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The first time you met Ruze was when you were merely young boys.
You were timid back then, with one's small hand cradled in the warm embrace of a larger one. A violet gaze meets with another, the other one glaring in suspicion.
Frightened and irritated you were, back in the day. Especially whenever he slaps away your hands and tells you to stay away, and when he tends to shout as he breaks your puppet toys. Though in the end he would grow remorseful as he sees you cry, so he'd go up to you and give you new things as an apology.
Growing up, now more talkative and assured of oneself, you realize that it's just his odd way of caring that he still struggles to express well. Childhood was never that bad, not when you'd always get along in the end. Not when he'd always fight against the greater dangers that dare put you in harm's way. Not when you've known each other since the start, and will always be family, no matter what.
He cares for you. You care for him as well. As such, you vow to repay the favor and shield him from peril.
The last time you saw him was before you departed to search for someone.
Ruze has always been the reckless one, looking for thrill wherever he goes. Perhaps one good reason as to why he's so willing to protect—aside from affection—is the catharsis he receives from a splendid victory. It explains all the scars adorning his body, and the sighs he makes as he recalls his past scoldings.
He's well-accustomed to blood and injury, and even now he's in bed, wincing in pain as his recently treated wounds ache while he moves. Despite it all, he still insists on being the one to go out on a long, arduous journey to find someone. After all, it's something he can handle since he's used to getting hurt, no?
You shake your head and disagree, standing from your chair to prepare for that search by yourself. His eyes dilate in disbelief as he asks—how can someone as weak as you manage such a task?
Weak, huh? In a sense, it's something you agree with. He's not wrong with that; clear are the memories in your mind, where you hide behind him as he confronts other people. However, years have passed, and things aren't the same. You were eight back then. Now you're twenty-three; assertive, courageous, no longer the same child from fifteen years ago.
In that case—
"Wait for me," you say while you take your steps without turning back. "Gibby and I will be home soon."
The first time you met Gibby was when you were merely a young boy, and he was a little bit older.
You've lost count of how many doors have slammed themselves shut, right in your face. You were losing hope in every new home you come across, and for a moment you sat down. A sigh of acceptance eluded your lips, as you remind yourself that you are—in their eyes—a monster.
Until one house finally welcomes you with open arms, taking you in as one of their own. Who do we have here? Asks the voice of a young man as he stares upon your figure, dirtied and in rags.
His expression was not like the others. A sincere beam graces his face, his mirth reaching his eyes. Behind him are a bunch of other children your age. Curious, yet they share the same sentiment. You look at them, and something unfamiliar stirs within your heart, then flows towards the rest of your body.
Scorching, aching, and yet it feels so great, so right. More so as he stretches out his hand, urging you to come inside.
You accept. You take his offer, and he warmly cradles your small hand.
The last time you saw him was when he departed, and you took his place.
Gibby ends up ensnared in a prison cell, belonging to the ruins of a fallen kingdom's castle. He insisted that you return to your home, and that he would be fine staying here. He'll take on anything, anything, if it means keeping you safe and sound, under the roof of a comforting shelter.
Little did he know that you thought the exact reverse.
You were stubborn and approached him anyway. After all, is he not the hearth that the house needs the most? The children have been yearning to see him again. Ruze worries himself sick, muttering curses and self-blame under his breath. If anything, it should be you rotting in this cell, rather than him—
Which you lay out as a proposal, in exchange for his life. You place your hand on your chest, putting your whole heart out as you make your vow. Your gaze above on the beast prince's golden eyes is resolute, unwavering, even as his frightening stare pierces through your soul.
The prince accepts. He takes your offer. His large, clawed hands are coated in scales, however, with pointed ends even poking through your skin.
Gibby walks out as soon as the cell opens, worried arcs on his eyebrows. Yet you attempt to reassure him with a surefooted smile.
"I'll find a way out eventually," you say while the beast takes you to your new abode.
You find out nothing. A few months pass, and you're still caged in a frigid, desolate palace.
