[AN: This is designed to align to the account of the Prince's transformation given in my fic Bellum. The Enchantress here follows the same rules as the Genie in Aladdin where she has access to pop culture references that haven't happened at the time of the story's setting.]
The young Prince was a third wheel in the royal family, just another mouth that needed feeding with a silver spoon and another head that had to be dressed up with garish wigs. He was passed around from one wealthy governess to the next, while his parents were too busy with the side effects of the French Revolution to give him the time of day.
When the heat in Paris got too hot to handle, they shipped him off to some far-flung castle in the middle of nowhere. There, he had a full household staff catering to his every whim, and plenty of cash to burn. The castle's lands gave him food, water, and firewood. The nearby village supplied everything else: china, pastries, wigs, and fine clothes that even the villagers themselves wouldn't dream of being able to buy for themselves. There was even a bookstore, despite the fact most of the villagers couldn't read. It was all for him, the little fils-du-roy.
But there were no fancy governesses for the little prince this time. By now, the aristocrats had all either fled or been introduced to Joseph-Ignace Guillotin's new invention, leaving the little lord to his own devices with only his servants to keep him in line. And let me tell you, any etiquette book worth the gilt inset on the cover would've warned against getting too chummy with the help.
So there he was, holed up in his own little world of chaos and informality, his innate snobbery mixing with his unchecked power. Without anyone to keep him in line, he learned only the worst traits a person of his rank could have: selfishness, thoughtlessness, and a downright lack of manners.
The young prince's bad habits were like a disease, and hope of a cure vanished when the news of the king and queen's deaths were relayed to the castle through the newspapers, alongside all the playbills and advertisements for M. Bouzot's patented wooden legs. Nobody came to collect the little boy, and nobody came to arrest him. The Prince was forgotten, left alone to rule over his palaceful of servants, who were grateful just to have the work. This sense of abandonment further twisted his already deformed nature.
But the Prince's days were not bleak. He indulged in horseback riding, hawking, hunting, and playing games. He read voraciously from his vast library and listened to music played by his own musicians. He studied art and interior decoration, creating beautiful portraits of himself and designing luxurious clothing and furnishings to further embellish his gilded prison. The Prince made the best of his circumstances, though his heart remained a festering wound. The King and Queen were six feet under, and their eldest son had already joined them. Their daughter had hightailed it out of the country, leaving only this youngest prince to inherit the throne. But it was no throne he was sitting on, it was a forgotten chair in a forgotten castle, surrounded by a forgotten staff, who whispered about his birthright, but wondered whether he could lay claim to it.
In short, the Kingdom of France was a dumpster fire that nobody wanted to put out.
The young Prince was left with a lot to ponder, but he had no one to talk to about it. All he had was his own thoughts, and the ghosts of his past. And ghosts, as he knew all too well, were often the only friends a forgotten prince could hope for.
…
That One wasn't a ghost, not in the traditional sense, although the mistake had been made often enough. Draped in a cloak the color of deepest, darkest fir needles, she trudged through the freshly fallen snow, her feet crunching with each step, heading towards the beacon of light emanating from the grand castle.
It was in the middle of nowhere, but no expense had been spared in its construction. The place had been refurbished just three decades prior and was a prime example of mid-century Rococo. White marble adorned with cherubs and acanthus leaves covered every inch of the place, while the furnishings were embellished with intricate little human figures. An Englishman would have been aghast at the amount of nudity in just the tables alone.
Inside, tonight, a party was in full swing. The Prince and his entourage had little else to occupy their time than to throw lavish celebrations for no reason at all. This particular one was the tenth day of the Advent party, not to be confused with the ninth day's festivities from the previous evening, or tomorrow's planned eleventh day revelries.
In those days, there was no such thing as a legal drinking age, and the young Prince had access to all the hooch his innocent little gullet could suck down. The spirits were top-notch, although they didn't appeal to his juvenile palate; he preferred them diluted in the sugary concoction that the English help called "nog." He poured a splash of the good Jerez brandy into a glass of the pancake batter.
It could be tough to distinguish the servants from the guests at the party, for there were no guests from outside the castle walls. The Prince instead had playmates: children of similar age who were on the payroll to act as his pals. As for the rest, they were just the help. It felt like attending a soirée at a friend's place, where guests would pitch in to make snacks or clean up after themselves. Informal, but convivial.
But no one could mistake That One for a mere partygoer.
