#it was like. a farmer comes across a rich man broke down in the forest. the farmer and the rich man agree to have the dog guard the cart

[visualmemoryunit]

im trying to remember this "joke" i heard once where the punchline involved a man shooting his dog and man. like. internet search is not being helpful

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Primrose, part One

Rating: SFW Length: 1929 Pairing: Male Reader x Male Orc (both cis)

Just a bit of fluff during these trying times.

xxx

I see him one bright summer morning in my grandmother's garden, near the edge of her property where the forest kisses the grass. I find him sleeping between the rosemary and the hydrangeas, curled up in the shade of a willow tree, barefoot and smelling of sweet wine. The morning sun has yet to reach him and so the dew still clings to him yet, making him almost seem to shimmer like a daydream in the dappled light.

He's big even for an orc, though I admit I haven't met many. His skin is the colour of cherry blossoms except where it seems to be lacking pigment, like a sliver which looks like a widow's peak that disappears into his vivid pink hair, and a splotch that spreads like a butterfly across his sharp cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. His hair is a rich pink colour, long and thick and braided loosely, the ribbon almost lost to the clover and lemongrass he’s lying on. I take a moment to study him among the birdsong and the stirring of the cicadas in the forest, watching the rise and fall of his broad, hairy chest where it's exposed by buttons either undone or lost to the night's festivities.

He's the most handsome man I've ever seen, and I almost feel remorse when I upend a bucket of water over his head.

He snorts and gasps, splutters and coughs, looking about him wildly as he flails and struggles to right himself from his lazy sprawl. "What in the hell?" he exclaims, breathless and agog, and when he turns his baby blue eyes up to meet mine, they go wide as dinner plates.

"You're crushing the lemongrass," I tell him, keeping my face and tone neutral while I smother my amusement.

"Did you just soak me?" he asks, something like awe stealing across his face.

"You're crushing the lemongrass," I say again, propping my dripping bucket against my hip through the overalls I'm wearing. "My lemongrass. Get out of my garden, you drunk."

It seems he can contain himself no longer; he throws his head back and roars with laughter until tears gather in his eyes. "And here I heard no one but a canny old crone lived in this cottage!"

"My grandmother," I supply, feeling my lips curve up despite myself. "I'm just a canny young bastard."

"And what happened to the crone?" asks the orc, getting up and pulling his shirt over his head to wring it out over the hydrangeas.

I can't help but notice that his torso is thick and muscled, and that the dense curls on his chest go all the way down his soft belly. Here, they turn white along with his skin in a broad swathe, and I find myself wondering where else his skin changes colour beneath his clothes.

"See something you like?"

My eyes snap back up to the orc's face, and where I'm expecting a smug, lascivious smirk, there is instead a bemused, almost shy smile. I know that I don't blush when I'm embarrassed, but I'm surprised to see that he does, two spots of red blooming across his cheeks like roses.

"She fell and broke her hip three weeks ago," I tell him, and I make a point to look only at his face while he puts his shirt back on. "She left me in charge of the house. What's it to you?"

The orc holds up his hands, and I see that one palm is white as cream. "Only curious," he assures me, turning his gaze to the cottage behind me. "Nice place."

I give him a very flat look. "Try to rob me and you'll regret it."

Once again he laughs, gesturing with his hands as if to fend me off. "Easy, easy! Are you always so hostile?"

"Only to strangers who pass out drunk in my herb garden."

He smiles, then, and I curse him internally; of course he'd have dimples. "Well, what if we weren't strangers? I'm Primrose, but most just call me Prim. You are?"

I feel my eyes narrow as I weigh my options, absently drumming my fingers against the side of my bucket. I debate telling him my name, but his disarming smile pries it out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

Primrose’s eyes light up. “What a pretty name. It suits you. Not like mine.”

“Oh?” I call over my shoulder as I turn to head back to the house, pretending to be bored of the stranger who tromps through the herbs behind me in his haste to follow. “I’m sure I don’t care why.”

“Oh, come on,” the big orc snorts. “‘Primrose’? For a man? ‘Prim’ is my only saving grace!”

“Don’t you fancy hearing ‘Rosie’?” I ask knowing that I’m being prickly, putting aside the bucket and reaching for the garden hose.

Primrose stops short, mouth opening and closing soundlessly before he can grumble, “Only my mother calls me that.”

“It’s a good name,” I say, turning to face him with the hose head in my hand. “It suits you. Unlike mine.”

Primrose laughs awkwardly, eyeing the hose like a snake about to bite. “Is that for me?”

I lift a brow. “Do you want breakfast, or not?”

His belly answers before his mouth can, rumbling loudly between us and causing him to splutter and cover it with his hands as if to silence it. “I suppose I do,” he sheepishly replies.

“Then I’ll hose the mud off your feet and you’ll go straight to the bath. I’ll wash your clothes while you soak the booze out of your system, feed you, and then you can get the hell off of my property.”

“Bossy,” Primrose says with a laugh, startling only a little when I turn the cold water of the hose on his feet. “I don’t have the foggiest where I might have lost them.”

“Your marbles?” I drawl, and I thrill at the quick grin it earns me from the orc.

“My boots.”

“Hm. Come in, then. Mind the door.” I warn him just in time to save him a nasty knot on his forehead, leading him into my grandmother’s cottage to the big claw-foot tub that I begin to fill with steaming water. I add bath salts and rose oil for his muscles and for my own amusement, which he doesn’t seem to miss despite how straight-faced I keep.

“Very funny,” he rumbles, pulling the ribbon from his hair and shaking it out of its plait. It falls all the way down to his backside, and in that moment, I want nothing more than to put my fingers in it and play with it until I’ve figured out just how many shades of pink there are to find. I control my urges and rein in my impulses as I’ve always done, leaving briefly under the context of getting the washing machine ready and returning only once I’m sure he’s in the tub. It’s not hard to gauge when he enters; the cottage is quiet except for birdsong, and his groan is low and long.

I bustle in to gather his clothing and wrinkle my nose at the tattered hair ribbon; the silk was fine to begin with, but it’s been torn and tattered in small but noticeable ways along the ends, and the mud is in so deep that it may never come out. “You’ve ruined this ribbon,” I inform Primrose, pinning him with a scrutinising look that he wriggles under the weight of like an errant schoolboy.

“I don’t remember how or when,” he says. “Last night is… a blur, at best.”

“Hm,” I sniff, looking away from him to head for the door. “Maybe this will teach you not to drink so much in future. A ribbon can be replaced, but if you’d fallen asleep facedown in a ditch somewhere, the night’s rain would have drowned you. Is that how you want to go out? Drunk and drowning in a puddle somewhere?”

I almost feel sorry for the way I make him squirm, big as he is. He’s all muscle, barrel-chested and with hard, shapely legs that he draws up to his chest in the tub. “No,” he all but meeps, meek as a kitten. “My mother would bring me back just to kill me. I won’t drink so much again.”

“See that you don’t,” I reply, sweeping out of the room to get the laundry going. Halfway without thinking, I stash the ruined ribbon in my pocket and go upstairs to my room to fetch him another. I, too, have long hair that requires being tied back from time to time, so I grab one of my ribbons and place it on top of the pile when his clothing has been washed and dried. I set these just inside the bathroom door and inform him that breakfast will be ready within the hour, and so I hear him reluctantly begin the drawn-out process of unwillingly leaving a warm bath.

Breakfast is simple, but hearty. Eggs, potatoes, sausages—all locally sourced from the farmers in the countryside. I’m chewing on a mouthful of eggs when I remember I have a delivery to make to my grandmother’s egg supplier: a watermelon she had traded for that was a little overripe to eat, but perfect for the chickens as a treat. I inform Primrose of this and we both spend a moment looking at his feet, contemplating his predicament. In the end, I pick up the receiver in my grandmother’s kitchen and call a carriage for him, waving away his words of thanks.

“I mean it,” he insists. “If this house had been empty, I’d have had to walk all the way back to town barefoot.”

“It would have taught you a lesson, at least,” I say, and this time I can’t help the little smirk that steals across my face.

Primrose laughs, loud and joyful. “You’re a viper! Can nothing I say earn me any sweetness?”

“You want sweetness?” I ask, and I can feel myself smiling now. “Don’t pass out in my garden next time.”

Primrose leans in across the porch where we’re awaiting his carriage. “‘Next time’?”

“Oh, don’t read into it,” I huff, shaking my head and leaning against the railing. “You want sweetness, you need a better impression than what you’ve given. There’s Mr. Higgens now.” I gesture with my glass of lemonade, and Primrose’s expression falls.

“Ah.” We’re silent as the carriage pulls up the dirt road to the front door, and I wave to the driver and exchange pleasantries as Primrose reluctantly heads down the front porch steps. He looks back up at me when his feet hit the dirt, and I almost laugh at the way his big blue eyes look almost childishly hopeful. “Would you soak me if I visited again?”

“I might,” I say nonchalantly, tilting my head this way and that. “I might not.”

Primrose grins, and all at once all the wind is under his sails again. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, waving exuberantly from the carriage after he’s boarded it. I wave back, bemused by the morning’s events, and watch the carriage until it disappears around a woody bend and completely out of view. I go back inside and wash the breakfast crockery, shaking my head at myself and my foolishness when I find the ruined ribbon in my pocket when I’m wiping my hands on my jeans.

What was I doing? I had a watermelon to deliver.

[labyrinth-runner]

“Are you scared? Don’t be. ‘ll protect you from today onwards.” For Obi x Reader please?

Title: King of Hearts

Summary: When you’re sent to a neighboring kingdom to marry the king, things do not go as planned. Warnings: None. Word Count: 5400

Tag List: @blackirisposts, @star-whores-a-new-hoe, @nerd-without-a-cause, @all-hallows-evie, @darthserling

As always, thanks to @the-mandalorian-clone-lover for being a low-key Beta.

You could hear the sound of the wheels running over the forest floor. It had been hours since your carriage had set off on its journey towards the kingdom that was to be your new home. Your legs ached from being in the same position for so long, but there was nothing you could do. Stopping now was out of the question, as you had driven into enemy territory an hour ago. Your guards had even advised against looking out the window. After all, the Princess of the neighboring kingdom would be a prime target for the warlord ravaging your kingdom. That was why it was imperative that you got to your new kingdom in one piece. Your marriage to the King would unite your two kingdoms and act as an alliance that would hopefully end the war. 

Resting your head against the wall, you absentmindedly played with your pendant as you tried to picture the man you were to marry. You’d met him once, a long time ago. The two of you had both been young when his father, Qui-Gon, had come to your kingdom for a summit. You couldn’t have been more than ten at the time. You remembered meeting an awkward teenager who would talk you out of all the mischief you had planned. He was so serious, with those crystalline blue eyes that looked like they were wise beyond their years. Most of all, you remember he was kind, having an affinity for animals that led him to spend most of his visit in the menagerie.

Now, you wondered what he was like, having been King for a few years since the death of his father at the hands of a warlord. Would he still be kind? Or would years of a harsh life have turned his heart cold? A sigh breezed through your lips as you tried to stretch in the small space. 

Thwip.

Thud.

Screaming.

You froze, hearing the unmistakable sound of an arrow being loosed into the air, and the carnage that it no doubt had caused. The horses were startled and strayed from the path, causing the carriage to run over a boulder. It started to list to the side until it was tumbling. You braced for impact as the carriage landed on its side. Peeking out of the window, you noticed you were at the bottom of a ravine. 

“I’m a sitting duck,” you realized in horror as you struggled to get the door open, let alone crawl out of the carriage. Part of you wanted to stay put, to play dead, but you knew better than to trust your attackers with your body. If they were thorough, they would finish the job. With that knowledge to steel your nerves, you used all the strength in your arms to pull yourself up through the doorway.

Once on the other side, you closed the door so that it would take them a while to notice anything was amiss. Swiftly, you moved across the clearing towards the tree line. You could hear running water nearby. If you passed through it, then they would loose your trail. Your feet propelled you further and further, vowing to yourself with each step that you would not die here, that the hope of your people’s salvation would not die here, alone, in the forest. 

The water was cold on your calves as you plunged into a running river. It was deeper than you expected, but nothing you couldn’t handle. Wading through the waist-deep water, you trudged to the opposite bank and pulled yourself up.

The foliage on that side of the river was dense enough to conceal you from your attackers. Your heart thudded in your chest as you listened to the sounds of footfalls. Through a gap in the trees, you watched as men in dark cloaks came into view, searching for you. When they passed by without incident, you released a breath that you hadn’t realized you were holding.

On the horizon, the sun was starting to set. You knew you couldn’t stay in the woods forever, but you couldn’t travel as you were either. Your clothes were much too rich for the area. No, you’d have to go back to the carriage and hope to salvage some of the clothes that your maid had packed.

Mary, you thought sadly. She had been riding on the front of the carriage when you were attacked. There was no way she would have survived. A pang of guilt washed over you, but you had to shove it aside. Your feelings, as valid as they were, would not enable you to survive if you dwelled in sadness. 

Somehow, the water seemed colder the second time around. It felt like tiny knives stabbing into your skin as you made your way back, retracing your steps as best you could in the falling darkness. 

Eventually, the carriage came into view, it’s dark form rising out of the shadows. Your luggage was strewn across the ground, with some crates leaking fabrics. Surprisingly, your treasure was untouched. 

“So it was never about the money,” you sighed, “It was always about me.”

With a shake of your head, you started to root around for a plain outfit that would be warm enough in the cool night air. You found a blue servants gown and a brown wool cloak that would suit you nicely. Quickly, you changed into it.

Laying on the ground a few feet away was a crumpled body of one of your soldiers. With some care, you removed his dagger and attached it to your own body. You hoped you would never have to use it, but you would rather have and not need, than need and not have.

Lastly, you took your pendant in your hand, a wedding gift from your fiancé. On it was his crest along with your family’s motto on the back. Ad astra per aspera. You tucked it under the neckline of your dress before looking up at the stars. Giving the guiding lights a resolute nod, you started to walk.

You walked for what felt like miles with no end in sight until dawn started to break over the horizon. Streaks of light cut through the canopy overhead washing everything in a warm amber glow. The trees started to thin out and a small town could be seen past the fields and farms on the outskirts near the forest. To your dismay, you could see that the town was crawling with enemy troops. You pulled your cloak further down your forehead to hopefully obscure your face. As much as you just wanted to walk past the town, your stomach was growling and would not be ignored. 

Trudging into the tavern, you slipped into a seat in the corner hoping to avoid detection.

The gods were not smiling upon you.

As soon as you sat, a group of soldiers sauntered over towards you.

“Well, sweetheart, aren’t you a new face?” one of them purred as the barkeep placed a bowl of soup in front of you.

You pointedly ignored them, hoping they would take the hint and leave.

Instead, another soldier sat across from you. “Are you traveling alone? You know that’s dangerous with a war on. Wouldn’t want someone as pretty as you to get caught in the cross fires.”

“You know, when a lass ignores you, that’s usually a sign that you should stop talking,” a man said from behind them.

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?” The soldier taunted back.

“This,” the man simply stated before punching him in the face.

A brawl soon broke out in front of you. With a sigh of annoyance, you picked up your bowl of soup and side-stepped the kerfuffle to finish eating your soup at the bar. 

The men continued to brawl until the owner kicked them out. Then, the owner turned towards you, “And you, too.”

“But I-” you started to protest.

“Out! You’re bad for business,” he said sternly.

You sighed. At least you’d finished eating. It was time to move on from here, anyway. Pulling your hood back over your head, you made your way out of the tavern and into the street, seeing the man and a younger boy nursing their wounds as the soldiers stalked off down the road.

“Are you alright, lass?” the man called out. He looked like a farmer, based off his clothing. The boy with him must be his farmhand, you surmised.

“Yes, but you didn’t have to do that. I was capable of handling it myself.”

“Were you just going to sit in silence and suffer their presence?” he asked, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. He had a scruffy beard, but the most amazing eyes. 

Your face felt hot as you looked away, “I suppose I should thank you, then. For saving me the trouble of their company.”

“You’re welcome,” he said with a kind smile. “Where are you headed, lass?”

“Stewjon,” you said before pausing. Thinking on your feet, you came up with a reasonable lie. After all, you weren’t sure how they would treat the princess of a neighboring kingdom, even if they had just defended your right to eat in silence. “I’m an ambassador from a neighboring kingdom looking to bend the king’s ear.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. You technically were a representative of your kingdom, and you were hoping the King would listen and help his new wife’s homeland. You absentmindedly played with your necklace while you waited to see if he’d accept your lie.

The farmer nodded, “We’ll take you there.” He cast a suspicious look at the pendant in your hand, squinting at it slightly. 

Quickly, you tucked it back into your neckline.

They started to walk and you followed them in silence, sizing them up. The two men seemed to have an unspoken language between them, knowing how the other would tackle the stumbling blocks in the road or which path to take to get to the right place. Their’s was an easy companionship from what you could see. Every once in a while they’d crack jokes when they tripped or slipped.

“No wonder you aren’t a knight, if a tree limb can trip you up,” the farmer teased.

“Better me than you,” the younger man quipped. “I don’t know if your old bones could handle a tumble.”

The man thwacked him up the side of his head.

“Ow!” the boy complained.

“Respect your elders,” the man simply stated, sending you a wink.

A chuckle breezed through your lips at their banter.

“See? Even the lady thinks you’re a fool,” the farmer smirked.

