“What does it mean to be a father?”
Maurice will never know how he got to be in such a position as this, and he certainly wishes for a handkerchief—or something to wipe his paint-stained hands with—to be nearby.  He’s sitting next to the most powerful man in the land, after all, though at the moment, his looks did not match his title.
The regent—or is he the king? Maurice wonders—is dressed in a simple coat and trousers, both of which are an earthy brown. The absence of the wig reveals natural greying hair, and without any bracelets or jewels he looks quite…normal. Nothing at all like the paintings in the West Wing.
Even more of an interest, he muses, is the look in the man’s eyes.  They are a hard, rather miserable gray, a shade Maurice would only use when painting a thunderstorm or a cloudy night.  But his expression does not match such a sad color.  The man’s hands are folded politely in his lap, and on his face, there is a genuine look of interest.
He somehow looks skeptical even without the skepticism, Maurice thinks, and tries to compose himself before speaking.
“Forgive me, Sire, I believe I misheard you.”
“Please don’t,” the man replied, and for a second Maurice’s thoughts flew to the etiquette lists Cogsworth had so graciously made for him, wondering if he had said the wrong thing.
“I have been neglecting my duties for years now,” he continued.  “I am no more a royal than you are.”
Oh. Maurice opens his mouth, compelled to reassure him that it isn’t his fault, that magic is a fickle thing, but something stops him.  There’s a flicker in that gaze, hinting that he meant more than what was said.
The old artist did not know much about Adam’s father, only that he was absent the night the curse was cast, meaning he had forgotten about the inhabitants of the castle just like everyone in Villeneuve.  Maurice had arrived with Monsieur D’Arque, just as the sun rose above the highest turrets and towers.  In his search to locate his daughter, he had noticed this same man, haggard yet joyful in the presence of his son.  He had no idea he was staring at the true master of the castle until Lumiére—the candlestick, he still couldn’t believe that—had addressed him as such.
“Well, I…I wish I had an answer that would suffice, Monsieur,” Maurice finally says. “To tell the truth, I’m not much of an expert on the matter.”
“And yet your daughter is one of the most remarkable women I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” the king replies. “Most of the princesses I would have picked for my son would only have their titles going for them.  Shallow, easily influenced, lured here under the prospect of an alliance.  Your daughter is—”
“Perfect.” The word is out of Maurice’s mouth before he can think of what to say.  He stares hard at his hands.  One has a rather large smudge of yellow on it.
“Certainly,” the king admits.  “I’ve not found fault with her yet, and I usually have a knack for that sort of thing.  Strange how things dissipate over time.”
Maurice blinked, again struggling to speak properly, but now there was something like a cloud over them, and he wondered if the other man knew about the curse at all.
“Your—Monsieur,” Maurice begins again, “I—”
“Maurice, isn’t it?” he interrupts.
“I am asking this genuinely, as someone who has no experience in the matter.”  He is silent for a moment, and stares out the window.  “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen my son, and I’m sure his memories of me are…few and far between.”
Maurice notices it then. There is something keeping this man back. The way he speaks of the prince is not as a son, but as an unapproachable. Something that he is hesitant to think of. Â
Is this man really Adam’s father?
“You believe that you cannot father the prince because of your absence? Is there something you’re afraid of?”
Sacre…the yellow smear now seems alarmingly bright. Since when did such a color exist?
He had thought that his initial fear of speaking to a royal was enough to stay his tongue, but…
It’s almost as if he has not spoken at all. The king retreats into himself, eyes glazing over, head inclined, on the verge of remembering, but not quite there.
“I don’t know.  I’ve forgotten how.  But I’d like to try again.”
Maurice blinks, and the cloud dissipates.  This is something that the curse had very little to do with.  Something that could have very easily been Adam’s childhood, or lack thereof.  He had never let the lives of the noblemen grace his thoughts, but now he imagines that because of their upbringings and various duties to attend to, they never had time to enjoy. Â
The man sitting across from him probably has no idea what rain smells like.
Maurice folds his hands and smiles. Â
“The reason I happened upon this castle was because I was attacked by wolves, and I was seeking shelter from an oncoming storm. I let myself in, as the lamps were lit, but no one was inside.”
Maurice pauses, but there was no sign of anger from the other man, so he kept going.
“After I left, I noticed that the garden—your garden, I suppose—was filled to the brim with roses.  They were white, absolutely pristine despite the snow. Though I was in quite a state of distress when I left, I remembered the last thing my daughter asked of me was that I bring her back a rose.”  Maurice chuckles.  “In hindsight, that action could have cost me my life, but I still would have done it, thinking back on it now.”
“Pardon me,” the other man interrupts, “it could have cost you your life?”
“Ah—” Maurice halts, staring. He quickly shifts his attention to a paintbrush he left by the window. Perhaps this man does not know the entirety of it. Surely, he could explain, but this man is still a stranger. And Adam’s father. It’s not his place to tell. “In a way, yes. But there’s no need for concern. If there had been a threat before, it has long passed.”
In the window, Maurice can see the young boy, Christopher, and his mother, playing outside. Â Maurice cannot see them smiling, but he can tell just by looking.
I suppose I have a knack for those kinds of things.
“I’m a lucky man,” he admits.  “I was able to use my passion to create a living for us. But I would burn every canvas if it led to her happiness.  I would give up anything and everything for the sake of my little girl.”
