This was not part of the plan.

The Enchantress had been watching her young charge—for that was how she thought of the prince she had cursed—but not carefully enough. It wasn't that she was uninterested in his progress. But her fair façade belied her age: the Enchantress was centuries old, and did not feel the passage of time as mortals do. It was easy to forget how ephemeral they were. She did check in with the monster-child, watching over him unseen every now and then. After all, the curse was not meant to be eternal. She wanted him to learn, to grow—she wanted to shape him and guide him, for she felt an inexplicable attachment to him.

She tried shaking these thoughts away. Long ago, she had traded away much of her humanity in exchange for power. She had the ability to shape the course of history—why should she yearn for something as comparatively trivial and small as motherhood? She had separated herself from humankind in order to do good, and had made personal sacrifices, rather like a nun renouncing worldly desires to serve a greater spiritual purpose. She had never had reason to doubt or regret her decision.

But for some reason, this boy had become important to her.

She supposed it was because she was responsible for his very existence. Twenty-one years ago, a noblewoman had summoned the Enchantress, begging for help.

People are beginning to say I'm barren, the woman had said. And my husband is starting to grow impatient for an heir. He is…not a reasonable man. Please. I've tried everything, and I don't know what he will do if I cannot have a child.

The Enchantress had coolly studied the woman's demeanor—caught the fear in her eyes, the desperation in her voice. Some long-dormant twinge of empathy stirred deep within her.

Have courage. Take a few drops of this potion every night, and you will have your son within the twelvemonth.

It was a simple bit of magic, a mere parlor trick compared to what the Enchantress was capable of. The lady, in her gratitude, offered every fabulous jewel and fine perfume she owned as payment—but the Enchantress had scoffed. She had no use for silly human trinkets.

Then what do you ask for, in return for this great gift?

The Enchantress had considered deeply. Sometimes she could hardly recall what it had felt like to be vulnerable and human—like a distant dream she had pushed out of her mind—but at this moment, it was coming back to her clearly enough. Perhaps age and solitude were turning her brain soft.

Cherish him. Raise him well. That is all that I ask.

But the noblewoman hadn't kept her promise. When the Enchantress returned, years later, to test the character of the child she had helped create, she found a boy that was self-centered and driven by anger. No doubt he would grow into another cruel, despotic narcissist just like his father.

The realization made the Enchantress's blood boil. And so she had unleashed the most terrible curse in her arsenal.

In hindsight, she justified it to herself as a harsh but necessary lesson for the boy—a decision made with his welfare in mind, even if it didn't seem that way. She could bear to play the role of the villain in his life's story, if that meant she could shape him into a more heroic protagonist through these trials. Plenty of people needed opposition in order to grow stronger.

But cursing the servants…that choice had always gnawed at her conscience.

She had done it because the prince needed allies, if he was to succeed. She had to be sure they wouldn't abandon him. It was a necessity—but it wasn't fair, and she knew that.

The Enchantress often used her magic for poetic justice, but it did not sit right with her, unleashing it upon innocents. She had always comforted herself with the thought that it wouldn't be forever: the prince would break the spell and set them all free.

And just in case, she had built a failsafe into the curse, so that if the prince died, the servants would all become human that very moment.

She had only ever seen those two outcomes for his story. Tragedy or comedy. Death or marriage. Just like the stories from that Shakespeare the girl loved so much.

Damn that stubborn peasant girl for finding a third option. It almost made the Enchantress laugh, even as it frustrated her—after all, she had chosen Belle for her determination, for her ability to see what others couldn't, so how could she complain that those very traits had disrupted her plans?

The Enchantress watched through her scrying-mirror as the girl confessed her love too late. It seemed that would be the end—regrettable, but the Enchantress had foreseen this possibility. But then the girl had seemed to find her lover's heart still beating, had thrown aside her grief and flown into action. She tore off her traveling cloak and used it to put pressure on the wound, while she called to the servants for aid.

