THE air was chilled as the trees groaned and their limbs sagged with the weight of the winter winds and ice that weighed heavily upon them. The small provincial village of Doveport rested peacefully through the early hours of the morning.
Not a single voice or sound could be heard aside from the swaying creaking of the tall dark oak trees that lined the edge of the village's borders. The air carried with it the faint scent of a snowstorm and was laden with a bone-deep icy cold chill.
Not a soul was awake except for Monsieur Gaston André. The hunter had been perched on high in the tallest tree for quite some time, watching Belle's home, hoping to spot any signs of his lovely bride.
He watched Maurice's home intently, his grey eyes narrowed to mere slits. His eyes as good as a hawk never missed his target, and right now, he was waiting for his intended target to come out of their home to feed their family's horse, Phillippe, and then the chickens.
He knew his future wife's routines well, and the fact that she should have been up and outside by now and she was not, was alarming to him. When she was three minutes behind schedule, he felt a budding sense of annoyance that his future bride was keeping him waiting so long and out in the cold like she was now. But when the minutes dragged on and became an hour, he felt the urge to kill something again pump through his veins.
Whenever he thought he saw movement behind the curtains of Maurice's home, and it was not his lovely Belle, Gaston felt his anger jump a level.
Where is Belle?
Gaston kept repeating it over and over in his head, waiting for an answer but none came. The formidable hunter tightened his hands around the hilt of his knife in its sheath tucked into his belt until his knuckles were tight and white.
Where was she?
For her not to have been outside already tending to their chores was quite alarming.
Something must be gravely wrong. Stifling a growl as he clenched his teeth, he shimmied his way down the tree and he willed his racing heart to relax somewhat as he began to stalk toward crazy old Maurice's home.
He was in one of those rare moods when once Belle opened the door, he was half of mind to snap his bride's neck for daring to keep him waiting so long, or he would wrap his arms around her tight and never let the girl go.
"I need to—oh, excuse me, Monsieur, I—I did not see you there." Gaston was so intent on speaking with his bride and attempting to woo her, knowing that in time, he knew Belle would feel what he felt.
She would be with him now, and there would be no more need for these silly games, her constant refusal of his affection. His mind had been so fixated upon the thoughts of the inventor's daughter that he had not been paying to where he had been walking.
He had accidentally barreled into the chest of the baker and caused poor old Jacques to drop the loaves of baguette loaves in his basket that he had been in the middle of setting out in front of his shop.
The smell of freshly baked bread and pastries nearly made his mouth water.
Gaston was in no mood for the man's pleasantries, yet mindful of his feigned courtesies, he forced a pleasant smile on his face as he knelt to help LeFou's future father-in-law pick up the bread he'd fumbled.
"Forgive me, Jacques, I am the one who ran into you, it is me who should apologize, I was not watching where I was going, sir," Gaston murmured, his voice a smooth buttery purr as he picked up the last of the loaves but did not set the bread in the basket. He silently slipped a coin into the front pocket of the large man's apron, telling old Jacques to consider the loaf as payment for helping him.
The baker's already red cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of cherry red as he looked away and again mumbled a half-hearted apology that Gaston could not pretend to care about. The blundering fool was at fault for this.
The town's baker was momentarily struck dumb when the handsome hunter turned to him with a look of determination and resolve on his face that the baker had never seen in him before. For a moment, seeing the shadow of anger flit across Gaston's face startled him.
"Wh-what…is there…" the baker paused, clinging even tighter to his basket of bread as he hesitated, not liking the look in the hunter's grey and lifeless eyes. Gaston looked blank. "Is there something wrong this morning, Gaston?" he asked, not even sure if he should be asking, for he did not wish to offend the tavern owner.
The man had a temper that was up often, and by the looks of Gaston this morning, it was up now, for reasons the baker did not fathom. The baker's breathing had begun to turn heavy, and he started to sweat profusely, despite the cold air that seeped into their bones. Gaston's handsome features hardened.
"Belle, monsieur, have you seen her this morning, Jacques?" Gaston asked the baker in a casual voice, yet the baker knew the man's quiet and mild-mannered voice meant more.
Beneath the surface, the hunter's temper was threatening to implode, he could see it.