She glided in like a pestilence on an icy cough, barging into the antechamber of the castle unannounced. The sudden change in air pressure set off alarm bells for the staff, who scurried to investigate the disturbance.
Lumiere, a gaunt Brabançon in charge of hospitality, rushed to the doorway to greet the uninvited guest. It was his job to receive visitors, but this was surely no ordinary one, if indeed such a thing could be said to exist in this far-off outpost. His mind raced with possibilities. Could it be the Prince's sister, emerging from the shadows for a clandestine reunion? Or perhaps a messenger from Paris with urgent news? The ultimate sight of the haggard old prune before him only added to his confusion.
"Good evening, madame," he said with a bow, covering his bases in case she proved consequential. "You have arrived at the castle of the young Dauphin. How may I help you?"
The old hag had only one good eye. It gazed at him with almost an erotic leer. "I'm freezing my ass off out there, and you're having a party in here? Fuck, man, I hit the jackpot!" she growled in a drunken, beastly tone that was tinged with a wholly inappropriate glee.
Lumiere had to leap in front of her to prevent her entry. "I am sorry madame, this is a private entertainment. I don't believe his royal highness is acquainted with you."
"Well let me introd — trodu — tomato-juice myself to him."
With a strength that would have made a heavyweight boxer proud, she shoved Lumiere aside like he was made of cardboard. Lumiere, surprised at the sudden assault, stumbled and fell hard onto the cold marble. But the drunken crone didn't pause to help him up. No, she sauntered into the soirée as if it were her personal playground. A rose, plucked from some hidden pocket in her ragged garment, was now clenched tightly between the few yellowing teeth she possessed. She looked like a twisted cabaret dancer, ready to put on a show that would leave everyone gasping.
Meanwhile, the Prince and his coterie of playmates were engrossed in a game of snapdragon. It was a childish game, which involved plucking nuts and raisins from a bowl of burning brandy, the object being not to singe your fingers. Chip, the youngest of the group, was taking his turn when disaster struck. Holding his hand in the flames for too long, he let out a wail of pain that was quickly followed by tears. The Prince and his companion initially laughed, but then seeing their playmate's pink fingers and ongoing sobs, and determining that he was more than just humiliated with defeat, they led him to Mrs. Potts, the housekeeper who also happened to be Chip's mother, to tend to his injury.
It was at this moment that the crone appeared, her one good eye fixed upon the Prince. "Hey. Hey. Hey." Her voice was gruff and abrasive, and her gruesome hand poked at the Prince's shoulder in an unsteady and erratic manner.
The Prince spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. The sight before him was like nothing he had ever encountered before. She was a small creature, barely taller than a child. Her skin looked like tattered canvas, and she had more warts than teeth. But it was her one good eye, that gleamed with wickedness, that really made him shudder. He let out a yell of alarm, unable to contain the fear that had taken hold of him.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was sharp and angry, but it was also tinged with fear.
"Hey, Louis!" The crone cried out, her voice laced with a sickly sweetness. The rose in her teeth flew out, striking the Prince in the face and scratching his eye. He winced in pain, but she didn't seem to notice. "You don't know me, but I know you. And I know that you — don't — get — nearly enough visitors to your parties. So I'm just making my presence my present to you. You're welcome! Ha!"
The Prince was barely listening, despite the unexpected use of his rarely-invoked proper name. His focus was on the pain in his eye, which was rapidly becoming unbearable. "What? No, I don't want you here."
The crone's smile faltered for a moment, but then she shrugged it off. "Aw, you're not throwing an old lady out into the freezing cold, are you kid? Naw, 'cause it's getting hot in here - so take off all yo' clothes." She threw off her cloak, revealing a skimpy outfit that was not going to make it into any stained glass depiction, and she began to twerk her ancient, shriveled body in a way that made the Prince's stomach turn.
The young Prince hadn't seen much in the way of lurid female behavior, barring the naked people in his furniture. This was hardly the introduction he would have liked to it. Meanwhile Mrs. Potts was already aware of the intruder, and doing her best to step in.
"Are you an invited guest, madame?" she asked, putting her plump hands to her plumper hips.
The half-naked old lady gave a coy smile before answering. "You've been very neglectful about inviting me, ha ha ha. I suppose it's a slight rudeness to drop in unannounced, for which I grant any due apologies; I saw no other way for us to get better ac — acqu — akwon — aquafinad."
