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Chapter Text

In hindsight, a wild romp through the wood wasn't the best idea. Caught up in the thrill of the race, he didn't realize how the forest was... changing; the bare trees growing more skeletal, the silver moonlight sharpening like bone.

Not until the wind changed, and his nostrils flared on the sharp, unmistakable scent of magic. A distant wolf pack howls at a sudden interloper.

Right after he skidded over the invisible border from a mundane forest into someplace other.

And nearly plowed into a freshly-killed deer carcass. With a brown bear possessively crouched over its meal.

Then the predator sharply raises its head. Bright blue eyes pierce him.

In this shape, the black dog is taller than the largest wolf, let alone an actual dog.

Now he's dwarfed by a... a... bison-bear-wolf.

Oh.

The bison-bear-wolf snarls. It rises onto its hind-legs to tower even further above him.

Oh, no.

The black dog sinks low to the ground and whines at his accidental trespass. Time to bolt for it.

Before he flees, he notices the bison-bear-wolf is wearing pants.

Oh, f-

Don't say a word. Don't say a-

Before his mouth can catch up to his brain, his canine whine has already dipped its pitch to blurt out, "U-Uh, hello. Is this your forest?"

The bison-wolf-bear's growl cuts off as his jaw drops in sheer bewilderment.

Oh, good. The black dog has no idea what language he's defaulted to, but he's apparently understandable, and so rambles on. "I know not who you are, nor how I came to find you. But can I just say... I'm sorry. So very, very sorry. Here's the thing. I was caught up in my own head. Gallivanting through the forest. And then I stumbled into your neck of the woods like an idiot." 

Furry brows furrow down at him. The black dog almost tries a placating grin, realizes that probably shows too many teeth, and tucks his tail between his legs instead. He takes a step back.

"Sorry again for all the trouble. I'll just be going n-"

"Wait!"

Both freeze at the sound. The bison-wolf-bear seems even more stunned at the rough, desperate word than the dog is.

The bison-wolf-bear roughly clears his throat. "Wait," he tries again. Then comes a soft, belated "...Please."

So the black dog waits. A polite, wary distance away. He may not be able to outrun the night wind this far from home, but he can certainly make it back to the border.

Blue eyes glance down at the deer carcass. The bison-wolf-bear wipes gore from his teeth. He runs a self-conscious paw through his mane before tugging at the cloak slung back over his shoulder. It falls to drape most of his form.

"Are... Are you..."

Their ears both prick when the wolf pack howls again, now uncomfortably close. Maybe they just smell fresh carrion.

Maybe.

"Friends of yours?" the black dog asks lightly. His casual tone can't disguise his raised hackles.

"No," the bison-wolf-bear rumbles, glaring out into the darkness. His eye again finds the dog's. "I... um... it would give me great pleasure if you would join me at my castle."

The dog eases another step back. In this case his curiosity doesn't outweigh his common sense. Not when he must one day explain to his parents (and a very irate mamo) how he blithely ignored every last faerie tale ever told to go and be lured into a strange creature's lair. "Thank you for such a generous offer," he demurs. "But I couldn't possibly impose on you. Places to go, people to see."

The bison-wolf-bear bristles at the implication. He sinks his claws into the nearest tree for support, heaves a deep breath, and tries again. "You're welcome as a guest."

"For how long?" the dog asks flatly.

"For... uh... however long you'd like." The bison-wolf-bear glowers. "You're not my prisoner."

The dog's own dark eyes narrow back. His head tilts in consideration. This wouldn't be the first time a faerie tried to entrap him. But they're also smoother than this, all honey-coated words and sly smiles and dancing around definitive truths. They certainly don't give straight answers. Let alone blunt answers.

And yet.

"How does time pass in your castle?" Those furry brows furrow again. "Like, I'm not gonna spend a night and find out a hundred years have passed in the world outside, right?" Because his parents would be pissed about that. And probably ground him for another three hundred more.

