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The Prince felt sickened at the thought.
“We shall see! Now go! I want to be alone.”
Lumiere left the room, stopping in the hall to speak to someone. The Prince got himself out of bed for the first time in weeks. His body ached and was stiff—so stiff he found it surprisingly hard to make his way to the door. But the voice sounded like Cogsworth’s, and he desperately wanted to see him. When he opened the door, he expected to find the two men talking, but only found Lumiere.
“What is going on? I heard you speaking to someone!”
Lumiere turned around in fright.
“Only to myself, while I was winding this clock, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you!”
The Prince was losing his temper again, spiraling into a dangerous rage.
“Balderdash! I heard Cogsworth’s voice!”
Lumiere looked sad at the mention of his name, but the Prince persisted. “You mean to tell me you weren’t speaking to him? You haven’t seen him at all?”
Lumiere, still holding his brass candlestick, calmly replied, “I can say with all honesty, sir, it has been some time since I’ve seen dear Cogsworth in the flesh.”
Twilight was his favorite time, the in between time when everything looked perfect and anything was possible, especially in spring. The darkening sky was lilac, making the moon all the more striking.
The Prince did feel better being outdoors, and Lumiere had made good on his promise. The Prince hadn’t seen a single person while making his way out of the castle. Though he couldn’t help feeling fearful someone could come upon him at any time. He decided a walk in the woods would be best. Once there, he felt more at ease. It was darker now, and the canopy of trees overhead obscured the light almost entirely except for little patches revealing a star filled blanket of night. He had always seen well in the dark, but since he’d been in seclusion for so long, his eyes were even keener in darkness than before. He did feel quite beastly, actually, like a creature prowling in the forest.
Prowling.
Yes, that was exactly what he was doing, and he liked it. He almost felt more at home here than he did in his chamber. At times he felt like he couldn’t breathe in his room, just sitting there, waiting for those sisters to swoop upon him like a pack of Gorgons. However, in the forest, everything felt right, somehow perfect, like home. Though he wasn’t sure if that, too, was the lure of the witches. If they had somehow enchanted the forest to draw him in, make him feel more natural there, trap him in surroundings that would increase his beastliness. He suddenly wanted to flee home, to shut himself away, but something caught his ear.
He quickly hid behind a very large moss covered tree stump to see what was coming. It was Gaston with his hunting rifle, but before the Prince could react, shots rained upon him, penetrating the tree trunk, splintering the wood and sending his heart into a manic rhythm he thought would kill him.
Something other than fear was growing inside him, something terrible and dark that obscured his fondness for, and even made him forget, his friend. Indeed, for a moment, this beast couldn’t recall Gaston. There was some recollection, but nothing he could put his finger on. Then he remembered.
He felt different, like he was slipping into a deep, dark ocean; he felt himself drowning in it, losing himself completely while something else took over, something that felt alien yet familiar and comfortable at the same time.
Everything in his periphery narrowed, and the only thing he could focus on was Gaston. Nothing else existed; nothing else mattered but the sound of blood rushing to Gaston’s beating heart. The sound enveloped him, matching his own heartbeat. He wanted Gaston’s blood. He wasn’t even aware that he rushed forward, knocking Gaston over and pinning him to the ground.
His own power frightened him; it was so easy to take a man down, to hold him there, rendering him defenseless. He wanted nothing more than to taste his warm salty blood. But then he looked into Gaston’s eyes and saw fear. And he again recognized his friend.
Gaston was frightened. The Prince had not seen him look fearful since they were young boys.
He had been about to take the life of his best friend. A man who had saved his own when they were boys. He snatched Gaston’s gun from his shaking hands and flung it far into the woods. He ran as fast as he could, leaving Gaston confused and alone and wondering what sort of foul beast had attacked him. He could only hope Gaston didn’t know it was his old friend the Prince.
The Prince didn’t leave his rooms after that night in the woods. He heard the commotion downstairs when Gaston burst into the castle, seeking help with his wounds. The Prince wanted to help his friend but knew Lumiere had it well in hand. The doctor was called, Gaston’s wounds were attended to, and excuses were made for the Prince’s absence.
“How did you explain the state of the castle?” the Prince asked Lumiere later, wondering how things must have looked to Gaston.
But it might not have mattered to Gaston—who, like the Prince, appeared to be losing recollection of the Prince’s former life. In fact, even the court was losing any awareness of Gaston, the Prince, and, in some cases, their own lives before the cursed transformation.
“A man came to the castle. A stranger, but so familiar,” Lumiere had said, referring to Gaston. “He had been attacked in the forest nearby while hunting. And he apologized for intruding on a royal court, but needed help. He was mortally wounded.”
“This man,” the Prince said, “had he any idea what attacked him in the forest?”
“A beast, sir, that is what he said, some sort of animal. But like none he’d ever seen before.”
Animal.
Beast.
Weren’t those the words the witches used? The exact words? Those women were probably dancing with joy, chanting, and clicking the awful heels of their stupid little boots.
