#inklingschallenge

Corbin looked around in surprise. The maids had disappeared. The outside sounds had fallen silent. The curtains were no longer rustled by the breeze. Corbin was alone with Sophia—and a fairy hovered over her bed.

The fairy appeared as the faint shape of a woman in a glow of purple light above Sophia's bed. Her gaze floated across Corbin, wandered around the room, as if she were seeing things far outside Corbin's perception.

"The curse can only be broken by true love," the fairy said.

Corbin laid Sophia's hand across her covers. "The princess will sleep for a hundred years. Her true love is a man not yet born."

The fairy said, "That would not be true love. Princess Sophia will only be woken by the man whose love remains true through her years of sleep.”

"You believe I can be that man?"

"What I believe does not matter. You must choose. That is what makes it love."

Corbin brushed a finger against Sophia's hair. As children, they'd chased each other through the castle gardens, shared jokes and games. As they'd grown, they'd danced together and shared glances in crowded rooms. He hadn't called it love—but he hadn't objected to the idea that it could be.

Could it be enough for a lifetime of love?

If it was not, Sophia would be lost to eternal sleep.

"I choose," Corbin said, falling to one knee. "Sophia, I will stay true."

=

Corbin stepped beyond the castle wall. The moment the gate closed behind him, thorny branches sprouted from the ground, covering the castle in red roses.

Two fairies, blue and green, appeared in the corners of his vision, disappearing when he tried to see them straight on.

"We will care for the princess," a sweet voice said. "The roses will guard her, and keep out all but you."

Corbin bowed his thanks. He turned away from the castle, feeling as though his heart was being torn from him. Faithful love seemed to demand he stay with Sophia. Yet he was a prince, with duties to his own nation. He would love her from afar, until life allowed him to return.

=

Corbin stood before his parents in his father's study. The king and queen both wore pensive expressions, staring at the prince's right arm, wrapped with a band of pink and black fabric.

"It is for the Princess Sophia," Corbin said. "I intend to remain true to our love."

King Dunstan's brow furrowed, but the queen put a comforting hand on his arm.

She told Corbin, "It is only right that you should mourn for her."

"I do not mourn her," Corbin said. "She lives."

The king opened his mouth, but the queen silenced him with another squeeze of his arm.

"It is very sad, this half-life she lingers in," the queen said, "but you do not need to remain faithful forever."

"I'm afraid," Corbin said, "that is just what I intend to do."

=

Corbin bowed to the princess of Robania. She was small and dark-haired, and fluttered her long lashes up at him.

"I see you are one of the admirers of the Sleeping Princess," she said, glancing at the five other men who wore armbands like Corbin's.

"I am."

"Yet they dance, and you do not."

"I am her true love," he said.

=

Corbin sank into a soft chair by Sophia's bed. She had not moved since he'd last seen her. He told her about the ball his parents had hosted for Midsummer, about the diplomatic meetings of the fall, about the harvest and the country festivals.

"I wish you could have seen it," Corbin said.

Sophia slept.

=

King Dunstan told Corbin, "The treaty with Robania requires a marriage alliance."

Corbin said, "I can enter no marriage. I am true to the Princess Sophia."

The king turned red. "It has been five years! You've indulged your boyish fancy long enough! You must consider the good of your nation!"

That moment with the fairies felt long ago and far away. What if he was abandoning his duty for an imaginary quest?

What if it was real, and Sophia slept forever?

"There are other men who can serve the nation," Corbin said. "I serve Sophia."

=

Travel dust covered Corbin's skin and clothes. The dirt that came off his boots disappeared the moment it touched the carpet of Sophia's chambers. He ran his hands over his face, which only turned it into thin mud.

Sophia was clean. Perfect. Silent. Still. Unaware of the worries, fears, and exhaustion of life.

"My father can't force me to marry," Corbin told her, "but he can make me pay for my defiance. I've crossed the kingdom dozens of times, always on errands for him—delivering messages that could be taken by courier, negotiating with lords he doesn't like. If the tensions at the border erupt, I'm sure he'll order me to join the troops."

Sophia breathed softly.

"Do you care, Sophia?" Corbin asked, his voice breaking.

Sophia remained still.

=

Corbin collapsed onto the bunk in his tent. No officer's quarters for the wayward prince—a mere soldier's tent. When he closed his eyes, he saw blood and smokes, heard screams and breaking bones.