"It just... passes normally." Blue eyes widen in sudden, creeping dread. "W-Wait. What year is it?"

Hooray. Another loaded question. The dog's head tilts further. "In what calendar?"

The bison-wolf-bear's eyes widen even further. "The normal one!"

Again the black dog pauses. He's been roaming around Barrois and the neighboring duchies so much he's not sure whether he's speaking some dialect of French or German. Or maybe he's instinctively lapsed into something older once crossing the border into this place? Sure, far enough back all these lands were Celtic, but maybe the bison-wolf-bear is way younger than that. Or older than that. He can roughly guess a general Celtic count based on what his dads' families are used to. His parents have worse luck with calendars outside the Manoan time system than he does. His dads especially like to gripe about the time change that pope ordered two centuries ago.

With the wolves drawing near, and the bison-wolf-bear now spiraling into near hysteria, the dog makes up his mind.

He gives the Gregorian year. At least that's still the same in the Julian calendar last used before it.

The bison-wolf-bear heaves a gusty sigh of relief. "Good." He steps away from the deer carcass and drops back down to all fours. He glances impatiently over his shoulder. "Well? You wanna, you wanna stay out here?" He waves a paw toward the approaching wolf pack.

Once more the dog considers the directions that don't lead toward a bison-wolf-bear or a ravenous, probably supernatural wolf pack.

He trots after his host.

Eh. A night in a mysterious castle beats sneaking up into a musty old hay loft. Again. The late autumn chill is just fine for a black dog made for shadows and moonlight. Not so for the very cold, cranky young man that needs to live with the morning after.

Satisfied, the bison-wolf-bear picks up his pace. The black dog easily matches his stride.

More than once, his host glances back to assure himself his 'guest' is still behind him, that the black dog hasn't run away or dissolved into the shadows on him.

The black dog's tongue lolls out. With the wolf pack slipping back into the night, the wild glee brought on by a cold, clear night bubbles back into his step. Especially with a new companion blazing a trail to his next great adventure. He feels invincible again. He can run forever! (Or at least until sunrise.)

If the black dog knew where the hell they're going, he'd challenge the bison-wolf-bear to a race. Just for the sheer joy of it.

Even through the thick, tangled tree branches the dog can now glimpse formidable towers. The castle only grows more daunting as they approach.

Their way forward is blocked by high stone walls and a wrought iron fence. Despite a creaking groan, his host easily wrenches open the rusting gate. He doesn't even flinch at such direct exposure to cold iron.

Huh. Definitely not a fae then.

"Uh..." His host awkwardly motions. "After you."

The black dog freezes on the threshold. He inches a single paw onto the cobblestone beyond. He shuffles forward, then leaps solidly back outside the perimeter, and tries again. Nothing prevents him from coming or going. Even though the stench of magic is now thick and cloying, like rotting flowers.

The bison-wolf-bear huffs.

"Sorry." The dog sheepishly enters a final time. "Just making sure."

His host shuts the gate behind him. It has no lock.

Eh. He's busted out of worse places.

Now the castle properly looms ahead. Across a bridge that leads across a sheer drop into a ravine far below. Even he probably can't survive that fall. Demonic and bestial statues guard the pathway. Their stone edifices snarl down from every wall.

"Nice place you've got here," the dog offers. "Very grand."

A little on the nose, sure, but he's not one to talk.

"Very fitting, you mean," his host grumbles. He stalks forward.

Inside is even more grim than the exterior, the cavernous foyer watched over by yet even more gargoyles. But it's painstakingly clean, despite the frays on the edge of the carpet or the chips in the marble floor. A few dim candelabras even try their best to illuminate the gloom. The dog doesn't need such light. He doubts his host does either.

"COGSWORTH!"  They both flinch as the bellow echoes. Even the trinkets on the nearby table seem to tremble at the force of it. In a lower, brusque tone, his host calls out, "Lumiere!"

"R-Right here, master." The dog looks around for the source of the voice. He follows his host's gaze to that nearby table. To a pendulum clock. With eyes. And a mouth. "Good evening to you. A-And your..."