Mrs. Potts stepped forward sternly. Nearby, other servants were taking the cue and moving in to provide assistance should she need it. "Indeed. Now that we've met, we will take it into future account when choosing our guest lists. However, I'm afraid there is no place for you here at this event."
"I think it's up to the Prince here," said the old lady, turning to the young boy who was still rubbing at his rather irritated eyeball. He would have gladly repeated his demand that she leave, but she spoke too fast for him. "And he's got too much to learn to know what he's saying! Ha! But look, kid, keep an eye on that rose and everything will be fine. Meanwhile, let's save this lame-ass party!"
With a sprightliness defying her age, the crone vaulted atop the refreshment table in a single bound. The music seemed to rise in curious alignment with her sudden display of acrobatics, as if the musicians were working in tandem with her wishes, though they appeared quite engrossed in their craft and indifferent to the new arrival. The household, however, paid little attention to this strange occurrence, preoccupied instead with the task of ushering the troublesome woman out the door.
She was now dancing, and this crone's dance moves were far from the graceful minuets of the 18th century elite. To them, her primitive, obscene shaking and jerking resembled something more demonic than human. The household began to question whether this strange old woman was indeed possessed.
The young Prince gritted his teeth in frustration. This unwelcome guest was brazenly disregarding his wishes, and showing him no respect at all. Had she arrived with more courtesy, and groveling appropriately to a Prince, he might have been willing to entertain her presence. But that possibility had long since evaporated. She was angering him — disgusting him, even — and he wanted her out of his sight.
"Get that horrible old lady out of here!" he demanded.
Cogsworth, the steward, stepped forward and signaled to some of the burlier men to handle the situation. Three brawny lads from the guardsmen made an attempt to apprehend the old dame, but she was like a slippery eel, dodging their grasp with ease. The old woman was the master of the game. She danced around the guardsmen with a grace that belied her age. The young Prince's staff were at their wits' end, trying to catch her, but she always managed to slip away. It was like a sport to her.
The Prince was getting agitated, and who could blame him? This old woman was ruining his party, and the staff was utterly failing to do anything about it. This did not sit well with the young Prince. Uncertain how to handle the situation, the boy chose to leave his servants to deal with it for the moment, and he tried to enjoy himself. He ambled over to the refreshment table, which was unfortunately disordered from the old woman's frolicking upon it. Plates were upturned, and drinks were spilled, but the brandy and nog appeared to be undisturbed. The young Prince began to pour himself a new cup, but a decrepit foot abruptly kicked the dish from his grip. The foot, despite its dirty and withered appearance, was more nimble than anticipated.
The outraged Prince was poised to strike the troublesome hag, but she was quicker. She swept him up in her arms and began to lead him in a perverse dance, a more sordid take on the handsy moves of the German Waltz. She was grinding her body up against his, making the Prince increasingly irate. It was a dance unlike any he had ever seen, and he was not enjoying it one bit.
"What is the matter with you, you old hag!" demanded the Prince, outraged.
"What do you mean?" she asked in a drunken tone. "You're the one — who has — the matter with you."
"I don't understand what you're saying," said the Prince, cringing at the obligated Tango she continued to force upon him.
"And I don't understand what you're saying!" she screamed like one you could tap a match to and get a blue flame. "You — you've got to learn to stop saying so many syllables, in your words!"
The Prince couldn't believe what he was hearing. Here he was, at his own party, being held hostage by a drunken old woman who was giving him grammar lessons. He struggled to slip from her grasp, but she wasn't having it. "I want you gone from here," he said, pushing at her. "You're a disgusting old hag, I never invited you in, and just looking at you makes me sick!"
"Well that's why I brought a rose you can stare at," she said. She dragged him towards the rose he'd left lying on the ground, like it was some kind of treasure that he needed to see. He felt her hot breath on his neck, though surprisingly she did not reek of alcohol.
"You brought a rose?" he sneered, his eyes scanning the surrounding servants who seemed powerless to stop the old crone from her advances. It appeared that he was on his own with this one.
With a sudden burst of strength, he shoved against the tiny old woman. She staggered back from the force of the Prince's initial push, yet she managed to keep up her ridiculous dancing despite the assault. In spite of her frail appearance, it was clear that she possessed a strength that defied her age.