The fighting this month was the most intense he'd seen in three years. Other men drowned their sorrows in drink, or distracted themselves with the women who followed the camp. Corbin had no desire for that kind of companionship. Yet there were also men who had wives and children at home, who had sweethearts waiting for them. They had letters that reminded them of the love they were fighting for. They had the hope of returning to smiling faces and warm hearts to pull them through the misery of battle.

Corbin had only a sleeping princess.

He'd had enough narrow escapes on the battlefield to suspect that the fae who guarded Sophia's sleep also kept him alive to love her. It gave a man courage—but today, it brought something closer to terror. For him, there was no escape from this misery, not even the hope of a heroic death. When he survived, he'd have a long life to live with the memories of battle, and not even the smile of a wife to soothe him.

Sophia had been asleep when he'd left, and she'd be asleep when he returned, and would stay sleeping for long, long, long, long years.

If ten years had held this much misery, how could he endure ninety more?

=

The atmosphere at the ball was electric. Victory at last! After five years of battle, Eldania had defeated her enemies and even expanded her borders. Prince Corbin had led the charge that turned the tide in the final battle, had returned home a war hero, and returned to his father's good graces.

The men at the ball wanted to hear the battle stories. The women admired his crisp uniform and his newly awarded medals.

A little princess with dark hair curtsied to Corbin. "Do war heroes dance?" she asked.

Corbin joined her in a reel. After battle, blood, and death, here was light, joy, peace, life. The princess was beautiful in a gown of blue. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as her wit made Corbin laugh for the first time in months. When the dance ended, they went together to the refreshment table, eventually wandered out onto the terrace of the moonlit gardens.

The princess spoke of music, the moon, and memories. To Corbin, it didn't matter what she said—he just liked to hear her speak. It was such a relief to be in a world with women again. One could almost forget the past five years as a bad dream, start over in a civilized world.

The moonlight on her dark hair was enchanting. The glint of silver at the base of her neck drew his eye to the hollow at her throat, and up to the kissable—

Corbin drew back in horror.

The princess frowned. "Your highness, what is wrong?"

Corbin turned back to the great glass doors. Unseeing, he strode through the ballroom and fled the ball, ignoring the protests of the princess.

=

Corbin knelt with his head on Sophia's bed, weeping in the moonlight.

"Forgive me, Sophia," he sobbed. "Forgive me."

=

In the blackness of Corbin's dream, a blue glow appeared.

"Take heart," a soft voice said. "You were tested and remained true."

=

Corbin brought Sophia an armload of flowers—not roses, but daisies, lilies, larkspur. He told her about the pink-and-orange sunrise that had accompanied his ride here, and laughed himself breathless as he told a story of falling in the creek as he watered his horse.

In her sleep, Sophia faintly smiled.

=

Corbin traveled, and brought the world to Sophia. He brought her water from crystal mountain springs. Spices from sun-baked deserts. Soft white sand from southern beaches and stones from caves at the heart of the earth. He put all these presents in her hands and near her face so she could feel them, touch them, hear them. He told her story after story of his travels, and never had to worry that he was boring her with his tales.

"Wherever I go," Corbin told her, "I take heart knowing that you are here waiting for me."

Corbin squeezed her hand and felt the faintest pressure in return.

=

The sunset shone just beyond the village. A handful of farmers stared at Corbin's travel-worn clothes.

"Where do you go, wanderer?" the farmer asked.

Corbin didn't travel with horses, carriage, entourage. These villagers couldn't know they spoke with a prince.

"Wherever the road takes me," Corbin said, shifting his weight off of his sore hip and knee.

"Do you have a place to lay your head?"

Corbin accepted the farmer's invitation and took supper with his boisterous family—a rosy wife, six rambunctious children, two dogs and five cats. Corbin laughed, talked and ate with them, letting the rosy glow of home life settle in his heart.

A golden-haired little girl clambered onto Corbin's knee, examining the buttons on his coat and begging for stories. She made him think of Sophia at that age.

If Sophia hadn't slept, they might have had a daughter like this by now. Corbin's heart ached.

He played games with the child, told stories to all, and shared songs as the moon rose. His hosts offered him a bed in the straw in the barn.

In the morning, breakfast was served by a flaxen-haired young maiden.