At the very least, you don't stay within the confines of a cell. You sleep in elegant quarters, embellished in many decorations worth a plethora of riches. Yet none of that changes the fact that you are ultimately a captive, a servant, in charge of looking after this ruined dwelling.
Cleaning the house was never your strong suit. You lent Gibby a hand a few times, and then depended on him for the rest. Deep down you wish you helped him more often, and maybe then you would not break vases and spill wasted soil here and there.
"Pick that up. You know what will await otherwise." The beast prince's low voice sends a short-lived chill down your spine, that fades into utter exasperation as soon as he leaves with a loud, shutting door. In here, there's none of the incalescence you felt from when you met Gibby, or when you bonded with Ruze.
It's as if you return to when you were a little boy embraced by loneliness, with everyone pointing fingers your way, and no one to accept you as human.
You pass by a large door ornamented in flora, and a memory flashes in front of your eyes. When your curious mind led you to the room's interior, you stumbled upon a glass-encased rose. One that His Highness sure is protective of, from the way he yelled at you and shoved you out.
It remains as one of the clearest recollections you have of the beast prince. His monstrous, thunderous voice, you swear you witnessed it move the castle walls. You can't pull it out of your head, to the point where it rings in your ears even when you're far apart. If you were to move away for a mile, you might be able to hear him still, his tone just as pellucid.
Some of the accursed, walking, talking pieces of furniture around the corners of the palace told that story in the first place. You'd say they're the best part of living in this otherwise forlorn place, with the way they could converse, crack jokes, and complain for hours on end.
"Look out the window," says the blue-framed mirror in your hands.
You do as it says, and on the other side of the glass is the prince, trying to tend to some birds. Quite amusing to see him showcase a rare side—
Then the birds take flight, and he yells at them, stomping and grumbling like a child. As if that wasn't enough entertainment, he trips on his cape and falls face flat on the bed of snow.
You turn your head around and cover your mouth as you chuckle alongside the mirror. You wouldn't want him to notice your face, no?
"I saw you through that window."
"Hah… yeah, you sure did." You exhale after long bouts of laughing at him—grumpy face still covered in snow. At this point you're only challenging yourself to not continue, lest he thinks of another threat to throw at your way.
Though knowing the long time that has passed since then, you've gotten used to it that it's become free entertainment for you much to his chagrin. "Before you say it—no, you can't kill me or kick me out. I keep telling you, those two will come for your head when they find out one day."
"Hah!" As one would expect, the prince huffs and crosses his arms, puffing his chest out of pride he refuses to let go. "Then let them come. Perhaps they shall be next."
He holds such arrogance close to his chest, however, you roll your eyes. One of you won all of your twenty matches, and it was not him, that's for a fact. "Next to put you in your place? You forget who flipped the board over many times during chess."
"I—you—you do not remind me of that—!"
His roar echoes throughout the halls. It prompts you to stifle a laugh, concealing your curved lips with gloved hands before looking up at him. Your eyes fixate on his distorted face, hued in red, and with bit lips.
"What's wrong now, Your Highness?" You smile at him, lowering your hand to show yourself. "Is that not the point? To let go of your pride and greed to break the curse?"
Though his brows still furrow, the tension throughout the rest of his body loosens, as you pull the strings of his heart.
"I guess so."
"One day, I will have to give up all that I have," says the prince. Aside from his voice, your ears ring with the resonating footsteps throughout the hallways. "It's what I've been told, unless I would want to give up my humanity in its entirety."
"And how does that fare for you now?"
"Terrible," he responds with much emphasis, to the point where he halts in his tracks, staring at the corridors in rumination. "Whatever humanity I had is close to evaporating with no trace."
You shift your eyes' focus towards him, eyebrows raised, the curious gears turning. However, before you could bring yourself to ask, he speaks before you. "Your wounds."
"Hm?"
"The scar on your chest," he breathes, "how is it now?"
That, you can recall. In one of his outbursts, he rushes towards you, sharp claws raised then pushed down to tear your flesh open. Your whole torso stings from the large slash, and it forces you to stay in your chambers for around a week. On the other side of the wall, you've heard of him kicking his own things as he yells, and hearing that somehow hurt you more. For a while.