“Or maybe she just happens to find my antics amusing,” the boy straightened. “After all, she does have Anakin Skywalker at her service.” He affected a low bow, waggling his eyebrows at you as he looked up.

You giggled, “Lovely to make your acquaintance, Mr. Skywalker. And you, Sir?” you turned towards the farmer. “I should like to know the name of my savior.”

“Oh, should you now?” he asked, his smile slipping slightly. “It’s Ben.”

You nodded, “Ben and Ani.”

Ben looked up at the sky and cursed, “We’ll have to make camp.”

“But it’s midday,” you replied.

He pointed towards the horizon, “Those clouds spell a storm. We’ll want to find a nice, dry cave to stop in until it passes.”

“There’s a mountain ridge up ahead,” Anakin added. “There should be a cave there.”

“The river’s a bit to the south. If the lass wouldn’t mind getting some water?” Ben asked, handing you a canteen.

You nodded, taking it from him going off towards the direction he indicated. You could hear Ben ordering Anakin about as you left.

The stream wasn’t too hard to find, and it was significantly less cold than the one you had found yourself in the day before. As you dipped the canteen in the river to gather water,  you caught sight of your reflection. There were trees in your once-neat hair, dirt was caked on your limbs, and bits of blood were dried here and there from where you had been nicked by brambles and branches.

Casting a look from side to side, you realized you were alone. You may not get another moment like this, and you certainly did not want to show up to the palace in such a state. In moments, you had undressed and waded into the running water. Taking a handkerchief from your clothes, you used it to scrub yourself clean, marveling in the fresh feeling of once again being spotless. You leaned back, floating for a moment as you let yourself relax.

“Lass, we found a cave,” Ben called out as he came trudging through the bushes. Then, he caught sight of the clothes on the riverbank and his eyes briefly flicked to your floating body before he averted his gaze.

You straightened immediately. “I’m sorry. I-”

“Please, don’t apologize. I should have been more discreet. I averted my gaze as quickly as I could,” he replied, keeping his back towards you as you got out of the river and dressed.

“How far is the cave?”

“Not very far,” he replied.

Gently, you took his hand to hide the look of embarrassment. His hand was warm around yours, comforting. “Lead the way.”

Soon you found yourself standing at the mouth of a cave. Inside, Anakin had started a small fire and spread out their cloaks to cover the ground to make it softer.

The three of you sat as the start of the storm could be heard outside.

“I guess you were right,” you murmured.

“He’s always right,” Anakin said pointedly.

Ben rolled his eyes, “I just had to learn this from my father at a young age.”

“Because of working in the fields?” you asked.

He blinked, “Y-yes.”

You stared out the mouth of the cave at the steadily growing storm. “Can you tell me a bit about the king?”

“Haven’t you met him before?” Ben asked.

“A long time ago,” you said wistfully. “It’s been a while. People can change. Life changes them.”

“He’s a hard ass,” Anakin smirked. That earned him another thwack from Ben. “Alright, I lied. He’s kind. He’s a real people’s man.” The younger man laid down on his cloak and turned away from you. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap.”

That just left you and Ben.

At first, the silence was deafening, but then the ice broke and conversation became easy.

The two of you talked for hours about anything and everything under the sun, from childhood experiences to the things you did for fun. There was so much that you two had in common, and talking to him was so easy. You’d never felt more at ease. As you talked, you noticed little things about him. The crinkle near the corner of his eyes from smiling was your first observation. Then, it was how beautiful the color of his eyes were. In the back of your mind, you wondered how soft his beard was. Still, all the while you kept swapping stories and learning more and more about this handsome man who had rescued you. When you woke up on his shoulder later on, you didn’t even remember falling asleep.

“Morning, sunshine,” he murmured. 

The rain had stopped, leaving a clean smell hanging in the air. Anakin was snoring softly across the cave. The fire casted Ben in a warm amber glow that you found entrancing. Gently, you reached up to smooth a piece of hair out of his face. His eyes softened as he looked down at you. He leaned into your touch, eyes closing as his cheek pressed into your palm. Your thumb caressed the edge of his beard as you found your eyes settling on his lips. In the back of your mind, a voice said you probably shouldn’t be doing this, but you found yourself leaning in anyway. Your lips connected with his, pressing firmly against him. He kissed back almost immediately, slipping his hand to your neck as his fingers snaked into your hair. The cave was suddenly warmer than you could handle and you pulled back, eyes wide at what you’d done.

Anakin stretched behind you, waking up. “Well, I suppose we should start walking again?”

Ben answered, not taking his eyes off you. “Yes, we should. Then we’ll at least reach the city limits by daybreak tomorrow.”

“We’re going to walk through the night?” you asked in dismay.

“It’s best that we make haste,” Ben replied, getting up and pulling his cloak back on.

“R-right,” Anakin seconded, his brow furrowed as he glanced between the two of you.

“If we make it to the city limits by dawn, then we’ll be able to rent a horse for the last leg of the journey,” Ben added, as a consolation. 

You nodded, getting yourself together to follow them out into the late afternoon sun.

The walk was harder now, with the ground slick with wet grass and mud. It was slower going, and somehow you managed to hold onto Ben’s hand the entire time. He kept you from falling, and pulled you out of the mud when you got stuck. He barely looked at you as you went until you needed help. Then, there was concern in his eyes as he steadied you, an extra hand on your arm to make sure that you were in fact alright. 

It confused you. You were to be married to a man you hadn’t known in a long time, and yet here you were falling for a farmer who couldn’t even look at you for longer that ten seconds since you’d kissed. Still, you knew that nothing you’d have with the King would ever be as easy as with this farmer, but there was nothing you could do. Your kingdom needed this alliance. However, that didn’t mean you couldn’t stumble or slip a bit more so that you could spend more time with the farmer. All you were doing was prolonging the inevitable, you knew that. Yet, you wanted to do it. You were enjoying this sense of freedom before being bogged down with the needs of a kingdom again.

As night drew nearer, you held his hand tighter, not wanting to get separated in the dark. Ben gave your hand reassuring squeezes intermittently. Once, although you could not see it, you felt him bring your hand to his lips and kiss it when you’d stopped at a fork in the road.

Somehow, they knew the way in the dark. It was almost as if they’d spent years traveling these roads, which you thought was odd for a farmer. Then again, he probably traveled to sell his wares. As it got darker, it grew colder. That was when you felt a cloak being dropped on your shoulders. You nestled into it, squeezing his hand in response. 

Your feet were so tired you felt like they would fall off of your body and abandon you. At that point, you realized that you had been walked the majority of the way to the palace, a trip that took about six hours by carriage, but a day and a half on foot. You wanted to stop. You wanted to rest. But, you knew that if you were tired, then so were they. Yet, they kept going to get you to your destination. They didn’t give up, and neither would you.

Finally, dawn started to break. You’d broken out onto wide open road a while ago, but now in the early morning rays, you could see the city sprawling before you and the ocean beyond it. You nestled further into your layers as the sea breeze ruffled the fabric. 

“Is that...?” you asked.

“Yes,” he said with a fond smile on his face as he looked at it. “That’s Stewjon.”

“It’s massive,” you breathed. 

“Which is why I said we’d get horses to take you to the palace,” he winked. “Besides, the best way to tour the city for the first time is on horse.”

“You’re going to give me a tour?” you asked, unable to keep the giddiness from your voice. Perhaps you didn’t have to say goodbye so soon, after all.

“If that is alright with you,” he grinned.

“You two go on ahead,” Anakin yawned. “I’m going to go home.”

Ben shot him a glare.

Your brow furrowed. Home? But they were farmers. There were no farms around the city.

“I mean... I’m going to find some lodgings,” Anakin chuckled nervously. “You know, my brain is so tired I should get some sleep so I can start making sense again.”

You raised a brow as the boy awkwardly backed away.

Ben gently took your hand and tugged you towards the stables. “Wait here.”

Bouncing on the balls of your feet, you waited for him to return with a horse. He helped you up into the saddle before climbing on behind you. His body was warm against your back and you found yourself leaning into him, resting your back against his chest.

He set the horse into a slow pace, pointing out various businesses and places all over the town. People waved to him as he passed and he waved back.

“You’re quite popular,” you teased.

“Nonsense,” he murmured, “They’re just friendly here.”

“I hope I’m well received,” you sighed.

“I’m sure you will be, lass,” he whispered in your ear.

His voice sent a shiver down your spine in a way you’d never felt before. As you closed your eyes, you pictured what it would be like to have him whisper sweet nothings to you in the dark of your bedroom. His hands were warm around yours as he held onto the reins. They were large and calloused. You couldn’t help but imagine what they would feel like against your skin, fingers splayed as they trailed up your sides.

Reluctantly, you opened your eyes, severing your connection to your daydream. You couldn’t be thinking like this. Not now. 

“Take me to the palace, please,” you said with a sad smile.

“Of course,” Ben replied, but you thought there was a slight twinge of disappointment in his voice.

The rest of the ride was silent. He put you down in front of the palace steps. Each step up them put more and more distance between the two of you in more ways than just physically. With every step, you tried to wall up your heart to protect you. You didn’t dare to say goodbye for fear of not being able to let go. You felt foolish, loving a man so easily and so quickly, but it felt like you’d know him for years, not mere days.

You placed your hand on the door, fingers spread and pushed it in to enter a grand hall. A woman quickly flitted over to you, giving you a hard appraisal.

“I’m sorry, but the King isn’t seeing to the townspeople today.”

“Oh, I’m not....” you trailed off, trying to think of the best way to explain yourself as the woman raised an eyebrow at you. “I’m the King’s betrothed. My carriage was attacked and I had to walk the rest of the way here.” You dug out the necklace that the King had sent you as a gift and showed it to her.

Her eyes lit up in recognition and she curtseyed, “Of course, your highness. My apologies. My name is Padmé Amidala. I serve as an advisor to the King. Please, allow me to show you to your rooms.”

“May I not see the King first?” you asked. “I’ve traveled all this way.”

“Wouldn’t you like to make yourself look....presentable first?” 

You looked down and took in your appearance. “I suppose I ought to.”

Padmé nodded and led you towards your rooms. They were grand rooms, richly furnished with all the finest pieces and fabrics. Yet, they lacked the warmth and familiarity of yours back home.

Servants came to draw a bath for you. Once it was full, you dismissed them and sunk into the tub. It’s nice to bathe in warm water again, you thought as you leaned your head against the rim of the tub. 

Your eyes cast a critical glance back and forth as you took in your surroundings. As nice as the rooms were, part of you wondered if it were only a temporary arrangement. After all, you’d have to move into the King’s room eventually once you were married.

Quickly, you sunk below the water at the thought. Sharing a room with another person? Hell, sharing a room with a man? The thought was overwhelming.

When you broke back through the surface, you noticed that the sun was starting to set. It was then that you realized just how much time you had spent with Ben around town. It had gone by in the blink of an eye.

Your fingers started to wrinkle from the water and you decided to emerge from the tub. Wrapping a robe around you, you padded back towards your bedroom to find Padmé waiting for you.

“Your highness, we must take some measurements for your wedding dress,” she informed you as a group of handmaidens swarmed into the room. 

You were guided up onto a pedestal and turned this way and that as they draped a gown around you, pinning and stitching things in place. 

“How soon will this be finished?” you asked.

“Don’t fret, your highness, I’ll have the dress finished in time for your nuptials tomorrow,” the seamstress said as she packed up her things.

“Tomorrow?” you asked incredulously. It was so much sooner than you thought.

“Of course,” Padmé smiled, “The King will want to marry you at sunset tomorrow, as is tradition.”

“Isn’t that... quite soon?” you asked.

“You’ve known each other for years, have you not?”

“Well,” you sighed as you pulled your robe back on. “May I at least speak with the King first?”

“I’m afraid not, your highness,” she said with a sad smile, “His majesty is in a meeting with the war council tonight. It’s to go over plans for reinforcing your father’s troops. I don’t think he’ll be out any time soon.”

“I see,” you said, a frown of disappointment apparent on your face. “I’d like to enjoy dinner in my room tonight, Padmé. There’s no sense in eating in the dining room if I am to be eating alone.”

“Of course, your highness,” Padmé nodded, ushering everyone out the door. She paused in the doorway before turning back to you. “If it helps at all, your highness, please know that his majesty is a kind man. He is just as nervous about this as you, but I can promise you that everything he will ever do is to protect you. When you were late in arriving.... well, I have never seen him more distraught. I was sure he’d scour the kingdom just to find you.”

“I see,” you murmured, looking out the window at the vast kingdom. “Thank you, Padmé.”

She left without another word.

When dinner arrived, you hadn’t realized how hungry you were, but then you remembered that you hadn’t eaten since the tavern fiasco. Regardless of whether or not it actually was the best meal you’ve eaten, your hunger made it so. 

By the time you’d finished eating, the sky had turned into the indigo depths of a lightless ocean. You settled on the window seat and opened the window to feel the chill night air on your face. Your farmer was out there somewhere, with his eyes like the sky in the morning when you have a whole day ahead of you, bright and nary a cloud in the sky. As you closed your eyes, you pictured his face, his strong jaw, his beard as it brushed the shell of your ear during the tour of the kingdom, his strong arms as they wrapped around you. Never had you felt more safe. 

You fell asleep on the bench, dreaming of your farmer. It wasn’t until much later that you woke up to a pair of arms carrying you to bed.

Fluttering your eyelids, you noticed a shadow holding you. Your first instinct was to push back as you gasped in fear.

“Shhhhh, lass,” a man murmured as he tucked you into the covers. “Are you scared?” He gently smoothed your hair out of your face, “Don’t be. I’ll protect you from today onwards. Always.”

In your heart, you believed him. You couldn’t make out any of his features as he retreated towards the hall, but when he opened the door, the candlelight reflected off the crown on his head. By then, you could barely keep your eyes open and let yourself succumb to sleep.

Padmé let you sleep in the next morning, having guessed that you had been through quite the ordeal and were thoroughly exhausted. When they finally woke you up, it was around noon and they started to get you ready for your wedding.

It was all a blur as you felt your nerves begin to rise, settling into your chest like a weight. You couldn’t eat, instead just allowing yourself to be taken over by the process and trusting your new handmaidens and Padmé completely.

Soon, you found yourself at the chapel as the afternoon sun started to set, swathing you in colorful light from the stained glass. Your hand came up to squeeze your pendant in your hand, wishing that your father could have been there. Ahead of you stood a man with his back towards you, a crown nestled in his auburn hair. Part of you wondered if you could really go through with this, but then you remembered that this was for the good of the kingdom. Your life was never just yours. You lived for your people, and what your people needed was for you to solidify this alliance. For your own sake, you hoped that love would come later, once Ben was long forgotten. If you could ever manage that.

You walked with a measured gait towards the front of the chapel, coming to rest next to the man that would be your husband. Your heart was thumping in your chest, but then he turned to you and time stopped.

He watched with a smile as your eyes widened and your mouth parted slightly. He was so very handsome. His beard looked incredibly soft. His eyes were a brilliant blue and you were certain that you’d drown in them someday. He was your farmer, and here he was holding his hand out for you to take.

“I don’t understand,” you murmured as you took his hand.

“When you didn’t show up as expected, I had to go searching for you. We traveled the main road and found your carriage. Then, Anakin and I broke off to find you,” he explained.

“But I thought-”

“That I was a farmer,” he grinned, “I couldn’t put a target on my back when there was already one on yours. Traveling the way we did was better for all involved.”

“You could’ve told me,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

“I hadn’t seen you in years. I wanted to know you just as you are, and for you to know me in the same regard,” he replied, kissing your hand.

“And the name Ben?” you asked.

“A nickname from an old friend who lives in a cloister,” he explained.

“I love you,” you told him earnestly.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, “I love you, too, lass.”

The bishop cleared his throat in front of you and you both shared a wide grin before turning back towards him to finish the proceedings.

For the entire ceremony, you were thinking of the man standing next to you and how you knew that no matter what, everything would be alright. You recited your vows, exchanged your rings, and turned back towards each other.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. Your majesty, you may kiss your bride,” the bishop grinned.

Obi-Wan’s eyes trailed down your face towards your lips as his arm wrapped around your waist to pull you close. His other hand came up to tilt your face towards his. Gently, he stroked his thumb across your cheek. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you settled your hands on his chest. 

He leaned down to kiss you, pressing his lips against yours. To your surprise, he dipped you back, causing you to chuckle against his lips as he straightened the two of you out. Then, he scooped you up and carried you towards your castle so that you could live happily ever after.  

[eirian-houpe]

Beauty Enlightened

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Grace | Paige, Blue Fairy | Mother Superior

Additional Tags: curse, Angst, Romance, UST

Series: Part 2 of Beauty...

Summary: Lady Belle of Adelram Hall is dismayed to find her husband-to-be missing, and is brought to find, and to save him, by the man who confesses his love for Rumplestiltskin.

Beauty Enlightened

As the remaining winter days became a thing of the past, and the the first spring morning dawned, brighter and clearer than anyone anticipated, it was with a flush of renewed nervousness that Belle greeted the day.

Since before midwinter, so long ago now that she could barely remember the awkward days of stilted conversation, when she would twist the jewel on the ring finger of her left hand, the day of her fiance’s return had been a constant, and surprising, point of anticipation. She had been unable to come to know the man to whom she had promised herself, before business had called him away. A relief of sorts, for how could she not think it fortuitous, the chance to learn the estate she was to manage? With Grace for company, the time was such a gift.

