Chapter Text
Once upon a time, in a far away land, there lived a prince in a shining castle.
The prince was a boy full of laughter and music, filling the halls of the brilliant castle with joy. His father, the king, looked upon his son with pride. His mother, the queen, delighted in the young prince’s happiness and passions. The palace was a place of hope, and light, and love.
At least, that’s how the world beyond saw the castle.
The truth, however, was a gilded fruit. Beneath the thin, gold veneer, the core was rotted through.
The prince was full of music, of joy and laughter, that much is true, but the king was not a kind ruler as so many were led to believe. He was a stern man. A cruel man. A man of pride and arrogance. A man who looked at his young son with nothing less than utter disdain and contempt. He saw the light as weakness, saw the joy as frivolity, and sought to crush it. Not once had he looked at the prince with love, or pride, or even recognition.
No, the king saw nothing but disappointment and failure in his son.
The prince tried his hardest to please his father. He wowed his tutors with his eloquence and intelligence, but his father did not care. He threw himself into combat training daily, mastering sword and shield and spear, but his father did not care. He talked circles around enemy and ally alike, weaving threads of influence throughout the world, but his father still did not care. And it was then that the prince realized, it would never matter. Nothing he did would be good enough for his heartless, cold, cruel father.
And so the prince’s heart cracked.
The queen did delight in her son’s achievements, but turned up her nose at what she was as mundane and unimportant. Why waste your days on things that don’t elevate your status and station? Why dabble in anything that was not a means to an end? Any flaw or blunder was ridiculed and mocked, always for the prince’s ‘benefit and growth’. Imperfections were seen as failures, mistakes as disasters, and errors as ruination.
The queen saw the prince, but only as the prize and tool he could be. Not the son he was.
The prince did his best to meet the queen’s ever growing standards. He waltzed until his feet cracked and bled. He sang until his voice was nothing but a whisper. He played until his fingers were sore and throbbing. But it was not enough for the queen. There was always something wrong, always something out of place, always something that just wasn’t enough. And the prince realized that he could never be enough. He was too human, too breakable, too imperfect for his haughty, imperious mother’s impossible expectations.
And so the prince’s heart froze.
Laughter, once filled with true joy, became cruel and mocking. Guitars, once well-loved with worn wood and scratched varnish, now gathered dust, tucked out of sight in dark closets. Friends were swiftly abandoned, seen as hindrances or distractions. The prince became the picture of royalty, haughty and prideful. He became what the world wanted him to be.
Cruel. Selfish. Unkind. Heartless.
Unloved.
The staff within the palace watched with heavy hearts as the prince cast aside all trappings of the kind-hearted boy he once was. The steward of the household, a man who was father to the prince in all but blood, grieved the boy he’d taught to read and write in the dusty stacks of the palace library. The captain of the Royal Guard, a man who’d been a brother in all but stated name, mourned the boy he’d wrestled with in the gardens and watched the stars streak through the night sky from the palace roof. Throughout the palace, the servants and staff could do nothing but stand by as the prince, who had once treated them with respect and dignity that other nobility thought was beneath them, turned up his nose and scowled like they were nothing more than specks of dust dirtying his silken shoes. He was lost to them, drowning in the cold indifference and disdain.
Years passed the palace by, and the prince grew colder and and ever more cruel. Though he tried everything, ripped apart all that had made him him, he was never enough for his royal parents.
And it was for naught. For one doomed autumn, a fever swept through the kingdom, uncaring of whom it struck down. Rich and poor, noble and common, all were made equal beneath the fever’s indifferent gaze. Soon, both the king and queen fell victim to the fever, and were laid bedridden in their splendid palace. And soon, both passed on, leaving the prince alone with nothing but a cold crown and a dying land to rule.
After a long, harsh winter, the fever finally released its grip on the kingdom, leaving its population scarred and suffering in its wake. The prince, now king, was advised by his council and confidants, all chosen by the passed king’s hand, to hold a grand feast in his palace to celebrate his glorious new reign. And though he did not truly wish to, the new king locked the doors to those seen as lesser, leaving the common folk to their daily toil.
The feast was everything one would think of a royal celebration. Wine flowed without abandon, staining the marbled floor with sticky red. Pheasant and hog and quail were served on gilded platters, surrounded by sweetmeats and all sorts of delicacies from far off lands. Nobles danced and reveled at the thought of the coming era of prosperity, of the riches that would flow endlessly into their pockets under their new king.