The king is quiet, and for a moment Maurice thinks he got through to him.  Then he said “And your wife? Where is she in this wonderful family?”
It is Maurice’s turn to be quiet.  He closes his eyes and her face swims before his, smiling and proud, tears in her eyes. He is able to smile back, and he thanks God for it.
“Her mother died of plague a few months after she was born.”
There is nothing from the king.  In the silence, Maurice turns his hands over in his lap, wondering if he should say more.  Instead, he glances up, and the king’s expression is one of a man trapped. He stares at Maurice with such sympathetic agony that Maurice wonders how long he should hold his gaze.
He’s caught in something, Maurice thinks, but does not look away.
In this moment, the answer forms.
“Sir, if I may,” he begins, “I think the answer you are searching for is just to be there.”
The other man snaps out of his reverie.  “I beg your pardon?”
“Be there.  Smile when Adam notices you watching him.  Answer any question he asks as honestly and as truthfully as you can. Support him in everything he does, even if you don’t like it.”
“But that seems too simple.”
“It’s the hardest thing in the world,” Maurice replies.  He goes to gesture to his studio—before cringing inwardly at how haphazard and disorganized it is.  “When I was a young man, I lived in Montmarte, in an old repurposed windmill that my wife was able to earn. When Belle was born, I—I wanted everything to be flawless. I felt like she would never experience any of life’s troubles, not as long as I was around. I never wanted her to stop smiling. Of course, life will never work out the way you want it to.”
The king nods. “I’ve no right to call my life treacherous. But wandering these halls again, it’s so different. Familiar.” He raises an eyebrow as his gaze travels upwards towards the chandelier. “But lost.”
“To be lost is to be blind to everything around you,” Maurice replies.  “In a way, I was cursed to be perceptive in everything I did. I saw everything in painstaking detail. So much so that the only way to be rid of it was to paint it.
“But in recent years,” he continues, “I’ve begun to forget small things. How many gears fit into a music box.  How many folds to draw in a frilly dress. And almost as if to correct my memory, my daughter will round the corner with the correct gear in her hand or twirl for me until I remember.”
The man tilts his head, but Maurice can tell that he’s getting it.
Good, he thinks inwardly, I fear I’ve started to ramble.
“Though our relationship needed no improvements before, I’m grateful for my weakening senses,” he finishes, “because now I am constantly reminded of how much she means to me.”
“You’ve made no mistakes, sir, it seems,” is the response. Maurice laughs.
“Oh, don’t say that; I’ve made plenty of mistakes. There was a time, after her mother died, when I refused to acknowledge it.” This sparks something in the king’s dark eyes, and Maurice pushes on, refusing to let him think of it. “It wasn’t until Belle decided to find her mother on her own that I knew I couldn’t hide from it any longer. And there have been moments like that as long as I’ve lived.”
“Sometimes those moments seem to last forever.”
Maurice grins then, at what the king probably thought was a morbid statement. But that is what makes life beautiful.
“You, sir, are not blind, so you are not lost,” he decides. “In fact, the very action of asking me for advice shows that you see your son, and you see the bond that you want with him. But pay no attention to my story; I’m a humble painter with no knowledge of the world inside these exquisite walls.”
He gestures to a painting in the far corner of his studio. His daughter stands there, mid-twirl, the sun on her smiling face and a few rose petals drifting in her wake. Her joy is his now, and he will experience it every time he looks at her.
“Maurice, I possess none of the detail-oriented capabilities of an artist like yourself—”
“No,” Maurice interrupts, and this time he’s not afraid. “It’s just smudges on a canvas. I don’t see every detail anymore. But I see the emotion, and that’s far more important than any scrutinizing on my part.”
Maurice leans forward, smiling. “Be there. And if you truly want it, the rest will come.”
The man nods then, and Maurice can see that his words have somewhat fallen through the other’s sadness. “Imagine finding such a profound man in a village somewhere. I’m very lucky, aren’t I.”
“I’m an old fool,” Maurice assures him. “The villagers used to call me crazy.”
“I imagine they stopped when you moved in,” the king murmured.
“No,” Maurice shakes his head, “they stopped when your son greeted them.”
The man’s lips part in surprise, and for a split-second Maurice can see a smile on his face. “I suppose that’s very like him.”
Then the moment melts away, the two rise, and he offers his hand. Maurice freezes. He’s not wearing gloves. The handkerchief is once again at the forefront of his mind. But he’s also not one to leave a hand unshaken, so he takes it.
“Merci. I would like to visit with you again, if my presence was not a bother to you.”
“O-of course,” Maurice responds. “But please, a word of warning. My study…is not a sight for sore eyes at the moment.”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” is his reply, and he’s gone. Maurice can hear a second set of footsteps tailing him, and he wonders if the attendant heard the conversation or not.
But instead, he sits back down and stares out the window. Chapeau and Lumiére have joined the Potts in the courtyard now. The roses are in full bloom. It’s a lovely picture. He’ll have to remember it for when he buys a bigger canvas.
He raises his paintbrush. The smear of yellow is gone. He can feel tears coming.
“Be there,” he murmurs, and adds a stroke of carnation pink. “And the rest will come.”
He glances at one of the roses outside. Have I done enough, mon ange?
Tagging those I think might enjoy this: @lumiereswig @tinydooms @naturepointstheway @im-too-obssesed @morgaine2005 @forr-everrmorre @greensearcher @firstherofirstlove @ginnyweatherby @sweetfayetannerÂ