"If you're looking to settle down," the farmer's wife teased, "my Bella would make any man a fine wife."

Twenty years of sleep gone. Eighty more to go. If Corbin chose, he could have a wife, children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren, by the time Sophia opened her eyes. He could have a life, a legacy of love. Yet they were out of reach for Sophia.

"I'm sure she will someday," Corbin told his hostess, with a good-natured laugh, "but my journey takes me down a much different road."

=

Corbin brought a small flute to Sophia's bedside.

"A shepherd in the mountains taught me how to play," Corbin said. "Helped me make the flute myself."

He trilled a few notes, then launched into a sprightly folk tune. After a few bars, the flute squeaked an ear-piercing note that brought the song to a halt.

Corbin put the flute in his lap and laughed. "Don't worry. I have plenty of time to improve."

=

After King Dunstan died, Corbin served the new king, his eldest brother. Elwin never minded if Corbin took detours to Sophia's castle for a week or two at a time.

Corbin's travels made him invaluable as a diplomat. Corbin often found himself responsible for entertaining foreign visitors to the court.

When the king of Urbanda visited, Corbin was the only person at the palace who spoke his native tongue fluently. The king's eldest daughter often walked with him in the gardens. The princess saw and heard much, and was glad to have someone to share her observations with.

One summer morning, when he rested in the shade of an arbor, the princess sat down beside him, with a look in her eyes that Corbin had learned to beware. At fifty-five, looking twenty years younger, Corbin was still considered a desirable marriage prospect.

"I have heard the story," the princess said, "of the sleeping princess."

"I have been devoted to her these forty years."

Her delicate hand covered his travel-worn one. "It is so sad," she said, "to see the life of one so vibrant and talented thrown away, tied to an invalid woman who does not wake."

Corbin moved the hand of the princess to her own lap, stood, and gave a respectful bow. After all these years, Corbin knew how to disappoint women gently. "It would be sadder still," he said, "to abandon her."

=

Time laid lightly on Corbin, keeping him in good health and younger than his years, but after sixty years, he began to slow. Gray began to appear in his hair. Old war wounds began to ache.

"Old Prince Corbin and the hidden castle" became a beloved eccentricity in the eyes of the court. How sweet it was that he remembered an old sweetheart. How quaint that he told those old stories of the fae—he could almost make you believe they were true!

Corbin only smiled at their ignorance. They were young. With time, they'd learn.

=

The trips to Sophia's castle became much harder on Corbin's aging bones. After arranging things with Elwin's son, Owen, Corbin entered into retirement, and moved permanently into the castle.

Sophia's sleeping face now held the lines of age. Her blonde hair had streaks of silver. She slept as peacefully as ever.

In the space outside the rose bushes, Corbin planted a small vegetable patch. He tended the garden in the mornings, and spent the afternoons and evenings with Sophia—telling stories in twelve different tongues, playing one of the dozens of instruments he'd learned to play over the years. He fed himself out of the castle stores, which seemed always to replenish themselves with whatever supplies he needed.

A quiet life. A happy life.

A lonely life.

Sometimes, Corbin wished to hear one human word.

=

Late one moonlit night, Corbin sat hunched over Sophia's bedside, tracing the veins in her aging hands.

"I always thought," Corbin said, his voice raspy with age, "that the enchantment would keep you young. If we live the hundred years, even if you wake, what kind of life will be left?"

Sophia had no answers.

=

Corbin rocked in the rocking chair he'd put at Sophia's bedside. These days, he barely left the room. The stairs were too hard to climb with his weak, stiff legs. He slept so often and so long. He would wake for an hour or two at a time, potter around the room a bit, then fall back into exhausted slumber.

Meals appeared for Corbin three times a day. The water pail was always full of fresh, cold water. The chamber pot emptied itself. The clothes he wore were, somehow, always clean.

How many years were left to Sophia's curse? It couldn't be long now. Ten years? Five? One?

He often dreamed of Sophia, seeing her and himself as they were in their youth, full of energy and life, with all their years before them. When he woke, he sometimes wept to see the deep wrinkles on her face. All those years, lost! Corbin had struggled to stay faithful through long years in a complicated, painful world, but he'd still worked, learned, traveled, lived.

She had only slept.

Would she ever have the chance to do anything more?

=

Corbin blinked open watery eyes. Daylight again. He should probably eat something, but standing was so much work.

