Wilted Rose, Torn Portrait, Forgotten Name

The first thing anyone—that is to say, all who had been there—noticed about the West Wing was its restoration, as though nothing had ever happened, as if it had all been a dream. Mrs Potts, Chip, Cogsworth, and Lumiere all human again, all marvelling over the miracle as they left the West Wing through the still open doors where a teapot had warned of the siege not half an hour before. But the Beast, who had lain dying only minutes ago, had been real, and the servants' prior transfiguration not some strange, ten-year fever dream. If it had been a dream, then how could he explain Belle's presence? How could he explain how Belle had changed his heart, reminded him of his humanity, brought him back from the brink of despair? Without Belle, who helped him become a better person, the prince would have certainly stayed a Beast the rest of his days.

But just because he was human again, just because everything was restored, didn't mean the many years of isolation and despair were gone from his memories. It didn't mean there wasn't some fear at the back of his mind that one day he might wake up or look in a mirror and see he had become the Beast once more. It didn't mean that he wouldn't have to get used to being a human, not Beast, again after ten years. It meant all of that, only he would not need to face it alone, as long as Belle was at his side. He knew well enough she would always be there for him.

The West Wing, to be sure, was tidy and clean, but two things thus remained: a torn portrait, and a dead rose lying inside a glass jar. He started a little when Belle's hand slipped into his own, fingers curling around his, warm palm brushing his. He gazed at her, blue eyes locking with brown. Her soft brown hair framed her face, softening and flattering the shape of her face. The prince rather thought Belle so much more beautiful with her hair loose, rather than tied back with her customary blue bow.

"Are you alright?"

"Me?" the prince asked, running a hand through his hair, so fine and such a contrast to what once had been coarse fur. "Couldn't be happier."

Belle's hand still in his, he led her to the table with the dead, wilted rose in the glass jar. He grew very still, just staring at the remains of what had been once a source of emotional pain. For a moment, he saw himself back in time, slamming the glass over the exposed flower, a catch of blue skirt disappearing around the doorway, fleeing from his temper. He'd been remorseful after, the heat of his anger dying as quick as it had flared.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he caught himself saying, Belle looking up at him with wide brown eyes, but the prince couldn't bring himself to gaze back. "The rose was enchanted. If you had touched it, it could've been destroyed, and I would have been doomed to be a Beast…forever."

Belle let go of his hand, placing hers on the table near, but not touching, the glass. Renewed curiosity showed on her face, and he wondered if that was the same expression that had crossed her features the first time she had seen the rose.

"This was what turned you into a Beast?"

The prince stared into the glass, looking without really seeing at the wilted stem and curled, brown petals. He saw that rose blooming, petals plump, in an arthritic, liver-spotted hand, a gift in exchange for a night's shelter. He saw that same enchanted flower gradually losing its petals as the last days of his time dwindled close. If only he hadn't turned that enchantress away, but then would he have met his beloved Belle?

"An enchantress," he revealed, "it was at least ten years ago—I would've been…"

How old had he been? He'd cared not to celebrate a single birthday, not once he had turned into a terrible monster. The enchantress, he recalled, had said it would die if he did not find love by his 21st birthday. That meant…

"Eleven," he said, a hint of anger stirring in his voice, "I was a boy, Belle, and a boy who had not known any better!"

He struck out a hand, pushing the glass roughly on its side, so it rolled off the table, onto the floor, but did not crack or splinter. The rose still hovered in mid-air, though long dead, its petal-less head bowed. He grabbed the stem, and it turned into brittle dust in the blink of an eye, leaving nothing in his grip.

"Beast?"

Belle's soft voice—so unafraid—snapped him back to the present. Forcing himself to relax—control your temper!—the prince took Belle's hands in his, turning to look fully into her gentle eyes.

"The enchantress gave me a chance to show some kindness, Belle, a rose in exchange for a night's shelter. She had come to me as a haggard lady, but I—" he stopped a moment, but forced himself to admit it. "I turned her away, repulsed by her appearance. That's when she had revealed her true form."

Belle didn't pull away, step back in disgust, as she ought to have on learning how callous he had once been.

"She was in truth a becoming enchantress, and I tried to beg her forgiveness."

"She didn't accept," Belle guessed.

"She changed me into the Beast," the prince confirmed, "if I found the love of another, and learned to love in return, before the last petal fell on my 21st year, the curse would be broken."

Belle let go of one of his hands, raising it to brush her fingers along her cheek, resting under his jaw.

"And the curse is broken," she said softly, "because you learned how to love, and earned that love in return."

The prince smiled, resting a hand on Belle's, allowing himself to marvel at how different her touch felt now that he no longer had fur, but human flesh. He could feel how her hands were both larger, yet still small, in his grasp. He closed his eyes, and the image of an old man thrown into a dungeon, and later a girl—no, woman—begging the Beast to take her father's place. The Beast's growl as he accepted her plea, angrily throwing out the old man, deaf to the girl's pleading to allow one last goodbye. And later, the girl's words echoing in his head, gnawing on whatever had remained of his conscience.

"You didn't even let me say goodbye."

The same young woman sobbing, huddled against the cold stone walls of the prison tower, eyes accusing as she had flung these words straight into his conscience. Somehow he remembered her having looked so small and frail—how wrong he was about that he'd later find—against the cruel walls of the tower with naught but hay and a couple wooden chairs flung aside for company. The prince knew he wouldn't forget this for a long time, and there would always be the guilt to go along with it if his mind ever dredged it up, like now.