The talking clock stares. So does the candelabra beside him. The dog gawks right back.

"Guest," his host growls. "He's... my guest."

His guest wags tail and tilts his ears just so; the kind of well-practiced motions that emphasize him as more friendly dog and less as a supernatural predator.

"Hello!"

The talking clock splutters even further at the concept of a talking dog. The candelabra manages to smile back. Now how to properly introduce himself?

Loup's WAY too on the nose. Raoul and Caleb and Renard aren't much better. Ugh, definitely not Horace or Herbert. Don't feel like a Sylvestre. I've already used 'Bastien' way too much and-

"Eugenio," he blurts out on pure muscle memory. Because he still doesn't know if 'Eugen' or 'Eugéne' is the proper pronunciation in these parts. "Eugenio Heribertez, but my close friends call me 'Genito.'" His doggy smile grows wider at their flabbergast. This from a candelabra named Lumiere and a clock named Cogsworth. "And what can I call you, my lord?"

His host grimaces at the title. "I-I-I'm the Beast." The servants behind him exchange a pained look. They fall back behind to careful neutrality when the Beast rises back onto his hind-legs to lift up Lumiere. "Come. I'll show you to your room."

The Beast strides off, Lumiere lighting the way. Genito follows. He glances back at the clock left stranded on the table. But Cogworth doesn't need rescuing. He taps one wooden foot and the table diligently stoops down to ground level. Realizing his audience, he gives a short bow of dismissal, then scuttles off. Probably to warn the rest of the staff about their surprise guest.

"Pleasure to meet you, monsieur," Lumiere says brightly from the Beast's hold. "It's been quite some time since we entertained company. How long do you intend to stay with us?"

"Not too long," the dog demurs. "I certainly wouldn't want to take advantage of such fine hospitality."

"It's no trouble," the Beast rushes out. "Really. I... um... hope you like it here." He clears his throat. "I'm the master of this castle, and you're my guest, so you can go anywhere you like. Except the West Wing."

"Okay."

Both Lumiere and the Beast blink down in surprise at him. Genito innocently wags his tail back. What, do they expect him to question the one reasonable rule given to him when he was welcomed under their roof? Please. His parents raised him better than that.

They pass through labyrinthine hallways of jeering gargoyles and snarling monsters. Genito carefully maps out their route in his head. Worse comes to worse, he can always scale out a window. He'd probably survive the fall. As long as he doesn't break his neck on impact.

As the awkward silence from the Beast draws on, Lumiere hopefully taps his 'hands' together. "Can I perhaps interest you in an extremely late supper?"

"Thanks, but I'm good for tonight." In this form he's more shadow than flesh and blood. He has more appetite for mischief than anything else.

"How about for you, master?" The Beast's furious snort nearly extinguishes their candle light. "Then again, maybe not."

Genito guiltily thinks back to that fresh deer carcass abandoned back in the woods. Doubtless the wolf pack has long devoured it by now. Such things in the wild never go to waste. "Sorry again for, uh, interrupting you earlier."

"I've had worse interruptions," the Beast mumbles. When they finally stop before a door, Genito can't help but frown. The Beast bristles. "What?"

Again he considers the circuitous route in their head. They definitely passed that hydra statue twice. "Did you just lead me around in circles?"

"No!" he bursts out. At Lumiere's sheepish smile and the black dog's dubious stare, the Beast's temper gutters back out. He runs a paw through his mane. "I... My servants needed time to prepare your room."

"Well, thank you all for that."

Lumiere puffs up. "We certainly allow no rooms to go unattended, but a guest of honor deserves to see us at our best."

Currently the only one among them with opposable thumbs, the Beast opens the door. At least the latch is one Genito can operate even with only paws and his mouth. Inside is a spacious chamber of marble flooring and luxurious carpets. There's a four poster bed covered in sumptuous pillows and a chaise lounge. Candles merrily burn away in the candelabras, illuminating lavender walls and rich violet curtains.