The youth felt a flash of anger rise within him. If she got hurt, well, she had only herself to blame for her foolish actions. His fury now unleashed, the Prince's composure was long gone as he succumbed to childish impulses. He charged at her head-first, attacking her with his pampered, polished nails and finally, with a vicious kick, sent her crashing to the ground.
"And not even a thank you for the gift?" she cried after him as he stomped away.
The old crone's final words rang curiously lucid in the Prince's ears as he stomped, ignoring her cries for gratitude. "Take the disgusting old lady out, and her disgusting old rose too! I don't even want to know where it's been," he barked at his servants, not bothering to address the woman directly.
The servants surrounded her. She seemed to have tired out at last. "Oh, oh, please let me stay!" she begged, in a tone that could best be described as "7th grade production of King Lear." Still recumbent on the floor, she called to the Prince: "Please let me stay! I'll do anything! Don't be deceived by appearances, kid! You know that beauty gets found within."
The Prince was furious, and well riled up by this point. "Shut up! I hope you freeze out there you wrinkly old witch! You think you can just burst into my home and behave this way?"
Just as the staff were about to lift her up, something astonishing happened that made them back off. The Prince, aghast, stepped towards the commotion, but in a moment the old woman was floating in mid-air, arms outstretched like a painting of the crucifixion, glowing lights emanating from her way too exposed body. It was understandable that everyone was taken aback by this. Who wouldn't be?
"Ha ha ha!" The old hag declared, "Now I'm going to make you all sorry for mistreating me!" And in a second, she transformed into the most gorgeous blonde the Prince had ever seen. She was tall, well-dressed, with legs that went on like a boulevard, ruby lips, and vivid green eyes that gleamed like emeralds in the light.
She had the Prince and his servants in the palm of her hand. They had no idea how to deal with this creature, this sprite of a woman who had just revealed herself to be something other than they had imagined. The Prince was lost and the servants were at a loss. The woman seemed to revel in her newfound power. She floated effortlessly to the refreshment table and cried out, "Now, I'm going to actually get wasted! Ha ha! I fooled you before, I was totally sober!"
The Prince was left to his bewilderment as he turned to his older and wiser companions for guidance. "Tell me what to do!" he pleaded. "She's like... a fairy or something."
The servants exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to advise their young master. Finally, Mrs. Potts spoke up, stammering slightly. "I would apologize, if I were you; then just go along with whatever it is she wants."
The other servants nodded their agreement, and the young Prince scowled at the idea of having to be nice to this impish creature. "Is that what they teach you in servant school?" he muttered disdainfully.
"Just do it!" the servants admonished in unison.
The Prince sighed. He knew this fairy, this Enchantress was no mere mortal. And even a Prince must show respect to those who wield such power. He dodged a flying plate of snacks as she declared herself the "Princess of Partying" to a cowering group of scullery maids.
The Prince walked towards The One with caution, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. The newly blonde Enchantress had guzzled down all the eggnog, and was now extending soft, dainty fingers for the brandy casks. It was clear she wasn't going to be content with just a sip from them.
"Sorry," he spat out, his unease palpable. He didn't truly feel any remorse for his actions, convinced as he was that he had been in the right. But he knew that in situations like these, it was best to placate the individual who held power over him. One never knew what they were capable of. Guillotines were a real thing.
The Enchantress downed the brandy with a quickness that would have impressed even the most seasoned drunkard. The Prince watched, disquiet creeping over him. The vigor of her movement was more logical now that she'd taken on a youthful form, but her mannerisms had not perceptibly altered. The Beautiful Enchantress was still as frightening and ill-mannered as the Ugly Enchantress. She sauntered to his side, patting his head as if he were a petulant child. He recoiled from her touch, but she didn't seem to notice.
"There, there," she cooed, her voice dripping with honeyed venom as it perpetually staggered in search of its next word. "You're just a baby, aren't you? But tonight, we're — going to make a man out of you."
The Prince didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened by her promise, but a sense of foreboding settled over the room like a thick fog. The servants exchanged uneasy glances, wondering what this creature had in store for their young master. Mrs. Potts and Cogsworth tried to discreetly motion for the Prince to come to them, hoping to shield him from the Enchantress's clutches.
The Enchantress was preoccupied with the brandy. "What is this?" she sputtered, pointing at the freshly refilled glass in her hand.