A small table appeared beside his chair, holding a bowl of steaming oatmeal. Corbin fed himself slowly, his hands shaking. Half of the food landed on his clothing rather than in his mouth, but he didn't have much appetite, so he was full when the bowl was empty. He washed it down with water, but choked on his second swallow, coughing for several minutes. That happened often these days.

When he could finally breathe again, he fell back into his chair, exhausted. When he woke again, the light had changed to the golden color of late afternoon. His clothes were clean. Sophia slept.

Something about the afternoon made Corbin think of the first day of her curse. The air had been warm just like this. The light had been golden.

The light was in his eyes.

After several attempts, Corbin rose from the chair and stood on shaky legs. He intended to close the curtain, but after two steps, his legs buckled. He caught himself on the bed, then slowly, painfully, managed to sit next to Sophia.

This was all the life they had together, now. He never left the room—could barely leave the chair. He was as helpless as Sophia had always been.

What had the fairies been thinking with this curse? A hundred years of sleep, softer than death? It merely delayed the tragedy—gave them all the trouble of living without the comfort of death and heaven.

The afternoon light landed on Sophia's face. For a moment, she looked as golden as the sixteen-year-old who'd first fallen asleep. He remembered being the sixteen-year-old boy charged with the quest of a lifetime of love.

How simple—and how intimidating—it had seemed then. How difficult—and how simple—it had turned out to be.

The feeling that had seemed so faint at her birthday ball had grown and strengthened into something strong and real. Not merely emotion, but year upon year upon year upon year of choices. Day after day, moment after moment, for decades and decades, choosing her. Giving an entire life to her. What was that, if not love of the truest kind?

The fairies had given them unfair choices, but within those limits, Corbin had chosen as best he could.

Corbin kissed Sophia's withered hand. "I would do it again, my love."

Worn out by his exertions, he collapsed onto the bed beside her, and fell into a deep sleep.

=

Birdsong filled the air. Corbin woke to a bright dawn, feeling stronger than he had in years. His hands were not quite so gnarled. Breathing felt easier. He even felt that he could stand.

He stood up on two legs that felt strong enough to hold him upright. Sophia, in the light from the window, looked golden.

Corbin felt the years of age falling from him—limbs gaining flesh, skin growing smoother, the hair on his head turning dark rather than gray. Sophia underwent a similar transformation—wrinkles disappearing, hands becoming smooth and slender, hair becoming thick and golden.

Eyes, at last, opening.

Corbin had forgotten they were blue.

Sophia blinked, smiled, and sat up under her own power. "Corbin?" she said.

With limbs made strong and young again—so, so young!—Corbin gathered Sophia into his arms, crushed her in an embrace a hundred years in the making. Sophia returned it, nestling her head against his shoulder as Corbin kissed the top of her golden head.

"You stayed true," Sophia said. "An entire lifetime."

"I did," Corbin said, feeling at last the joy that was worth waiting a century for. "And now that you're awake, I plan to stay true for another one."

=

The old castle had gardens more beautiful than any in the world. Flowers from far-off lands, common meadow flowers, and most of all, roses, larger and sweeter than any others that mortal eyes had ever seen.

Travelers, high and low-born, from foreign kingdoms and nearby villages, often stayed at the castle, enjoying the hospitality of a prince who told stories in nearly every tongue, and of a beautiful princess who seemed blessed with every gift of heaven. Travelers who stayed there remembered it to their dying day as the happiest time of their lives. In a world of unending toil, here was a place of perfect rest.

Few people knew which land had given the prince and princess their titles, which families they claimed connection to, but no one doubted them. They were rulers of this realm, tiny and happy, and which emperor on Earth would not trade his great nation for theirs?

The couple was remarkable in their devotion, each attentive to other's needs, giving a drink of water or adjusting a chair before the other had to ask. They moved with the easy familiarity of much older couples, their routines fitting together with the elegance of a ballet. They worked together, prayed together, laughed often. When troubles came--a traveler who broke a window, a supper running late--they looked to the other for help, and always received it. They were patient, and when they lost patience, they apologized. Often in the course of an ordinary day, one would see the other from across the room, across the garden, across the palace, and look at them with a golden look of devotion in their eyes, rejoicing in the presence of the one they loved.

That was what travelers remembered most of all when they came away from the castle, and what they told their children to treasure, generation after generation.

