Work Text
A Dance Unlikely
~ Stanfou ~
Lefou spun several ladies around his fingers; they stayed for a few moments, then twisted off into an abyss of twirling mindlessness. How is it to dance with someone and think nothing of it? he wondered with a melancholy gleam in his eyes–with a choking bird in his heart, desiring to escape. He had danced many a time with him. Lefou did not want to mention his name anymore; no one did. But he could not forget him. How is it that everyone else’s minds seemed to be pierced with an arrow of absent-mindedness? The image of him–the flawless, glittering portrait of a god, like the striking statues of old–it never desired to flee his mind. His swarthy features: the stubble that traced his prominent jaw, the wrinkles that crossed his forehead when he delved into his debonair simper, the clear, pristine orbs–golden and burnt from endless days in the sun. When one of his fellow members from the military had informed him of his fall, Lefou locked the godly portrait in his mind. He attempted memorizing his tantalizing touch–how well Lefou’s minuscule hand had fit in his impressive one. Touch.He felt it: soft, pleasurable fingers suddenly intertwining with his, like grapevines running up the sides of an orchard’s entrance gate. Lefou recognized the intense sense from somewhere, but what woman had he recently–Stanley. He recalled the man who had comforted him during his time of grief: the only person who seemed to remember the god. And then the bird flew from Lefou’s chest as he glanced into the lovely man’s eyes, his expression wooden and inscrutable. The haughty picture he had memorized instantaneously melted away, revealing a sunset of scarlet and gold. Something crumpled Lefou’s abdomen, crushing and transforming it; the tight knot of his stomach grew and extended to the rest of his body as he turned away from his partner in dance. What could that have been? he wondered. The knot continued to form, spreading like wildfire and burning his insides. As it did, Lefou reminisced all the times Stanley had looked at him, comprehending his thoughts–understanding his senseless desires. Lefou knew he could not get carried away; he could not run around and fight for love. He realized the mistake he had made before. This time it would be different–he was sure of it. The fingers of other ladies lightly embraced his for several moments at a time, but nothing compared to Stanley’s. A dance unlikely indeed.A/N: I've never written for anything other than Belle/Beast in my life so this was very different and fun. :) Feel free to request. I have an original novel as well based off the original BATB fairytale on my published page. Don't forget to follow my Tumblr raph-fangirl for plenty of Beauty and the Beast and classic Disney/Broadway/literature posts!
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A Prince's Fading Memory
~ Pre-curse 2017 Adam ~
~ Part One ~
Dedicated to mickandcookies on Tumblr
I remember my life in snippets—in moments. If I attempt to recall my childhood in the manner of a grandiose play, one where the scenes are chronologically sewn together, I could not do it. As trying to reminisce all of them is hard enough, without the arduous process of putting them together. But I can always see that glimmering first memory. It’s replayed in my head for over twenty years, dimming a bit yet never fading entirely. I must have been, oh, let’s say three or four, tightly holding my mother’s hand and waiting patiently for her mouth to open again. I watched them—her lips—longing for her sweet, melodic voice. We were taking a stroll through the garden. Sometimes she’d let go of my hand and perhaps pick a flower or fruit, but somehow my fingers would always find a way wrapped back around hers. I never wanted to let go, never wanted to say goodbye. For the first nine years of my life, I was safeguarded—protected by the gleaming bubble of childhood: the fragrant aromas arousing from the kitchen, fluttering like butterflies to my room in the heart of the castle; the shadowy trees encasing the lawn, holding me tightly as I silently counted which branches looked normal and which ones looked like hands. Every day, the same servants clothed me, fed me, adored me—and so did my Mother. Yet my father was never there. He was the only part of my memory that was incomplete, a dead-end in a cave, a crescendoing orchestra suddenly yielded by the conductor. Even so, it is he who I remember most, more than Mother.I broke a promise with a dead woman. She whispered delicately to always remember her. I tried. I tried so hard to memorize the sensation of one of her hands overlapping mine, the other cupping my palm underneath, just as she had always done—just as she would never do again. I tried to memorize her sandpapery fingers as they stroked my cheek, sheets of stiff, rough ice