"Belle, sir? N—no, I'm afraid I have not, perhaps you could try knocking on her door?" he suggested, shooting Gaston an apologetic look.
Before the volatile hunter could take his temper out on him here and now, Jacques mumbled a hasty farewell and ducked into the relative warmth and safety of his bakery.
Gaston sneered, watching him go and he turned away and let out a noise of dissent through his nose. The baker was a weak man. He did not see how on earth LeFou could marry the fat pig's daughter.
The fat sow, what on earth does she see in LeFou, the fool? he thought bitterly and crinkled his nose in disgust as he stalked his way towards her home. The man's lips held a thin line that only deepened as the seconds passed as he stalked his way toward Maurice's home. His mind was constantly tormented day in and out by the horrid memories of Belle rejecting his proposals of marriage not once, but three times. He did not understand why she had, could she not see how she had humiliated him?
He was grateful at least, her old mental coot of a father had managed to come to his senses on his death bed. Gaston frowned as he glanced down at the bouquet of winter wildflowers he had picked.
He buried his nose in them and inhaled deeply, the scent nearly making him dizzy but also, but it calmed him a bit. He thought of the way Belle possessed that one wisp of her bangs that never seemed to quite lay in place alongside the rest of her hair. He envisioned the way her long dark ponytail tended to swish with her movements whenever she walked, how smooth and silky soft it looked. The gentle quirking upward of her thin brow whenever she was particularly puzzled or thinking about something bothersome. Of which, she would have nothing to bother her in this life once they married.
His pretty wife would want nothing. He had promised Maurice that much, and Gaston knew he was a many of many things and an especially difficult man who was difficult to please, but he was a man of his word. His word was his bond, and he promised the old man that his daughter would be well looked after.
Preserve the rare ones, his father had always told him as a young boy. His father's advice was that which he wholly intended to take to heart with her. Maurice's daughter would perhaps become his most prized possession and any strapping young boys that God would see fit to bless them with, there was a guarantee his family's lineage would continue and his progeny live for a thousand years, at best.
He even found himself intrigued by the critical way that Belle had looked at him.
She could never know the truth, but Belle was his shelter from the storm, the one he wanted to come to when everyone else hounded him. The nagging villagers, his disappointing aging father, and the raging creditors that had come to call upon him to collect the taxes from the income stream his tavern brought in. He would leave all his troubles behind when they would be married soon.
When he had first laid eyes upon Belle at the young age of sixteen, he had been captivated by how maddeningly beautiful she had been, even then. The eyes of all the young boys in the village had followed her, to which he had beat them into submission for looking at the woman he knew then he would marry. He knew that he had needed to woo her, to make the inventor's daughter feel safe and protected.
He made it a point to call upon Belle whenever he could, and yet there was always some excuse when Maurice would answer the door: She was too sick to see him, or away and would not be home for hours yet.
Excuses. Well, no more, Belle. You are mine now, he thought, a horrible bitterness and anger now churning in the pit of his stomach. When Crazy Old Maurice had taken his last breath and had finally died from his sickness after days of battling a raging fever that burned him up from the inside out, Gaston had been soft-spoken and mild-mannered, and conveyed his apologies, how Maurice would be missed.
Belle had looked at him then with such hope in those haunting dark eyes of hers then. She had looked so hopeful that he was apt to be the same as the handsome heroes she was so fond of in those books of hers she read. She wasted too much time with her head in the clouds and not enough time in reality.
Gaston knew now that he should not have laughed at her and made a comment against Crazy Old Maurice, but he could not help it. He'd accidentally let it slip that he was glad Maurice had passed on.
He did want to marry her and for her to have his children—that was the whole point. But it had been a grave mistake on his part to speak so ill of Belle's cooky old father. He should have kept his opinion about the inventor to himself, he realized that now. He had underestimated Belle's love for old Maurice.
She had been appalled, disgusted, and even terrified to hear him speak so ill of her father. She had even grabbed a small hand mirror and had attempted to hurl it at him in her grief as she had openly cried over Maurice. He had tried to calm Belle down as he approached.
"You don't need to be afraid of me, Belle. I don't want to have to hurt you…" he had tried to soothe her.