Unfortunately, that well-behaved princess has nothing to do with our story. Our story is about a little girl, the daughter of a rich merchant. The merchant was very well-to-do and lived in the city with his seven children. The youngest of these was a little girl named Beauty, so named by her mother who had died in childbirth.

One day, the merchant received terrible news: His entire fleet of merchant ships had been caught in a storm and sunk to the bottom of the sea. He had ventured much capital on this shipment, and overnight, they had lost everything. The merchant was forced to leave the city and take his seven children to live in the country, all of them crowding into a small cottage in a small village at the edge of the forest.

And they were so very poor they could only eat nasty porridge every day and always went to bed without cake.

It is in adversity that a person's true nature is revealed. While they had lived in the city, the merchant and his children had eaten the best food and wore the most sumptuous of clothing, attended magnificent balls and mingled with the highest circles of society. Now reduced to poverty, the merchant's children complained bitterly and often bickered with one another as the girls struggled to take care of the house without servants and the merchant and his sons fought with the land to yield a livelihood.

What about Beauty?

Beauty was a mere babe, and neither knew nor cared how far her family had fallen in society. All she knew was that now she was washed and fed by the clumsy hands of her sisters, rather than the experienced nannies and nurses they employed in the city. But Beauty was aptly named, not only for the sparkle in her eyes or the dark brown curls resting on her cheek. For true beauty comes from within, and even as an infant, her beauty was seen by all. It was rare indeed for her to cry, as though she knew her sisters were harried and at their wits' end, and she wished to cause as little trouble for them as possible.

And her laugh! Oh, when Beauty laughed, it seemed the sun shone a little brighter, and for a moment her brothers and sisters would cease their complaining and set to their work with a will.

Hee hee. Tell about the ships now, Papa.

After they had been in the country some time, word reached the merchant that one of his ships had been found, wrecked upon a distant shore. Perhaps some of the goods could be retrieved, and at least some small portion of their wealth could be restored, to be invested in further merchant ventures.

“We are rich again!” his children cried. As the merchant set out for the city, his children begged him to return with gifts of the fine clothes and rich delicacies they had been used to. Only Beauty asked for nothing.

“And what should I bring you, Beauty?” the merchant asked her as he kissed her goodbye. For in this moment of joy, everyone looked fondly on her, rather than thinking of her as a nuisance.

Beauty was so young, she could only speak a few words. But to her father's question, she replied....

Flower!

And so the merchant set off on the long road back to the city. And for a time, his children's labors seemed light, and they sang as they worked, for they thought that soon they would leave this hard life behind. Soon, they would return to the city and its comforts and balls and parties.

But when the merchant arrived in the city, it was only to discover that the ship that had been found belonged to another merchant. The messenger who had passed the word along had been mistaken, and they were no wealthier than they had been.

With heavy heart, the merchant returned home, dreading how his children would react to this terrible news. On the way back, a blizzard picked up around him, and he lost his way. Before he realized what was happening, he realized he had left the path and now fought his way through the forest.

At last, the winds died down and the snow fell more softly, and the merchant stepped into a clearing only to find himself before a great house.

And it wasn't just a house, it was a CASTLE with TOWERS and DRAWBRIDGES and a DRAGON ON TOP!

Or so it seemed to the merchant, who was so weak he was about to fall over from exhaustion. In truth, it was a mansion, and the dragon was a weather vane. But it seemed a mighty and forbidding place to him, and he trembled from fear as much as the cold. Yet he knew he must find shelter, or he would die. And so he raised a trembling hand to knock on the front door.

To his surprise, the door opened at his touch. He stepped inside, expecting to be greeted by a servant, but the entrance hall was dark and empty. He called out, but upon hearing no answer, he thought perhaps this house was abandoned. Still, it provided shelter from the storm, so he decided to stay the night.

Once he had closed the heavy front door behind him, he turned and discovered the flickering light of a fire in another room. He approached the light cautiously, thinking to beg forgiveness for intruding and ask for shelter. But when he stepped through the door, he found a small sitting room with a comfortable chair drawn close to a blazing fire, with a warm meal on a table next to it...but the room was empty.

Again, the merchant called out to whoever must have built the fire and prepared the food, but received no answer. And so, because he was very cold and wet and hungry, he sat down and ate the hot meal before him.