cutting into my skin. She looked like a Goddess of Winter, moonlight from the window slightly illuminating her cracked, thin face. Her bedroom was just her bedroom now, no longer shared by my Father. He wasn’t even there as she lay dying.The proceeding days and months are fragmented in my mind. The thousands of memories, depicted on canvases, bleed into each other. Splattered paint runs through the nightmarish scenes, spilling over and affecting each one. It is a continuous ball of yarn, spinning and swirling and sewing my endless nightmare together. One painting, one day, one nightmare, all crooned together, “Straighten up, son. It happens to all of us one day—the finale.” He said I would become accustomed to it, said I would forget her; all women are eventually forgotten anyway. But I promised myself to never forget.They conversed in the hallways—rapid firings of words and gossip that reached my ears, tingling them. It was the utterances of aging butlers and guards, carried along with the pounding of their footsteps against the marble: “I don’t believe in it—no sir!—I don’t believe in it. He needs to come out.” Or, even worse, the high-pitched squeal of a maid, sputtering, “It’s just not right for him to be cooped up in there! Imagine: a young boy, a young prince, wasting his life away in his mother’s room!” But they never once mentioned my father. Never once mentioned the pain and loss of my mother. They only mentioned me—it was my fault.Seldom times Father peeked into the room—his old room—noticing me tracing my Mother’s figure where she had last laid. Whenever he entered a room, the walls closed in on me, the pressure unbearable. Then his wrinkles twisted together and his mouth curved into a malicious grin as he jeered at me, his sharp, cutting remarks tearing holes in my skin: “She’ll never be back, feebly boy, and you know that! Move on! If you continue this attitude of all mope and no move, then you’ll end up like her too!”At the time, I was unaware of why my father did what he did. I heard his laughter billowing throughout the hallways; I recall his bursts of delight and pleasure stemming from unknown rooms. His brash voice remains in my mind, shining splendidly above all the rest of my memories. It is that I remember most about him, and that which I wish to forget.Time passed, and though I am not sure how much approximately, it was enough for Father to delight himself with a new wife. The days continually bled into each other, one memory singing into the next, one light fading into the dimness of yesterday and dawn breaking through the castle walls. But one moment tears my mind apart—it rips the quilt. I traced my Mother’s figure on the bedsheets, and then my Father burst in through the gargantuan doors with a woman I had never seen. His hair looked like two waterfalls toppling over, large and gaudy and hideous. But the creature standing beside him was far beyond "gaudy" in her beautified state. Her skin displayed cracks and breaks, as the powder she applied was sliding off her face. She was sweating profusely, and the round circle of rouge gradually bled off her cheeks—not fast enough, however. Mother never presented herself as anything of the like, only painting her face on certain occasions. "Meet your new mother!" he called, clinging tightly onto his bride. Sluggishly, I lumbered across the floor to the woman and kissed her cheek, dry particles from the powder remaining on my lips afterward. I cannot bring myself to remember her name, but "Princess of Powder and Pomp" is close enough.Even with the woman in my father's life, the herds of women—of cattle—continued to flood the castle. I thought perhaps he would change, but he didn't. I thought perhaps I would change, ceasing concerning myself with what Father did, but I didn't. Only then I remembered that I was an adolescent and that everything my father did affect my life in some way. I finally realized I was trapped."Come, come, young master, let me hear your lovely voice!" Madame Garderobe sounded in her thick, sumptuous accent. "I remember when you were a little boy and you would sing so prettily in the gardens. Could you do that again, for me?" I knew what she was doing. She stood in the doorway of my room, towering over me with a gleaming, eager smile on her face. Although I had always admired Madame Garderobe, her charms would not be winning me over today. As a matter of fact, all of the servants' attempts to will me out of my room were becoming intolerable. "No," I stated."Would you at least consider attending a performance?" she questioned. I sighed, running my thin, bony hands over my tailcoat and picking at the popping-off buttons. My hair was rustled and matted up—thick and sweaty, and I never changed attire, typically remaining in the same drab for several days at a time. I was in no state to be attending or acting in a performance."As long as I can remain like this." I gestured to my sagging black pants and dripping silvery tailcoat, "I will consider."Madame Garderobe crossed her arms and wrinkled her nose, biting one side of her cheek with disdain; her wig seemed to tilt over as she shook her head disapprovingly. "The performance will begin in four hours, master—in the castle's theatre. If that is the only way to get you out of your room, then so be it.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A Prince's Fading Memory
