the staff. There was always a degree of awkwardness when they resumed their roles in the morning, a feeling which involuntarily recalled the act they'd shared. There was contact and body heat in the act, but no passion. Merely service. She served her purpose, his need.
The youth grabbed the girl playfully around the waist. She struggled, but without gain. Good wine will do that. He had been taken hard by the wine as well, red-faced and slurring. But he was still charming, thick tawny hair, broad shoulders, and those honest blue eyes. Those eyes had led many a village girl or serving maid to his side. His sense abandoned him and left the ego in command where there would be rational thought. She didn't really want to run away, did she? No; no, of course not. Not a female in the world could resist him. Would resist him. He was magnificent. He was powerful. He controlled, owned, possessed her, not just for the moment but for eternity. In the heat of the act there was no match for the ego.
The staff cleared the table and banked the fire, ignoring the pair writhing on the floor. They'd grown oblivious to the prince's dalliances. It was easier that way, to ignore his unseemliness and console the girl afterward. They were good at their jobs, obedient. No one attempted to dissuade him. He was indulged.
Night meandered into morning, but the pair continued, fueled by warm alcohol and misguided synapses. They did not notice the snow beginning to fall, nor the wind whistling. The staff had tucked themselves away in their quarters to wait out the turbulence before the fireplace and remained there as the weather fiercened. The maitre d'hotel rendezvoused with his lover while the butler shuffled around complaining about the state of the castle as the housekeeper sang her bastard grandchildren to sleep and wondered what would become of her daughter in the great hall. They knew they would not be needed; there would be another storm, a wrathful, petty tantrum, the same sort that always signaled their service.
It was late in the afternoon when the knock came, but it was dark as any moonless night. Too dark to see even the storm, the only light came from within the castle. No doubt how she found it.
She knocked. It was soft through the thick door, but her rhythm made his head pulse painfully. It was more than chance.
"The door," he moaned. The knocking continued, his head throbbing with every beat.
"The door!" he commanded. But there was no staff in sight, nor in earshot. Not close enough to hear him over the storm in any case. Less the one burying herself beneath the rug before the dying fire. He sat, and a wave of nausea hit him. He fought hard not to retch. He had to stop the pain. Had to stop the noise. Had to get up. How long had he slept? How much wine had he drunk? He braced himself on the chair. Where were his pants?
The girl opened her eyes, and very quickly decided that to be a very bad idea. She heard the youth's moaning; was he ill? She slowly opened her eyes again. He looked so young in the half-light of the fire. How old was he? Probably younger than her. He had taken her older sister once, and she had taken herself down to the river with a pocketful of rocks. Her mother worried, she knew, but she was obedient. They all were. She felt sick, and wriggled deeper beneath the rug. She wished she could inter herself properly.
The youth lost his balance and fell to the floor. Ah, the floor. He patted it. It was a good floor. It stayed still. Not like that damned armchair. The solidness of the floor beneath him seemed to soften the pain in his head, but he was angry now. Who had dared disturb him? He rose and staggered toward the entrance hall, collecting the items of clothing he had discarded in wild haste as the wine took effect.
As he neared the door, the ego slowly surfaced. Sense was still in hibernation, fearful of the alcohol, but ego was brave. Ego thought, perhaps this is another present for us. His hopes fluttered about his sotted head as he opened the door to reveal the source of the knocking.
A woman. Stooped with age, creased by hard use, and holding a rose.
"I seek shelter from the elements," she spoke, in a rough, hoarse, dissonant voice. "I have only this rose to offer in payment, but tis a violent night. Please, let me in, for I am chilled froze already."
The youth recoiled in horror. This wasn't a present. What was it? And she was asking for favors from him?
"Begone, you wicked, ugly hag. Go away and die in the snow." He leaned forward and vomited at her feet. "Take you and your damned rose away from here."
The woman frowned, but ignored the mess upon the threshold. "An enchanted rose, sire. Even if you've no use for it, why turn me away in this frightful night? Look at the storm, fit for none to be about."
The youth hawked and spat on the stones. "Tis my land. And your bad luck to be so foul-looking. This harsh weather and your harsh manner are two of a kind. This is your element, monster."
"You might be counseled to not judge me on my face," growled the woman.
The youth snarled, "I might be counseled not to take your cursed counsel, viper. Get gone from my country afore I set the dogs on you."
The woman cast down the rose and stepped back from the doorway as she ripped back her glamour. The prince gasped and lost his balance again, landing in his vomit. He had never seen a creature like this, so beautiful and regal. Every inch of his body surged with the madness of lust, a madness tempered by fear. This was magic. Hard, cruel, powerful magic, and he had crossed it. He was powerless and scared sober; his ego vanished and took his bravado with it, leaving him with sense again. Sense knew there was trouble. Magic was always trouble.
"You are a despicable excuse for a human being. You act like some animal, dressed up and given the guise of beauty when you're naught but a wild thing. You don't deserve your luck, your station, or your pretty face." As she spoke, a gilded fog rose about the two. His body prickled with fear, and with something else. Something new…
The girl peered around the corner of the hall. She sat quickly. Must be still drunk.
The woman continued, and the fog grew thicker. "Time you found a form that suits you." Within the cloud of gold he looked at his hands. Not hands. Like fierce/claws/slash/maul things. Not his. He shut his eyes. Can't be. Not real.
The gold flooded the hall and began to spread beyond. The girl caught sight of what was trembling where her prince had been. She tried to fall again but was already on the ground. Fearful, she attempted to run. Not possible. She tried again, wishing sobriety. No running. A soft swaying motion was the most she could manage. Good enough.
The woman withdrew a hand mirror from within her cloak. "What do you think? Handsome? Charming? Debonair?" He attempted to curl within himself, avoiding the mirror. "That's right. Frightful. Bad, huh? Well, you made a bad human. See if you can make a better beast." She turned her back on him. Walked away.
"Please," he moaned. "Please, don't."
She faced him. "Don't what? Leave you? This way?"
He was crying. Real tears, not tantrum-whining-weeping. She'd never seen him cry. She doubted if anyone had.
"You're right," she said, gently. Damn. She really couldn't leave him like this. "I can't leave you. Not like this. Leaves me no better than you." He looked up at the sweet tone. A familiar tone.
"The rose is enchanted," she said as she picked it up and brushed the snow off. Concentrate. How to let him save himself? And it can't be easy. "It will bloom until your twenty-first year. If you can break the spell before it wilts entirely…"
"A spell? It can be broken?" His voice was rougher now, but wistful. Hope? Why had he hope?
"To break the spell, you must learn the most important thing you've never learned." She knew his illiteracy was a sore point, but she had to barb him. Not too much hope, now. "How to love, and be loved in return."
She offered the rose.
A cruel, crooked paw reached for the rose and snatched it from her. He looked at the rose, then at her. The eyes hadn't changed.
"Before the last petal falls," she said.