Chapter 1: Prologue

Once upon a time, in the land known as Downton, there lived a benevolent king and his beautiful queen, beloved by all over whom they ruled.

The king and queen lived in a stately castle, far-removed from the village and farms. Its walls were mighty, constructed of pale yellow and brown stone. Elaborate windows shone from every side, with the peaks of every tower in perfect symmetry. The castle – named Downton Abbey – sat atop a rolling hill, with one lone road leading to the front gates and nothing but woodland surrounding the property.

Over a period of years, three beautiful daughters were born in the palace, but despite the king's hopes and prayers, he sired no sons; therefore, he decreed that upon his death, his entire kingdom would pass to his eldest daughter, the beautiful (and spoiled) Princess Mary. Knowing from a young age that she was destined to one day be queen, the princess learned early on the importance of her own happiness. Over the years, the servants of the castle came to dislike the princess, for the older she grew, the more entitled she became.

By the time the princess turned twelve years old, there remained only two servants in the household who ever had a good word to say about her. One was the new maid, Anna, who seemed to see a kindness in the princess that the others missed, and the other was Charles Carson, the butler.

Charles was the longest-serving member of the king's staff. His earliest days had been spent as a footman during the former king and queen's time, and he'd worked his way up to the position of butler by the time Princess Mary's father took the throne. Charles was well-regarded by the entire family, but it was the Princess Mary herself who'd stolen his heart, right from the moment she'd uttered her very first cry and the sound had traveled up from the nursery and sounded in the butler's attic rooms.

Over the years, Charles and the princess forged a sort of alliance: she turned to him with questions small and great about the inside workings of the castle (which, try as he might, he could not convince her to ignore, despite it being beneath her station to care about such things), and he defended her often callous and snide behavior to those under his command.

When Princess Mary was to come of age, a ball was planned for her sixteenth birthday. The queen outlined every precise detail of her vision for the ball to the housekeeper, a kindly older woman by the name of Mrs. Bute, but when the woman was called away to tend to her dying mother, the duty of planning the elaborate fête fell to none other than the butler himself.

Determined to make his favorite princess's birthday ball the greatest event Downton had ever seen, Charles became even more strict and demanding with the staff than before. It had been a bit of a shock to some of them, particularly the cook, who'd served the royal family for almost as long as the butler. She knew that while he'd always ruled the downstairs with an iron fist, there had been glimpses from time to time of a sort of kindness in his eyes. There had been rumors that he had lived a happy life prior to going into service; once, the housekeeper heard a whisper in town that he'd even been betrothed to be married.

Obviously, that had not come to fruition. Charles had indeed gone into service. As he moved ahead in his career, his softer side with the staff began to disappear completely, replaced by an icy formality that was not dissimilar to that of Princess Mary herself.

When the night of the ball finally arrived, the butler stood tall and firm by the castle's front doors, welcoming guests from neighboring kingdoms and cities as far away as London and announcing their arrival in the ballroom in his deep, booming baritone. He caught the princess's eye once and gave her the briefest nod, an acknowledgement between them of the importance of the ball itself … and of how each and every guest bowed and curtsied to her and not just her parents –a true symbol of the future if ever there was one.

It was just as the last couple made it inside the ballroom that the winds suddenly picked up, coming in unexpectedly across the land. A harsh gale blew the doors open wide, causing them to slam against the walls and making the torchlight and candlelight flicker and burn out. A surprised, collective scream could be heard from inside the ballroom, but as Charles turned to see what was the matter, he was stopped in his tracks by what had appeared - seemingly from nowhere - in the doorway to the outside.

Standing in the frame of the large door was an old beggar woman. Her figure was hunched over, her gnarled fingers were wrapped around the head of an equally gnarled cane, and a hood was drawn over most of her face. Charles noted that, had she been standing straight, her head would have barely reached his shoulder … and he noted that an odor of something rather unclean was coming from her tattered robe.

"Please, sir," she said in a crackling, soft voice, "shelter for the evening? A storm is brewing, and I'm sure to perish before the sun rises unless I find a place to stay."

Barely able to hold in his disgust, Charles bellowed for her to leave before she soiled the entryway of the castle. But, just then, the woman shifted the long sleeve of her robe, and a rose appeared. Something about it was … odd. It tickled his mind, reminding him of days long since gone by, but he couldn't put his finger on why, so distracted was he by her haggard appearance.

"There is no place for you here," he declared again. "This is not an inn."

"Do not be deceived by my ugly appearance, Carson," she advised in a quiet voice, "for beauty can also be found within."

The words were hauntingly familiar, but his mind latched onto something even more shocking and his eyes widened.

"How do you know my name?" he whispered.

But the beggar woman did not speak; she merely held the rose out to him, her meaning clear.

"A rose!" he bellowed. "You offer a rose in payment for shelter in the most impressive castle in all the country?"

"Please," she asked again, and he barked out a harsh laugh.

"Be gone from here and never return," he ordered her, pointing the way down the path that would lead to the forest.

He turned his back to her, but when he touched the handle of the door, intending to close it on the woman, a blinding flash of light came from where she'd been standing. Thunder and lightning appeared from nowhere, and the harsh winds that had been blowing earlier picked up again most violently, blowing through the doors of the castle and throwing open those to the ballroom, frightening all of the guests … and the princess and her family as well.

Charles watched, transfixed, as the beggar woman's ugly appearance melted away: her filthy robe became a gown of purple silk, the hood disappeared to reveal a head of silver hair, and the gnarled cane turned to one of fine, polished wood, its pearl knob held in her hand.