And she had calmed down after that, so much so that Gaston was beginning to hope that she was coming to accept that marrying him and becoming his wife was to be her fate.
She would not want to wind up homeless and as a spinster on the streets, like their dear Jacqueline who'd lost her husband in the wars, driven near to madness by her grief of missing him.
Jacqueline was dependent upon the scraps of human charity and kindness to live. He did not want Belle to suffer that. Gaston looked down at the bouquet of winter wildflowers in his hand and nearly smiled as the cold winter breeze ruffled his shadow-raven black hair gently and blew his ponytail off his shoulders.
He stood outside the front door of Maurice and Belle's tumbledown cottage for a moment to collect his breath. The thought of his lovely wife within seized his heart without any warning at all.
Gaston felt a sudden wave of possessiveness and a yearning to be near Belle so strong that he nearly cried out in alarm. After years of waiting and attempting to win her heart the hard way, he would finally, even if by forcing Maurice's hand, take Belle as his wife. Something that had long since been denied him.
He would have the most beautiful girl in the village for his wife. Belle would be his and his alone, and nothing could stop it from happening, not even Belle herself, he knew.
He would have a lovely wife, someone to stay by his side and ease his cold lonely nights, she would bear him many children, strapping young boys, as he had been when he was younger, and he would have a family to love him as he had never been loved.
Oh, the townspeople, the simple-headed idiots, fools, the lot of them, they worshipped him and put him upon a pedestal. While he did not deny that he craved attention and validation, he had always felt that something in his life was missing, When, he had been twenty and Belle sixteen at the time, he knew it then when she had looked at him the first time. Belle had not made a fool of herself like half the simpering ladies of varying ages in their village did simply to gain an ounce of his favor.
Maurice's daughter had made it a habit to try to actively ignore him, something that no young girl or woman had done. He had taken it upon himself to play Belle's little game, already knowing he would emerge the victor, for he was the hunter, and Belle, his most prized possession, was his prize.
Growing impatient and unwilling to wait anymore, he twisted the knob of the door and pushed the heavy oak door open using just a little of his repressed strength, his need overcoming him. The thing creaked loudly in its rusted hinges, alerting Belle to his presence, or so Gaston hoped so. He drew in a breath and waited, hoping to see her barrel down the stairs to greet whoever it was that had come to call upon her or rise from the peeling leather armchair by the fireplace where she would happily lounge and read.
He came to step into the entryway of their home, and the sole of his boot always managed to find the one floorboard that never failed to squeak, and in the desolate and nearly empty home, the sound was nearly deafeningly loud.
"Belle? It's me," Gaston called hoarsely. "I've brought you something, I had thought perhaps you might like to take a walk with me before the snowfall comes."
He was met with silence. He frowned. Gaston wondered if Belle perhaps was still sleeping.
He knew Belle had mourned her father greatly and sometimes people in grief, especially women, tended to lose sleep over it, but he had never been capable of such an emotion. Gaston frowned as he moved through the house. No candles or lamps were lit, which he thought was strange. Gaston peered into Belle's bedroom, finding the bed empty and made up. A cold feeling of anger and foreboding washed over the hunter at that moment, though Gaston managed to rein in control of his temper. Still, it was up. Gaston did not want to jump to any conclusions that his bride had run from him.
With great difficulty, Gaston forced himself to move methodically and slowly throughout Maurice's home, scouring every inch of their cottage. Not a single thing appeared to be out of place or missing—not their silverware or stash of coins he knew the old man kept buried behind one of the bookshelves along the walls. Belle's small threadbare closet and chest of drawers remained untouched.
It looked as though she had not bothered to pack any change of clothes.
No jewels were gone, not even her hairbrush which rested upon the small night table by her simple hard cot that was in desperate need of a new leg or two was gone. The only thing missing was the only thing that mattered to Gaston anymore: Belle. Gaston felt a surge in his temper flare.
He forced himself to remain calm, though every inch of him wanted nothing more than to turn over her bed, and chest of drawers, and destroy her threadbare wardrobe for what she had done.
Perhaps she had gone out to the market or slipped out the back door for a breath of fresh air.
