#batbcrowley

Once upon a time, in a land faraway, a young prince lived in a shining castle. His name was Fergus, and he was destined to be the king after his father and mother, King Lucifer and Queen Rowena, passed away. Although the young prince had everything his heart desired, he was spoiled and selfish and unkind.

One winters night, a cold and wicked storm rolled over the forest their castle resided in. Freezing winds whipped at the shaking windows and stone walls. Prince Fergus seemed to care not as he pranced about the castle, pretending to sword fight an imaginary dragon with one of the fireplace pokers.

Late into the evening, a knock at the castle door echoed through the main hall. Fergus lowered his fireplace-poker-sword to his side and watched from the staircase as a servant rushed to answer the knock.

The door swinging open revealed a woman, hair gray and back bent with her old age.

“What do you want?” Prince Fergus’ young voice echoed through the hall with his demanding question. The old woman looked up, first laying her eyes on the servant holding the door open, then moving them to find the young prince. Her once-brown eyes were clouded over as if she were going blind.

“I need shelter from the cold,” she croaked out. Her voice barely made it to Prince Fergus’ ears, but he heard enough.

“Why would I allow you, a haggard old thing, stay in my castle??” He crossed his arms, the fireplace poker still in hand almost like a threat.

“I will give you, in return, this rose,” she held up a single beautifully red flower. It shook along with her hand as she revealed it to him.

All he did was laugh at her.

“Are you joking, you absolute hag?? I am the royal prince of these lands! What use have I for a single rose?!”

“Do not be deceived by my appearance, young one. Beauty is found within,” she flashed him a grin, revealing that she had no teeth. Prince Fergus gagged dramatically at the sight. He stepped rapidly down the stairs and rushed up to the door. He shoved away the servant tending the door with a disgusted sound and grasped the door handle with his free hand, his light brown eyes staring fiercely at the woman.

“You possess no beauty, and you have nothing to offer me. My castle will have no hags within its walls tonight!!” And with those words, he slammed the heavy wooden door shut in the old woman’s face. “The utter audacity… how dare she?!” He grumbled to himself as he turned around.

“I am no hag, boy!” A voice echoed through the room and his eyes darted around in fear. He flattened his back to the closed door.

“Leave me be, witch! I will not have you here!” His eyes still searched frantically, searching for the once-quiet old woman. Her voice seemed to be right next to his ear and coming from outside and coming from the entryway and coming from everywhere at once.

“Beauty is found within. There is no love in your heart; you only desire the things in your life that appear beautiful. You have no care or compassion for the ones that need you despite their appearances.” Her voice seemed to grow less shaky and more youthful as she spoke. All at once, a blazing light appeared before him that then faded away to reveal the form of the old hag.

“Please, witch, leave me be, please!” His voice was no longer demanding, but pleading. Before his eyes, her saggy muddy skin seemed to tighten and the deep chocolate tone returned. Her gray hair slowly flushed a deep brown. The curve of her back slowly straightened up. Her once-cloudy eyes slowly brightened and turned to black. When she opened her mouth to speak, she had teeth. She was beautiful now.

“You will learn to see the beauty within.” She stated.

“Please, I am sorry! You may shelter from the cold in my castle! I am certain my father will not mind! Please!” He shouted his fearful apology to her. His brown eyes began to water, lip trembling.

“You will learn to see the beauty within.” She repeated, outstretching her right hand. The glow encased the room once again and then a shrill whistle filled his ears.

The whistle was her voice, heightened and repeating her phrase and his designated punishment.

His punishment was to be turned into a hideous beast. His skin ripped and shredded and his bones bent and writhed as his body changed from that of a young 16 year old man to that of a demon.

Through the entire transformation, Prince Fergus screamed. All he could hear was the voice of the witch and his own skin ripping apart. All he could see was the brilliant glow of her powers enveloping him. All he could taste was his own blood as his teeth elongated and sharpened, cutting his gums and his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain.

His face felt like it was on fire.

“You must learn to love someone other than yourself, and you must earn their love in return, before the last petal falls from this rose. Else, you will forever remain a reflection of your inner self. Prince Fergus, good luck.” Her voice echoed in his mind loudly, only to fade out and be replaced by horrified screams mixed with his own pained sobs.

His mother, Queen Rowena, had been fetched and brought down by the doorman who had realized something was wrong. She had frozen in place on the stairs when her eyes fell upon her disfigured son. Her screams rattled the prince into opening his eyes, which were now glowing red.

“Mother! Mother please, help me!” He cried out to her, but she could merely stare in horror.

“Noooo… my dear little Fergus…” she groaned out before fainting. The doorman caught her before she could collapse down the stairs.

Fergus forced himself to stand despite the pain in his legs. The sound of hooves on wood surprised him and he looked down at his feet, only to discover two black cloven hooves where his feet used to be. His legs seemed to be covered with thick, light brown hair all the way down to those hooves.

“M-mother?!” His voice sounded deeper, almost raspy despite his youth. He lifted his shaking hands up from his sides to stare at them - what were once delicate and thin white fingers were now grayed sunken skin ending in long hooked claws. The grayed skin continued up his arms to his shoulders where it faded back to white but began to appear riddled with thick, raised, red scars. His head and his back felt heavy where a pair of thick leathery wings and a great many horns had sprouted through his skin. He stumbled a bit in place before he looked up at the doorman holding his mother. “Wh… what am I??” he asked. The doorman just jerked his head while his jaw hung agape, fearful of the once-princely creature before him.

His parents did all they could to heal him. They called in a doctor, a healer, a man who claimed to be a miracle worker, and as a last resort a witch. None could remove his disfigurements. His skull adorned now with horns, his face now appeared as though it were burned, his chest scarred, his arms aged, his fingers tipped with claws, his back bearing wings, his legs now those of a goat or deer.

He was well and truly stuck as a monster.

That night, they had found the rose laying delicately in the center of the foyer. His mother had preserved it in a vase, hoping to extend its life and ensure her son wouldn’t die. The rose never seemed to wilt, a faint red glow surrounding the dainty little flower and seemingly keeping it alive.

After a year, the king and queen moved from the forest to their summer castle on the coast. They promised to visit, and they did at first. Over time, their visits went from once monthly, to once every third month, to once a year, to… none. Even their letters stopped. He lived alone in that castle for twenty years, only a small remaining and aging staff to care for him, until he finally got news: both his parents had finally passed and left behind the heir to their throne, a princess named Megan, eighteen years of age and ready to marry one Prince Azazel from another kingdom to unite the two and gain the throne.

The servants remaining tried to keep him happy, to get him adjusted to his life this way, but to no avail. One of the servants, the castle’s hunter, even created an intricate mask for him from the head of a large goat he had killed. The mask had two horns on it and holes for the horns in the princes head to slide through so that it would all look like a costume piece, and it hid his burned face from the world. All for nothing; despite that the prince wore it every day, he was ever grumpier. Prince Fergus grew angry and bitter and frustrated. One by one, he ended the employment of the servants until none were left but two: Guthrie, his butler and one so loyal that even though the prince had fired him several times and told him to leave under threat of death the man refused to leave, and Raul, who prepared every single meal. The prince likely would never have eaten if Raul had left.

Twenty years of quiet, of being virtually alone, of slowly watching the rose wilt petal by petal. He believed he held no chance of ever breaking the curse over his head.