As often happens when one has been through a dreadful ordeal and a cold walk, then sits down to a meal and a fire, the merchant soon drifted off in the comfortable chair.

When I go out walking in the snow and I get reeeeeaaaaally cold, I like to come back inside and drink hot chocolate and then snuggle up all tight and cozy in front of the fire, and then have you read to me, Papa. And then you carry me up to bed. Did the merchant get carried up to bed?

When the merchant awoke the next morning, he was still in the chair before the fire, which had died down to embers. It seemed someone—perhaps one of the invisible servants who had prepared the room for him—had draped a blanket over him to keep him from catching cold. Fearing he had overstayed his welcome, the merchant prepared to leave.

He saw, when he opened the door, that the storm had passed in the night. Now the sun shone bright, sparkling on the mounds of snow covering what seemed to be a garden with a hedge maze. In truth, now that the storm was gone, the merchant was not particularly eager to return home and have to tell his children that he brought with him neither presents nor future prospects of a life any better than what they currently suffered. So he decided to walk through the garden on his way out of this strange place.

As he walked under the archway into the garden, suddenly the snow seemed to vanish, and instead of a garden lying dormant in the winter, he found a lush garden filled with every plant imaginable, all flowering and green like a day in midsummer.

And there were orange trees and apple blossoms and highdangelas and daisies and tulips and snapdragons that were actually dragons that would snap at you!

And in the middle of the maze of hedges, there was a profusion of rose bushes. The merchant had never seen such huge bushes, rising up past his head and nodding over him as if bidding him welcome. They came in all colors—red, pink, yellow, orange....

And purple and blue and rainbow-colored!

And there, in the very center, a single black rose. Now, the merchant was no botanist, but he had heard of the legendary black rose, the rarest kind. Emperors and sultans from distant lands were known to pay enough gold to buy a kingdom, just for a single seed to plant in their gardens. And now he saw one with his own eyes.

At once, the seed of greed was planted in the merchant's heart, beginning to blossom into a plan. If he could take a cutting of this rose bush with him, he could return to the city and sell it. With the money he could obtain from it, they would be rich again. No longer would he have to suffer the shame and disappointment of returning to his children to tell them they would be poor for the rest of their lives. All their worries would be ended.

So the merchant reached out his hand to pluck the rose from the bush....

When out came the Beast! RAAAAAAWWWWRRRR!!!

A hideous beast straightened up from behind the rose bush, towering above the merchant. He was covered from head to toe in thick brown fur, and his hands curled in fearsome claws. His fangs were sharp and pointed, and horns sprouted from his head. A deep growl rumbled in his chest as his long tail lashed the ground.

Hee hee! Stop, Papa, that tickles!

“How dare you presume to pick my roses,” the Beast thundered, “after the kindness I showed you by giving you shelter from the storm!”

The merchant fell to the ground cowered at the Beast's feet. “Please, have mercy!” he cried. “I meant no harm! I did not know anyone was home....”

“You should know better than to take what is not lawfully yours,” the Beast growled. “For the offense of touching my black rose, my greatest treasure, your life is forfeit.”

At this, the merchant wept and begged for his life, trembling all over in fear. And finally, despite the Beast's perfectly justified anger, he relented. “Very well,” he said. “I will grant you your life. But in recompense for threatening my greatest treasure, you must give me yours.”

Trembling, the merchant said, “I am afraid I am very poor, my lord. I am a merchant, but every last one of my shipments has been lost. I have no riches to equal anything of yours.”

After thinking for a moment, the Beast asked, “Have you any daughters?”

The merchant was too terrified to lie, so he said, “Yes, my lord. I have four.”

“Then send one here in your stead, and I will spare your life.”

For a moment, the merchant could only stare up at the Beast in horror.

But the Beast snarled, “Leave now, before I change my mind. And if your daughter is not on my doorstep in three days' time, I will find you.”

The merchant scrambled to his feet and ran away as fast as he could run, sure at every moment that he would feel the Beast's cruel claws at his back. But nothing followed him, and it seemed as though the trees parted before him, making an easy exit from the bewildering forest.

Papa? Why did the Beast want one of the merchant's daughters?