In chagrin and disbelief, the Enchantress watched as the blasted girl rewrote their destiny through sheer willpower.

How did I not foresee this possibility? How did I not plan for this?

And more importantly, what to do now?

Well, now the whole truth was out. It was a relief, and yet it wasn't.

The Beast felt so many conflicting emotions that they seemed all snarled up together like a loose thread.

On the one hand, it was awful to see Belle so heartbroken. The last time he'd seen her cry like this, he had also been the cause, though in a different way. He tried not to remember her shivering frame, kneeling on the cold stone dungeon floor, her voice both hopeless and accusatory as she sobbed, You didn't let me say goodbye! Just thinking of the night they met filled him with shame.

And now here she was, mere months later, crying for him, rather than because of him.

That led him to another curious, contradictory thought. He recalled the horrified gasp, the way she drew back into the shadows when she first saw his monstrous form, so he knew she wasn't oblivious to it. So when had it stopped mattering?

At this moment, she was curled up beside him in the same armchair, practically sitting in his lap, her face buried in his mane. He had been stroking her hair carefully for some moments, terrified of making a wrong move, but filled with wonder—not only did she allow this physical contact, she seemed to actively seek it out for comfort.

They were quiet for a long time, and he heard her breathing gradually deepen. He hoped she was drifting off for a few moments at least. Judging by the dark shadows under her eyes, she had lost a great deal of sleep worrying about him. Her grip on his shirt relaxed, and he then noticed there was still blood lodged under her fingernails.

There was all the tangible proof of her love that he could ever need: the way she had toiled to keep him alive. He might not understand what value she could possibly see in him, but he trusted her word. She loved him back, as illogical as it sounded.

He tried to shift her so she could rest more comfortably, but it wakened her immediately.

"Why don't you go back to sleep for a little while, Belle? You must be exhausted."

She shook her head as she stretched. "It's almost nine o'clock. I've got things to do."

"Oh really? Like what?"

"For one thing, your bandages need to be changed today."

"I'm sure that can wait."

"You don't want an infection, do you? That'll hurt a lot worse. And it would be harder for one of the servants to—"

She blanched. "The servants," she repeated. He could see it dawning on her, belatedly, that they too were stuck in their cursed forms.

He wasn't even sure how to console her about this. He had resolved to try and accept his Beastly form for her sake, and maybe he could learn to live with it—maybe one day he wouldn't hate it as much, if she was alongside him. But it was hard to be as philosophical about the poor staff.

"I know. I keep thinking about that, too," he admitted in a low voice. "I brought this on myself, but they didn't do anything wrong."

She bit her lip, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. "Have you tried contacting the Enchantress? Maybe she would show mercy if we asked. Or maybe there's something we can give her in exchange for breaking the spell. After all, if she supposedly wanted you to learn something from the curse, surely she would see how much you've grown as a person. That's got to make a difference, right?"

He wondered what his expression betrayed, because her enthusiasm died looking at it. All he knew was that his stomach twisted into knots and his knees trembled at the thought of encountering the Enchantress ever again. It didn't matter that he was a hulking eight-foot-tall monstrosity—every time his nightmares were filled with bursts of green magic smoke and piercing, merciless emerald eyes, he was reduced to a frightened eleven year old cowering in her shadow.

If Belle suspected how much the idea alarmed him, she did not voice it. "No, I suppose that might do more harm than good. Though I'd love to tell that woman exactly what I think of her, given the chance."

There was an unexpected glint of anger in her lovely eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked, bemused.

She sat up straighter, nostrils flared in indignation. "Well, what kind of person curses an entire castle full of people who have never done anything to her? Or a child whose only crime was that he acted like one?"

The Beast winced. "To be fair, I was a bit of a brat."

"I believe it, but that's hardly a capital crime. Why should you pay for that for the rest of your life?"

Belle's indignation on their behalf warmed his heart. But still, he worried.

