Beauty knelt over the prone figure of her beloved Beast…the rain soaked her hair, ran in cold rivulets down her cheeks…the muddy ground soaked through her dress, staining the front of her skirt, her stockings. She felt none of this, only the tears that welled in her eyes and the pain in her heart as she took in his ruination: his hair, matted with dirt, his curled hands with their bleeding claws, his clothes ragged where he’d torn them in his grief.

“Beast…”, she whispered, and her heart shattered as the words fell into the cool air, “come back to me…” She swallowed, tasting the weight of the words as she said them “…l love you.”

And the rain hushed as it fell.

In the years that followed she would remember it this way: the sun exploded…Beauty flinched, lifting her arm to shield her face from the light…slowly, the glare receded, fading, fading away…until gentle twilight ruled once more. At last Beauty dared to glance up.

A golden figure stood before her, a Prince of wealth, resplendent in satin and velvet, impossible in his radiance. His eyes held hers and he reached out his hand.

Beauty would remember hearing a stream of words, fine words to explain his story, to assure her, “ l am he…”. Words that spoke of spells and fate, and Beauty felt the ghost of a frown come over her face as she listened.
Gone were the lush, velvety tones of her beast. Something altogether different played in this voice. What was it? Perhaps a note of victory. An unwelcome inflection of smugness and…arrogance. A certain echo of the fault that had first seen him cast in fur and claw? It hurt her ears to listen.
Declining the proffered hand, she stepped back.

“Beauty?” And her name sounded wrong on his tongue.

“No,” she heard herself say.

His brow creased, “Beauty? Was is this?” a tiny flame of anger danced in his eyes.

“No,” Beauty tilted her head to one side, listening to the sizzle of stars and the voice of the Moon whispering in her ears. “No. You…are not my Beast.”
She turned. And walked away…

Behind her the bright Prince scowled, fumed, astounded at the rejection. But the spirit of her Beast had begun stirring from its sleep deep inside the Prince’s vain heart. Hearing her retreat, the spirit fought for release, clawed free from the radiant, empty shell, let the soft skin and fine clothes fall to the ground.

Across the wild night garden this Beast flew.

Scooping his Beauty up, together they ran…into the Moon, into a future all their own…escaping the ink, the page, the old, known story, a story too tame to hold such wild souls as theirs…

Free, at last.

Once upon a time.