Prelude

"R-r-rig…Rig-a-what-o?"

"Rigoletto! Now hush and pay attention, or you'll miss something very important."

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, so far away that you'd never know it existed, there lived the Elf Lord Dhwyrnich and his Lady Llewellyn. Both were exceedingly fair to look upon, and even fairer was their rule over their people in a forest in the middle of the Land of the Elves. Their people loved them as only Elves can love, and many thousands of years passed in peace and happiness.

But Dhwyrnich and Llewellyn were not happy.

In all their extensive years of living, never once had they had an Elf-child to call their own. So many members of their court had bourn beautiful children, and the couple was hard-pressed to keep smiling and congratulating their dear friends when, on the inside, they felt misery near unto death.

Luckily, Dame Fortune was smiling on Lady Llewellyn one day…

On her usual ramble through the woods, on the outskirts of the Elvish city, she suddenly heard the sounds of a struggle in the clearing up ahead. Stricken with a swift fear that the Fell Creatures of the Eastlands had invaded her fair land once again, she ran as fast she could to the clearing, only to find –

A dryad being aggravated by a pernicious satyr.

Though out of breath and highly exasperated at the turn of events, the Lady Llewellyn still had enough presence of mind to shoot a blast of defensive magic out of her fingertips, an ability that dryads lack, into the satyr, which in turn let out a roar of frustration and pain. The Elven Lady and the willowy dryad, two unlikely companions, watched precariously as the satyr paused, then lumbered unsteadily away.

It wasn't for nothing that the Lady was often referred to as the Protector of Virtue.

"What's virtue?"

A perplexed hesitation.

"It's…how much morality and goodness a person has."

"But – what does that have to do with the dryad?"

"Would you like to go to bed now?"

"NO!"

"Alright! Then let me finish…"

The dryad was so grateful to the Elf Lady that she swore that she would give Lady Llewellyn anything she desired (within reason, of course: even magic realms have limits). The Elf sighed with despondency, saying that she truly lacked nothing…nothing except a child, though she did not think that the dryad could help her with that.

But the dryad smiled, for she was a daughter of roots, of birth and beginnings, and she knew exactly how to help the fair Elf Lady…

Nine months later, the Lady Llewellyn was just as surprised as anyone (especially the Lord Dhwyrnich) to give birth to twins: a mellow, dark baby he-elf, and a red, squalling baby she-elf. Loud and numerous were the celebrations throughout the land as Elves hither and yon spread the news and the joy associated that their beloved Lord and Lady had finally produced heirs, and such beautiful ones at that! One did not need to enter the Elf-dwellings to hear their light laughter and merry speeches as they all toasted:

'To Rigoletto and Glorfindel!'

For such were the names of the twins: the older he-elf had been christened Rigoletto, and Glorfindel she. Though the Elf-children looked sufficiently alike in their early years, they quickly grew more and more opposite in appearance. Where Rigoletto had begun to grow a thatch of thick, dark brown hair, Glorfindel had amassed a head of fine, curly light hair; Rigoletto's eyes had only transitioned to a brighter blue after his infancy, but Glorfindel's irises had painstakingly changed to a deep, rich brown; Rigoletto grew to be tall and slim, though still retaining a fine musculature acquired from an unusually active childhood, yet Glorfindel (much to her chagrin) was still petite as she reached adulthood, though with a curvier shape.

Even their interests were variations on a theme. They both loved to read, but Rigoletto was more interested in history and science, while Glorfindel leaned towards the legends and classic literature. They admired art, yet Glorfindel would rather create it than listen to her brother dispute about each picture's hidden meanings. The twins loved to ride on their palomino horses, but Glorfindel preferred to have her steed go at a walk so she could enjoy her surroundings, consequently leaving her far behind her brother as he raced along at break-neck speeds, savoring the feeling of the wind on his face.

In one way, Rigoletto and Glorfindel were exactly alike: they shared a passion for singing.

It seemed that they had been born to sing. They both had incredible ranges, wonderful tonality, amazing breath support, musical genius, and (most importantly) the determination it takes to make these things really go far. At a young age (for Elves, that is), they were reputed throughout the land for being the best singers of the Age. Kings of Elves, Men, Unicorns, Dwarves, and even the Dragons themselves requested these unprecedented Elf twins to sing at their numerous mystical and inscrutable ceremonies, to which they happily complied. As the twins became more well-known, teasing rumours began to spread that it was more than the twins' heavenly voices that drew the attention of some members of the opposite gender…

She was an Elf Princess of another country, fair of face and endowed with queenly grace. It was, of course, Rigoletto's voice that first drew her to him; for Rigoletto, it was the enchanting way her smiling dark eyes kept fluttering back to his piercing blue orbs. Before long (once again, this is relative to the Elves), Rigoletto fancied himself in love with the soft-hearted princess and he asked her to marry him, to which she readily agreed.

The day approached. Elves bustled here and there, each day filled with tasks to be taken care of before the wedding. Roses, lilies, lavender, pansies, morning glories, and an infinite number of other such flowers needed to be plucked, shipped and arranged in the Gardens; gowns, robes, doublets, breeches, and an inestimable amount of shoes needed to be designed, created, and fitted; courses of meals, snacks, delicacies, and desserts to be planned, organized, and – of course – made; meanwhile, the already-extensive list of guests to invite was lengthening by the hour.

It was a wedding to rival that of the Creator to The Most Honoured Lady.

Soon, there was only one day left until Rigoletto and his princess were to wed in eternal bliss.

"Yuck!"

An incredulous pause.

"What do you mean: 'yuck'?"

A third voice interjected. "Keep reading, Christine."

A reproachful silence.