"I know you can handle yourself, but please don't go offending the Enchantress," he begged. "She can't really do anything worse to us, but she could still do something to you."

She folded her arms over her chest. "Don't worry, I won't do anything foolish," she grumbled. "It's just tempting, that's all."

He snorted. If the danger weren't so real, he would enjoy seeing her scold the Enchantress for her unfairness…

"Alright, enough stalling," Belle said, suddenly brisk. "Time to change those bandages."

He couldn't suppress a groan.

"Why is it that you can literally get stabbed in the back, and you won't complain about the pain, but the slightest discomfort afterward…" She rolled her eyes as she started unwinding a thin roll of linen on her bedside table. But her amused tone was more fond than outright mocking.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled, limping over toward the bed. "You win."

Her smile grew more pronounced. "Could you lie on your right side, please? Then I can get to the ones on your shoulder too."

It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the arrow wounds. "Hmm. Forgot about those."

He was facing away from her, but he could hear a soft chuckle under the splashing of water as she washed her hands in a basin.

"I'm going to start with the knife wound, because it's the worst. I might need to clean it again, if it's still bleeding. There might be some pus to drain, too. I'm just warning you, this part will probably sting."

He nodded mutely and grabbed onto one of her pillows to bury his claws in. If the pain made him twitch or flinch, the last thing he wanted was to accidentally scratch her.

She lifted up his shirt and began to carefully peel away layers of linen bandages at the small of his back. He kept his teeth gritted together. He didn't understand how she could stay so steady and businesslike during such a revolting task, but he wasn't going to act like a coward in front of her. Not this time.

The first touch of the washcloth against his scar did sting, as she had warned. He managed not to move too much.

"Sorry, darling," she murmured.

"Don't be. I know it has to be done."

The burning feeling did subside after a moment, from the cool water and the gentleness of her touch. She spoke soothingly to distract him.

"Maybe when you're feeling strong enough, we can take a walk through the gardens. I bet some fresh air would do us both good. It snowed again last night, did you notice?"

"No, I didn't." His voice sounded a little strangled, but he tried to keep it steady. "Does this mean you're feeling ready for a rematch? So soon after your crushing defeat?"

"Oh, I'm the one who was defeated? Tell me again whose snowball fell in his own face?"

Their laughter shook the bed underneath him, until another sting of pain made him hiss.

"Sorry. I'm just putting some salve on it, it'll help."

He nodded, his jaw tight.

She kept her tone light and conversational. "It looks better than I was expecting. It is definitely going to leave a scar, though. The blade was jagged, so it was…kind of hard to stitch up properly. Still, it's finally starting to close. I think the stitches can come out next week."

To his surprise, he felt her free hand stroke his ear once softly. "You're doing really well," she encouraged. "The worst part is over now, I promise. Now I'm just going to work on those arrow wounds, if you feel ready."

This was certainly a far cry from the first time they'd been in this situation. He wondered, with some amusement, whether she was thinking of that night, too.

Strange to think, that night was probably when I started to fall for you, he thought. She'd been so…unafraid and unwilling to budge. Her tiny frame next to his enormous, monstrous one had seemed unimportant when her unflinching glare made him feel abashed.

Well, you should learn to control your temper. Her words still rang in his ears even now. She had refused to bend to his will or be intimidated by his anger, as the servants might have done. She had spoken to him like a person—not a person she particularly liked, but not a monster either. A person. Someone she expected to be capable of doing better.

And from that point on, he'd craved her good opinion. He hadn't understood why, at the time, but in hindsight it was so obvious.

"Belle, have I—have I ever told you how much I admire you? You've got to be the bravest person I've ever met."

He probably couldn't have said it so bluntly if he had been looking in her eyes, but it was easier as he studied the embroidery on the pillows in front of him.

She laughed. "Me?"

"I'm being serious."

She was quiet for a moment as she pulled aside the neckline of his shirt to examine the wounds on his shoulder.