"It's Jerez, Solera Gran Reserva," Lumiere offered eagerly. "I had it shipped from Spain myself. It is made from the Sherry grapes, and it maintains much of the flavor…"
The Enchantress's eyes lit up with a greedy gleam. "Oh," she purred giddily, "this is the good stuff."
Mrs. Potts and Cogsworth frantically signaled for the Prince to join them, but the young master wasn't about to take refuge behind his bumbling servants. No, he stood his ground, for he knew he was the only one in the room with any chance of besting this unnatural creature. He had no illusions about the uselessness of his servants against the Enchantress. It was up to him to face her, to outsmart her.
In a defiantly shaky voice, the Prince spoke up, "If I give you what you want, will you leave us alone?"
The Enchantress rolled her eyes and let out a groan, "God, you are a rude little turd. You didn't even thank me for the flower I brought you. Why would I bring you a gift, if I was going to leave you alone ever?"
The Prince stood there dumbfounded, unsure of how to react to the Enchantress's bizarre reply. Her words echoed in his mind like a broken record as he sought to make sense of the drunken, supernatural logic that eluded him.
"Why did you come?" he asked. The power of his voice was fading.
"I came to teach you a lesson," she spat, her husky voice rising to a crescendo. "A lesson in — how to not throw lame ass parties! Let's get this started!"
She downed another hit of brandy, let out a belch that echoed off the castle walls, then flung herself at one of the gilded columns near the great staircase. Wrapping herself around it, she began grinding and jiggling against the gesso, her movements wild and erratic. The Prince watched in horror, wondering just what kind of lesson this was supposed to be.
As the Enchantress continued her drunken dance, the Prince felt a sense of unease growing within him. He was still firmly in the phase of life that felt girls were icky, and he was not amused by this in the slightest.
The staff were not much happier. The scene was one of pure debauchery, a bacchanalian display that left even the most seasoned of the servants reeling. Cogsworth, the head of the household, could only groan and cover his face in despair.
"This is definitely not child-friendly," he muttered through his palms, unable to bear the sight before him. Meanwhile, Dustine, one of the chambermaids, had leapt to action, scrambling to cover the young Prince's eyes from the vulgar display.
Yet the Enchantress was not deterred. She continued to writhe and grind against the gilded column.
Rosine, the mistress of the wardrobe, was awestruck. "She must be a succubus," she murmured, her voice hushed with fear. "One of those demons that pounce upon men in their sleep…"
"But what can we do?" asked Mrs. Potts in a whisper. "It's as if — she's one of those fairies in the old stories — who kidnaps children for who-knows-what purpose…" Frowning with concern, she held her son Chip close to her, protectively. Still, she did not forget her duty to the young Prince, who was also in danger, and indeed had been the main focus of the Enchantress's attention thus far.
The Prince batted Dustine's hand away from his face, displaying an obstinate glare. He knew it was time to take control of the situation, to assert his power as the Dauphin of France. He gazed with severity upon his servants. "Join her," he ordered the staff, his voice ringing with authority.
The servants gasped in disbelief at such a command. The Prince remained resolute.
"You told me to apologize and do whatever she wanted. She wants us to… 'dance' with her, so let's do it."
"Come and pole dance!" bellowed the Enchantress, her voice slurred from the effects of the potent liquor. "Grab a pole and pretend it's a bick— a bick — a bick dig, haha!"
The staff winced in response.
"Madame, please!" scolded Cogsworth. "You do understand that the Dauphin is just a young boy?"
The Prince's scowl deepened. He didn't feel so young, and he certainly wasn't going to be dictated by anyone else's perceptions.
The Enchantress spun her buxom figure around the pole, mocking the staff's concern for the young Prince. "Is that some kind of riddle?" she sneered. "'If the boy is a dolphin, then what kind of animal is he?'"
Cogsworth's patience wore thin. "Could you not — er, perhaps reign in your behavior for his sake?" he pleaded.
The Enchantress stopped and scowled. "God! For a castle covered in naked people, this place is sure full of prudes," she spat. "You know, when Thomas of Erceldoune found me under that tree, he was so hard to work over that I had to put a crown on him. It erased his memory. He spent five hundred years in the Venusburg and didn't remember a second of it. Is that what you're asking for? You want the hangover crown of zombiedom? I can bring it on, bitch, no problem!"
With that, she stormed off to the refreshment table. The snacks were in shambles, but she commenced stuffing her face with them like there was no tomorrow. The staff looked on in disbelief, wondering what sort of nightmare had stumbled upon them.