Remorse and self-disgust lurched into his heart, and on impulse, he stepped back from Belle, letting go of her hands, turning away from her. He had hurt her, torn her away from the only family Belle had. He had tossed him into a dungeon, and later flung him outside with no concern or regret, much to the poor girl's distress. It truly spoke for her deeply forgiving nature that she gave him a second chance—even more so that she had even saved his life in the first place after he had driven off the wolves that had threatened to harm her.

His back to Belle, the prince found himself face-to-face with the self-portrait, ripped by savage claws a decade ago. Only the blue eyes—his eyes—peered from the painting's wreckage. When he had turned into the Beast, this was the only remnant of the human form he'd lost for ten years. Reaching out, he pushed up the flap of canvas hanging earthward, smoothing it back to reveal its full face.

Behind him, Belle gasped. "It looks just like you. Was that painted before your curse?"

"Yes," was the confirmation, "I—I tore it when I was cursed." He let his hand drop back to his side, "I couldn't face looking at who I used to be before the curse. I mean, the human I had—" the prince stopped, shook his head. "I'm not making sense."

"I think you're making perfect sense," Belle said as she drew up beside him, also gazing at the portrait. A hand reached toward the picture, but paused, hesitant. "May I?"

The prince offered a small shrug, still an affirmative response nonetheless.

"I'll have it taken down anyway," he said as Belle smoothed out the torn portion of the painting, "It's not worth keeping around anymore."

Belle either didn't hear or she heard, but for a few moments, she remained silent, possibly deep in some musing, her fingers pushing up the torn pieces so the prince's face was revealed—serious and noble at the same time. She stared into the portrait, quiet for several thoughtful moments. Then her hand started away, back to her bosom, eyes wide.

"You know my name," she began, turning her gaze upon the prince, "and I'm sure your parents didn't name you 'Beast'." She folded her arms, looking quite cross. "I can't believe it—I never asked your name!"

The prince shook his head, speaking gentle. "It doesn't mat—"

"Yes it does," Belle interrupted, tone insistent and unyielding. "Unless you want me to call you 'Beast' even now you're human again."

The prince's shoulders sagged a little, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as he did when uncertain.

"Belle, I—I had a name," he began, "I know my parents had christened me something, but…"

As though catching his solemn mood, Belle touched his upper arm with a hand, tender and compassionate.

"You haven't…forgotten, have you?" she queried, words underscored by a note of alarm.

The prince sighed, allowing the smallest of sad smiles to linger on his lips, tucking a lock of hair behind Belle's ear as he nodded.

"I'd been a Beast for so long, and the servants always addressed me by anything other than my birth name."

"Surely they would remember your name. I should've asked them. Why didn't they say you had a name?"

The prince shrugged. "Maybe they felt it did not matter."

"But it does." Belle insisted, turning two determined eyes on him. "You are no longer the Beast that you had been."

"I know."

Belle tucked a strand of hair behind her ears, eyes drifting back to the prince's portrait, as though it might suddenly divulge the prince's forgotten name.

"I'm sure a servant must remember," Belle said, "you know my name, and yet I never asked of yours."

Touched by her underscored wistfulness, the prince brushed the side of her face with the fingers of one hand, drawing her attention away from the torn painting.

"Is it that important to you?"

Belle turned her head, gazing up at him with nothing but love in her expression. Lowering her head, she leaned it on his shoulder, forehead resting against his neck, sending the tiniest of shivers up his spine at her touch. It reminded him of a dance but three days before when she had leaned her head on his chest, closing her eyes with her smile never wavering from her lips, so trusting and tender.

"Yes," she whispered, "very much."

It turned out, on asking around, that most of the servants—at least the most important—had also a great struggle to recall the newly human prince's name his mother and father had bestowed on him in infancy. Lumiere had clean forgot, while Mrs Potts, with genuine regret, did not remember either—though she had an inkling it had started with either "A" or "V". Something told her it was more likely the former rather than the latter, but for now, her memory was too foggy to recall clearly. Ever the one to see the glass as half full, she suggested that perhaps Cogsworth might be more likely to remember the prince's old name, hiding for ten years under "Master" and "Beast".

This they did, looking for the man whom once had been a rather pompous clock, now a pompous human. They found him keeping away from the general fervour and excitement ringing throughout the entire castle. By now, even the prince was eager to hear whether Cogsworth did remember "the Master's" name. Even after spending ten years in disuse, the name still burned clean and bright in Cogsworth's memory—a prompt answer. Nevertheless, even with the reminder of his old name—Adam—it still felt foreign to him, like it belonged to someone else. And perhaps in a way Prince Adam was not far wrong, for "Beast" was a name that had stayed with him for at least a decade. When Belle had come along, it hadn't occurred to him, not even once, that he ought to have had a name, even if just so Belle knew his true name beneath the beastly exterior.

Nevertheless, a new warmth spread through him at remembering his old name again.

"Prince Adam," Belle said slowly, as if to savour the feeling of the name on her tongue. "It fits you perfectly."

"You can just call me Adam," the prince assured, unable to resist the infectious grin Belle bestowed on him as she took his hands in hers. "Are you happy now you know my name?"

Belle's only answer was to wrap her arms around his shoulders, drawing him in for a kiss, both closing their eyes, losing themselves in the romantic moment. He returned the gesture with equal passion, his arms wrapped firm about her waist, not wanting this precious moment to end. It was Belle who parted the kiss first, but did not move from his embrace, instead settling her head against his chest, eyes still closed.

"I love you…Adam."