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It happened every year: the clouds rolled in, the rain spat in uneven bursts, and the wind howled. The Beast stood against the floor to ceiling windows and waited for her return. A flash of lightning preceded her — striking the stump of the original tree — and then she was there, trudging through the soggy leaves and slushy mud.
Waiting for her knock was the worst part; knowing what came next. It echoed through his barren castle like a drum of war, overly assertive for her beggar guise. As always he fought to stay in place, to reject the role she forced him to play. As always her magic compelled him to come to her.
The double doors opened on an old woman leaning on a knobbly stick holding out a red rose. Every year there was one petal less, a representation of his time dwindling.
"May I shelter from the storm?" She demanded.
He flinched — opened his mouth to say anything other than expected — and instead denied her with a curse. He stood in misery, waiting for her spell to warp him anew. His malformed body twisted into a horrifying new visage as she cackled.
"One day the girl will come to you," the Enchantress hissed, "and you will remember the agony that came before her. Every night you will beg for her to end your misery — to marry a beast — and she will deny you time and again."
He writhed on the ground as the change settled; the words stung as much the hundredth time as they had the first. He would never be free. For who could ever love a beast?