Yes, surely that was it, he tried to tell himself. But after a moment as he raced outside and darted towards the baker's shop to ask the flustered overweight man if Jacques had seen any sign of Belle one last time, LeFou's future father-in-law finally blurted out that Belle had been seen leaving her home late once more in the night with Monsieur LeFou. But LeFou had come back alone.
Feeling his mouth go slightly slack in surprise, Gaston glanced down in shock and horror at the bouquet of wintry blue winter wildflowers he had brought Belle, hoping they would please her.
Gaston had forgotten he'd been holding it in the first place. In his rage, Gaston had managed to destroy the flowers beyond any recognition, breaking and crushing every single flower in his iron grasp.
Satisfied that he had finally coaxed the truth out of the flustered baker, Gaston turned away from the man and turned his back to leave, hellbent on finding his dear friend.
LEFOU felt strangely numb as he went about preparing Gaston's tavern to open. He'd had a sleepless night, tossing, and turning, wondering if he had done the right thing by helping Belle to flee their provincial village. He had been having trouble getting thoughts of Belle out of his head, and how adamant she had been in insisting that she would still find a way to attend his wedding.
Though LeFou could not help but puzzle over and over in his mind just how Belle thought she was going to do that. Gaston would spot her if he was not already on the hunt for her. LeFou did not know how Belle thought she would have a fool's hope in attending his wedding unless she disguised herself.
He had thought he had been fascinated by his friend before but now he was downright obsessed. He hoped that she was making the best of her situation in the Prince's castle, and prayed that she would never encounter the man. There had been whispers among the members of staff who chose to live in the village rather than the castle that the young Prince was more a savage beast than a man.
He went through every moment spent with Belle last night and prayed that Gaston would not find out that it was he who had helped her, though Iseult, God bless his future bride, had assured him they were not seen. His bride had been the first and only person he had confessed the truth to when the guilt had overcome him this morning and it had been the first thing out of his mouth when she had stopped by with a fresh loaf of bread and a jar of strawberry jam for him to get him through a busy morning.
He did not know what he had done to deserve a girl like her, but he knew that he owed Belle everything. She had given them all so much, but giving him the courage to approach Iseult, was Belle's greatest gift.
The more and more he racked his brain for how he might have handled the situation with Belle differently, nothing came to mind, and the more frustrated LeFou felt himself become. He felt his blood boil as he thought about how Gaston had driven his friend away. Belle was kind and sweet and good, pure of heart. She would wither away like someone dying of thirst or starvation if she married Gaston.
He could see it now, and though his friend was loud and boisterous, he also could not help but feel annoyed with Maurice's daughter for not even wanting to give Gaston a chance before she fled.
He shivered and pulled his coat tighter around himself as he grabbed the bucket of water to wash the front steps of their shared establishment and headed outside into the brisk winter air, letting out a gasp as the cold hit his cheeks and pinked his face.
The streets were slowly becoming busier, as the various shopkeepers were beginning to open up their shops for the day, but it was not so busy yet that it was too loud for him to think.
He thought it was nice to be out alone with his thoughts and the cold winter breeze was oddly comforting. LeFou was ripped from his thoughts when he heard his name being called and the sound of rushing footsteps from behind. He spun around and a crooked grin graced his features to see his bride running towards him. Though his smile immediately faltered when the baker's daughter Iseult skidded to a halt a few feet in front of him and practically heaved trying to catch her breath.
His bride doubled over and clutched at a stitch in her side, managing to gasp out weakly, "Gaston, LeFou, my love, he—he knows. Papa told him the truth. He—I guess he saw the two of you leaving Maurice's home last night."
A violent chill ripped through LeFou just then as Iseult managed to catch her breath and brush her maroon-colored curls out of her face and furrowed her brow in worry. He knew the chill that went up and down his back now had nothing to do with the cold temperature, and before he could open his mouth to speak, to tell the woman he loved that all would be well, that he would figure this out, the sound of an angry guttural roar filled the air, making his bride scream and dart behind him in surprise.
"LEFOU! BELLE! I KNOW YOU HELPED HER! WHERE IS SHE, LEFOU?"
Gaston's loud guttural roar startled LeFou as he dumped out a bucket of water outside his best friend's tavern. LeFou very nearly screamed as a cry of surprise left his lips. All the blood drained from his face.
