Melancholic
-
-
In a pale chiffon dress, sitting by a thin Gothic window, Belle gazed down at the gardens. There he was, her Beast, her Prince. Her blond-haired boy-child-man, who was an endearing mix of feline habits, youthful curiosity, and post-adolescent strength. Dashing in a billowing white shirt, he was liken to one of the lords in her novels—scratch that, he was one of those dangerous, attractive lords.
This was her dream, wasn't it? Hadn't she wished for more than "this provincial life" when immersed in her little country town, full of naïve, short-sighted peasants? Hadn't she dreamed of a secret, hidden prince, just like her Beast?
Yet, she had gotten her Beast. She'd gotten her hunk of a man, towering and ugly and kind. Who was this newcomer, this new form in his place? She couldn't recognize him anymore. That nose, that chin, those fingers….
With his physical transformation came one far less pleasant. No longer did he go about trying to induce her interest, trying to get her to love him back. Now he was far more interested in affairs of state, organizing the lands that had fallen to ruin during his sabbatical, and collecting the taxes that had been neglected while he was hidden in his castle. He barely gave her a second glance in the halls.
She'd fallen in love with the Beast; he was a companion, someone who cared genuinely about how she felt, and someone she knew she could spend her life with. He used to be her protector, her best friend, and the one who showed her every kindness. Now, in his stead, there was the Prince, a handsome man with cares and duties to fulfill, who could not be bothered to feed the birds with her and have long, meandering walks with her.
His scent was different. His walk, as he learned to be human again, no longer hunched and pacing, but in fast strides. He did not care to slow for her. He did not care to take her hand. She was the wife he returned to at night to grope under the bedsheets and kiss a fresh, soft, human kiss goodnight. But that—none of that satisfied her. She wanted the muscled monster who could break her in his fingers but was considerate enough to be gentle, to give her the lightest caresses. She wanted the innocent who tried and tried again to coax love his way. She wanted the one who tried to be hopeful, the dark glowering one, the one who roared when he was angry and had glowing, liquid eyes.
She could no longer recognize his profile in the dark. She did not know this man, this Prince.
She wanted her Beast back.