~ Pre-curse 2017 Adam ~
~ Part Two ~
Dedicated to mickandcookies on Tumblr
I wished I had never gone. The space in the theatre was too open, a large field full of wild animals pestering me, begging me on their knees and wanting to know why I hadn't come out of my room for so long. The velvety reds of the stage engaged my eyes and the black of the walls drew me in closer, like being sucked into the darkness of the night sky. A sickness loomed over my head, causing me to become nauseous. The performance began with an alarming introduction from an older opera singer who, with her gargantuan voice, laid out the scenes for the story: a young maid walking through the forest, running her hands across each branch and tree leaf. I wasn't even slightly intrigued—in fact, I was repulsed—until there was her . A gleaming young maid climbed onto the stage, entranced by the false forest surrounding her. The voice streaming off her lips echoed in my heart, awakening my senses. It was light and silky, like water trickling down smooth stones. I was alive. I knew I was alive after drinking in her heart-shaped face and doe eyes. The rest of the act did not matter at all; no plot twists, songs, or other characters could have possibly been more electrifying than her. Suddenly, a shocking impulse came over me—an urge to touch her, to dance with her, to know who she was. After the performance, I inquired of one of the other attendees many questions about the young maid. "Ah! Yes, Your Royal Highness, that was Mademoiselle Diane de Bassac!" He spoke most ravishingly of the girl, telling of her accomplishments in the arts."Where could I meet her? Will she be coming back?" I asked, pushing through the crowd, attempting to see the girl. He chuckled, laying a hand on my shoulder. "She performs much in her hometown of Poitiers. Perhaps you can see her on one of your travels.""Travels, Monsieur?" My mouth tilted downward, slumping into a scowl.“But of course! You are young.""What does youth have to do with it?""When I was your age, I didn't care how far I had to travel to listen to a beautiful voice.”I burst out laughing, cutting him off. "Not only her voice, Monsieur.”“Your Royal Highness, Mademoiselle Diane de Bassac wishes to speak with you.” I turned to find one of my servants bowing respectfully, and the beautiful specimen curtseying directly behind him. “Of course.” I motioned for him to leave. “Enchantée, Mademoiselle de Bassac. You gave quite a charming performance.” She glanced at my fingers and I fixed my gaze on her hand. Like a thin tree bending under the weight of the wind, I bowed, hesitating, and planted a kiss on her fingers. “I am pleased to know His Royal Highness found my performance to be delightful.”“More than delightful.”Her countenance shifted. She seemed to be rapidly firing sparks of excitement. “More than delightful?” “I - I -” Her eyes dropped, the sparks faded. I am not quite sure what I meant by it, Mademoiselle. I did not mean for you to respond in such a manner to such a gesture - that much is certain. “I thought it the best performance I had ever seen. “Oh!” She perked, then quickly hid her head. “I find that hard to believe. Madame Marie has much more experience than I do.”“Madame Marie’s voice has aged. But yours is in peak condition, Mademoiselle Diane.”“At sixteen? Oh, you must be mistaking me for another performer, Your Royal Highness.”“How could I?”Her giggle sounded like a small hiccup, barely above a whisper. “Diane!” a shout sounded all throughout the theatre. “Diane! Where is the girl?”“It was a pleasure to meet you, Your Royal Highness.” She curtsied. “But I must go.”“Wait! I am the prince of this castle. You follow my orders, not … whoever that is.”“It is - it is my stage director.”And just like that, she was gone. Her blue dress disappeared into the deep reds and velvets of the theatre. Everything seemed to turn into blood, into a volcano, into a mess. There was red everywhere, blurred together. Like a dream of blood and roses. Anything and everything red. Red dresses, red skirts, red seats. “Adam!”Father slapped me on the back. I lurched.“Yes, sir?”“Why are you dressed like a farmhand? It looks as though you have not bathed in weeks ! Did you attend this performance?”“Yes, sir.”