The Prince furrowed his brow, watching the Enchantress gorge herself with his food and drink. He couldn't figure out what her game was. Was she a foreign spy, seeking to entrap him in some kind of scandalous situation? Or was she simply a powerful madwoman, lost in some drunken fantasy? The young Dauphin's mind wandered to the old history of Snow White, where a royal witch was employed to assist in some government's affairs. Was this Enchantress a similar pawn in some twisted game of politics? He shook his head in disbelief, determined not to be ensnared.
As he watched the Enchantress emptying the last cask of brandy, burping loudly, and then gobbling up all the snacks she could fit in her mouth at one time, he couldn't help but feel a sense of revulsion. This was not how a lady should behave, let alone an enchanted lady. He needed to find a way to put an end to her drunken revelry, before things got even more out of hand.
Then it clicked for the Prince: the rose. She was fixated on him accepting it as a gift. There had to be something sinister behind those crimson petals, he thought. Poisoned or cursed, perhaps? He didn't know for sure, but he was certain that it was the key to this situation.
But before he could make any moves, the Enchantress bellowed, "Hey! Heyyyyy! Watch how many of these cocktail wieners I can fit in my mouth! Ha ha, just like spring break!" The Prince took advantage of her distraction and snatched up the rose, determined to get rid of it once and for all.
With the bud in his hand, he bolted for the front door.
The Enchantress's eyes widened with dismay. She braced herself for action.
The staff, realizing their young charge was in danger, sprang into action, forming a human shield between him and the crazed woman. She was not pleased. She spat out her food and prepared to make her next move.
She cast a sardonic glance at the lackluster servants and shook her head in disdain. "Some servants! About as helpful as furniture on a fire escape," she muttered. With the grace of a prima ballerina, she poised herself for a grand jeté, but instead of vaulting into the air, she simply took flight and glided effortlessly over the heads of the palace staff.
She landed with a feline grace in front of the young Prince, her massive green skirts blocking his exit. He skidded to a halt, his path cut off.
"It's the rose, isn't it?" he snarled. "You're doing something with this rose."
The Enchantress narrowed one emerald eye like a gunslinger taking aim. "Already done, kid," she drawled. She extended her fingers into the shape of a pistol, and squeezing her thumb to her palm, fired a mock shot.
The Prince felt a searing heat radiating from the hand that held the rose. He screamed and dropped it, writhing in agony. The rose fell to the ground, glowing like a beacon.
"What is this? What have you done?" he gasped, horrified. But his fear quickly gave way to anger. If he had any chance of escaping unscathed, he knew he had to fight. And fighting demanded rage. "Tell me what this is about, you filthy, repulsive freak of nature!" he roared at the woman.
The Enchantress made a face that could curdle milk and shook her head with disdain. "Discourtesy," she said slowly, drawing out the syllables, "is unspeakably ugly to me."
The Prince's temper flared at her condescending tone. "Discourtesy? You've got some nerve scolding me for discourtesy," he spat back. He was primed to let her have it, but he remembered the counsel of his trusty servants and suddenly relented. He figured he would give it one final shot. "Very well, let me try this again." He fell showily to his knees, groveling before her. "I apologize, madame, for my poor behavior towards you. I should have treated a lady of your beauty and refinement with the utmost respect. Does that suffice?"
She didn't seem appeased by his apology. "You know what your problem is?" she shouted, her voice echoing through the grand hall. "You're nothing but a mahogany!"
The Prince's eyes widened in confusion. "A what?"
"A mahogany," she repeated, as if the word held some kind of weighty significance. "And you — hate women — unless they look like little boys."
The Prince, giving up hope for ever understanding her, lunged at her like a bull. But the Enchantress was ready for him. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. This time the scent of her breath was like a distillery.
"You," she snarled, "are lacking in love. And for that, you will pay!"
She was suddenly holding a wand. She struck him across the head with it, like an old school master correcting a student. Immediately the Prince's body contorted, his skin sprouting fur, his face elongating into a snout. His howl of pain and rage filled the air as he transformed into a hideous Beast. The servants could only watch, frozen in terror, as their beloved Prince was turned into a monster. Even the musicians gave up at so long last.
There was a deadly silence throughout the castle. The Prince sat there as still as a statue, his silence palpable as he struggled to comprehend in his new form.