As of now, you look down at your hand trailing down your chest down to your stomach, your stare blank and rather indifferent now. "It's doing good. It doesn't hurt anymore."
"Irredeemable, isn't it?" He asks, his expression turning pensive. "I'm not even sure if I can even ask for your forgiveness."
"You can, and I'll give it to you." You emphasize your assuring words with a chuckle. "You know, I think you're on the path to breaking your little curse—look at you trying to say sorry and suddenly being nice."
You grin, raising a hand. "Guess I'm tugging on your heartstrings, huh, Your Highness?"
The prince laughs along with you, while you continue to take your steps.
"I guess so, puppeteer."
There was a point in time where you were the monster, and not him.
You were never like him—claws, scales all over your body, a large tail, none of that. In fact, appearance-wise you were a simple human like many others around the town.
The difference lies in the way you let yourself rivet in the concepts they deem strange, even unacceptable. They abhor unusual inventions, abhor puppetry, magic; everything else in between. And in turn, they transferred those feelings to you.
They despise the way you'd always have strings tied around your fingers, the other ends on a doll's limbs. With scorn in their eyes, they'd look down at the waving hands you'd make the little one do. And it never gets any better, not when your parents disappeared without a trace. Townsfolk have told the poor little you that you have no more home to come back to. Not when they engulfed it in flames while you tried to find any friends outside.
All of that, for a silly matter. Growing up, you can't help but laugh at them, especially when you now have places where you're free to be yourself, with no judging audience.
You have your home from afar, where Gibby and Ruze await. You create puppets out of them, telling stories of their encounters together with you.
You have your home right now—cold at first, though now it grows warmer. The beast prince, ever so bombastic, so enthusiastic, claps and cheers by himself by the end of your little performance.
Your expression glimmers with the smile, as you see the genuine happiness on his visage.
"You sure miss them a lot."
"Sure, because it has never been obvious over the past few weeks."
"I was just—fine, whatever."
Low grumbling aside, he agrees to help you out in fixing your surroundings, which you can't help but keep grinning about. It's not everyday that he allows you to use, much less enter certain areas, and the music room is one of them. Those few failed attempts at sneaking in paid off well in the end, you note.
It turns out it's a part of his own plans, anyway. "A step towards breaking the curse, is it not?" he asks. "To open my doors before pride swallows me whole."
You nod, then tilt your head. "And the other thing?"
"You've mentioned in your show about the rest of your family—how plentiful they seem to be." He gestures towards the myriad of intricate items scattered around the two of you. "Soon enough, you may take these with you. Use them, or sell them as you wish for fortune."
Sounds like a great offer on the surface, but— "Didn't you say before that you stole some things from there?"
The prince falls silent, lowering his hand and turning to you with squinted eyes.
"Guess I'll stay with you for a little bit longer, huh?" You smirk at him. "You're going to need an extra pair of eyes to look for their rightful owners."
"It's futile work."
"Why so? I thought you remembered their faces, is that not part of the witch's curse?"
"Are we about to have another interrogation again?" In bitter defeat, the beast sighs. "And here I thought you'd love to go home right away."
There's no denying that you do. In the months that have gone by, your mind takes you back to the past, where you knew of warmth and joy. It takes you back to recollections of Ruze, of Gibby, and questions as to how they fare with your absence.
Yet who would have thought that you'd find warmth here too? In the form of a prince deuced to be a monster, in the remains of a kingdom long fallen.
Perhaps it's the way he turned out to be so excitable and childlike underneath that terrifying exterior. Or the way you two are 'accursed' in different ways. The way you've both gone through lonely days, or maybe the humanity that lies deep down, even as it fades out little by little? If the true reason reveals itself to be something else, then what?
Whatever it may be, you confess nonetheless. You've grown too attached, and you're certain of your decision.
"I'll stay for now," you declare, "maybe then I'll teach you manners in case you gain another companion."
You brush against the prince's hand. As incalescent as his soft beam, unlike the first time.
End.