As she sat with the young woman that morning, though, their mood was somber on what should have been a day of celebration; the first day of spring. They took breakfast with barely a word spoken between them. There had been a letter come that morning. Two as it turned out, as Grace slowly slid the missive across the table to her.

The paper was the same soft velum as before, with crisp, sharp folds, but the hand upon the front of the letter was not the looping cursive, not was it in her fiance’s customary ink, but in a deep, burnt umber color, and the seal on the back was in the shape of a hat.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Grace asked quietly, sounding almost as fearful as she was suddenly. She took a deep breath, and then hooked her thumbnail beneath the seal, preparing to break it. Then she froze. A single word in tiny letters was printed beneath the seal, and she lifted it closer to her face to peer at it.

Believe.

She frowned as she read it, and a slight shiver went through her, like a warning, or some kind of expectation.

“Belle?” Grace questioned.

She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she said and tugged at the seal until it broke from the paper and she could unfold the letter, swallowing hard as she did.

The message was short, and to the point. It read, “Miss French, I shall call for you at 2pm, and you must trust me, and come at once.” And it was signed with the same, strange cursive as on the envelope with a single name. Jefferson.

Without knowing why, Belle felt her eyes fill with tears, and she fought not to let them escape. There was no real reason to suspect that Jefferson’s words meant anything untoward. She slid the letter over to Grace.

The girl read silently, then said to herself, “He went through with it,” in a tone that was part question and a good deal of worried surprise.

“Went through with what?” She questioned beginning to chew her lip in worry at what might have happened. Mister Gold had said that his journey was for business. What kind of business could he possibly have had that would warrant such a comment? 

Grace shook her head, though she reached to cover Belle’s hand with her own. “It’s not my place to tell,” she said. “Wait until my papa gets here. If he doesn’t explain, then he can show you.”

The greeting was not tearful. Belle would not allow it to be despite being worked almost to a frenzy by the appointed hour. Grace, too, shifted foot to foot as the Grandfather Clock in the main entrance hall of the house chimed the hour. Belle looked toward the door which for a moment seemed to shimmer as if it lay beyond some great blaze that she could not see, and then from nowhere, a man appeared as though he had simply come fully formed into existence even as she blinked.

He was tall and slender, neatly dressed for all his clothing was of mismatched colors, set off by the patterned, purple cravat tied around his neck with the ends disappearing beneath the v of his button festooned, soft leather vest. Most curious of all - more curious even than the high collar on his long coat - was the hat he carried in his hand. A tall, top hat, a little scuffed in places, but carried as though it were either the most precious, or the most dangerous, thing in the world. He stepped forward, and behind him came another man, though not Gold. This man had the look of a tenant farmer, tidy, but clearly a man accustomed to work.

Jefferson opened his mouth to speak, instead let out a soft ‘oof’ as Grace knocked the breath from him. She ran to him and threw herself against him with a cry of, “Papa!” Then Jefferson wrapped her in his arms, and lifted her feet from the ground to hold her close, as though she were a small child and not a young lady approaching adulthood. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

“And I you, my Grace,” Jefferson said softly, then setting her down added, “But there will be time enough for this later. Now we must bring Adelram’s lady to her lord.”

“I can come too?” Grace said with great excitement.

“Indeed,” Jefferson said, and waving his free hand at the farmer, continued, “I anticipated you would; nay, you must.”

“For the same amount of people that go through have to come back,” Grace recited.

“No more, no less,” Jefferson finished, and then looking up at Belle told her, “The hat’s rules, not mine.”

Belle shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said.

Releasing Grace, Jefferson stepped closer to her, holding out his hat in her direction. It seemed to her to be an ordinary hat, and she looked up at Jefferson and said with exaggerated patience, “It’s a hat.”

“A magic hat,” he said. “A hat that opens portals to other worlds, other places.” Belle frowned, but did not scoff or deride Jefferson for his words. He spoke with such conviction that she found herself unable to do other than believe. “When I left from here, through the hat, it was with Mister Gold. Hence…” he gestured toward the farmer who was standing now, looking awkward, cap in hand, “…who incidentally should probably be fed and given lodgings until I can return him to his home.”

“Of… of course,” Belle stammered, and nodded to the silent, ever present Dove, who led the man out of the hallway.

“Now, since we must go, and bring back Mister Gold,” he pointed in turn at each of them. “We must be three.”

The mention of bringing back her fiance rekindle Belle’s worries.

“Did something… happen?” she asked hesitantly.

Jefferson’s face became somber. “A great deal, dear lady, and you must not be alarmed at the changes you will see.”

“What is it?” she snapped. “Is he injured… ill?”

Jefferson held up his hand. “Easier to show you, Lady Belle,” he said.

Swallowing hard, she nodded, and watched as Jefferson stepped back, set his hat upon the floor, and with the flick of a wrist, set the garment spinning.

A spot of darkness appeared then, as if it had climbed out of the depths of the hat, and after a moment expanded as it became surrounded by a purple maelstrom, which looked as though it should have been accompanied by a great wind. Instead, it brought silence, as though it had sucked into itself all the sound in the world to leave nothing in the space left behind.

Jefferson held out his hand to Grace, who took it without hesitation, then offered his arm to Belle. She glanced first at Grace, who nodded, filling Belle with the courage to slip her hand into the crook of Jefferson’s arm. With no further warning then, he jumped into the dark spot in the heart of the swirling mist, pulling Belle and Grace along with him.

Belle expected a feeling of falling, instead as though in a long, slow blink, the darkness swallowed her one moment, and in the next, before her stood a large, empty room encircled with doors, each bearing a different motif. Beside her, Jefferson once more had the hat in his hand.

“Wh— what… where are we?” Belle asked, feeling quite faint as she tried to comprehend all that was happening to her and around her.

“The Hall of Doors,” Jefferson told her, then added sharply, “Grace, come away!”

The girl jumped, and snatched her hand back from the door that she was reaching for, it’s mirrored surface shimmering, as though calling to be touched.

“Where does it lead, Papa?” Grace asked, contrite as she came to take Belle’s hand.

“Nowhere we ever want to go,” he answered, leading them toward a door on which the leafy motif of a tree stood out in stark relief against the dark oak of the wood. He reached out to pull open the door and Belle gasped. Beyond the threshold she saw a rolling countryside, with a rich forest on the other side of the fields. “This way,” he told them, and stepped through. Grace tugged on Belle’s hand, pulling her through, until Belle could feel the breeze on her cheeks, and hear the soft susurration of the leaves rustling in the trees.

She turned around, expecting to see through the doorway back into the Hall of Doors, and uttered a cry of surprise as she saw only more countryside, and more forest.

“Where are we, now?” she asked.

“This is the Enchanted Forest,” Grace answered. “It’s where I was born.”

Jefferson was already striding ahead, his long legs taking him further from Belle and Grace, who encouraged her to hurry to catch up.

“Where are we going?” Belle called to him.

“Into the woods,” Jefferson called back, without slowing his pace.

Breathless by the time they reach the cottage that was just within the shadow of the trees, Belle reached out and caught hold of Jefferson’s coat, bringing him to a spinning halt and then fixing him with a stare she hadn’t used in many a month. She folded her arms across her chest.

“I’m not taking another step until you tell me what’s going on,” she said.

Jefferson took in a deep breath, that seemed to fill his entire frame and then held it, his face beginning to redden with the effort until he let it out in an explosive breath as he answered, “Very well, but… come inside. We shouldn’t talk about it out here.” He leaned toward her then, and added in a voiced whisper, “You never know who’s listening.”

He nodded then to Grace, who led the way into the little cottage. It was more spacious than Belle anticipated, and in one corner of the main room, across from the fireplace was a loom, and from the beams hung hanks of yarn of many natural colors as though they were drying.

“Welcome to my humble home,” Jefferson said with a low bow as he followed them in, and then set his hat upon the nearby table.

“I… you… live here?” Belle asked softly.

Jefferson shook his head, even as Grace began to move around the cottage, gathering the things she would need to make tea, after lighting a fire in the hearth.

“We’re hardly ever here,” he said, gesturing to Grace and himself. “Not since Rump— since Mister Gold began his… journey.”

“Journey?” Belle said. “But he’s lived at Adelram Hall for as long as I can remember, I—”

“Yes, yes,” Jefferson said, as if trying to curb impatience. “That he has, but you see, before that…”

“Before that I wasn’t even born,” she argued, “and my mother before me said—”

“—that Mister Gold has been the Lord of Adelram and its surrounds for as long as she could remember. Since she were a little girl?”

“Yes.”

Jefferson just nodded, and then picked up a scroll from the table, which he handed to Belle.  She hesitated a moment, before she began to unroll the parchment. Faster than she could have anticipated, Jefferson reached out and placed his hand over it and warned her softly, “Be very sure you wish to know, my dear lady, everything that you do not yet comprehend about your husband to be.”  Belle fixed him again with the terrible stare, and with a gesture of submission, Jefferson stepped back, hands raised, and gave her a nod. “Then read, dear lady,” he said, and went to help Grace with the tea.

Belle watched the two of them for a moment, before she returned her attention to the scroll in her hand, and began to read. It was a heartbreaking, and yet terrifying accounting of spells and dark magic - all of the things of rumor about her fiance from her own world, writ large upon the page - unbelievable and fantastical creatures, faithless pirates and evil queens, and a curse… darkness bestowed by a mystical dagger and all in service to finding—

“A son…?” she questioned, looking up to find Jefferson and Grace long since engaged in cooking a meal, and lamps lit around the cottage. Jefferson wiped his hands and came over to her, to take the scroll from her hands. He nodded wordlessly. “He never said.”

“He wouldn’t,” he said, urging her to sit, and lowering himself to straddle another chair, turned backwards, and to lean on the chair back as he spoke. “After so long, and all the things he’s done as the Dark One…”

“Dark One?” Belle echoed.

“Last in a long line of Dark One’s before him,” Jefferson answered, his eyes unfocused into memory. “He took the curse, not out of avarice or greed, as those before him had, but out of love. The love of his son - the desire to save him, save all the children from fighting in a terrible war against fearsome and merciless creatures… but it was from men that he was saving them.”  He sighed. “There’s… a prophesy,” he said, refocusing again, his eyes meeting Belle’s, “that tells of one that will use the power of the Dark One for good.”

“You think that’s Mister Gold?” Belle as much stated as asked, barely giving a thought to her acceptance of this tall tale that her fiance could be some kind of dark sorcerer from this ‘fairytale’ world.

“He was the one that gave me The Hat,” Jefferson said in answer. “I should hate him for it.”

Belle watched the intensity of loss flash across Jefferson’s eyes, to be replaced by the quiet seriousness of a no less intense emotion that she recognized well… because she felt it too.

“You love him,” she accused softly.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Silence lingered for a time between them, before Belle raised the scroll between them once more. “So… what is all this? Why bring me here? Why couldn’t you just… bring Mister Gold back to Adelram.”

Another silence, and then almost a whisper, Jefferson answered, “Because he… doesn’t remember.”

“Tell me,” Belle insisted, “everything.”

In answer, Jefferson gave her only three words. “The Blue Fairy.”

Day had barely begun when Jefferson, leaving Grace sleeping in her own bed after so long, led Belle out of the cottage and along the track between trees leading deeper into the forest.

Her head swiveled back and forth, peering into shadows cast in green and gold as rising sunlight reflected off the leaves. The woods around them were alive with the song of awakening wildlife, but hushed, as if in some kind of awe - as if they were listening, and it made her listen too.

It was faint at first, almost so faint that she missed it. It carried on the wind… an impish giggle here… a cascade of words there… a grumble and a growl before more laughter.

“Is that…?” Belle whispered, almost too afraid to ask.

“Lost to madness, I fear.” Jefferson’s morose tones pulled a knot of anguish tight in her gut, and Belle stopped to lean against the nearest tree - listening.

“…careful not to lose the way…” snatches of babbling words reached her as she waited. It did little to curb her growing fear. “…to get the thing…” a peel of laughter. “…to make the potion…” a grumble, “…to get, to bring…” a growl, “…and home before—”

The nonsense stopped abruptly, followed by a loud sniffing, and then…

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…” the singsong voice challenged. “Or maybe I should just…”

Before she knew what had happened, Belle found herself surrounded by a chill, purple mist. One minute leaning against the tree, the next… 

It was a small clearing in the wood in which she found herself, beside a fallen tree that had partially rotted and was covered in fungi of many different kinds. The ground was littered with last autumn’s leaf fall, and twigs and other debris of the winter past covered the ground. In the center of the clearing, was an area that looked burned, scorched and black with coals, but the rising sun, shining through the prism of dew caught in the budding leaves above, cast rainbows over the coals as if pointing to the fearsome dagger buried at least half way along its fluted blade in the middle of it all.

On the other side of it crouched, goblin-like on the stump of the fallen log, a creature with green-gold scales over what she could see of his exposed skin, beneath a mop of wavy hair. It… he was dressed in leather britches, with a brown, scaled waistcoat over a black shirt, the sleeves of which billowed outward as he moved his arms as if waving them over the top of the dagger in some kind of arcane incantation. His head jerked up, lizard-like and Belle found herself captivated by amber eyes that bore into her, as his head swayed side to side, as if in an attempt to capture something… elusive… recognized.

“If you’re trying to frighten me,” Belle said, pulling in the fear she felt and trying to turn it into anger, “You’re wasting your time.”

She gasped softly then and took a half step backwards as he hopped as quick as the sound of a bell, off the log to stand before her, his arms half raised in a gesture of… what she couldn’t tell. However she reacted before she could catch herself, reached out and slapped the back of his uppermost hand as if to punish an errant child.

“You stop that, right now!”

She saw him then, clearly, as if for the first time, recognizing, through the hair and the scales and the color of his eyes and his skin, the image of her fiance.

“Mister Gold?”

He took a breath, held it, and then it sighed out before he announced, “Well that was a bit of a let down!”

“That I wasn’t afraid?” she lied. “I’ve never been afraid of you. You know that.”

Jefferson had told her that the only chance was for her to reach through the madness into the mind of the man she knew, to draw him back from the precipice on which he teetered after falling foul of the wards placed on what remained of the portal the Blue Fairy’s bean had opened; the one that took Mister Gold’s son from him.

“Know…? Know…? No,” he answered, but then… “but maybe… no… it’s gone.”

“Belle,” she reminded him. “Your fiancee, remember?” she leaned down a little to peer into his strangely alluring eyes for he had lowered his head. “You made my father promise you my hand because he stole one of your roses…?”

“But,” he answered, insisting, “I’m not looking for lurve…”

“Then what do you want?” she interrupted, adding, “You seemed to be… all the times we danced together. The way you held me. The way your breath…” her throat tightened as she remembered the sensations that had woken in her when his breath ghosted over the side of her face as they turned and turned in the dance and he held her close.

“I’m looking for a caretaker,” he went on as she faltered, “for my rather large… estate.”

“Adelram Hall, yes,” she agreed.

He stepped closer then, a frown upon his face, and began to circle her, and she could almost feel his eyes on her, moving up and down, taking her in, devouring her with his gaze.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Something, I—”

Then recognition was gone again, and he giggled, trilled, the whole of his upper body wriggling in delight as he rubbed his hands together. “Something special,” he crooned. “You…”

He trailed off as she turned her gaze from him, and back to the blade in the middle of the coals. It was as though it had called to her. Words whispered in her mind, an impulse, a command. Free me.

She stepped forward, instinct warning her that she shouldn’t touch the coals in any way, even though she knew they were long since cold. She leaned down to look properly at the blade, and the carvings upon it, the word she could half read, “…tiltskin,” she whispered.

The imp-that-was-her-intended giggled then, and sang, “The queen will never win the game, for R—”

“Rumplestiltskin,” Belle breathed as she closed her hand around the hilt of the dagger and pulled.

She felt the pulse of energy go through her, as the blue light from the rainbow cast by the rising sun exploded through the clearing. Belle felt herself begin to tumble forward, toward the coals, fear gripping her suddenly as she knew she could no longer avoid the inevitable.

Then, just as she would have touched the cursed place, she felt the strength of an arm around her waist, then another at her shoulders as she was eased upright again, and the words caressed the side of her face in a breath, “Rumplestiltskin is my name.”

“No!” a discordant cry from above the fallen log broke the moment. “What have you done!”

Rumplestiltskin, for now Belle knew the name by which she should call him, released her gently from his embrace, but eased her also behind him.

“Failed,” he said, his voice steady, recognizable to her now. “Failed, failed. You failed.”

The Blue Fairy settled on the ground, in full sized, human form, and addressed, not Rumplestiltskin, but Belle who - unafraid, moved to stand beside the man to whom she was promised.

“Foolish girl!” she snapped. “Do you know what you have done? How many will now suffer at your hand?”

“You don’t know that,” Belle accused, “And from what I understand, equally as many have already suffered by your hand. You send his son from him,” Belle pointed to the coals upon the ground, “tried to cage him in madness by pinning him with this,” she raised the dagger between them, and the fairy shrank back, “into the very place of his torment?”

“Give me the dagger, Belle,” Rumplestiltskin said softly.

“You can’t do that,” Blue warned, “He will enslave you with it,”

“No,” Belle countered, remembering all she had read, and all that Jefferson had told her. “He is a slave to the dagger in anyone else’s hands. It belongs to him, and I mean to return it to him, and to keep the promise that I made.”

“I forbid it!” The Blue Fairy took a step forward then, until Belle brandished the dagger again, this time as one would ordinarily hold a knife for fighting. The fairy froze.

