So I did a writing prompt which was “tell a fairy tale backwards” and I picked Beauty and the Beast of course and then I made it gay of course. Still a bit weak and maybe pretentious but I’m satisfied enough for the time being. I might try this again someday! 3,668 words.

Once upon a time there was a prince who was not a prince.
His father was the king, this was true, but his mother was not the queen. From
his very earliest memories the air near him was always clouded with anger and disagreements.
The air was stormy and so the prince became mild and sweet, doing his best to
become a good and proper son. But nothing he did was ever enough and eventually
the queen had her way and he was sent to live in a small manor in the
countryside with just enough servants to keep his life comfortable.

The manor was nice. It had a dining room with a table that
always had fresh flowers in a vase, and a big bedroom with a four-poster bed
all of his own and a wide balcony, a grand entryway with a chandelier above and
soft rugs below. There was a library full of books, and a toyroom full of toys
and wide gardens full of every kind of flower but especially roses, red as a
robin’s breast. There was even a tiny room in the attic that he used as a
prison in his frequent games of make-believe. The whole place, grounds and all,
was nestled inside a grand forest so while there were not many people, there
were lots of birds and animals to watch.

And so the prince lived, running rather wild in his
beautiful cage, coddled and well-cared for and given medicines for every ill
but loneliness.

Then one day, when the prince was no longer a child but a
youth of sixteen, he heard the long, low calls of a hunting horn and retreated
to his balcony to watch. He had seen hunts before, when his own hunters went
out into the woods. They were exciting and wild and utterly unfamiliar to him,
for all that he could see some of the chase.

But this was not one of his hunters, that he knew. They were
older men, who hunted on foot with only a small gang of multipurpose dogs.

This was a boy, a youth like himself, but foreign to these
parts. He rode a shining black horse amid a sea of red and white speckled
hounds and he hunted no deer nor boar but a great beast the likes of which the
prince had never seen.

The prince could not look away, not from the first call of
the horn to the last ragged roar of the beast, right outside his own front
gates. Everything about the hunter, from his horse to his hounds to his shining
golden hair to his skill with the bow was beautiful and perfect and the prince
drank in the sight of him like water fearing only a little that this boy might
be, as the stories he read warned, some old fairy or forest god.

The prince leaned forward, gripping the balcony railing with
knuckles nearly as white as snow, loathe to miss any detail of the scene in
front of him. And that was how he was when the young hunter looked up, and
smiled. The prince felt it then, that all of the breath left him at once and
his bones turned to water, and there was nothing he wanted but that smile,
again and again every day, every hour if he could have it.

His voice hardly sounded like his own when he called down to
his servants to please open the gate.

*

His name was Charles, and he came from a village far to the
west that was renowned for turning out monster hunters. He was seventeen and
always travelling far and wide in search of beasts to kill.

After that they spent their days together and the prince
never felt lonely except that, once each day, just after dinner, Charles would
make it his intention to leave the next day. And each evening the prince, who’s
heart froze at the thought, begged him to stay one more day, just one more. And
each evening Charles would sigh, and smile, and agree.

Some months after this began, when the first tinges of
orange was showing in the forest, Charles did not give his usual response.
Things had been different between them recently, the prince knew, ever since
his birthday had passed and brought him up to seventeen – the same lofty age as
Charles. And he knew something would happen, soon, though he didn’t know what.

So on that evening, in the very beginnings of fall, their
comfortable routine altered.

“I really must leave tomorrow,” Charles said, after setting
aside his empty plate. “This time of year is when beasts appear, drawn out of
the forest to prey on human stock and stores.”

The prince, as usual, panicked at the thought. “Surely there’s
still time!” he said. “You can stay one more day, can’t you?”

As usual Charles laughed and his laughter was as beautiful
as the rest of him, deep and full and merry. “You just want to be mine forever
don’t you?” he asked.

And the prince, who by this point felt as if he needed
Charles’ company as much as food and water and air did not even blink at the
odd turn of phrase but said, simply, instantly, “yes.”

And Charles smiled and him and said, simply, instantly, “I’ll
see you tomorrow then, my lord.”

And the prince could breathe again, safe for one more day.

The following day was different too.

Charles met him in the rose garden, and said, “I know a way
you can be mine forever, if that’s really what you want.”