“A prince, in public, with mud and grease and slop all over him! My son!” He yanked my arm and pushed it back in place, then pulled strands of my hair and shoved the oil from his fingers into my face.“Father, please, I did not think anything of it--”He motioned for me to follow him. “That is an issue that must be addressed.” Father did not just think it a swell idea for me to take a bath. He also thought it would be wonderful to take it upon himself to give me one.Once he was finished, he threw a towel at me, yelled to dry myself, then shut the bathroom door. He had scrubbed the top layer of skin off my body, leaving some parts of my arms and back red--almost as if he had lightly lashed me. I could do nothing but comply with his actions. I wish I could hate him at this moment, but I cannot. I believe all of the hate has been washed out of me. There are no sentiments left. After drying myself off, I opened the door and tiptoed to the armoire. There was no sign of him anywhere. He was likely with that heifer who everyone believed was a woman only because she painted her face up to appear so. I donned my nightwear then slipped into bed. Silence. I could hear the dust falling from the top shelves to the bottom shelves of my dresser. It is nights like these when I hear Mother. She is singing me to sleep, she is a bird outside the window, she is the bedsheets beckoning me to lie down--promising that tomorrow is another day. I lightly hummed one of her old melodies she would sing me to sleep with. Tossing my head back-and-forth, I hummed myself into a stupor--almost asleep. It must have been an old French lullaby, surely that’s what it is.I bolted straight up. I could feel the blood vessels seeping into the whites of my eyes, wide open. “That’s not Mother’s song. That’s not her song,” I repeated, searching for what song it was. Not Madame Garderobe’s, not Cadenza’s. Not of the castle orchestra.“It’s her song.” Mademoiselle Diane.I leaped to the window, tried not to fall over my night slippers, and then pulled back the shutters. A sweet night breeze wrapped around my waist and chest, hugging me. My eyes scoured over the grounds--the gardens, the vineyard, the lake, the fountains. Until I found carriages and carts pulling out of the right side of the lower layers of the castle. Mademoiselle Diane would be there. Perhaps it’s better if I leave. Looking toward the bed, I traced my Mother’s figure a final time before--“Adam?" My insides froze. My blood turned gray and blue. The room seemed to droop over to one side.“Father?”“Are you-” he stepped toward me, “preparing for bed?”“Yes, Father,” I replied, moving to close the shutters. What story shall I tell him this time? Did I long to free Mother’s soul from this Hellish castle? No, nothing about Mother. It was dreadfully hot in here after that scorching bath he gave me? No, that would only make matters worse. I - hoped to finally free myself of the miseries of the world? Yes, that is it! “I only wanted to see the carriages as they rolled out. They are lovely,” I claimed.“Oh, I thought you would have been searching for your Mother, somewhere, off in the night. You used to do that all the time.”“Really? I don’t recall.”“And you used to trace where her figure was in the bed, the last time she laid there.”“I don’t remember that either.”“Oh.” He looked away. “Then you might not remember-”“I remember.”“What?”“Everything. I remember everything,” I confessed.“I told you to forget.”“I remember.”“Do you know why I told you to forget?”“Why?”“Because no boy can become a prince if he does not have a quickly fading memory.”“Perhaps I am not a prince.”I braced myself for a wall of words, a slap, something jarring and painful--but nothing came. Father sat silent. Wrinkles gathered beneath his chin; his head hung low. “I was… so thrilled to have a son,” he said eventually. “I knew I would have a son the minute your Mother announced her pregnancy. I knew.”“Perhaps I should have been a daughter and corrupted your expectations.”He twisted his eyebrows. “I could hear her.”“Who?”“When she was dying, I could hear her.”“You might have heard her, but you weren’t listening!”“Because if I listened, I could not be king!” he howled so loudly it made the walls shake. I slumped down into her spot in the bed. “I loved that woman! And I loved you, too!”“You never loved us.”He flung himself out of bed. “I - loved - you.” He took hold of my shoulders. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but I did.” He gathered himself, let go of me, and left the room.I never left the castle. Father died a couple of years later and I was next in line to become king. I never saw Mademoiselle Diane again either.For so many years, I thought it would be hard to forget Mother, but as I think about her now, I find it is no task at all. I was but a boy when she passed. But I was a man when my Father died, and it is my Father who I cannot forget.