“No one decides me fate but me,” Belle informed her calmly, then turned, and taking the dagger by the blade, offered the hilt to Rumplestiltskin.

“It’s forever, dearie,” he warned, though with such softness as she had ever heard from him since she had met him as Mister Gold in her own world.

“My father, the people, back home… they will all be safe? Cared for?” she asked him.

“You have my word,” Rumplestiltskin said.

“Then you have mine,” Belle told him. “However this,” she gestured with her free hand around them, “plays out, whatever must be done. I will help you find your boy.” 

Rumplestiltskin reached out, and closed his hand around the hilt of the offered blade. As he took it into his possession, the clearing, the fairy, everything dissolved around them in a haze of purple mist, which cleared slowly and she found herself standing in the great hall of a castle. The room, however grand, was simply furnished, with a table, two chairs beside a roaring fireplace, and a great spinning wheel, set upon a nearby dais.

As she wondered at this, she caught sight of herself, her reflection in the glass of a cabinet that stood against the wall, to find herself dressed in the most beautiful of golden gowns. She blinked, and turned to face Rumplestiltskin, to find him smiling at her, similarly dressed in great finery, a blue and silver brocade tunic and britches.

“Care to dance, my dear?” he asked.

“But… we have no music,” she answered in wry amusement, but remembering the time before - the first time they had danced - moved toward him anyway, and closer yet as his arm slid around her, and he took her hand in his.

“Maestro,” he whispered, and from out of the very air itself, came the strains of Chopin, as if he had read her mind, her memory.

Where their hands met she felt as if a tingling passed between them, still softly, but stronger than before, and it rekindled the feeling that fizzled in her lungs, a tenderness and excitement that she would never have expected to feel from so strange a being as was this man - the Dark One, that would be her husband.

Their movements matched the gentle nature of the music, the light piano tones guiding their steps, and as before, she followed him with ease, and with delight. Then the music intensified, moving to a minor key with many crescendos. He tugged her closer, and she held fast to him. The gentle fizzle becoming an ache, a need to be subsumed by the music, by the one that held her, turned with her, pressed her close to move as one, his thighs parting hers to step, to move around the spaciousness of the great hall that still did not feel large enough to contain them, and she became lost in him.

And then…

As if a dream, the power and energy that had possessed her, possessed them both, faded as the music turned again, to fall over them as the gentle patter of rain, washing them both clean, bathing them, blessing them together, and they came slowly to a stop, she breathless, and he…

“I rather fear I forgot myself,” he said, barely above a whisper, repeating the words he had spoken to her once before, but which held so much more meaning now. “Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she whispered in return, and pressed a hand to his chest to feel his heart beat strong, fast, but slowing against her fingers. “Rumplestiltskin… I will stay, with you, forever.”

[thefaeriereview]

Tour: Brazen in Blue

https://ift.tt/2ZU0TQs

BRAZEN IN BLUE Rachael Miles Historical Romance Lady Emmeline Hartley has overcome every obstacle life has thrown her way. A spinster, disappointed in love, Em is on the brink of a marriage of convenience, when the man who rejected her heart reappears in need of her help. It gives Em a chance to escape, put to use one of her most unusual talents–and perhaps convince him once and for all to risk his heart… Adam Montclair–one of the most successful agents at the Home Office–rubs elbows with the highest levels of society. Even so, he wasn’t to the manor born. No matter how much he desires Em, as a match he is completely unsuitable. While it pains him to be near her, it’s a punishment he richly deserves. Now on a mission to uncover a plot against the government, Adam knows Em’s uncanny ability to recall voices will be essential. Yet as the two thwart the dangers in their path, it may become impossible to deny that Em is essential to happiness itself…

3 out of 5 fairies

Brazen in Blue is an enjoyable read. It was a little slow to start, but I absolutely LOVE Emmeline from the start. She's independent and has a good heart. She's not perfect, but that just makes her all the more endearing. The premise was definitely good - but I would have liked a little more balance between the intrigue of trying to complete the mission and the second chance at love Em and Adam get. Overall a thoroughly enjoyable read.

Book five in Miles’s The Muses’ Salon series (after Reckless in Red) delivers heady Regency romance featuring a refreshing heroine and a tantalizing mystery. Lady Emmeline Hartley permanently injured her legs at age six in the same accident that killed her mother and sisters. Her father abandoned her to be raised by servants, and Em has spent the intervening years caring for his estate with her faithful dog, Queen Bess, at her side. Now Em is on the brink of a marriage of convenience to longtime family friend Lord Colin Somerville—but she gets cold feet and flees on her wedding day, reluctantly accepting the aid of Adam Locksley, an agent of the Home Office and Em’s former lover, to get away. Though Em is angry at Adam over a perceived betrayal, Adam is determined to keep her safe. But in a delightful twist, the Home Office requests Em’s help to catch a burgeoning threat to England, and Adam and Em are quickly embroiled in a multitude of schemes. Em’s self-discovery is a delight to behold as she matures from impish child, to solemn bride-to-be, to fully self-actualized, independent woman working hand in hand with a partner. Series fans and new readers alike will be charmed. — Publishers Weekly

Amazon → https://amzn.to/2XewVpd

 Barnes & Noble → https://bit.ly/3jHOiIs

_____________________

August 1819

The note was short. A time, a place, a handwriting she knew. But no apology.

Lady Emmeline Hartley read the note again.

I must see you. I wouldn’t ask, knowing how we parted. But I must say it: lives depend on it. Come to the great oak at midnight. The light of the moon will guide your way.

For months she’d imagined how she would respond if Adam Locksley ever sent her such a note. After long con- sideration, she’d determined she wouldn’t see him. She would let him and his rabble-rousing friends go; she would do good in her own way. She had her own funds. She didn’t need to overturn the aristocracy to feed those on her estate or in her shire.

She threw the note into the fire.

But she had no choice but to meet Adam. A week ago, Lord Colin Somerville had arrived, haggard and wounded both in body and soul. He was her childhood defender, her dear and constant friend. He’d asked for shelter and for secrecy. She’d promised him both. She wouldn’t let her indiscretions alter that.

If she didn’t meet Adam, he would come to the estate. He’d done it before, stood under her balcony with a hand- ful of pebbles and hit every window but her own. In the months since she’d seen him last, she’d moved her bedroom to another wing of the manor, so whatever window his pebbles struck, it couldn’t be hers. That made it more likely that Colin would hear him, and then she’d have to explain. The thought of her upstanding defender pacing off a duel with her criminal lover twisted her stomach.

No, she had to meet Adam. But she didn’t have to trust him.

She dressed quickly in a dark riding dress covered by her grandfather’s greatcoat, shortened to fit her height. Removing a muff pistol from her dressing table, she carefully loaded the chamber, then tucked it into an inner pocket she’d sewn for the purpose. When Em picked up her walking stick, her giant Newfoundland dog, Queen Bess, rose and joined her.

Taking a deep breath, Emmeline slipped into the hall, Bess padding quietly behind. She stole down the staircase and through the door leading into the kitchen garden. No one noticed.

At the garden, two paths led to the great oak. The smoother, wider, but more public, route took her toward the village, joining the forest where the bridge crossed the river. The longer, but more secluded, route led through the uneven ground of the churchyard. She chose the pri- vate cemetery path.

Since the moon was bright, she walked close to the chapel walls. Inside the churchyard, she passed the graves of her oldest ancestors. While she was within the view of the house, she forced herself to move slowly, stepping from the shadow of one tree to the next. If someone looked out a window, she wanted to appear no more than a trick of the moonlight, or, for the more superstitious, a ghost uneasy in the grave or one of the faerie folk come to dance among the oaks.

At the graves of her sisters, she quickened her pace. As a child, she had carried her bowl of porridge to their trim plots, believing they could know she was near them. But as she’d grown, she had set aside such fancies. Nursery rhymes and folk tales only cloud the judgment. Even so, she was grateful her sisters had been long silent: she would have hated for them to know what a fool she’d been.

Stepping into the forest, Emmeline quickened her step, but not because Adam waited. She could never make her way to the great oak’s clearing without thinking of her mother and sisters, lost in a carriage accident when Emmeline was just six. Her mother, Titania—named after Shakespeare’s Queen of the Faeries—had believed the clearing was one of the few remaining places where the human and faerie worlds overlapped. On picnics, Titania would enthrall her daughters with tales of magic and enchantment, her voice a lilting honey-gold. Sometimes Titania would sing them an eerie, tuneless song she claimed the Faerie Queen had taught her. On those days, Emmeline would dance around the great oak, believing that she could see shadowy figures melt out of and back into the trees.

Had Emmeline not grown up half in love with faeries, she wouldn’t have fallen so easily under Adam’s spell. When she’d first encountered him beneath the shadows of the giant oak, she would have known that, though he was playing a lyre, he was just another highwayman. Emme- line slowed, not wishing to tax her leg, as she navigated her way carefully across the raised tree roots that broke up the path. But even so, she reached the clearing long before the time he’d set.

He stood much as he had the first time she’d seen him. His long dark cloak was the color of shadows, and his doublet and trousers were a rich forest green. This time, however, he had no lyre, and, without his rich baritone, the clearing was oddly silent.

Even so, she wasn’t prepared for the visceral jolt of recognition when she saw him or the way she longed to feel the touch of his hands and lips. But she refused her desire. She couldn’t allow herself to trust him again.

“No song tonight?” She kept her distance, keeping her hand hidden inside her cloak.

“I feel little like singing.”

Even in the dark, her mind saw his words as texture and color.

He walked to the altar rock, gesturing for her to sit beside him as they used to do. His body appeared tense, his shoulders and neck held taut.

“What troubles you?” She leaned up against the giant oak instead. “Could you find no good and true English- men, to seduce with your words?”

“You’re still angry.” He stepped toward her.

“No, to feel angry, I’d have to feel something for you.” She held up her walking stick menacingly, and he stopped several feet away. “But you killed my good feelings when you let those men die. All that’s left is revulsion.”

“What if I told you that they weren’t dead? That they and their families are living well on their own plots of land, happy in the colonies?” He raised his hands in sup- plication.

“I’d ask what other fairy tales you wish for me to be- lieve. I saw the notice of execution. My only disappoint- ment was that your name wasn’t on it.” She knew the words weren’t true, but she wouldn’t let him see other- wise. Her life would be better without him.

“I knew this was a bad idea.” He raked his hand through his hair.

“After months of silence and last week’s massacre at Manchester, did you expect me to be grateful for your summons?”

“Then why did you come?” Adam held out his hand, but she ignored it.

“To warn you,” she said flatly.

“Of what?” He looked hopeful.

“Set foot upon my lands again or in the village or any where in this county, and I will have you hung. I will testify myself.”

“How can you testify without revealing your part in my crimes?” Adam’s tone sounded almost amused.

“I can’t. That’s your dilemma. You promised me once that you would never allow me to be harmed by riding with you. If you stay, I will have you jailed and tried, and I cannot help but be harmed if I testify.” She spoke slowly. She would not be misunderstood. “You have a choice. You may hold your meetings. Create your reform societies. Tempt the farmers and workmen to peaceful protests like the one at Peterloo, where they will be killed or maimed. But not here.”

“Em, I didn’t intend . . .” He stepped forward, but she held up the walking stick, stopping his progress.

“I don’t care what your intentions were. I thought you were a good man, that you hoped to ease the sufferings of your fellow men, that you wanted rational reform. You showed me those sufferings in ways that I’d never seen before.” She willed her voice to remain even. “But you betrayed the cottagers who believed in you, and you led them straight to their deaths. And I was beside you. Their blood is on my hands as surely as it is on yours. My only redemption will be to oppose you and men like you to my last breath.”

“I need your help.” He held out his palms in supplication, walking toward her.

“Never. I reserve my help for the families men like you destroy. Now leave my land before I set the magistrate on you.” She let her cloak fall open and lifted her hand, di- recting her pistol at his heart. “Or I will kill you myself.”

“Would you send me away if you knew it meant my death?”

She looked deep in his eyes and cocked the trigger. “Yes.”

_____________________

____________________

  Rachael Miles writes ‘cozily scrumptious’ historical romances set in the British Regency. Her books have been positively reviewed by Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, and Booklist, which praised her ‘impeccably researched and beautifully crafted’ novels, comparing her works to those of Jo Beverly and Mary Jo Putney. Her novel, Reckless in Red, won first place in adult fiction: novels in the National Federation of Press Women’s writing contest. A native Texan, Miles is a former professor of book history and nineteenth-century literature. She lives in upstate New York with her indulgent husband, three rescued dogs, and all the squirrels, chipmunks, and deer who eat at her bird feeders.

Website: rachaelmiles.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/rachael_miles1

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/rachaelmilesauthor

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[caltheriusdrex-blog]

Chronicles of Drex

I looked ahead of me at the oncoming horde of bandits. They were all swords, rifles and leather. So much leather... The sun gleamed off the polished brown of their vests and wraps and I caught myself wondering how many cows it must have taken to produce such a volume of the stuff. For an instant I imagined a ghostly moo pleading for vengeance amidst the cries and shouts and snickered to myself as they charged toward me. They had certainly taken a great deal of livestock from the village along with all the other loot they could plunder during their previous raids. And now they were going to pay for it.

I smote my staff down directly in front of me with both hands and began to gather my will as I drew energy from the ley line that ran beneath my feet. Under normal circumstances I had enough magic within me to roast a swine, light a candle and conjure an illusory dame to dine with. Stars willing enough energy leftover to bed said dame, AKA my hand and pretend-land... I certainly didn't have the amount of magical spunk capable of taking on the hundreds of men approaching.  Lucky for me we were about to have it out right above the biggest line in the entire Litheran Forest. Suckers.

I felt the energy coursing through my staff and into the spell I was crafting. The staff was slightly taller than I, made of rich dark wood with a horned dragon head carved into the end of it. Within the wooden eye sockets two red gems began to radiate a crimson light. My muscles twitched as the electric sensation of the energy hummed through me. I imagined the emptiness of it, the cold vastness of space and the crystalline plains of the place within the void, the place I'd only seen in my dreams, and I prepared to perform one of the most daring magical feats I'd ever attempted.

They were only about 35 feet away and closing fast. Several members of their DeadEye marksman squad crouched down and leveled their rifles at me. The lead gunner (in noticeably finer leathers) whistled a signal to fire and an explosion of sound answered him as the group unleashed a barrage of bullets at me. Surely they expected to find nothing left of me but bloody scraps of meat, fortunately for me the glyphs I'd made on the ground earlier in the day worked in my favor. The first of the bullets hammered into the air about 1 foot from my face and exploded against the barrier surrounding me. Up until this point the shield was only slightly visible from up close as a wispy transparent bubble but now it glowed orange and then red as more bullets exploded against the same area of it which happened to be directly in front of my face. Assholes weren't called Deadeye for nothing I guess. Without the glyphs I'd prepared there was no way I could have held a shield against so much force. I strained slightly to keep the barrier inplace, but my main focus stayed on the working I was about to unleash on these animals. I waited until they got close enough for me to see the burns I'd added to Rograk's already ugly mug. The arrogant asshat leader of this bunch of two-bit thugs. His iconic redsteel greataxe was raised high and he looked eager to chop a little off my top. I could hear his hoarse roar over the sounds of other war-cries. Though of course there were about several dozen bandit guards positioned to serve as a safety cushion between him and I. Pussy. I waited for him to get close enough that I could see his eyes. And then I did it. "INANIS PATENTIBUS!!!" I shouted as I raised my staff and smote the earth again. Thunder sounded from above as my staff drove into the earth and I unleashed all the energy I'd gathered, focused on the space right behind Rograk's ass.

Time seemed to slow down as the nearest bandit closed and I felt the spell begin to take effect. There was a tiny popping noise followed by a current of air pulling towards the center of the horde. It began as a breeze that quickly grew to hurricane speed which pulled from all directions towards my focal point. Rograk was the closest and he let out a startled cry as he was forced directly back into the small center of the rift behind him. He appeared to be squatting oddly, off his feet in the air. As if sitting on an invisible floating toilet.  His eyes opened widely showing the white of his eyes. And he started screaming. The sounds of suction were very audible, but not more so than his cries. He trembled and shook and struggled helplessly, held in place by the suction behind him. The bandits nearest me ceased their charge when they heard the ear piercing shriek of their leader shitting out his guts into the portal behind him. Serves him right, rapist-murderer. His shriek ceased abruptly as the portal pulled his torso into his legs and his spine cracked and broke then he was swallowed by the blackness entirely. With the portal no longer clogged by their leader's fat ass the void began pulling hungrily at air. The nearest bandits stumbled from the force of the winds and began tripping over one another. The look of fury and rage on their faces vanished and was replaced with utter horror as they realized how thoroughly they had underestimated “that magical asshole”as they had referred to me previously. I marveled at the working I'd accomplished, a sizeable tear in the fabric of space and time. It looked like a large wavering sphere of darkness. I could glimpse stars and odd crystalline structures on the other side. It swelled and grew, and as it did so too did the pressure in the air. The men nearest were whipped and dragged screaming into it, warbled distorted screams coming from their mouths Then everything and everyone in the vicinity began flying towards it.  The wind swirled around me, my black duster flapping wildly within the confines of the shield I had prepared as I worked to protect myself from my own magic. The entire mass of the horde, hundreds of men were squeezed and crammed together towards the portal. There were unmistakable cracking sounds as many necks and limbs were broken from the pressure of so many bodies being forced into the dark opening. I saw an unfortunate man wearing a horned lizard skull soaring across the air into an even more unfortunate man at the receiving end of an accidental headbutt that disemboweled him and broke the neck of the man wearing the skull. The portal continued to grow larger, viciously swallowing everyone into it. It happened so quickly. And then they were gone, hundreds of men pulled into the X-Zone never to return.