And the prince, young and lonely and more afraid of losing
Charles than any torture or torment said, again, “yes.”

Charles kissed him then, next to the fading bodies of the
roses, and it was everything that the prince had ever wanted all at once.

But that was only one moment, and in the next the prince
stumbled, dizzy and afraid, and when he put out a hand to catch himself he saw
that it was not what he was used to at all but more like the paw of some great
beast. His legs seemed to bend the wrong way, or maybe only in the wrong place
and he fell hard upon the paving stones of the garden path.

The prince looked up at Charles, questioning and seeing, for
the first time, that the hunter had his bow. Why hadn’t the prince noticed it
before? How had he missed the sneer under the smile, or the predatory glint in
Charles’ eyes?

“Why?” the prince asked him, words underscored by the soft
taps of nails on stone as he righted himself. “Why?”

“There always need to be beasts in the world,” Charles said,
“else what is there for beast hunters to do?” He strung an arrow on his bow and
held it steady at the prince’s heart. “Now hold still and you’ll get what you
wanted. I always keep a trophy from my hunts. We’ll be together forever, in a
way.”

“No!” the prince said. His body moved on its own, fueled by
some deeper instinct. He tackled Charles, knocking the hunter to the ground.
The bow slithered across the path to end up resting at the base of the rose
trellis.

The prince stared down at Charles, the hunter, his hunter,
and understood what had been said to him clearly for the first time in what
felt like years. He was not the first person so changed. Had the beast killed
outside his gates been the same? Human once?

“You will not leave here,” the prince said. Always before he
had been sweet and docile. Always before he had asked, begged, obeyed, but
rarely had he ordered. He ordered now, in a voice not much different than his
old one, other than the growls that ran under it. “You cannot leave.” The growl
grew louder and louder, clawing its way up his throat and out from between
reluctant fangs. He had always been kind, hadn’t he? He hadn’t known this anger
was in him, though he did not think it was all from the beast. But it was here,
now, and it let him do what needed to be done.

The prince stood up and his hands, they were still hands
after all, however stubby and claw tipped, held the hunter in a grip he could
not fight.

Up they went, up and up and up, to the tiny extra room in
the attic that would, for the first time, hold a prisoner of flesh and blood.

But though Charles was contained, he was not yet beaten. He
talked as the climbed and words that had once tasted of honey now dripped from
his lips like poison. Spells of every nasty sort, spells that drew blood and
caused pain, spells that ruined the castle and the grounds, and turned the
servants stiff and still, statues and objects and curiosities, spells that made
time still and pool, thick as molasses. Still the prince climbed, ignoring it
all, until he shoved the hunter into the tiny room that would be his.

That door he locked. The front gates were shut and barred,
and the wide double doors that had once led into the marvelous entryway closed.

The prince saw himself only once – all of Charles’ spells
had left the mirrors intact. But it was hard to look at himself now and he
smashed the mirrors himself. After that there were only glimpses that he saw
when he forgot not to look – fur as black as night, claws and fangs that
gleamed like polished ivory, pointed ears and a shaggy brush tail like a wolf’s,
a short muzzle like that of a cat. His eyes were still his own, and that was
the worst part of all.

Charles did not cast any more spells or perhaps he could
not, somehow. The prince did not particularly care. They needed nothing, not
food, not water. Time did not seem to flow for them the way it did outside the
gate. There was day and night, he thought, but the seemed unimportant and
trivial.

For a long time he did little but roam the desolate and
ruined hallways of his once cozy manor, trying not to think but always, always
hearing Charles’ last mocking words to him echoing and echoing in his mind.

*

The gate clanged.

That was a noise the prince would always recognize, though
he did not hear it anymore, and it was louder for the fact that it should not be there.
There was rain outside, rain and thunder, and still the gate shutting was the
loudest thing he heard.

The door opened and then shut, slammed by a gust of wind.

“Hello?” a voice called.

The prince crept, as only a beast could creep, and peered
down the stairs into the entryway. A figure stood there, bundled up in hood and
cape, dripping water all over the tattered remains of the rugs. The figure had
a lantern which he shone into all the corners and up the stairs, where foreign
flames made the beasts eyes gleam.