And the king watched it all from his lonely throne, heart shattered and empty and cold. The staff, once friends, now distant memories, could do nothing but watch as he took in the life that was waiting for him. A life of frivolity, of waste and wanton shows of wealth. He partook in none of the feasting, nursing a single goblet of wine the entire night. And when he’d finally had his fill of the decadence and hedonism, he stood to retire to his chambers.
The doors to the ballroom swung wide.
All of the dancers and revelers stalled at the cacophony. The orchestra ceased their playing. The king stood atop the dais as a figure hobbled their way inside, a dark hood pulled low over their face so none could look upon them.
The hunched figure passed unhindered through the ballroom, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of their gnarled walking stick against the marble the only sound to be heard. When they finally stood before the king, they bowed low and made their plea.
They were but a traveler, caught in the eye of the storm that had descended on the land. They begged the king for a place to stay for the night, somewhere to escape the biting cold that waited beyond the snug castle walls. Once morning light came, they would leave and never return. The king thought to let the beggar stay, to offer a room in the palace to them to rest their weary bones. But pinned beneath the watchful eyes of the nobility and gentry, the painting of his father staring him down across the ballroom, his mouth opened and a harsh, mocking denial spilled forth.
What would you offer in return for such fine accommodations , he asked the beggar, words bejeweled with haughty pride and derision. Around him, the crowd murmured in approval, though the king felt nothing but shame.
I have nothing , the beggar said, but a single rose plucked from my garden. It is the last piece of my long forgotten home that I still yet carry . In their wizened hand, they held out the lonesome bloom. The carmine petals looked like velvet in the candlelight of the ballroom. Again, the king wanted to do nothing but accept the gift and allow the beggar to rest their head, but the poisonous words spilled from his mouth unbidden.
You would have me trade the privilege to spend a night in my palace , the king sneered, for a single wilting flower? Do you think me a madman? A fool? I would not spare a room for a thousand golden roses, let alone that pathetic sprout you offer to me. Begone, I no longer wish for you to sully the beauty of my home. The crowd murmured with approval once more, twittering amongst themselves as they mocked the lowly beggar’s ragged stature.
Do not let your heart be fooled by appearances, good king , the beggar warned. There are things far more valuable than anything held in this palace of stone and glass that one cannot see the true worth of with eye alone. I beg you once more. A night of safety and sanctuary, in exchange for my most truly held possession.
I have told one once, you wretch, and I tell you again , the king snarled, lip curled in disgust, you have nothing I could possibly deem a worthy exchange for a night in my palace. Leave at once, or I will have you cast out by force . Shame filled the king, but he could not take back what was said. The crowd around him clapped and cheered, filled with joy at the strength of their king’s character.
The beggar said nothing, standing at the bottom of the staircase that led to the king’s throne. The king signaled for his guards, intending to have them drag the beggar out and retire to his chambers for the night. As the captain of the guard stepped forward, mouth twisted in regret and rage, the beggar cast off the mottled cloak and threw down the gnarled walking stick. In a flash of brilliant white light, the beggar disappeared, and in their place stood a luminous being cloaked in gold and green.
The crowd of dancers screamed, trying to flee from the ballroom, but the being waved a hand and they were swiftly transported outside. Then, they turned their gaze fully on the sorrowful king.
The king fell to his knees, begging, pleading for the being to have mercy on him. But the being would not. They had seen how twisted and broken the king’s heart had become. They held their hands high above themselves, and spoke to the gathered watchers in a voice older than the earth.
You have lost your way, oh king, and I see that there is no love left within you. For this, I curse you and all who call this place home. Until you learn to love selflessly, without conditions, and earn the same love in return, you will remain as ugly and rotten without as you have become within. The rose you spurned shall be your keeper. If you cannot find love before the last petal falls, you will remain as monstrous as your heart is for all eternity.
Without another word, the being disappeared, leaving the king, now beast, alone. The dancers fled, never once looking back to aid their supposed king, leaving only the cursed and enchanted to remain within those damned walls.
The king fell into a deep despair, knowing there was no hope left for him. None would see beyond the ugly, loathsome face he now bore. He was doomed to remain locked in a prison of his own making, damning all who resided within the palace to the same twisted fate. And so, as years passed and the rose grew ever more bare, the beast grew ever more cruel and unkind.
For who could ever love a beast?
(Not far from the palace border, there sat a village. And in that village lived a boy with hair like sunlight and eyes like sky. A boy who knew lovelessness. A boy who grew under the cruel thumb of his uncle after the fever claimed his parents when he was just a babe. A boy who not only loved the ugly things in the world, but who loved the unloved things. Because he saw himself in those ugly, unloved things.
A boy who wanted nothing more than to be loved in return.)