"Your Highness," he whispered, and he fell to his knees to beg her forgiveness. "I apologize … I … I had no idea …" he stammered, but it was too late, for the woman whose face he was staring up into now was that of none other than the princesses' grandmother, the former queen … and, evidently, a powerful enchantress.

He did not see that the guests had also witnessed the woman's transformation; he did not notice that they were fleeing through the castle's side door and hastening to their carriages, with Princess Mary, her parents, and sisters following in their wake, intent on soothing everyone's fears and encouraging them to return to the party.

"You've changed, Carson," the enchantress said sadly. "You were always so steadfast and true, but kind-hearted. And not only to my eldest granddaughter."

He had no reply, and he hung his head in shame as he continued to kneel before her feet.

"You have been dutiful, yes, but it has been many years since you've been loving," the enchantress told him. There was no anger in her voice, merely statement of fact.

"Your Highness, I … I …" He stammered, then fell silent once more, for he could see the shameful truth in her eyes.

The enchantress took a step back, raising her cane and swirling it in the air above her head. The thunder, lightning, and wind came to a halt, replaced by a soft glow that cast about the entire castle and its grounds. It put Charles in mind of a thin veil that was cascading down over them all.

He watched, speechless, as the rose that had been clutched in her hand spun of its own accord before his eyes, landing in a glass dome conjured from thin air and settling on the cobbled stone before him.

Charles gasped as he felt a faint pain clench his heart. Worried he was suffering an attack, his hand reached up and grasped at his liveried chest, but the pain disappeared and he felt a coldness seeping throughout him in its wake.

"You used to wish you'd gone another way," the enchantress murmured, her voice soft and wistful. "Perhaps, one day, you still can."

"That way is closed to me now," he spat harshly, finally looking into her steely grey eyes, a challenge visible in his own. "You know this."

The rose glowed in the glass before him.

"It's time, Carson," the enchantress said.

"Time for what?"

"You must learn once again what it means to love," she said kindly. "And you must learn how to earn another's love in return. Until that happens, you'll remain here, unable to leave."

"And Princess Mary? The family …?" he enquired, aghast.

"Will not be able to return," the enchantress said, "unless you are successful."

Charles stood then, with some difficulty, and bent to pick up the rose. He handled it carefully, as if not only the dome but the rose itself were of the most fragile spun glass, able to crumble in his hands at the slightest tremble.

"The rose will continue to bloom for you as the years move on. But, like all things, it will eventually die. You have until the last petal falls at the close of your forty-fifth birthday to accomplish your task," she said.

"And if I am not successful?" he whispered.

"Then, Carson," she replied, "you'll remain here forever, a prisoner of your beastly, unloving heart."

"It is an impossible task," he said, defeated.

She stepped off the terrace and then turned to look him in the eye, allowing only a moment to pass before turning in a bright flash of light and disappearing before his eyes.

Charles made his way into the castle, ignoring the soft footfalls of the staff as they peered out from behind draperies and staircases. They watched as he made his way to the attic in the West Wing, the butler's domain for as long as any of them could remember, far removed from the rest of the servants' quarters.

He entered his bedroom and set the rose atop the table by his window, and he gasped loudly as a small, silver hand mirror appeared by the rose's side. He lifted it gently, not sure what to make of it. But when he imagined the princess, wondering in a whispered breath where she was and if she were safe, the mirror showed her to him. She was riding atop her prized steed, heading steadily across the lands for what he instinctively knew would be her parents' smaller landholding closer to the city proper. He glimpsed the king's carriage further off in the distance.

He put the mirror down on the table, determined not to touch it ever again, and forced himself to change and get into bed.

But sleep would not come that night, nor for several nights after.

Despite the enchantress's warning, Charles felt his heart only grow colder as the days and months wore on. He was brusque with the staff, interacting with them only when absolutely necessary. He took to having his luncheon alone in his pantry more often than not, as the others seemed to be intimidated by his presence far enough at the evening meal in the servant's hall.

There was no celebration when he turned forty-one.

Or forty-four.

As he climbed the stairs toward his bedroom one evening, the need to focus on his steps great because of the amount of wine he'd consumed in his solitude, Charles began to feel all hope slipping away. His mind turned to happier times, times before he was even in service, and his eyes landed on the wall above his fireplace.

He reached out and pulled a dusty sheet aside to reveal an old portrait - of himself, in younger days, beside a young woman with dark hair.

The enchantress's voice whispered in the back of his mind: "… beauty can be found within …"

Instead of saddening him, as it so often did, the portrait angered him tonight. He poured one last glass of wine and sat before the painting, staring at it and trying to remember when his life had all gone so horribly wrong.

The rose's light surged, and he caught the flash out the corner of his eye. The harsh reminder enraged him, and he hurled his wine glass at the portrait with a mighty roar escaping his mouth. The glass broke through part of the canvas itself, sticking in the fabric. When he rushed over to the fireplace and reached up to pull down on the stem, the painting ripped apart even more.

The rose glowed once again, and Carson tossed the remainder of the broken glass into the fire and slumped into a chair, completely defeated.

"It's hopeless," he whispered, and a tear fell down his cheek.

"Who could ever learn to love me?"

A/N: We would like to thank you for taking the time to read our story. If you're so inclined, we'd love to hear what you think. We will be taking turns answering any messages and reviews we receive so your comments will be answered. We promise. Also, the entire story has been written which means updates should be timely and regular. Watch your emails and tumblr notices for update alerts! ^_^