Then: "'But, on the eve of the wedding…'"

But, on the eve of the wedding, the Elves were unexpectedly attacked by Fell Creatures, who were led by a powerful sorcerer that Rigoletto had wronged long ago. As the Elves of the Guard busied themselves with the lesser creatures, the sorcerer began a duel with Rigoletto, hoping with a savage desire to have his revenge upon the Elf-prince before the sun rose again. They fought sword to sword back and forth across the grounds, neither gaining advantage over the other for several hours, yet waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. Finally, one did: Rigoletto dealt a quick and fatal blow to the sorcerer after a long and exhausing duel.

But the fight wasn't quite over yet.

Enraged that Rigoletto had bested him – a sorcerer, for the Creator's sake! – he gathered what remained of his strength and struck the side of Rigoletto's face with an evil dagger before the Elf could leave. It did the job. The sorcerer cackled maniacally as Rigoletto clawed at his face, screaming in anguish.

'Now,' said the sorcerer in a guttural voice, 'you will bear the mark of your soul on your face, so that all may be forewarned! Only love could have saved you, and now it never will!"

He died with a self-satisfied smirk upon his lips.

Rigoletto was sick with fever and delirium for nearly a fortnight as his body tried – uselessly – to combat the unknown agent inside his Elven blood. He was watched over by the best Healers in the Land, as well as the Lord Dhwyrnich, the Lady Llewellyn, and Glorfindel. They kept a vigil night and day, chanting spells of love and healing till their voices nearly gave out, hoping against hope –

Yet, when Rigoletto seemed out of danger and the Healers slowly and cautiously removed the bandages that had been wrapped around the young Elf's head, they all gasped in horror, shock, and disappointment, for it was as the Lord Dhwyrnich had feared. The dagger had been poisoned: not with a tangible, liquid concoction, but an evil spell so ancient that even the Elves had nearly forgotten that it existed, yet so potent that it corrupted the very air it touched. Now it was in the body of the son of an Elf Lord, and it clearly showed on Rigoletto's face. The deep gashes the sorcerer's dagger had made had never completely closed, nor would they ever, and the skin around it had turned an angry, mottled red. Because of being wrapped inside bandages for so long and so recently after being struck, the skin that made up his lower right eyelid (for that was the side on which he was attacked) had been damaged beyond repair, so it tended to sag and expose parts of his inner eye, giving him the appearance of being somewhat stupid; this was, of course, after the period of time in the which he couldn't bear to have his eye exposed to the sharp, stinging air and had to have it covered by a protective eye patch.

It seemed that his wounds would never mend.

One old Healer remembered a similar wound several millenniums ago; having been an apprentice at the time, he still remembered the ultimatum that his master had delivered, and which he now delivered to Dhwyrnich and Llewellyn:

'He has been poisoned by the most powerful evil, and so he may only be cured by the most powerful righteousness: Love. If he can learn to really love someone, and that person can love him despite his ugliness, then the poison will be forced to leave his body, and he will be whole.'

But, what no one knew was that the poison was stronger than they expected. Being an antiquated spell, it was extremely slow, but soon it would begin its inexorable way through his veins from his face, down his neck and shoulder, and into his heart. Once the poison had entered his heart, there would be no hope for him: he would become a wraith, a Fell Creature, a type of his former self. He would become one of the creatures he had spent so long fighting against, a lost soul filled with darkness and despair. Only Love could have saved him…

But now, it seemed it never would.

The Elf princess, who enjoyed the reputation of having a kind heart, fled in pure terror when she finally saw the mangled face of her 'fiancé'. Not stopping even to give the traditional thanks to her host and hostess, the princess immediately left the home of Rigoletto and rode with her consort back to her father's kingdom and refused to leave, not even to answer to the pleadings of the messenger sent by the Elf that she had been so eager to marry less than a fortnight ago. Though her parents admonished her to not repeat to anyone what she told them about the sudden turn of events, it soon seemed that everyone in their kingdom (and then some) knew what a monster the once-fair Rigoletto had become.

Stung by the princess's reaction to his face, Rigoletto timidly sought out the fair she-elves of the land, hoping against hope that he would find the one whom he could love and who could see past his deformity and love him for what he was. During these exchanges, he wore a mask to hide his wounds, which, sooner or later, produced the counter-effect of making the she-elves more enamored with his face than he desired. The moment that these she-elves saw his face – for the moment would come, whether voluntarily or not – they could never see him in the same light again, if they could still stand to be in his presence.

Their expectations changed when they saw him: instead of anticipating the face of an angel (his unharmed side certainly was handsome, not to mention his heavenly voice), they now expected him to have the soul of a monster, and it shook them to not only see that what they anticipated was not what was there, but that two such contrasting traits could coexist in one entity. If it wasn't fear of his face that eventually drove them away, it was fear of his numerous incongruities.

Rigoletto quickly began to grow bitter and frustrated over the years, aggravated by the slow pain in his neck that would come and go…

When Rigoletto became more than sick of being pushed away by every female he tried to become acquainted with, and was ready to hide his face in a hole in the dirt, Glorfindel stopped him and suggested that they travel into the World of Men, since he had nearly exhausted the Land of the Elves. Their parents – who still shuddered to look upon their son – were a long time in giving their permission.

However, one day Lady Llewellyn finally gave them their answer. 'I can deny you nothing, my children. Go, and seek out the one who will love you more than anything in this world or the next. Take care of one another.'

So Rigoletto left the lands of his birth, accompanied only by his twin sister Glorfindel and his faithful friend, who was called Hansellon, to sojourn in the strange World of Men, and search for the one who would save him from his cursed life, his cursed face.

But…

Who could ever learn to love a Beast?