“Heavens!” the figure said, but did not back away. “You
startled me.” There was a hesitation in that voice, a tenseness under the
cloak, as if the intruder were ready to run. But the prince didn’t move.

“It’s not a nice place to stay,” he said, voice rusty from disuse.

“Still better than out in the rain,” the traveler said. “Any
of these rooms have a fireplace?”

The prince pointed and the traveler went.

The prince went too, trailing after, peering into a room
which had once been his and now felt forbidden.

The traveler had kindled a small fire in the hearth, using
bits of ruined furniture for fuel. The cloak had been removed and hung up to dry,
revealing a small, unassuming young man.

“Who are you?” the prince asked, lurking by the door but not
daring to enter.

“Just a merchant,” the man said. “I sell seeds, for fruits
and vegetables and flowers. I was going to a fair in a nearby city when this
storm blew in.” He put a small pot over the fire, making a meal out of travel
rations. “Do you want to sit by the fire?”

The prince moved in, carefully, staying on the outskirts of
the circle of light. “Do you have any roses?” I always liked roses.”

“Got roses of all types,” the merchant said. “Some you’ve
never seen before. You…er…want to buy some? I can trade for a night’s rest.”

“I can pay,” the prince said. “Gold. I will buy half your
stock if you will do me a favor, too.”

The merchant blinked slowly, and turned his attention to his
food, now bubbling merrily over the flames. “What favor?”

“There’s a man upstairs,” the prince says. “He should be
taken to a town and charged with witchcraft and murder. Probably. Witchcraft,
certainly.”

“Ah,” the merchant said.

“He’s dangerous,” the prince said carefully. “I’ve kept him
here but he should be punished for his actions.”

“Well,” said the merchant, “town’s not so far away. I think
I can manage that. You will pay gold for the flowers?”

“Gold,” the prince said with a nod.

The next day the merchant left, and so did Charles, bound
and gagged. The prince was left with nothing but two dozen cloth packets of
tiny seeds.

He didn’t know why he wanted them. He knew very little about
plants. Even so he took the rose seeds down to the empty patches of dirt and
grass that had once been a garden. There, next to the rusted trellis and the
broken pieces of a hunter’s bow, he dug a small hole and gently, carefully, poured
some seeds into it.

*

Nothing had grown by the time the merchant came again,
though the prince could not really say how long he had been gone.

“Thought you’d like to know that the guard has him, your
prisoner. Doubt he’ll cause any more trouble.”

The prince nodded. It was a relief, to know that. “The roses
didn’t grow,” he said, sadly.

The merchant scratched his head, running fingers through
hair that was neither brown nor blond but some muddle in between. “Flowers aren’t
complicated, but they need more than people expect. I’ll help you.”

He stayed two days that time, teaching the prince how to dig
the holes – shallower than the ones he had tried before, and how much to water
them every day.

Buckets were awkward in his paws, their handles being
designed for smaller, more nimble limbs. He had to carry them in his teeth and
no matter how carefully he moved half the water ended up on him instead of in the
ground. But this time the roses grew.

Sharp claws could easily trim excess branches and till the
soil. Even weeding wasn’t too bad though he had to dig rather than pull.

When the first rose bloomed, it was as if he had grown the
sun, so warm did he feel.

After that he tried other plants, not in any order but
wherever he had room. But all the brightness of the gardens only highlighted
how dingy the manor was.

The prince started with the windows, lugging buckets of water
not only outside but all through the halls and rooms of his home. Cleaning rags
were much too small, so he used an old sheet and carefully cleaned each window.
He had never before realized how many there were, hundreds of them, in clear
glass and colored glass, bubbled and frosted glass, and combinations. But he
cleaned them, each and every one.

And when the sun could shine in the windows, he could really
see the grime.

He found one broom, hidden away in a corner of the kitchen.
The handle snapped when he tried to push it, due to age or his own strength he
didn’t know. But why would he need brooms and dusters when he had a tail and
soft fur?

Certainly it was a bit undignified, rolling around on his
own floors, but afterwards he would jump in the ornamental lake to clean out
his fur and spend his time drying in the sun.

He took out the rugs and curtains and tapestries too, first
shaking them out onto the grass and then, when that didn’t work, he tried this
and that until he found the proper way to beat them.