He staggered backward and dropped the bucket that fell to the ground with a loud clang and seeped the water all over his boots and soaking the leather badly. A yelp left his throat as he looked up at his friend now stalking towards him in rage. When his eyes first landed on Gaston's hulking muscular form now looming over him, he at first could not process the information on how Iseult's father had told. His mouth went dry, and his chest felt tight. For a moment, he was sure his heart had even stopped beating.
As Gaston's left hand jutted out of its own accord and wound around LeFou's arm with a vice grip hard enough to break his arm, he felt tears come to his eyes and he blubbered.
"G-Gaston, I—I don't…I never…I...I did not mean any of this, please," LeFou whimpered, but immediately cut himself off upon hearing his friend let out a warning growl from deep within his chest.
"Quiet, LeFou. Save your breath. I don't want to hear your lies. Your bride's fat pig of a father has told me the truth," he growled, thrusting his face close to LeFou's as LeFou winced in pain as he was slammed roughly against the front door of his tavern. "I know you helped her escape, old friend," Gaston leered, the edges of the man's thin lips curling upward into a victorious smirk as he heard Iseult squeal and felt LeFou squirm. But he ignored both of their discomforts and continued speaking to him. "Considering that I am…in a 'generous mood' this morning, LeFou, old friend, I will give you a chance to undo your mistake. You have gifted me with quite the hunt as my wedding gift, LeFou, it seems," Gaston chuckled with mocking, a thing the man did so naturally and now it stuffed the chills down LeFou's throat. "My bride has disappeared with your help, the baker has told me, and you know where she has gone, LeFou. You are going to come with me and help me smoke out my little vixen of a bride from whatever hole she's burrowed into. If my wife thinks she can hide from me, Belle is sorely mistaken."
LeFou stared, wide-eyed, his lips parted in horror and confusion.
As he watched Gaston, he felt a swell of relief coupled with happiness rush up inside of her. He knew it was a selfish thought, but he was relieved that Gaston would not kill him or dare to try to hurt his bride as punishment for helping Belle flee. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for him yet. At that moment, LeFou began to feel that everything he had done in his life, granted, it was only twenty-nine years, was worth it. He had done the impossible. If only he could know just what sort of attachment Gaston had formed to him, after all. But LeFou's surge of triumph was not to last, however. His feeling of euphoria quickly faded as he watched Gaston's pale and blank grey eyes harden and the man's lips pursed.
LeFou felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach. He knew that look in his best friend's eye well enough.
That was his 'Decision Face', as he liked to call it. The hunter had made up his mind on this, and once Gaston had set upon a course, there was no influencing his decision or changing his mind.
"If you don't…I don't think I need to say it," Gaston spat and turned his head slightly, appalled and disgusted as he crinkled his nose as he looked upon Iseult, the auburn-haired daughter of the baker who was clutching tightly onto LeFou's shoulders, shaking badly, looking positively terrified of Gaston now.
He honestly did not know what LeFou saw in this girl, she was nothing special in terms of her looks.
She had a pretty enough face, save for her nose which looked as though it had been squashed. She had a pug nose, and a slender figure, but it was her black eyes that unnerved Gaston to a degree he was not comfortable. The girl was looking almost half-crazed and fearful of him. Gaston scowled and sneered.
In his rage, he shoved LeFou against his chest, hard and strong enough that the short and squat man lost his balance and toppled to the ground, taking Iseult with him.
Gaston leered at the flustered couple as Iseult was the first to recover and helped LeFou to stand.
He turned his back on them and barked at him. Gaston gave a half-grin that LeFou could only partially see, given that his friend's profile was turned to the side and mostly hidden, but it was no less unnerving and terrifying.
"If you don't want your pig of a bride to serve as a snack for my hounds, LeFou, then get up and ready my horse." He turned, his handsome features now in a full-on smirk, his pale grey eyes alight with a coldness that had not been there before. "This morning has just gotten lovely, LeFou. Let's hunt my bride." Pleased that LeFou offered no resistance or excuse as he watched his friend feebly nod his head in defeat and submission, Gaston turned away.
He had his lovely little wife to find.