The black dog involuntarily shudders at such direct exposure to light. A single candelabra in the gloom is one thing. Such concentrated light in an enclosed space is quite another.

So far from the source of his divinity, his shape really doesn't flexing out of human form, even to those most natural to him. There's a reason why the black dog only truly thrives under the cover of darkness that can play such fantastical tricks on the human mind. If the castle itself weren't steeped in such potent magic, he probably would have snapped back to human form already.

"Now, if you need anything, my servants will attend you."

Genito swallows his protest that such fuss really isn't necessary. He's a gracious guest here, dammit, not the son of the three gods that eschewed a priesthood and acolytes to largely look after themselves. "I'll try not to be too much of a bother."

"Nonsense, monsieur! Please put our service to the test. It's good exercise, a chance to use our skills! Life is so unnerving for a servant who's not serving." Lumiere quails under the Beast's deadpan stare. "N-Not that you don't need us, master, but a new challenge is always a welcome one."

"I'll keep that in mind, Lumiere," Genito offers diplomatically as possible. "Good night. And to you, Beast. Thanks again for, uh, all of this."

The Beast stoops into a formal, if awkward, bow. "The, uh, pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Heribertez."

He closes the door behind them. Genito finally sags in relief. Even for him, it's been a very weird night. Now his faerie form feels itchy and confining. He almost lets go of it.

Except that his fur still prickles with the sensation of being watched.

"Hello!" the wardrobe says. Then winces when Genito yelps and jumps five feet into the air. "Oops. Sorry about that, dear. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"F-Frightened?" he scoffs, frantically smiling despite his bristling fur. "I'm not frightened. Are you frightened? No, I'm just very interested in this castle and the magical properties it possesses." He takes a deep, shuddering breath. "H-How long have you guys been doing this, exactly?"

"Oh, for yours now." The wardrobe barks a loud, manic laugh. "But who's keeping count?"

"Right." 

Time's never been all that stable in circumstances like these. His relatives in the Otherworld always have such a hard time keeping track to how centuries pass in the mortal realm. Suspiciously modern furnishings be damned. For all Genito knows the castle surroundings shift as its story changes and adapts to the world outside its walls. The provincial town of Molyneux, seemingly not that far away from here, might seem as fake and fleeting as a dream.

He again apologizes and introduces himself. In turn the wardrobe performs her best curtsy and introduces herself as Madame Armoire.

Her eyes twinkle at his befuddlement. "I've also been called Madame de la Grande Bouche, dear, but Armoire is my Christian name. My Olivier comes from a long line of serving in noble households. And I've certainly done my fair share!" She flutters her closet doors to the garments housed within. "Now, I know I may seem a bit superfluous in that department, but I still know my way around a bedchamber. How can I help?"

Genito doesn't know what to make of all that, but he gets the gist. Maybe most of the castle staff are around Cogsworth or Lumiere's size. Of course they'd send someone tall enough to turn down a bedchamber by herself. Especially for a guest that towers over all mundane canines.

"Thank you, madame, but I think I just wanna turn in for the night." He stifles a yawn to avoid flashing his fangs. "It's long past my bedtime." At least when he conceivably needs to socialize with host sometime at a decent hour.... unless the Beast is actually nocturnal.

When it comes to that kingly bed, however, he hesitates. And looks for another face on the bed frame. "Hey, um, Madame Armoire-"

The wardrobe laughs. "The bed's not alive, dear. Most of the castle isn't. Though it can be quite helpful." She waggles a closet door. A table with a pitcher and washbasin dutifully scurries over.

"Huh. Neat."

He frowns down at his dirty paws and non-retractable claws. No guest should such willfully soil or scratch their sheets when it can be so easily avoided.

For just a moment Genito hesitates. Then he shrugs. Eh. Might as well rip the bandage off now. It's not like he's the weirdest thing in this place.

"Hey, uh, Madame Armoire? Promise not to freak out?"