"Thank you," she said finally. She sounded genuinely affected by his praise. "I…I didn't feel very brave when I almost lost you. So let's not make a habit of this, okay?"

"Deal."

"I don't believe this," she said suddenly, sounding amazed. "The arrow wounds are almost completely closed up."

"I told you, I'm pretty hard to kill."

"Thank heaven." She hesitated, smoothing a fresh bandage over the nearly-healed wounds. "Did he…say anything to you? Gaston, I mean."

The Beast suddenly felt cold inside. The hunter's proud, handsome face loomed in his memory, twisted into a contemptuous smile.

"He said, 'What's the matter, Beast? Too kind and gentle to fight back?' I know he was just trying to goad me, but I'm not sure what he meant. It was like a private joke with himself."

"Oh," she said in a small voice. "That was…that was meant as a jab at me. He was using my words to mock you. Of course Gaston would have to twist that into a bad thing."

Understanding dawned on him. He tried to turn his head slightly to see her face, but she was too far behind him.

"Did you really say that about me?" An incredulous grin spread across his face. He didn't care how ridiculous he probably looked.

She called me kind and gentle? In front of other people?

"Well, yes." Her tone seemed to imply that this should be obvious. "I tried to make them understand. The villagers, they…they took one look at you in the mirror and…I guess I was naïve to think they would listen."

The Beast didn't spare the angry mob much thought, let alone any animosity. Torches and pitchforks and angry peasants—it was exactly the way he expected other people to respond to him. He was too captivated by Belle's praise to even care what anyone else thought.

But Belle's thoughts must have been racing ahead elsewhere. "I just hope they don't come back."

At this, the Beast dragged himself into a sitting position so that he could look her in the eye. "Belle, please don't worry about that," he said firmly. "You said it yourself: we're together now. Everything's going to be fine."

She raised an eyebrow at his certainty. "Alright, who are you and what have you done with my Beast?" she teased. "I've never seen you so optimistic before."

He laughed along with her, even as a thrill went through him at being referred to as hers in some way, even facetiously.

"I'm not always melancholy."

"Whatever you say, darling."

He froze. Her casual endearment took him aback. She immediately blushed scarlet, seeming to realize what had astonished him so.

"What?" she protested. "I have to call you something, and I am not calling you Beast for the rest of our lives. That's just silly."

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. It was time to make a decision, though his heart pounded at the thought.

"Adam," he said finally. His voice was hoarse, as if the name had worn out from lack of use.

She frowned, puzzled.

"My name is—was—Adam," he confessed. "I stopped using it. I asked the servants never to mention it. I guess I just felt…unworthy of it. But…" He looked down at his hands. "You can use it, if you want."

"Adam."

He rather liked the way her lips formed the syllables. It sounded so much more melodious coming from her. He had worried that it would be jarring, returning to that old name, like trying to fit into the clothes he'd worn as a human. Like trying to bring back the past. But in Belle's sweet voice, it sounded new.

He braced himself for her annoyance—after all, they had known each other for months, and he had refused to divulge his Christian name until now, and even allowed her to believe he had forgotten it entirely—but instead, her lips quirked into a sad smile.

"It doesn't matter who you were before, or who you could have been. I love who you are now…Adam."

*Author's note: Thanks for your patience with me, readers! I know it's been a while since an update, but real life has been...very tiring. It feels good to actually create something again.

Whew, this chapter ended up being mostly dialogue, which rarely happens for me. I promise they're actually going to get out of this room soon and do something besides talk, lol. Hope you enjoyed, let me know in the comments what you think.

Just one quick clarification: I've already noted this on AO3, but for my ff readers, I just wanted to make sure everyone knew this is specifically based on the 1991 universe, not the 2017 one. I will borrow a couple of tiny things from the 2017 continuity (like Madame Garderobe's name, since she doesn't have one in the animated movie), but mostly I'm trying to keep those universes separate. That's why the servants didn't freeze into lifeless objects when the curse became permanent. I hope that makes sense?