I wavered and had to use my staff to keep my balance, it may have been borrowed energy but the amount of will it took to channel and shape it had taxed me, I felt like I was going to faint and if I did I'd simply be ripped towards my death like the others. I fought against the oppressive urge to lie down and take a dirt nap as I focused again on the ley line. I struggled and concentrated in an attempt to grasp onto the magical current for the energy I needed to close the gate, but with my will waning I only caught strands of the mystic energy. It felt as if I was trying to cup water into my hands as it dribbled between my fingers wastefully into the dirt. I felt the shield around me weakening and it became harder to resist the pull in the air. The gate was growing larger still, I watched as an entire flock of birds overhead was briskly pulled and engulfed into the portal. Dirt, rocks and shrubbery nearby was torn from the ground. I was suddenly terrified. I'd prefer a sword through the neck over a trip to the X-Zone any day. What waited on the other side was far worse than death. For one I'd have to deal with any bandits who didn't die in the process of being crammed into the other dimension, and I'm sure they wouldn't be too happy to see me again. My secondary concern would be happening upon any of the denizens of the foreign plane. Without  a line to tap into I'd be nearly defenseless, and the kind of death they would grant would certainly be neither quick nor painless. My third concern was how much devastation the portal would cause in my absence. It wouldn't grow indefinitely, but I'd poured enough power into it that it would likely last several moments, and at this rate that could mean a quarter of the town would be consumed, at least several buildings full of the people I was supposed to be helping.

I redoubled my efforts and reached out to the fear within me, used it, infused my will with it. just as the final threads of my shield were unraveling I reached out and grabbed onto the line with my will, wrangling it. I drew in a great big gulp of magical energy just as I felt the subtle burst of my shield collapsing around me and saw myself lifting off my feet, flying head first towards the gate. I screamed, panic evident in my voice. "PROPE! INANIS PROPE!!!" I pushed my palms out toward the oncoming void and released everything I had left in me...

Evidently it worked. I became aware of that fact as I groaned and rolled myself onto my back what must have been several moments later. I was covered in dirt and sat in a sizable crater staring up at the darkening sky. I heard voices nearby and saw a frightened old farmer in coveralls defensively holding a pitchfork out in front of him as he stared down at me. "I'll take my payment in coin, a bed, and one of your fine ass daughters to join me in it." I slurred. Then everything went nice and quiet and black as I passed out from exhaustion.

[hah-studios]

The Beauty of a Beast Part 1

In celebration of the upcoming Disney remake and for one of the most timeless love stories ever told: mixing three different adaptions and adding my own twists. A beautiful and strong-willed girl must pull a prince from a monster, a castle from its curse, she must do the impossible and find a way to love a beast. 

Maurice was, according to any and all facts, a fool.

           A fool that once owned a grand fleet of trading ships, a fool that once lived in a grand mansion of a polished uptown city, bathed in jewels and silks.

But one thoughtless decision to send his entire fleet through the Pacific had sent them all into a hurricane. He had lost not only his ships but his sailors, and with it means to support his family.

Punished for his idiocy he and his children were sent tumbling into poverty, forced to sell many of their riches and move to a small wooden house in a small country town. There they took up the work of farmers, growing their own food, sewing their own clothes and tending to the few farm animals they had.

           That had been a year ago, today was the anniversary of when Maurice had lost it all and in a desperate attempt to give his children something to make their new life more bearable he decided to go out and trade the few finer garments and knick knacks he had been able to keep.

The desire had sent him on his chestnut mare into a dark forest that chirped and howled with moving shadows and unseen creatures. The mare’s hooves crackling as she walked over fallen leaves, the bare black branches above intertwining around each other, creating a ebony spider web against the night sky.

The mare fondly named Darling was breathing with an edge of anxiety, her black eyes roving over the intimidating forestry, her flanks shivering with each breath.

Maurice stroked her mane, “Easy girl, won’t be much longer now.” He had hoped to make it to the next town across the forest but with storm clouds hovering over his head he decided it would be better to find an inn or some such to spend the night.

But there was no sign of civilization in sight and the rumble of thunder was starting an oppressive duet with the forest’s moans and Darling was getting more and more agitated by the music’s threats.

           Maurice flinched with an icy cold raindrop suddenly splattered on his nose, quickly followed by another, and as the seconds ticked by a sprinkle that would soon become a torrent drenched the man and his horse. Darling whinnied in worry and stopped, her hooves clomping uncertainly on the damp dirt that would soon be slippery mud.

“Easy, easy,” Maurice held the reins tightly in his gloved hands, the gray seams stretching against his flexed knuckles. “Steady, steady.” But it was to no avail, a flash of lightning shot down from the sky, stabbing the ground just behind them. Darling let out a scream of terror, the sound overshadowed by a vicious roar of thunder and the horse darted forward. If Maurice hadn’t already had a tight grip on the reins he would’ve fallen off the horse. Knowing there was no way he could calm her with lightning flashing above them and the thunder rumbling its menace Maurice wrapped his arms around Darling’s rain-soaked neck, praying some animal instinct would lead her to a safe location.

           Despite the sting of the rain slicing at his gray eyes he watched the dark forest blur past him, muffled by the sheets of rain that turned the ground beneath his mare into mud, her hooves sinking into the brown mess. But then, quite suddenly, the ground beneath Darling gave and the horse was sliding down the embankment, sending Maurice’s stomach into his throat. But by some miracle Darling reached the bottom of the streaming hill without losing her footing, and when the ground was once again solid beneath her hooves she kept running, froth flecking her mouth and eyes still wide and almost hungry for an escape from the raging storm. Maurice kept his head down, whiskered cheek pressed against his horse’s mane as the trees around them inched closer and closer, the branches reaching down to try and claw at his whipping hair, the trunks scraping against his legs and horse’s ribs. He hissed in pain when an exceptionally sharp peace of bark sliced against his leg, ripping through cloth and grazing his skin.

And just when Maurice thought the force of the rain and his horse’s speed would knock him out of his saddle Darling broke out of the trees-and before them stood a castle.

           Darling, her exhaustion overriding her fear, came to a clumsy halt at the closed gates. Maurice slid off her saddle, running his fingers over her neck, soaked with both rain and sweat, as he peered up at the sight before him, made hazy by the rain. The gate loomed over him; it would take at least ten men standing on each other’s shoulders to reach the top. It was deep ebony, the iron bars straight and reaching to the sky before they reached the top and arched and curled into intricate patterns, a thick gray wall just as tall as the gate wrapped around the castle, protecting it from intruders. The castle itself was full of spires and towers, reaching up to the storming sky, black windows suggesting that it was abandoned. There was something about it that Maurice found…gloomy, as if the castle itself was sad.

But he needed to get out of this rain; he would have to ignore the knot in his gut that warned him of danger. Instead he pushed at the gate, expecting it to resist but to his surprise it swung open with ease. Maurice slipped himself and Darling into the castle’s territory and closed the gate with a clink.

Walking across a cobblestone path Maurice saw that the lawn and plants of the castle’s courtyard were eerily well-kept. Perhaps there was someone living here. And perhaps they would be interested in one of his knick knacks.

He found an empty stable full of hay and left Darling to have a much needed rest. With the excitement of running through the storm having passed Maurice now felt a chill that reached to his bones. Fearing he could catch his death Maurice walked to the double doors that was the castle’s entrance, the wood decorated with the carvings of creatures both real and fantastical. He used the iron knocker that was ice cold from the weather and pounded on the door, the wood thrumming with the force, a moment later one of the doors swung open, no one on the other side. With a chill of suspense icing his spine Maurice finally stepped out of the rain and inside.

           He was greeted by an immense hall that led into an oval-shaped first room, smooth stone stairs that led higher into the castle, and large door ways that led into other parts of the castle. The sheer size of this place almost sent Maurice to his knees. Whoever lived here…had Maurice just stepped into the home of a king?

He took in a breath, tasting a hint of dust, and walked across the marble floor that was decorated in gold, green, and red, forming swirling and star shaped patterns. His soggy boats squelching with water with every step he took.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing in the seemingly empty hallways. “Is someone there?”

           Unbeknownst to Maurice someone was there, or rather, two someone’s. From the dark of the second floor two pairs of eyes watched the man below with interest, one pair a dazzling emerald green, the other a glinting brown.

The brown eyes glared, “Don’t even think about it.”

The emerald eyes flashed with amusement, “Think about what?”

“Stay away from that man Renard. He’ll leave soon enough.”

Maurice was still calling out, “I don’t mean to disturb. But I became caught in the storm, and need a place to stay for the night.”

The smiling eyes were now concerned. “Come, come Plumes have a heart.”

“The Master will-” Plumes began but his voice trailed off into an indignant hiss as his companion left his side and climbed down the steps to the unwanted guest.

           Maurice turned on his heel, looking back to the now closed double doors (he could not recall shutting the door behind him) and considered what to do next. But then suddenly a voice spoke up behind him: “Of course, Monsieur you are welcome!”

He whirled around, his eyes moving to the stairs where he saw…a fox. He started slightly at the creature’s sudden appearance; it sat on the third to bottom step, a well groomed tail resting over its soot black paws and intelligent green eyes watching him. Assuming the fox was domestic Maurice continued to look around for the owner of his welcome. Seeing no one else he turned back to the fox. “Who said that?”

He didn’t expect the fox to answer. “I did.”

Maurice let out a shocked cry of fright, stumbling and falling to the chilly marble floor. He stared with bulging eyes and a slack jaw at the animal that had opened its muzzle to speak clear and coherent words. Seeing the man fall the fox’s ears pulled back in worry, it stood up on its hind legs as if it was a man and reached a paw out like it wanted to help him up. “Are you alright, Monsieur?”

Before Maurice could fully wrap his head around this witchcraft the flutter of wing beats announced the arrival of a great horned owl. It landed next to the fox, its tawny feathers puffed in agitation and its wings still flapping with obvious aggravation. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Renard!”

The fox, Renard, rolled his eyes at the owl’s squawk while Maurice finally pushed himself to his feet, staring at the two animals with wonder and confusion. What kind of enchanted castle was this to have animals that acted like men? But then he sneezed loudly, a shiver coursing over his body and distracted the fox and owl from their arguing. Renard stepped forward and took Maurice’s hand between his paws, the fur warm and pads smooth. He made a noise of sympathy, “You are soaked to the bone, Monsieur. Come; let us warm you by the fire.” He led Maurice to an entertaining room where a roaring fire blazed, medium sized statues of lions decorating the furnace a large arm chair of ruby red standing guard before the flames. Maurice let out a great sigh of relief and pleasure as he sat in the chair, the warmth drying his clothes and reaching to his iced bones.

The fox sat before him, his creamy muzzle curled into a smile while the owl had stayed at the back of the room, muttering under his breath. “If the Master is displeased I will not take the blame.”

Hearing the word ‘Master’ Maurice wanted to ask to see the man but then quite suddenly a rolling cart appeared by his side, it carried a tea set and two cats. One had beautiful and long white fur with blue eyes to match, beside her sat an excited looking kitten, its fur and eyes matching its mother’s.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” the feline’s voice was female and it gave away that she had more age than her appearance let on. “It will chase your chill away.”

“No tea!” The owl known as Plumes flew to perch at the top of the arm chair. “No tea!” But his words were ignored.

“Thank you very much.” Still in wonder he accepted the cup of tea the kitten held between its forepaws, its big blue eyes glittering with unbridled curiosity.

“Chaton, don’t stare,” its mother scolded softly.

The kitten lowered itself and turn its wide eyes to her, “Sorry, Momma.” Chaton had the voice of a little girl.

“Do excuse her we have not had a visitor in…” Chaton’s mother trailed off. “Well, in a long time.”

Maurice nodded in understanding, already he felt at ease around these peculiar creatures. “This castle is not easy to find, I myself only found it by accident. My horse had fallen down a rain-washed hill.”

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” The question came from Renard whose eyes had found the tear in Maurice’s trousers.

“Oh dear!” Chaton’s mother looked at the man’s leg with concern while the small kitten clumsily climbed onto Maurice’s lap to get a closer look.

“It’s just a graze,” he assured him. His leg wasn’t even bleeding and the pain had subsided, he could fix the trousers once he returned home. He smiled when the animals (with the exception of Plumes who still silently glared at him) showed their open relief.

Chaton smiled up at Maurice, still sitting on his lap, when her eyes moved to his neck. “What’s that?”

She reached a small and soft paw to the golden locket that hung from the man’s neck. Maurice smiled and undid the chain to hold the locket in his palm. “One of my most prized possessions.” He opened the golden oval to reveal a folded piece of parchment. With the animals’ wide eyes on him he undid the parchment and showed them a picture, it was a beautiful painting of Maurice’s five children: “My family.”

He pointed to his two sons, dark brown hair curled and faces handsome, “My sons, Tristan and Nicholas.” He pointed to his two eldest daughters, twins of fair hair and skin, “My daughters, Lucy and Susan.”

Chaton’s small paw patted the image of the final girl in the family portrait, “Who is that?” The girl in question was unlike the other four children; her skin was the color of fine chocolate, her hair glossy ebony and eyes shining amber. Maurice’s smile was full of the greatest love and affection. “That is my youngest, Belle. I adopted her when she was just a little girl.” It was back when his fleet was still intact and prosperous. He had just lost his wife who died to give birth to a stillborn child and decided a journey across the seas would be best for him and his children. They had been at a port in Africa when he came across a beautiful young girl who wore nothing but rags but whose eyes and smile shined with a beauty and love that could not be outmatched. Learning from the locals that her mother had passed away the orphan had left on Maurice’s ship, a new daughter who filled the hole his wife and stillborn left behind. This small portrait had been made just before the loss of his ships, his children smiling and eyes sparkling. Only Belle had kept her smile and sparkle when they had lost everything.

“They’re beautiful children,” the silky cat of snow smiled.

“Gorgeous,” Renard agreed.

Plumes let out a hoot of annoyance, his head having turned to stare at the empty doorway of the room.

Talk of his children reminded Maurice of why he was here. “You say you have a Master?” He moved to take off the satchel that held the items he intended to trade. “Could I see him? I had hoped-”

“No!” Their four voices rang out in unison, all with an edge of nervousness and even fear.

Renard cleared his throat and shook his head. “Our Master is a…introverted…person. He rather keep to himself.”

“I see,” Maurice frowned. “I had hoped to see if had anything he would like to barter for.” He quickly changed the topic when he saw the animals’ worried expressions. “But I won’t disturb him. Could I stay until morning? I will quickly be on my way then.”

“Of course,” Renard smiled but his voice was still strained. “Rest by the fire, enjoy the rest of your tea.”

Plumes spoke up, “Renard, Chat, a word.” He flew out of the room, the fox and cats following after him, with Chaton waving her pink-padded paw in farewell. Maurice could hear the owl speaking as they walked farther and farther away, and when he could no longer hear their voices he stood up. With the introduction of the talking animals his shock and wonderment had burned away any fatigue he had originally had. So, with the storm becoming a mere memory he decided he would check on Darling one last time, making sure she would be safe and comfortable for the night.

           Slipping back out the front doors that once again opened and closed on their own accord Maurice walked across the damp grass of the castle’s grounds, the air now thick and fresh with the enhanced scent of the greenery.

But on his way to the stables he spotted something the rain had hidden from him when he first arrived. It appeared to be a small labyrinth of tall hedges, and terrible curiosity came over him to see what was hidden inside. Deciding he could check on his mare afterwards Maurice walked through the labyrinth of deep green hedges, coming across a clearing that formed a circle. Inside the clearing were a series of smaller bushes cut and trimmed to form the shape of fierce animals such as feral cats and bears, he even saw a griffon. They stood as if they were sentries to a large rosebush in the heart of the clearing. Maurice stepped closer, the white roses of the bush reminding him of the stars that now glowed above him. A moment later a thought whispered through his head: Belle.

His daughter had always loved roses, the only other thing she favored more was books. If he could bring her one of these flowers, as pure and white as freshly fallen snow, her smile would be worth his travel.

Maurice reached his gloved hand out to the bush and plucked one rose, bringing the white petals to his face, breathing in the fragrant scent. He smiled.

But then all of a sudden he was knocked to the moist ground, a weight pinning him down and a large clawed paw pressing his face into the grass. Maurice let out a gasp of terror, the rose falling away from his trembling fingers.

He saw a flash of razor sharp fangs and then a voice spoke, a voice that sent Maurice back into that forest where wolves stalked and darkness reigned, brought back to him the terror of receiving the news that his ships would not be returning, the terror as he watched the life fade out of his wife’s eyes. It was the worse kind of fear-the helpless kind. “So this is how you repay me for letting you have shelter from the storm? You steal from me?!”

“I-I’m sorry!” Maurice gasped out the words, feeling like his heart would break against his ribcage. Though the pressure that pinned him down did not bruise him the fear would leave marks that lasted for days. Whatever this monster was it was clearly the master of this castle. “I didn’t mean any offense!”

“Words are silent compared to actions,” the creature snarled. “Actions are so loud they could make one’s ears bleed. And I plan on screaming back.”