So the merchant wondered, even as he made his way home as swiftly as he could manage. But what he did not know was that the Beast and his entire household was under a curse. He had been a human once, but a fairy came to him in the guise of an old woman, seeking shelter from a storm. But he turned aside the fairy, scorning her pleas for shelter. And so she cursed him, turning him into a hideous monster until he could learn the meaning of mercy and selfless love. If he could find someone that he loved and who loved him in return, the curse would be broken. If not, he would live as a Beast forever.

But the merchant knew none of this. For all he knew, the Beast wanted to devour one of his daughters whole. As he traveled through the forest, he thought of each one of his daughters, all of them pretty even in their poor rags—pretty enough that they had already attracted the attention of everyone in the small village that was now their home. They kept house for him, and there was still hope that perhaps they would marry once they were a little older.

All except for Beauty. She was lovely as well—perhaps the loveliest of them all—but she was still a mere babe in arms. It would be a long time indeed before she would marry, or even be able to cook or clean or care for him in his old age.

And so a terrible idea began to form in the merchant's mind, an idea a thousand times worse than his dreams of what could be done with a single stolen rose.

When he returned home, all of his children were dismayed to learn that he brought no riches home with him, nor news of any. Nor had he even brought a flower home for Beauty. But that night, the merchant told the oldest of his children the full story of what had happened to him on his journey, of the Beast and the terrible promise he had made to him. And in their fear, his children agreed to the plan.

They would do as the Beast had demanded, and send one of the merchant's daughters to him on the third day. They would give him Beauty.

At first, the merchant's daughters wept and his sons trembled at the thought of what they must do to save their own skins. But soon they reasoned that without Beauty, they would have one less mouth to feed, and they would no longer have to care for a baby too young to help with chores or be of any use to them. So they soothed their consciences.

But I don't think...I don't think they were bad, Papa. They were just scared. The Beast was pretty scary, Papa.

Fear ruled them. Fear and selfishness. Unbeknownst to them, the merchant and his children bore a strong similarity to the Beast himself. Perhaps, in the days that followed, they would regret their decision and begin to change, just as...well. We will come to that in a moment.

On the third day, the merchant wrapped up Beauty and put her in a basket, then set off into the forest. He worried at first that he would not be able to find his way back to the Beast's house, but just as before, the trees seemed to make way before him, creating a path that led him easily to his destination and closed behind him.

Much sooner than he had expected to, the merchant found himself approaching the large, forbidding house he had fled in terror three days before. He wondered, as he looked up at the dark windows, whether the Beast stood looking down at him, and whether he realized what the merchant's plan was. So he hurried as fast as he could to set the basket down before the front door, then turned on his heel and fled the way he had come.

Sure enough, the Beast had been watching, and he was filled with anger for what he saw as the merchant's attempt to cheat his way out of their deal. The Beast flung open the front door, prepared to chase down the merchant and strike him down. But then he saw the basket, and what was inside it.

Me!

It took the Beast a moment to understand. And when he realized the merchant had bought his own life with the life of his infant daughter, not knowing what would become of her, he burned with rage. He bristled and opened his mouth to roar after the merchant—but just then, Beauty woke.

And when Beauty opened those lovely brown eyes and looked upon the hideous face of the Beast, she did not scream or cry. She knew nothing of the merchant's terrible plan, nor of the curse the Beast suffered under. She saw the Beast, and she smiled up at him.

And she clapped her hands and said, “Papa!”

...Papa, are you crying?

Beasts do not cry. Beasts know nothing of softness or warmth. They do not know how to love.

But something changed in that moment. When he looked into Beauty's eyes, he no longer thought of his own misery or his schemes to break the curse. He only saw someone he wanted to care for and protect, someone so helpless yet so trusting, and he longed to be worthy of that trust.

So the Beast took Beauty into his home—not as the bride he had hoped to woo, but as the daughter he had never dreamed of. He knew very little of how to care for a baby, but...he learned. And every day, his heart softened a little further.

What about the curse?

As for the curse...why, that was broken within the first week. One night, as the Beast clumsily rocked Beauty to sleep, she murmured a phrase she must have heard in the merchant's home: “Night-night, love you.”

Those words pierced the Beast's heart, and it was all he could do to whisper back, “I love you too, Beauty.”

And in that moment, the curse was lifted, and he became a man again. No more horns, no more tail, no more claws. And Beauty never even seemed to notice, for in her eyes...he had never been a Beast at all.

Please don't cry, Papa. You're almost at the end of the story! And they lived....