Rising in the East -A Beauty and the Beast one-shot (Patreon)

SO OKAY CREDIT FOR THE PORTRAIT GOES HERE. I  was inspired by it and had been given the challenge of writing about  one of my fandoms based on a picture. This was it! 

I wrote this a little over a year ago. I'm extremely pleased with it. Hope you enjoy! 

He had always seen her as beautiful. She had not always seen him likewise.

It was nothing to be ungrateful for really; for what mattered was that she had –in the end. It had broken the spell; it had brought him back to life both literally and figuratively. The Prince would always be appreciative of that. And he would always love her for awakening a part of him that had set fire to his soul.

Even now years later: after many more winters and summers spent outside in the castle gardens, countless dinners and starry nights and two beautiful children later he still felt something burn inside him whenever he looked at her.

He had happily taken back up his childhood pastime of painting somewhere after their first child was born and the second was on her way several years later. In fact he could remember the first time he’d picked up a brush again had been the afternoon his son had wished to make art like those he had seen on the walls of the castle. He had wanted to paint a portrait of his family for their walls.

His father had obliged and had carefully shown his son how to hold the brush, how to make strokes with it, how to change colours... Of course the young boy tried his best to follow instructions but ended up doing his own thing by the conclusion of the “lesson”. His father had sat back and watched patiently with a smile as the boy discovered new things on the page of his own creations.

However soon these painting times had become somewhat of an interest. The Prince found himself trying harder and harder to improve his own skills as he and his son spent time with canvas and sometimes paper painting side-by-side with one another.

Eventually after many years of practice (casually mind you), The Prince had found a love for painting and soon the castle was filled with his works depicting most often scenes from the books Belle and their children read aloud or recommended to him or described to him. But in private he also painted other things that struck his fancy. A few of his works had been privately sold in the nearest town anonymously and he felt a bit of secret pleasure that he was actually good at something although he was too shy to admit it to anyone.

The pieces he was most proud of he had never shown to anyone, however. They were a small series of rather personal pieces that reflected memories and feelings he’d long had –most of them from his time under his curse. If he featured himself in that form within the painting, he always made harsh lines and deep colours the style; reflecting the nature of The Beast within himself that he knew he had been. He hated that part of himself and although it had brought Belle to him (something he still felt a bit of guilt over at times; trapping her into such an impossible situation like that), he still disliked how savage his heart had once been that had then been reflected in his looks for all those years.

Yet he always painted Belle as he saw her: beautiful and kind. No harsh lines, no darkness to her features... His wife was and would always be light in the dark to him and so he depicted her that way.

For years he kept his paintings hidden away. He’d managed to find a room of the castle that was out of the way and easily overlooked. He’d requested that he have the only key and Cogsworth had obliged without question. He never once told anyone about the room; that it was forbidden to all but himself. To utter such things felt like an echo of the past; when he had forbade anyone from the west wing of the castle where his chambers lay. 

Of course now the entire castle was buzzing with activity for these many years and nothing gave him greater pleasure now than to think that the castle walls held memories of so many happy occasions in its walls now.

Yet every so often he would sit and paint alone to himself and hang his creation onto the wall of his secret room where on other days he would gaze upon them all and reflect on days gone by.

Eventually, his visits became less frequent as the piece of him that desired to create something from his memories became less and less and the tug to gaze with reflection upon his furthest memories diminished slowly until one year he had not paid his room a visit even once.

It was the following year that curiosity had gotten the best of Belle that had led to her discovering his secret. She had found a key in a wardrobe one day whilst he was out on an overnight visit to some farmers a couple of leagues away. On his return he would bring along their grandchildren to stay with them a fortnight which both were looking forward to. But in the meantime Belle was occupying herself with various activities –one of which became her quest to locate the door that the key opened. It took about half of her day but finally she found it in a part of the castle she rarely went to. What she found inside both startled and captivated her.

When at last her husband returned, she waited until the right moment to ask him which came when their grandchildren were occupied with chasing a surprisingly still spry Lumiere around their second ballroom.

“I don’t know what to say,” The Prince whispered softly in embarrassment as he scratched his neck. “I...” His gut felt heavy for having kept a secret from his beloved these many long years.

However Belle did not appear to be cross or upset. She merely asked him to accompany her to the room; to show her it and once there to tell her a bit more about each of the images he had painted.

At first he was incredibly reluctant. No one but himself had ever seen these and certainly no one knew his thoughts and feelings behind them. Yet if anyone else were to know these things and to see these pieces with their own eyes it had to be Belle; the one he loved ever so deeply and trusted completely with the rest of his life. And so, he let her in; every thought and intimate detail he could recall about his pieces of art he told her until soon hours had passed by like soft leaves in the summer’s breeze.

And yet again, his wife surprised him (she always did which was a piece of why he was so in love with her really) as she asked whether she could choose a piece to hang in their bedchamber. He was hesitant but the softness of her expression as she looked around her softened his own resolve and he could not deny her.

Just as he had anticipated she’d carry with her one of his pieces depicting a summer afternoon in which she had been playing in the garden with their children while he’d lay in the grass nearby and watched his family with a loving eye, Belle turned away and headed towards another piece of art. Her arms reached out and grasped it gently before she returned to his side. “May I?” she asked –although he had given her permission to take any she wished.

“Why this piece?” he inquired softly; feeling a need to know why she would choose something from The Curse over the days of happiness they had shared since.

She took a moment to answer. “This is the only one I can stand to look at in which the contrast between us doesn’t feel so dark,” she replied softly; slow. “At least of those you did depicting back when you still were practicing eating with a spoon,” she teased. But her hand came now to caress his face which had grown so many different lines from age and laughter. “This one shows the passion and the fire you spoke about feeling. You told me I light up your life; that my beauty from the inside out lit everything around me and saved you. This is the only one where I can see that and it doesn’t make me feel patronized or romanticized or embarrassed when I look at it. And I never want to forget the first time I danced with you...” she added on with a fond smile.

“Put the painting down,” he told her softly at once.

“Bu—”

“Please my dear.” His blue eyes were soft and gentle and she couldn’t deny his request.

He stared back into her beautiful brown eyes as she faced him again and he took a step forward to close the distance between them. His right hand slipped around her waist while his left found her hand and raised it up a little. He looked at their hands for a moment and smiled at the ring on his finger (a gift for their first anniversary she’d given him that he had never removed save for washing or when the ring itself needed its own polishing) before he stared back into her eyes and slowly began to sweep them around the room.

This made her smile and giggle and he relished the sound and the sight of her happiness.

“I love you as certain as the sun rises in the east each morning,” he whispered before pressing a gentle kiss to her lips.

The painting would hang in their bedchamber for many years even after the two were long gone but the story behind it would remain; passed down to anyone who wished to listen for generations until the story felt like a tale as old as time itself.