The monster’s words confused Maurice until he saw its paw in his vision, it was almost human like, with long fingers that ended in sharp black claws and covered in thick dark fur. He flinched when it grabbed his locket and ripped it off his neck. “No!”

“This is to pay for your shelter,” the master snarled. His voice lowered with a promised threat: “Your imprisonment will pay for the rose.”

Its claws dug into Maurice’s clothes and it started to drag the old man across the grass and toward the castle. The man screamed and cried out, frantically digging his nails into the ground to try and break free. But there was no point, there was no escape.

           From one of the many windows of the castle Renard and the others watched the scene below them, their expressions showing the worst kind of fear.

 .

             Belle sat at the fountain in the heart of town, her amber eyes moving across the pages of her latest book. Behind her Lucy and Susan stood at the window of the town’s only clothing store, mooning over the newest dresses on the other side of the glass.

And, naturally, arguing over who it would look best on.

“That pink would fit my skin tone much better,” Lucy told her sister, running her fingers over her slender, long neck. “You’re too tan.”

Belle didn’t have to look behind her to see her sister’s scowl. It was clear in her voice: “I’m only tanner because I actually do work while you laze around the house!”

“I cook and clean the house!” Lucy shot back.

“How about you clean up after those filthy animals once in a while?”

Belle tuned out their argument for a few minutes before the sound of her name brought her out of her imagination. “Belle, don’t you have anything better to do than read those silly books?”

She let out a soft sigh, using a violet ribbon to mark her place in the ‘silly’ book and closed it. Fair Verona would have to wait.

She looked over her shoulder to meet her sisters’ matching green eyes, “Haven’t you anything better to do than fawn over dresses you can’t afford?”

Lucy pouted, “The difference between a dress and a book is that a dress will get a man’s attention.”

Belle stood up, placing her book in the pocket of her apron and walking over to join her sisters’ side. “Yes, but I’m not trying to get a man’s attention.”

“And that’s your problem my dearest little sister,” Lucy cooed in pity, placing a delicate hand on her cheek. “You think dusty books can satisfy you when only a man can do that.”

Belle had serious doubts over that. Besides it wasn’t like she was against men, perhaps she would be happier if she found that one special person. The only problem being that her ideal soul mate would have to at least respect her love of reading and none of the men in this town did that. On the contrary, both her personality and looks were too different in this town, and the gossip of this place was not quiet. Only one man outside her family showed her any attention and oh how she wished he would jump into a lake.

           Speak of the devil a charming and arrogant voice sliced through the air, making her sisters instantly smile but sent a shiver of dread down Belle’s spine.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

Belle turned around to face Gaston, the richest man in town and the best hunter. By looks he could be an angel from heaven, a strong jaw, raven hair pulled back by a crimson ribbon and ice blue eyes. He was beautiful to look at but he made Belle’s skin crawl, he was rude, boorish, and egocentric. He would never be the man for her.

But of course-he did not know that.

Gaston tossed his arm across her shoulders and flashed his one hundred watt smile that made Lucy and Susan melt. “Belle,” his voice was shamelessly flirty.

“Gaston,” her tone was polite but icy.

She tensed when the man took her book right out of her apron, removing his arm to leaf through the pages. “How can you read this? There aren’t any pictures.”

“It’s called imagination, Gaston,” Belle pulled her voice through tight teeth.

He gave her a look that was similar to Lucy’s pity but it was even more condescending. “Why read when you could be spending time with me?”

Why breathe when you could be dead? Belle thought viciously but her father raised her to act like a lady. “Was there something else you needed?”

“I thought I could take you-” he glanced absently at her mooning sisters-“And your lovely sisters to the tavern to see my latest kill.”

“Maybe some other time,” Belle tried and took her book back, holding it protectively to her chest. She thought of Juliet Capulet who had supposed to marry a prince and for a moment wondered how she would react to Gaston’s advances. The moment was short-lived as she remembered the rather eccentric Juliet might not be the greatest of role models when Belle planned on living a nice long life. “We have to go home and see if our father has returned.”

Belle had barely slept last night when the storm hit, worry for her father knotting her stomach and sent her pacing around her room. But the storm had not lasted long and she prayed he had found shelter during it.

Gaston frowned but Belle was already linking arms with her sisters and hurrying home, Lucy and Susan’s disappointment palpable. “What is the matter with you?” they both whispered in annoyed unison.

“I’m giving you both my blessing to marry him,” was Belle’s curt reply.

“We would if we could,” Susan moaned with what would’ve been heartbreak if she had felt more than lust.

 .

             After Belle had departed with her sisters Gaston was greeted by his lackey LeFou, the smaller, fuller man gave a twinge of sympathy. “Didn’t give you the time of day did she?”

Gaston lightly smacked his large hand over LeFou’s head, not moving his eyes from the path the three ladies had taken. “She needed to see if that sorry excuse of a father had returned. I wouldn’t deny the dear girl that.”

LeFou scrunched up his comically large nose, “I don’t know, Gaston. You could have any girl in town. Why her?” LeFou’s dislike of the girl was obvious, not fond of Belle’s disinterest in Gaston and her…differences.

Gaston let out an exasperated groan that hinted they had had this conversation before. His eyes found his loyal shadow. “LeFou what did I tell you the moment after I first met her?”

“That she’s gorgeous,” LeFou answered obediently.

Gaston nodded like a patient professor repeating a lesson. He pointed his finger at the smaller man, “And what does that make her?”

Having this conversation repeated almost weekly LeFou knew the answer: “The best.”

Gaston pointed to himself, “And what do I deserve?”

LeFou sighed; his round slouchy shoulders sinking, “The best.”

“Good LeFou,” Gaston patted his head as if he was a dog that learned to sit on command. The taller man straightened to his impressive height and sent his dazzling smile after Belle who had long since vanished. “Ever since I met her I knew I must marry her. The most beautiful girl in town with the most handsome man in town-no, the earth, we are destined to be.” He turned his smile down to his follower, “People will love it, a rich gentleman saving the poor damsel from the depths of poverty. Hunting for her, giving her only the finest dresses, who could resist? Certainly not her.”

LeFou had a rare moment of wisdom and remained silent. He instead watched Gaston’s blue eyes crinkle, thoughts making the gears in his head turn. “I just need to give her a little nudge in the right direction.” The grin that slowly spread across his lips could make the Cheshire cat jealous. “And I have the perfect little nudge.”

 .

             The girls returned to find their brothers in the room that served as both their dinning and living room.

Tristan, the eldest, resembled their father with a thin beard matching his curled brown hair. He was tending to the fading embers of the fire place while Nicholas sat at the table, making lures for fishing.

“Hi,” he greeted his sisters with his trademark sweet smile. His green eyes were bright and inviting, his brown hair curled like his brother’s and his face friendly.

Tristan turned at his brother’s voice, sending a sour glare at the three girls. “Enjoy wasting time in town?”

The five words sent Lucy and Susan into indignant spluttering. But Belle ignored Tristan, looking around the room that only her brothers occupied. Dismay weighed on her brother, making her shoulders sink.

           She sat down next to Nicholas. “Papa hasn’t made it back yet?”

Nicholas’ smile was pulled down. “No, not yet… But Belle, he said it would take him a whole day to get to the next town. He probably only arrived this morning.”

Belle’s eyes fell down to her interlocked fingers, his words doing little to ease her anxiety.

Nicholas placed his hand over hers and Belle smiled at him, gratitude in her eyes. While she wouldn’t say it aloud Nicholas was her favorite sibling. He had warmed up to her instantly when Maurice adopted her and the two had always been close. And unlike the others Nicholas was at least trying to make the most of their new life.

           Lucy suddenly sat across from her younger siblings and cast an acerbic look at Tristan. “So what will we be having for lunch?”

He almost bared his teeth at his younger sister, “Whatever you bother to cook.”

Lucy rudely rolled her eyes, “If I do it’ll be better than whatever grizzle you’d whip up.”

Susan, who had been making her way to the stairs that led to their rooms, came to a halt and glared at her twin. “That would require you actually dirtying your hands.”

Belle stood up before another word could be said, “Stop.” She looked beseechingly at the gray and green gazes that now watched her. “How can you argue like this when Papa hasn’t returned? Aren’t you worried for him?”

Tristan stood up and rubbed his palms across his trousers, staining them with soot. “We are worried, Belle. But what do you expect us to do? We have to watch the house and he wanted to go.”

Only to appease us, Belle thought with guilt. He blames himself for us living here. And now he could be…

Belle knew Nicholas could be right; Maurice could’ve reached his destination safely. He could be coming home with gifts a plenty. But there was an instinct inside her that wouldn’t unknot her insides, wouldn’t let her pulse slow to a normal pace.

And then there was a knock on the door.

           “I’ll get it.” Susan held up her skirts and walked to the door, pressing her eye to the peep hole. A second later she whirled around, skirt flying and expression excited. “It’s Gaston!”

“Hide,” Belle replied immediately.

Nicholas stood up to stand at her side, “What does he want?”

“To see our baby sister,” Lucy was just as excited as her twin.

Belle moaned in trepidation, “But I don’t want to see him!”

“Too bad,” Tristan placed his hands on her shoulders. “He’s the richest man in town and you’re going to be nice to him.”

Belle was pushed to the door and before she could even blink her siblings ran up the stairs to hide but also eavesdrop. “Traitors,” she muttered under her breath. Steeling herself Belle finally opened the door.

           And sure enough there was Gaston in all his primeval glory, leaning against the door frame and smile already in place.

“Gaston,” Belle’s smile was strained and unconvincing, “What a…pleasant…surprise.”

“Naturally,” Gaston slipped around her, inviting himself inside.

Belle stayed by the open door. “Did-did you need something?”

Gaston made himself comfortable in Maurice’s chair at the head of the table. Watching him place his mud-caked boots on the table rubbed her nerves raw. He leaned his head back to show off his impressive Adam’s apple, “I’ve come to make your dreams come true, Belle.”

Her dark brow furrowed, “To do that you have to know my dreams.”

“I do!” Gaston lifted his head. “You don’t act like it but you want what all women hope and scheme for: to be a wife.”

Belle’s heart dropped and she was surprised her expression remained placid. Oh no. No, no, no, no.

There was a sharp gasp from upstairs and muffled movement, whichever twin just gasped had quickly been muzzled by a hand.

“Gaston,” Belle’s voice choked. “I don’t think-”

But he was already up on his feet, reaching her side to wrap his arm around her waist. “Picture this”-he extended his free arm out to indicate to a future that would never happen-“Us in a rustic hunting lodge, much bigger than this sack.”

This he-man is inconceivable!

“My latest kill roasting over the fire.” His expression was nothing but smug arrogance.

Also unbelievable, Belle’s thought was as dry as a desert.

Gaston’s smile nearly blinded her as he turned his head down to look at her, “And my little wife massaging my feet while the little ones play on the floor with the dogs.” His lips pouted in thought, “I think we’d have six or seven.”

“Dogs?”

Gaston’s laugh was booming. “No, Belle!” He ran a hand over his finely groomed hair, “Six or seven Gaston Juniors.”

I am not hearing this! “Imagine that.”

Gaston pulled her closer, Belle pulling her head back to keep some distance. The last time she was this nauseous she was seven years old and sea sick.

“We’ll be a perfect pair,” he purred, actually purred. “Just like my thighs.”

Nicholas’ sudden burst of laughter from upstairs made Gaston look up, his grip on her loosening, Belle took the chance to escape his arm.

“Sorry, Gaston,” Belle flashed her own white teeth, placing her hands on his broad chest. “I just don’t deserve you.” When he opened his mouth to reply she gave a hefty push, sending him out of the door. “But thanks for asking!” She slammed the door and turned the lock with a noise of exasperation and disgust.

 .

             Not surprising, Tristan and the twins were furious with Belle for rejecting the richest man in town. Going on and on about how accepting his “proposal” would’ve brought them back to the comfy life they had once known. Belle sat silently and let them ramble on until they finished their rant by grounding her. Indulging them Belle made her way up the stairs as they proclaimed they would be going back to town to try and win Gaston’s favor. Those words made her stop halfway up the creaking steps and watched the three leave the house.

Nicholas, leaning against the table, gave her a sympathetic smile, “Don’t let them bother you. You know what they’re like.”

“But they might try to bring Gaston back,” Belle wrapped her arms around herself, feeling cold. “Nicholas they might try to force me to marry him.”

Her brother’s eyes narrowed and he moved into a protective stance, “They can’t force you to do anything.”

But they could certainly try; there was only one person who could order them to stop. “I have to bring Papa back.”

           Dusk was falling over them as Belle and Nicholas made their way to the family’s barn, Tristan, Lucy, and Susan still in town.

“Why not let me go?” Nicholas asked of her, worry making his voice strained. “Or at least wait until morning.”

“No.” The fact it was already evening with no sign of their father did nothing to calm her anxiety. “They might bring him over tonight, no it’s better I go alone. I’m smaller, Philippe can move faster with just me.”

In the barn the large brown horse looked as on edge as Belle felt, which was understandable, he missed Darling. She stroked the horse’s large nose, “Hi, boy. Think you can help me find my father and your sweetheart?”

Philippe whinnied.

“Just be careful, Belle,” Nicholas begged of her as they saddled the horse. “Don’t stay out all night, if you can’t find father right away come home or find a place to sleep for the night.”

“I know.” Belle crawled onto the horse’s shadow, now towering over his brother. “Don’t worry so much, Nicholas. You and I both know I’m tougher than I look. I’ll bring father home and he can pull Tristan’s and the girls’ heads from the clouds.” And maybe even give Gaston a swift kick in his trousers.

But Nicholas still looked up at his sister with such worry that her heart melted for him. She leaned down and kissed his temple, “I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll bring father home and everything will be just fine.”

Straightening in the saddle she let Nicholas lead Philippe out of the barn, when the country side and forest stood before her Belle whipped the reins against Philippe’s broad neck and the horse immediately galloped. In only a few moments the two were swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving Nicholas staring after them with a horrid sense of fright crushing his throat.

 .

             “How is the Master?”

The question came from Chat, she and Plumes sitting in the room Maurice had been invited to, the fire now only a few embers.

Renard shrugged as he walked in, “I didn’t ask.”

Plumes huffed, “Of course you didn’t. Why not?”

The fox sat down and lifted his muzzle to the ceiling. “You know that locket the man brought?”

“He’s been asking for it,” Chat said sadly. She had made a point in visiting the guest turned prisoner.

“The Master has been staring at the picture inside it,” Renard went on, his voice contemplative. “I don’t think he even knew I was there.”

“Oh!” Chat started suddenly, her blue eyes having found the room’s grandfather clock. “I best find Chaton; it’s time for her bath.” She quickly padded out of the room, leaving Renard and Plumes alone.

The fox watched her go, letting out a sigh when she disappeared. “You know…if only one of the man’s daughters had come instead-”

Plumes’ angry hoot interrupted his musings. “Don’t start! That man shouldn’t have come at all! I warned you but did you listen? Of course not! You never do!”

Renard rolled his eyes as his friend continued to bluster his outrage, Renard’s mind going back to his Master in the west wing, staring with something similar to fascination at a smiling, happy family that was such a foreign concept to the castle.  Renard could also recall seeing his master trace a claw over the daughter known as Belle.

 .

             Thanks to the mud that was left from the storm Belle had come across hoof tracks. She urged Philippe to pick up his pace, hoping to find where the tracks led before it got darker. But Philippe suddenly jolted, almost falling down a hidden hill, the horse took a few steps back with an uncertain neigh.

Belle narrowed her eyes; the tracks reached this hill that was covered with mounds of dried mud. But she could just see through the dark to the ground below and make out more horse tracks. Belle swallowed, sliding off Philippe’s saddle and holding his reins tight she led him down the steep hill. The process was slow, Belle barely breathing as her feet sank with each step, body braced for the hill to give. Philippe was faring no better, his body trembling as he loyally but reluctantly followed her, his ears pulled back and eyes like saucers of white.

Belle had almost reached the bottom of the hill when the mud gave; yelping Belle forced her legs to move. She clumsily ran down to the bottom of the hill, Philippe was pulled after her, nearly knocking her down when he reached the bottom.

Once again steady on their feet Belle leaned against Philippe’s shoulder, caressing his muzzle. “Let’s try to find a different route on the way back, yes?” He snorted in agreement.

           Belle looked to the ground to see the tracks led into an even thicker crop of trees, instead of climbing back onto the horse’s back she led him through the makeshift path. Dark branches arched toward the two which did nothing to calm her nerves, flinching when brambles tugged at her skirts.

But it was not long before the forest broke away and she stood before a castle. Belle’s jaw dropped at such a magnificent yet ominous sight, and something inside of her screamed to go in. This was where she needed to be.

Surprised that the gates were not locked she and Philippe stepped into the grand courtyard that looked so different from the forests beyond the wall, the grass thick and trees flourishing, it was beautiful despite the looming shadow the castle cast over it.

Philippe sniffed the air and all of a sudden whinnied with excitement and ran past Belle, making her lose her grip on his reins. She quickly followed the racing horse to a large stable almost the size of their barn at home. When she stepped inside she broke into a smile, Philippe had found Darling.

The mare looked perfectly fine, Belle noticed with relief as she watched the two horses nuzzle each other with open affection.

“Papa must be inside the castle,” she breathed to herself. Leaving the horses to themselves she turned and headed to the front doors of the castle, heart thrumming in an odd mixture of excitement and anticipation.

 .