By that point the rugs and tapestries were dingy and
moth-eaten. He went to the library and found a book on weaving, crammed into a long forgotten corner. So long as
he was very careful he could work the loom, and he only sometimes snagged the
fabric with his claws.

Time passed by like this, either a very long time or a very
short time, the prince could not tell. He painstakingly fixed his home, one
mistake at a time. Now and again the merchant came, but by and large the prince
had so many things to do each day that he hardly noticed his solitude. It was
there, still, the loneliness. But he no longer felt as if he lived for the
notice of others.

A little work each day kept the manor clean, the gardens
blooming, and all around was evidence of things he had to offer.

And there were others there, now and again, when storms blew
travelers to his door. Mostly he stayed hidden from them, letting them stay in
what they assumed was a temporarily deserted summer retreat. Most of them
knocked then opened the door when they received no response.

But there was one who kept knocking.

Partially curious and partially annoyed, the prince opened
the door himself. Another stranger, another young man, nearly as handsome as
Charles had been, looked up at him in startled awe. It was not very often that
a beast answered the door.

He recovered himself quickly. “Please let me in,” he begged.
“I can pay you. For a hot meal I can give you a magic rose that will never die.”

The prince laughed, and startled even himself. It had been a
long time. “I can grow my own roses now,” he said. He raised his beastly paws. “I’m
afraid I can’t cook you a meal, but I’ve food and a kitchen you can use. “Come
in.”

“For a warm bed,” the stranger said, coming through the
door, “I can give you a magic ring that will let you summon any luxury.”

“I once had every luxury,” the prince said, “or near enough.
I like things the way they are. I’ve plenty of beds for you to have one.”

“I have…other things to sell,” the stranger said.

“Really!” the prince said, laughing again. “Come in out of
the storm. It won’t cost you anything.” That said, he left the stranger to his
own devices and retreated to his own room for the night.

*

In the morning the prince saw the stranger in the garden,
admiring the roses.

“I’m very proud of the roses,” he said from the balcony. “Would
you like to take one with you?”

The stranger turned and looked up at him, and he wasn’t a
young man at all but a gaunt old woman, much wrinkled but standing tall as any
soldier.

“And who cursed you?” she muttered to herself. His
hearing, however, was good enough to pick out the words clearly. “Not
power-hungry, not greedy, not spoiled or lustful, and whoever heard of a kind
beast! Something you want, certainly, beasts always do. Well? Come here so I
can take a look at you!”

Confused, the prince made his way to the garden where the
woman still waited. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m a witch, can’t you tell?” She looked him up and down. “Some
curses need breaking and some need nurturing. This one needs breaking, unless
you want to be a beast forever.”

“No, I guess I don’t,” the prince said. “Though I’ve gotten
used to it.”

The witch snorted. “Don’t overdo it. Humility and
self-degradation only get you so far. For your kindness I will leave you this
magic mirror which reveals people’s true natures. You can look into it, or not.”

Then the witch was gone, and a small hand mirror was laying
on the path.

The prince picked up the mirror and carried it back to his
room.

*

It was only a month or so later that the merchant came to
visit again and the prince told him all about the witch and her strange mirror,
which he had left face down on his bedroom floor.

“I guess I’m afraid that I’ll be the same person I always
was, as a human,” the prince said. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” the merchant said, “there’s only one way to find out
isn’t there?”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You know,” the merchant said, “this’ll be the last time I
can come for a while. Taking a trip, searching for new plants and new markets.
There’s a big ship, big enough for one more person, if he was human-sized. I’m
leaving from the harbor to the south in about two weeks, if you want to join
me.” He stood. “Manors are nice and all, but there’s a lot more to the world
than just this. More to see, more to do, more to learn.”

“You know,” the prince said, just as the merchant reached
the front gate, “I don’t even know your name.”

The merchant smiled. “And I don’t know yours. Mine’s Hugh.”

“Hugh,” the prince repeated to himself. “Sometimes I forget
I have a name. It’s Matthew.”

“Good name,” Hugh said, “for a beast. But a better name for
a man, I should think.”

Matthew stayed where he was for several hours after Hugh had
left, thinking over everything that had happened, and everything he wanted.
Then he got up, and headed for the bedroom.