Cogsworth cleared his throat, breaking the eerie peace. "I believe, the word you were looking for, was 'misogynist,' madam?" he called, his voice trembling with dread.
The Enchantress spun around to face him, her eyes flashing with fury. "Shut up!" she screamed at him, waving her wand menacingly. Cogsworth tried to retreat, but fell backwards to the ground. "Shut up!" She repeated. "I am not a massage-inist! See the stereotypes you pre—pretuate? Naw, the guys I rub down don't get happy endings — and neither do any of you!"
"I think we're in trouble," Chip said, his voice shaking. A moment later both he and his mother were changed into living porcelain.
Cogsworth's eyes darted around the room, taking in the scene of terror unfolding before him. The Enchantress was on a rampage, her wand flailing about like a conductor's baton. Beams of light shot forth, and transformed each victim with its terrible glow. One of the emerald bolts swallowed him, and he felt himself shrink and stiffen into something inhuman.
The castle was transformed into a grotesque abode of furniture, where once were people, now stood chairs, bowls, hat racks, and even ovens. Their distorted features and limbless forms could barely be recognized as men and women, yet they still spoke with a ghastly semblance of speech. The horror of such a sight was beyond words.
The Enchantress pointed her wand menacingly at the transformed servants. She bellowed. "Don't think you're getting off lightly. You'll serve your new master until he finds true love or you'll remain furniture forever! And also, you're a bunch of prudes who don't deserve all these naked people everywhere!"
She flicked her wand with a flourish, unleashing a spell that transformed the palace in a single stroke. The once beautiful nude statues were now grotesque and menacing monsters, their forms contorted beyond recognition. It was a trick of her magic, a mere flourish of her wand. And if that wasn't enough, the colors on the walls had shifted just slightly.
"Oh no!" cried Angelique, the horrified decorator. "She turned the alabaster-white into eggshell-white!"
The Enchantress let out a cackle of delight whilst gulping down another swig of Jerez, shattering the glass when she finished. "That'll teach you to be lacking in love," she bellowed. "Now, it's reg — rick — ricotta that I provide you a way out. Magic has its rules, you see. So here it is: you, Dolphin, have got until you turn… um, whatever adult human age is…"
Cogsworth, now a quivering mass of clockwork, interjected, "Traditionally speaking, madam, that would be twenty-one."
"Right," she said, licking the booze from her lips. "You've got until then to fall in love with someone, and make them love you in return. That's the only way to break the spell — you must demonstrate that you comprehend that beauty is on the inside, and that you don't judge people by their resting bitch face. And don't try to fake it like you fake your apologies! The spell will know. It's gotta be the real deal. And if you don't make… damn, I need more of this brandy." She drank directly from the cask. "Now where was I? Oh. Yes. Well, if you don't find true love by your two hundred and first birthday, you'll stay a beast forever."
"Wait, wait, wait," Cogsworth boldly interrupted. "Two hundred and first? I thought it was to be his twenty-first?"
The Enchantress stared perplexed for a moment, unsure if she had really made a mistake or not. "You know what? Fuck it. That rose is just gonna start wilting, and… whenever the last petal falls off, is the right one."
The Prince and his entourage cast uneasy glances at the rose, glowing like a neon sign on the cold, hard tiles of the castle antechamber. There was something sinister about its radiance, as if it were a harbinger of doom.
"In any event, it's a — a — shmip — shrimple — shrimp cocktail," continued the intoxicated Enchantress, unable to pronounce simple task. "You look past them and they look past you, and poof! You're in love. Ha ha! But hey, some broads dig beasts, right? So even easier. If you're so smart, and cunning, and crape — caper— crapeable, you'll have no trouble at all winning the love you need, provided you can show some yourself. Good luck to you, Flipper!" She snatched a fistful of caviar from the table in her beautiful bare hand and stuffed it into her mouth, while still clutching the brandy cask in her other. She washed down a number of the little black pellets with the last of the Jerez, then threw the barrel to the floor as she walked out. Through a mouthful of fish eggs, she sang out the words:
"Louie, Louie, yeah yeah yeah yeah, me gotta go now!"
With that, she disappeared in the doorway without leaving so much as a trace.
It wasn't until she had left that the full horror of what was wrought began to settle upon the puzzled, transformed little brains of her victims. From the castle came a keening, a wail of despair that pierced the night air and grew in volume with each passing moment, as though pleading for mercy from the heavens themselves.
END.