             Plumes was still trying to make Renard’s ears bleed with his insistent squawks of disapproval. The fox would’ve left long ago but knew the owl would only follow after him, so instead he prayed for a distraction great enough to render Plumes silent.

His prayer was answered with one word: “Hello?”

The one word, spoken in an undeniably feminine voice had Plumes shutting his beak and Renard’s tail bristling. They gave each other one look before scurrying to the door way of the room, peeking their heads out just in time to see a figure standing before the stairs that led up into the towers of the castle. The figure’s back was to them, wrapped in a deep gray cloak with long black hair draped over slender shoulders.

Renard breathed out a whisper of awe and nudged his companion. “It’s a girl.”

The nudge having nearly sent Plumes to the floor the owl glared at the fox, “Yes, I’m not blind I can see-”

But Renard had turned to him, grabbing the owl by his wings and shaking him as he spoke: “Don’t you see? It’s who we’ve been waiting for! The one to break the curse!”

           “Hello?” the girl called out once more, making her way up the steps. “Papa?”

Renard released Plumes who had gotten dizzy from the shaking and followed after her, a smile pulling up his black lips and making his sharp teeth flash. She had reached the second floor when Renard called out, still climbing up to her: “Bonjour!”

The girl let out a soft shriek and whirled around, large amber eyes finding him and her expression one of shaken disbelief.

“Sorry to frighten you,” Renard apologized. His eyes ran over her, taking in her dark skin and shiny hair and recognized her as the girl in the photo. The one his Master had taken an interest in…

“I’m dreaming.” Her words came out as a soft breath. “I fell down that hill, hit my head, and now am dreaming about talking foxes.”

Plumes then chose to land next to Renard, giving him a sharp stab with his beak. “Ow!” Renard barked, rubbing his shoulder.

“Haven’t you caused enough problems talking to complete strangers?” Plumes demanded.

“And owls…” Belle added.

“Look at her.” Renard indicated a dark as pitch paw to the girl. “This is clearly Belle.”

She blinked, “How-how do you know my name?”

“Your father is here,” he was quick to answer.

“Papa!” Her face was one of love and relief. “Where is he?”

“Oh-well…” Renard trailed off. He had not thought that far ahead. Plumes gave him an expectant look.

Seeing his hesitation Belle stepped forward, reaching a hand out to take his paw and giving him a pleading look. “Please tell me. I need him back.”

“He’s um…” Renard braced himself. “He’s locked up in one of our towers.”

As expected Belle immediately dropped his hand and took a few steps back, her face now twisted into fear and anger. “What?”

“It’s all a misunderstanding!” Renard quickly tried to appease her.

Her next words were a firm order: “Take me to him.”

           Belle still felt like she was in some mad dream as she followed the fox and owl up several flights of stairs. If she was dreaming her imagination was even more vivid than she had thought. The marble floors were bedecked with elaborate patterns that wound and winded across the smooth cold floor. The walls decorated with coats of armor, marble statues of creatures from lions to wolves to even griffons and unicorns. And hanging above her head were chandeliers of all different sizes, the glass glinting with the moon light shining from the windows.

           But finally the two talking animals stopped at a foreboding wooden door, pushing it open Belle looked into a dim and dusty room that made her swallow. But then Maurice’s voice came through the darkness: “Who is there?”

“Papa!” Belle dashed in without another thought, leaving the fox and owl at the doorway. Her heart clenched when she saw her father behind a set of bars, shivering in the cold and skin pale. Belle fell to her knees before the cell and Maurice’s eyes nearly fell out of his head.

“Belle?!” He reached his shivering hands through the rusting metal bars and Belle quickly snatched them between her own, her heart breaking when she felt his flesh that was cold as ice. A protective fury tightened her grip around his fingers.

“How did you find me?” he asked but then shook his head, “Never mind, you have to go. You have to get out of here!”

“Who’s done this to you!?”

“Belle listen I made a grave mistake!” Maurice was shaking, his eyes moving past her shoulder. “You have to get out of here before it’s too late! You can’t let it find you here!”

Belle scowled, “It?”

The word had just left her lips when the room grew darker; Belle turned around, moving herself in front of her father. A large figure was blocking the light of the hallway, its figure made of shadow. The shadow spoke: “Who are you?”

Belle shuddered, the voice like icy water thrown over her skin. But she furrowed her brow and forced herself onto shaking legs. “Who are you?”

The fox and owl, standing behind the form, blinked at her their expressions startled yet impressed by her boldness. But then the shape in front of them growled and they lowered themselves closer to the floor: “I’m the Master of this castle.” He stepped forward and vanished into one of the shadowy corners of the room, but Belle saw two orbs of twilight blue fixed on her, two orbs that kept away from the square of moonlight shining from the single window of the room.

She straightened her spine and forced herself to meet the eyes face on. “I’m here for you to release my father.”

There was a flash of white that was accompanied by a snarling laugh, “Does the outside world now have no punishment for theft?”

“Theft?” Belle echoed in disbelief. She heard heavy footsteps as the creature stepped closer and Belle wrapped her fingers around the bars of the cell, keeping her from moving away.

“I forgave him for trespassing into my castle and how does he repay the shelter I gave him? He steals one of my roses.”

Belle spluttered in disbelief. “Are you insane? My father is sick! He could die in here! And you’re keeping him prisoner because he took a rose!?” The stranger rendered her silent with a vicious growl that made her flinch and press her back against the bars. What kind of man made such inhuman noises? What kind of man did her father call ‘it’?

“Sick or not he is my prisoner!” the shadows growled. “I will not let his crime go unpunished!”

Belle scowled in disgust as her father spoke up, his chilly hand falling over hers. “Just go, Belle. Please.”

“Listen to your father,” the ‘it’ advised, twilight eyes turning away from her, dismissing her. “Leave.”

           “What if you take me instead?”

The question sent the entire room into stillness. Belle swallowed, the offer had fallen off her lips before she could decide if she wanted to make it or not. But now that she had she knew in her heart that it was-if not the right thing to do-the Belle thing to do.

“What?” the once snarling voice had gone soft into a disbelief that actually sounded vulnerable. “You…you want to take his place?”

“No, Belle!” Maurice’s voice cracked with desperation.

She disregarded her father’s pleas. “Would you let him go?”

“I would.” The points of twilight moved as he nodded. “But understand if you take his place you have to stay here, there is no going back. You will live here for the rest of your life.”

Belle took in a breath, for a moment wondering if this was punishment for rejecting Gaston. But in the end it didn’t matter. No matter if she was eager to return home or dreading to-she would not leave her father to die cold and alone.

“Belle, please!” her father continued to beg. “You don’t know what that thing is!”

Another spark of white, “Your father makes a good point.”

Belle’s brow furrowed. “Then what are you?”

The twilight slowly blinked and then moved forward, stepping into the patch of moonlight that shone on the floor. The first thing Belle saw were paws instead of feet, long, beast like, covered in stormy dark gray fur and ending in curled black claws. Her eyes moved up to see ripped leather trousers and white shirt, hands that were more animal-like than human and a black cape over broad shoulders. And then she reached the stranger’s face: it too was covered in thick dark fur with dots of white standing out like snow flakes. He had a long elongated snout, two sharp canines curling out of his top lip, triangular ears folded back against his skull. It was like Belle was standing before a creature that was more wolf than man.

She choked out a frightened gasp, her knees giving and making her slid to the floor. Maurice grabbed her shoulders: “Belle listen, I’ve lived my life. Go back to your brothers and sisters.”

The creature…the beast…watched her with dismissive eyes. He expected her to run…

But if she did Maurice would die. She looked over her shoulder and met her beloved father’s frightened eyes. “Goodbye, Papa.”

Belle forced herself back onto her feet, gently pulling herself away from Maurice’s grasping hands and stepped into the lunar glow. She looked up at the tall creature, “I-I will take his place. I’ll stay with you…forever… You have my word.”

If he was surprised by her agreement he did not show it, instead he growled a soft “done” and walked around her to unlock Maurice’s cell. Belle held her clenched, shaking fists to her side. She kept her eyes ahead as the beast dragged her father past her (“No, please. She’s just a girl she doesn’t know what she’s saying!”) and out of the room. Once he and her captor had vanished Belle released a broken sob and fell down to the floor, hiding her face in her hands as she tried to hold back the terror that wanted to drown her in her own tears.

           Renard and Plumes watched her with sympathy for a moment before turning to follow their master, ready to tell the rest of the castle they had a new, and permanent, guest.

[spitefulpumpkin]

Moonshine Lake; Ch.6: The Doctor

Mirror on AO3

Self-indulgent as hell AU fic about a boy meeting a fish creature and their unusual love story. Co-plotted with @jyagantz

Trigger Warnings: Homophobia, Bullying, Animal Cruelty, Drug Abuse, non-explicit Interspecies Sex Unbeta’d, mostly written on mobile!

Gossip spreads best between candle light and stone walls. The recent events in Adlersbrunn had reached the university late, three days after, and they tossed Jamison into a panic. Autumn had barely started and already the young man was on a carriage back, praying none of his worries ring true.

One of them wasn't. Despite the close proximity of their mansion to the woods, it and Camilla were unharmed by the bursts of fire that had spread over the surrounding greens of the town. At dusk, he decided to move along the stream. Praying his second worry wasn't true either. The story was bizarre. Farmers, craftsmen and soldiers grouped up and marched up the Moonshine Meadows, leaving behind a trail of dirt, soot and ash. Locals rumored almost a fourth of the Lord's lands are now gone. As Jamison lurked across the familiar path, he saw nothing familiar anymore. The trees were bare black skeletons made of coal, the grass was stepped flat and dead by too many feet and he was pretty sure he could smell burnt flesh from somewhere. He pushed the nightmarish thought aside. His lungs were aching from the smoke that still hang in the air when he reached the lake. Blood splatters covered the stones by the shore, the ripped nets floating on the surface. He was shaking. In the grass lay a bracelet. He recognized the seashells immediately. He collected them for Akande himself.

A scream broke through the evening air, shaking those who could hear it. And drawing up a smile on the features of the witch, who watched from the furthest corner of the dead forest, that from now on would be known as the Wilds by the locals.

At first he refused to believe. He would roam the woods and fields, every time he returned, trying to find clues, but only finding animal carcasses and broken eggs. More of them. Monsters. Bastards. Every single one in this town. They deserve no sympathy. They deserve pain. None of his bottled messages got a response. Even when he desperately tossed them into the ocean. Without a drive to return home, the man dove into his studies instead. Manically trying to keep his mind busy he tried to master whatever he could touch. Engineering. Biology. Chemistry. One of those coated him a leg. Foolish. It was worth while. He became one of the best students the university ever had. A doctor with barely thirty years old. And already graying. In the same year, Camilla had to be laid to rest, next to her beloved husband. The day after her funeral, the last staff who stayed with her until the end left the mansion as her son moved in. That was the day, on which Jamison became Junkenstein.

The doctor spent his life secluded. Even let his food be delivered rather than going out on the market himself. The only time people saw him was when he looked too deep into the glass at the tavern or when he tried to sell his ideas to a noble. He can't live off of the family's saved riches forever after all. The Lord of Adlersbrunn, who reigned over the town and its surroundings, was a gentle man. However he had little faith in the doctor. He knew his story: A former weakling, picked on by his peers for talking to himself. People called him crazy. Bewitched, even. He mostly tolerated the scientist, gave him funds to work on his weird "robots" as he called them. A promising addition to his military force for sure. This is how it would go. For over seven years. And still, the witch waited patiently.

...

It was quiet at the tavern that October night. Only the old soldier and his alchemist friend sat in their usual corner as Junkenstein bent over his notes. The secret project that had been taken form in his basement still required parts. And he would need to find a way to get those. "Evening, doc!" He twitched, glancing at the bard of the tavern. A bright young man with an even brighter smile. "What's that face about, man? Got the boot from Wilhelm again?" "If you wanna put it like that." he scoffed back, pushing his empty glass away. When Lúcio started talking to him, Junkenstein knew it was a slow business day. The bard set his lite aside. "Hey, have you heard the rumors?" "Which ones? This bloody town does nothin' but gossip." "About the swamp monster, man! The hunter has seen it. Like, two and a half meters tall, almost as wide, blue skin, sharp teeth..." "McCree talks a lot when he's tipsy. And even if, it might just be some stray mer. One of those these bastards haven't killed..." "Wait, you say there are mer people around here?" Lúcio was not originally from the town. Might explain his less superstitious attitude. "Last living ones I saw was fifteen years ago." Junkenstein hummed and left coin next to his spot on the table as he packed his books. "You saw them?" Lúcio seemed to beam in excitement. "Saw. Note the past tense, bard. They are not around anymore, because a bunch of scared farmers slaughtered them and their offspring. Those you spot nowadays probably only pass by on their way to the oceans. Like many sea creatures do." "Wow! You know a lot about them. You learned that in academia?" "Most of it." He lied. His backpack was heavy from his utensils. "...McCree saw them in the swamp, you say?" Lúcio nodded. The doctor hummed quietly before pulling his hood up.

He had become a night owl by now, using the safety of the darkness as a shield for what felt like a definite crime. The doctor often roamed the Wilds, musing in vague memories and lost dreams as he eyed the dead trees. Rain fall and decay had turned the surroundings of the old lake into a field of morass. Too quick for the doctor's liking, almost as if magic had it hand in it. But that couldn't be the case. The barren nature of the Wilds made it attractive for vagabonds who hope to find a short cut in the muddy paths. But the quicksand-like gunk had claimed countless lives by now and it still will, until it finally dries out. Junkenstein would seek out these corpses for his project, even the ones of clueless animals. It felt more tactful than raiding a graveyard, but no less illegal or ethic. Armed with a shovel and a bucket Junkenstein would slip around the trees, too familiar with the surroundings to trip over a root or fall into a puddle. Sometimes he would nick a berry from a bush here and there. A small sign that life was slowly returning to this husk of a forest.

He must have been too deep in his thoughts. Or maybe he underestimated the fatality of the darkness. But somehow, he ended up falling and not finding grip. Instantly, Junkenstein felt mud run into his boots, sucking him deeper into the wet soil of the swamp. Already knee-deep within seconds. The doctor tried not to panic...but by now, panic had become his second nature. He wound himself, trying to find a root or a tree arm he could pull himself out of. Only to drop deeper and deeper. Thighs gone. Hips gone. The metallic arm got stuck, too, drawn down by a gentle yet strong force. This can't be normal quicksand.

"Help...help!" His voice echoed. Screaming, as if he didn't know no one would hear him. He felt his body tremble, sad last attempts to free himself. The trembling followed a weep. A sob. He began to cry. Is this really how he would go out of this world? Eaten by a bog, like the people who's bodies he used to steal from here? Would he meet an angry mob of ghosts by the pearly gates? Would he meet his parents there? Or maybe even...

Through teary eyes and sad thoughts he barely noticed the muddy footsteps coming from behind his back, as well as the shadow looming over him. He only took actual notice once an enormous hand took hold of him. Following the hand that held him the doctor's eyes trailed along a strong arm covered in dark green and blue scales and many old scars. A tiny voice in him screamed in excitement. Eureka, he was right! There was a mer living in the swamp. His eyes kept wandering, but before he reached the mer's face, the large hand dragged and tugged at him, pulling him out of the sand. The doctor lost one of his shoes, but that was little damage. He sat against a large root poking out of the ground, trying to catch his breath. "Tha....thanks..." He muttered, looking up. The mer was leaving already, heavy steps taking it into the darker parts of tge woods. Junkenstein hopped up. "Oi! Wait a minute!" The creature gave off a low, rattling noise. He could barely make our their features in the shadows of the trees, but what Jamison did notice was a large gauntlet hanging from their arm, that seemed to be made of crustaceans and sea shells. He took off his glove and the scientist showed off the jewelry underneath it. His and Akande's intertwined. Slowly he raised that hand and tapped himself two times against the shoulder. "I won't harm ya. I'm a friend of ya people." The mer's eyes couldn't break through the darkness but Junkenstein felt eyes drill into him.

"Leave."

"What?"

"Leave this place. And never come back."

The mer's voice crawled under Junkenstein's skin as they inched away, disappearing in the darkness. He began to shiver. He knew that voice.

[inquisitorhierarch]

It’s been too long since I wrote any ballads...

I mean I don’t think my narrative poetry is any good, but I still enjoy it.

They rode swift like thunder, across the plains

The grass was awash with the glist’ning of rains

Of red life that poured like a river from veins

For a day like this, every Maritsa trains

Still, now, today, when this song is sung

Long after the echoes of horns have rung

And the dead to their splintering swords have clung

And the Werewolves from Maritsa saddles were hung

 The Wolven, they marched in a great, black morass

And the Maritsa horses could smell them, alas

But they train them for courage down on the Hakass

So they lost not a stride as they charged the great mass

The Wolven had feasted when they razed Autreme

And fatness and arrogance hung low on them

But unspeakable horrors which all men condemn

Had filled them with bloodlust no orders could stem

 Made bold by their triumph o’er cowering fools

The Werewolves kept on past the glimmering pools

In the gardens of barons who never used tools

And think their defence is made safe by their rules

To the wide open fields of the nomadic men

Those born in the saddle and trained from age ten

To raise up a lance or a halberd and then

Take to battle on steppe or mountain or glen

 Their chain-armour shone in the red-tinted sun

With the light of a vengeance that hungered to run

Through the midst of these monsters who came there for fun

To show them for certain that humans were not done

Those Autremian knights in their white marble spires

Were no match for these men who slept around fires

Who carried their own gear and hoarded no squires

For no wealth can buy you a man who inspires

 The Maritsa leaders are picked from the strong

A general who falters never stays there for long

The Werewolves presumed they were weak, and were wrong

And the Maritsa drove them back where they belong

To the desolate moors, where no cattle roam

The fog-hidden cities the Wolven call home

The barren, black forests and wet, spongy loam

And the weather that shrouds in perpetual gloam

 With spears tipped with silver and horses enraged

The Maritsa cavalry, charging, engaged

And straight through the front lines they broke and rampaged

For the Wolven had not thought that war would be waged

In Bonviens and Noiveille the soldiers had fled

The Autremians broke and the Werewolves had fed

No army came marching through streets stained with red

And the rich had watched on while the common folk bled

 But there on the steppes the men were less weak

They would not take orders from simpering, meek

Rich oppressors who ran from a fight with a shriek

Whose cities of cowardice still today reek

They were men who had sworn to defend their lands

With hammers and ploughshares and knives in their hands

They refused to bow down to the Empire’s demands

And formed up an army from their roving bands

 A farmer is nothing if he cannot fight

A wolf can then take all his sheep in the night

A bullock break free from the yoke in its might

Or a goose break his arm with a wing out of spite

So they rode down the Werewolves like a pack of wild dogs

And skewered them, yelping, with lances, like hogs

Their horses went boldly on into the fogs

As they chased their invaders back into their bogs

 And since then the Empire has honoured its oath

The fear of reprisal has rendered them loath

To look to the human lands near them for growth

The Autremian cowards and Maritsa both

Took part in this victory, each in their ways

The Autremians watched as their farms caught ablaze

While the Maritsa fought for the lands where they graze

And drove the dogs off with a skill that earned praise

 And now we need no longer hear them come howling

Across all our farmland, their blood-stench befouling

And never need fear them at night to come prowling

Or post any night-guards at misfortune scowling

For our cousins in south-lands have shown them with zeal

That their lives can be ended on points made of steel

That humans are not always an easy meal

And their lives could be long if they kept to their deal

[hah-studios]

The Beauty of a Beast Sneak Peek

In celebration of the upcoming Disney remake and for one of the most timeless love stories ever told: mixing three different adaptions and adding my own twists. A beautiful and strong-willed girl must pull a prince from a monster, a castle from its curse, she must do the impossible and find a way to love a beast.

Maurice was, according to any and all facts, a fool.

           A fool that once owned a grand fleet of trading ships, a fool that once lived in a grand mansion of a polished uptown city, bathed in jewels and silks.

But one thoughtless decision to send his entire fleet through the Pacific had sent them all into a hurricane. He had lost not only his ships but his sailors, and with it means to support his family.

Punished for his idiocy he and his children were sent tumbling into poverty, forced to sell many of their riches and move to a small wooden house in a small country town. There they took up the work of farmers, growing their own food, sewing their own clothes and tending to the few farm animals they had.

           That had been a year ago, today was the anniversary of when Maurice had lost it all and in a desperate attempt to give his children something to make their new life more bearable he decided to go out and trade the few finer garments and knick knacks he had been able to keep.

The desire had sent him on his chestnut mare into a dark forest that chirped and howled with moving shadows and unseen creatures. The mare’s hooves crackling as she walked over fallen leaves, the bare black branches above intertwining around each other, creating a ebony spider web against the night sky.

The mare fondly named Darling was breathing with an edge of anxiety, her black eyes roving over the intimidating forestry, her flanks shivering with each breath.

Maurice stroked her mane, “Easy girl, won’t be much longer now.” He had hoped to make it to the next town across the forest but with storm clouds hovering over his head he decided it would be better to find an inn or some such to spend the night.

But there was no sign of civilization in sight and the rumble of thunder was starting an oppressive duet with the forest’s moans and Darling was getting more and more agitated by the music’s threats.

           Maurice flinched with an icy cold raindrop suddenly splattered on his nose, quickly followed by another, and as the seconds ticked by a sprinkle that would soon become a torrent drenched the man and his horse. Darling whinnied in worry and stopped, her hooves clomping uncertainly on the damp dirt that would soon be slippery mud.

“Easy, easy,” Maurice held the reins tightly in his gloved hands, the gray seams stretching against his flexed knuckles. “Steady, steady.” But it was to no avail, a flash of lightning shot down from the sky, stabbing the ground just behind them. Darling let out a scream of terror, the sound overshadowed by a vicious roar of thunder and the horse darted forward. If Maurice hadn’t already had a tight grip on the reins he would’ve fallen off the horse. Knowing there was no way he could calm her with lightning flashing above them and the thunder rumbling its menace Maurice wrapped his arms around Darling’s rain-soaked neck, praying some animal instinct would lead her to a safe location.

           Despite the sting of the rain slicing at his gray eyes he watched the dark forest blur past him, muffled by the sheets of rain that turned the ground beneath his mare into mud, her hooves sinking into the brown mess. But then, quite suddenly, the ground beneath Darling gave and the horse was sliding down the embankment, sending Maurice’s stomach into his throat. But by some miracle Darling reached the bottom of the streaming hill without losing her footing, and when the ground was once again solid beneath her hooves she kept running, froth flecking her mouth and eyes still wide and almost hungry for an escape from the raging storm. Maurice kept his head down, whiskered cheek pressed against his horse’s mane as the trees around them inched closer and closer, the branches reaching down to try and claw at his whipping hair, the trunks scraping against his legs and horse’s ribs. He hissed in pain when an exceptionally sharp peace of bark sliced against his leg, ripping through cloth and grazing his skin.

And just when Maurice thought the force of the rain and his horse’s speed would knock him out of his saddle Darling broke out of the trees-and before them stood a castle.

           Darling, her exhaustion overriding her fear, came to a clumsy halt at the closed gates. Maurice slid off her saddle, running his fingers over her neck, soaked with both rain and sweat, as he peered up at the sight before him, made hazy by the rain. The gate loomed over him; it would take at least ten men standing on each other’s shoulders to reach the top. It was deep ebony, the iron bars straight and reaching to the sky before they reached the top and arched and curled into intricate patterns, a thick gray wall just as tall as the gate wrapped around the castle, protecting it from intruders. The castle itself was full of spires and towers, reaching up to the storming sky, black windows suggesting that it was abandoned. There was something about it that Maurice found…gloomy, as if the castle itself was sad.

But he needed to get out of this rain; he would have to ignore the knot in his gut that warned him of danger. Instead he pushed at the gate, expecting it to resist but to his surprise it swung open with ease. Maurice slipped himself and Darling into the castle’s territory and closed the gate with a clink.

Walking across a cobblestone path Maurice saw that the lawn and plants of the castle’s courtyard were eerily well-kept. Perhaps there was someone living here. And perhaps they would be interested in one of his knick knacks.

He found an empty stable full of hay and left Darling to have a much needed rest. With the excitement of running through the storm having passed Maurice now felt a chill that reached to his bones. Fearing he could catch his death Maurice walked to the double doors that was the castle’s entrance, the wood decorated with the carvings of creatures both real and fantastical. He used the iron knocker that was ice cold from the weather and pounded on the door, the wood thrumming with the force, a moment later one of the doors swung open, no one on the other side. With a chill of suspense icing his spine Maurice finally stepped out of the rain and inside.

           He was greeted by an immense hall that led into an oval-shaped first room, smooth stone stairs that led higher into the castle, and large door ways that led into other parts of the castle. The sheer size of this place almost sent Maurice to his knees. Whoever lived here…had Maurice just stepped into the home of a king?

He took in a breath, tasting a hint of dust, and walked across the marble floor that was decorated in gold, green, and red, forming swirling and star shaped patterns. His soggy boats squelching with water with every step he took.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing in the seemingly empty hallways. “Is someone there?”

           Unbeknownst to Maurice someone was there, or rather, two someone’s. From the dark of the second floor two pairs of eyes watched the man below with interest, one pair a dazzling emerald green, the other a glinting brown.

The brown eyes glared, “Don’t even think about it.”

The emerald eyes flashed with amusement, “Think about what?”

“Stay away from that man Renard. He’ll leave soon enough.”

Maurice was still calling out, “I don’t mean to disturb. But I became caught in the storm, and need a place to stay for the night.”

The smiling eyes were now concerned. “Come, come Plumes have a heart.”

“The Master will-” Plumes began but his voice trailed off into an indignant hiss as his companion left his side and climbed down the steps to the unwanted guest.

           Maurice turned on his heel, looking back to the now closed double doors (he could not recall shutting the door behind him) and considered what to do next. But then suddenly a voice spoke up behind him: “Of course, Monsieur you are welcome!”

He whirled around, his eyes moving to the stairs where he saw…a fox. He started slightly at the creature’s sudden appearance; it sat on the third to bottom step, a well groomed tail resting over its soot black paws and intelligent green eyes watching him. Assuming the fox was domestic Maurice continued to look around for the owner of his welcome. Seeing no one else he turned back to the fox. “Who said that?”

He didn’t expect the fox to answer. “I did.”

Maurice let out a shocked cry of fright, stumbling and falling to the chilly marble floor. He stared with bulging eyes and a slack jaw at the animal that had opened its muzzle to speak clear and coherent words. Seeing the man fall the fox’s ears pulled back in worry, it stood up on its hind legs as if it was a man and reached a paw out like it wanted to help him up. “Are you alright, Monsieur?”

Before Maurice could fully wrap his head around this witchcraft the flutter of wing beats announced the arrival of a great horned owl. It landed next to the fox, its tawny feathers puffed in agitation and its wings still flapping with obvious aggravation. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Renard!”

The fox, Renard, rolled his eyes at the owl’s squawk while Maurice finally pushed himself to his feet, staring at the two animals with wonder and confusion. What kind of enchanted castle was this to have animals that acted like men? But then he sneezed loudly, a shiver coursing over his body and distracted the fox and owl from their arguing. Renard stepped forward and took Maurice’s hand between his paws, the fur warm and pads smooth. He made a noise of sympathy, “You are soaked to the bone, Monsieur. Come; let us warm you by the fire.” He led Maurice to an entertaining room where a roaring fire blazed, medium sized statues of lions decorating the furnace a large arm chair of ruby red standing guard before the flames. Maurice let out a great sigh of relief and pleasure as he sat in the chair, the warmth drying his clothes and reaching to his iced bones.

The fox sat before him, his creamy muzzle curled into a smile while the owl had stayed at the back of the room, muttering under his breath. “If the Master is displeased I will not take the blame.”

Hearing the word ‘Master’ Maurice wanted to ask to see the man but then quite suddenly a rolling cart appeared by his side, it carried a tea set and two cats. One had beautiful and long white fur with blue eyes to match, beside her sat an excited looking kitten, its fur and eyes matching its mother’s.

“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” the feline’s voice was female and it gave away that she had more age than her appearance let on. “It will chase your chill away.”

“No tea!” The owl known as Plumes flew to perch at the top of the arm chair. “No tea!” But his words were ignored.

“Thank you very much.” Still in wonder he accepted the cup of tea the kitten held between its forepaws, its big blue eyes glittering with unbridled curiosity.

“Chaton, don’t stare,” its mother scolded softly.

The kitten lowered itself and turn its wide eyes to her, “Sorry, Momma.” Chaton had the voice of a little girl.

“Do excuse her we have not had a visitor in…” Chaton’s mother trailed off. “Well, in a long time.”

Maurice nodded in understanding, already he felt at ease around these peculiar creatures. “This castle is not easy to find, I myself only found it by accident. My horse had fallen down a rain-washed hill.”

“Is that how you hurt your leg?” The question came from Renard whose eyes had found the tear in Maurice’s trousers.

“Oh dear!” Chaton’s mother looked at the man’s leg with concern while the small kitten clumsily climbed onto Maurice’s lap to get a closer look.

“It’s just a graze,” he assured him. His leg wasn’t even bleeding and the pain had subsided, he could fix the trousers once he returned home. He smiled when the animals (with the exception of Plumes who still silently glared at him) showed their open relief.

Chaton smiled up at Maurice, still sitting on his lap, when her eyes moved to his neck. “What’s that?”

She reached a small and soft paw to the golden locket that hung from the man’s neck. Maurice smiled and undid the chain to hold the locket in his palm. “One of my most prized possessions.” He opened the golden oval to reveal a folded piece of parchment. With the animals’ wide eyes on him he undid the parchment and showed them a picture, it was a beautiful painting of Maurice’s five children: “My family.”

He pointed to his two sons, dark brown hair curled and faces handsome, “My sons, Tristan and Nicholas.” He pointed to his two eldest daughters, twins of fair hair and skin, “My daughters, Lucy and Susan.”

Chaton’s small paw patted the image of the final girl in the family portrait, “Who is that?” The girl in question was unlike the other four children; her skin was the color of fine chocolate, her hair glossy ebony and eyes shining amber. Maurice’s smile was full of the greatest love and affection. “That is my youngest, Belle. I adopted her when she was just a little girl.” It was back when his fleet was still intact and prosperous. He had just lost his wife who died to give birth to a stillborn child and decided a journey across the seas would be best for him and his children. They had been at a port in Africa when he came across a beautiful young girl who wore nothing but rags but whose eyes and smile shined with a beauty and love that could not be outmatched. Learning from the locals that her mother had passed away the orphan had left on Maurice’s ship, a new daughter who filled the hole his wife and stillborn left behind. This small portrait had been made just before the loss of his ships, his children smiling and eyes sparkling. Only Belle had kept her smile and sparkle when they had lost everything.

“They’re beautiful children,” the silky cat of snow smiled.

“Gorgeous,” Renard agreed.

Plumes let out a hoot of annoyance, his head having turned to stare at the empty doorway of the room.

Talk of his children reminded Maurice of why he was here. “You say you have a Master?” He moved to take off the satchel that held the items he intended to trade. “Could I see him? I had hoped-”

“No!” Their four voices rang out in unison, all with an edge of nervousness and even fear.

Renard cleared his throat and shook his head. “Our Master is a…introverted…person. He rather keep to himself.”

“I see,” Maurice frowned. “I had hoped to see if had anything he would like to barter for.” He quickly changed the topic when he saw the animals’ worried expressions. “But I won’t disturb him. Could I stay until morning? I will quickly be on my way then.”

“Of course,” Renard smiled but his voice was still strained. “Rest by the fire, enjoy the rest of your tea.”

Plumes spoke up, “Renard, Chat, a word.” He flew out of the room, the fox and cats following after him, with Chaton waving her pink-padded paw in farewell. Maurice could hear the owl speaking as they walked farther and farther away, and when he could no longer hear their voices he stood up. With the introduction of the talking animals his shock and wonderment had burned away any fatigue he had originally had. So, with the storm becoming a mere memory he decided he would check on Darling one last time, making sure she would be safe and comfortable for the night.

           Slipping back out the front doors that once again opened and closed on their own accord Maurice walked across the damp grass of the castle’s grounds, the air now thick and fresh with the enhanced scent of the greenery.

But on his way to the stables he spotted something the rain had hidden from him when he first arrived. It appeared to be a small labyrinth of tall hedges, and terrible curiosity came over him to see what was hidden inside. Deciding he could check on his mare afterwards Maurice walked through the labyrinth of deep green hedges, coming across a clearing that formed a circle. Inside the clearing were a series of smaller bushes cut and trimmed to form the shape of fierce animals such as feral cats and bears, he even saw a griffon. They stood as if they were sentries to a large rosebush in the heart of the clearing. Maurice stepped closer, the white roses of the bush reminding him of the stars that now glowed above him. A moment later a thought whispered through his head: Belle.

His daughter had always loved roses, the only other thing she favored more was books. If he could bring her one of these flowers, as pure and white as freshly fallen snow, her smile would be worth his travel.

Maurice reached his gloved hand out to the bush and plucked one rose, bringing the white petals to his face, breathing in the fragrant scent. He smiled.

But then all of a sudden he was knocked to the moist ground, a weight pinning him down and a large clawed paw pressing his face into the grass. Maurice let out a gasp of terror, the rose falling away from his trembling fingers.

He saw a flash of razor sharp fangs and then a voice spoke, a voice that sent Maurice back into that forest where wolves stalked and darkness reigned, brought back to him the terror of receiving the news that his ships would not be returning, the terror as he watched the life fade out of his wife’s eyes. It was the worse kind of fear-the helpless kind. “So this is how you repay me for letting you have shelter from the storm? You steal from me?!”

“I-I’m sorry!” Maurice gasped out the words, feeling like his heart would break against his ribcage. Though the pressure that pinned him down did not bruise him the fear would leave marks that lasted for days. Whatever this monster was it was clearly the master of this castle. “I didn’t mean any offense!”

“Words are silent compared to actions,” the creature snarled. “Actions are so loud they could make one’s ears bleed. And I plan on screaming back.”

The monster’s words confused Maurice until he saw its paw in his vision, it was almost human like, with long fingers that ended in sharp black claws and covered in thick dark fur. He flinched when it grabbed his locket and ripped it off his neck. “No!”

“This is to pay for your shelter,” the master snarled. His voice lowered with a promised threat: “Your imprisonment will pay for the rose.”

Its claws dug into Maurice’s clothes and it started to drag the old man across the grass and toward the castle. The man screamed and cried out, frantically digging his nails into the ground to try and break free. But there was no point, there was no escape.

           From one of the many windows of the castle Renard and the others watched the scene below them, their expressions showing the worst kind of fear.

Hope you liked what you read and will be here when I release the entire story. 

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