She scoffs goodheartedly. "Dear, there's nothing left in this world that could make me 'freak out.'"

"Okay then."

With a tired sigh he finally drops dog shape. Madame Armoire goes still as any other inanimate wardrobe, except for a tiny little creak that might just only be a squeaky hinge. Genito flashes her the same wide, gormless smile. Then he washes his face and unties his ragged braid. Half of it already unraveled, curly wisps dangling in his eyes.

Madame Armoire lurches back to life as he kicks off his boots. "D-Do you need help, dear?"

Genito's hands freeze on his vest. He chokes.

"R-Right. Good night, dear."

Madame Armoire shuffles to leave. Even a wardrobe her size has no trouble fitting through such a grandiose door.

Genito glances suspiciously around for anymore living knickknacks. Nothing moves. Not that he undresses beyond shrugging off his vest and shirt. He crawls into a feather-soft bed with a small groan of satisfaction. Better than the narrow, lumpy board he left behind at Gaston's tavern. Or another stint in a hayloft.

For a moment, his foggy mind tries and fails to recall any local legends about a Beast or his enchanted castle of animated servants. Molyneux's residents hadn't been much for storytelling beyond mundane gossip and rumors.

Oh, well. Maybe this place stems from the other side of the border. (Though he fuzzily realizes that he, the Beast, and all his staff all spoke in the Barrois dialect. Even if Cogsworth and Lumiere had been heavily accented.)

Warm and snug, safe as any other guest protected under the rites of sacred hospitality, Genito drifts off.

His sleep is deep and dreamless.

With the master having retired to the West Wing and his guest safely ensconced in his own room, a select number of the staff hole themselves up in the parlor. The rest of the castle has long looked up to these three servants above all others, for the master heeds them most, and they can best regulate his temper before passing his orders down the chain of command.

Cogsworth, as the castle's majordomo, is technically charge of everyone else and never lets them forget it. Even if Lumiere, the master's valet, and Mrs. Potts, head housekeeper and the master's former nursemaid, hold the staff's real confidence.

For once, there is far more to discuss together than yet another harebrained plot to break the spell or the master's increasingly tenuous grasp on his own humanity.

"I don't like it!" Cogsworth huffs, pacing incessantly before the fireplace. "Not one bit! It's long past time the master really at least tried to break the spell. And instead he brings some... some scruffy, overgrown pooch! Just like-" He gestures to Mrs. Potts. "Well, you know!"

Like when bold little Chip had smuggled Sultan inside all those years ago. For all of Cogsworth's ranting back then, the lovable mutt had still become part of the household. Now the ottoman spends every night curled up protectively in front of the cupboard and waiting for his teacup friend to awaken.

"Ah, yes," Lumiere drawls. "A scruffy, overgrown, talking pooch named Eugenio Heribertez. Such a common mongrel." 

"Exactly! Coincidence? I think not!" Cogsworth jabs a handle at him. "This has her work all over it."

The candelabra shivers involuntarily at that terrible winter night. She had been in their lives for not even an hour, and had scarred them all forever. "Nonsense! We haven't seen hide nor hair of her in almost nine years now."

What need did she have to meddle in their lives again? Her original enchantment had been cast to perfection. The fragile nature of most of the staff prevents them from wandering beyond the castle walls. She had wiped them off the map. They'd learned that years ago when no one had never traveled down what had once been an easy road from nearby Molyneux to discover what had become of the duke's wayward heir.

Now the woods are choked of impassable undergrowth and stalked by ravenous predators. They hear wolf song almost every night. Those large, fearless packs have swarmed the master more than once. God knows what they've done to unwary travelers that wander too close to the border.

The border the master himself cannot pass. Not to beg help from the nearest church. Or to simply abduct some poor peasant girl. (Or perhaps to even seek a merciful end at the hand of a hunter's musket.)

Lumiere shakes himself from such grim thoughts at Mrs. Potts' tired sigh. "I think we certainly can rule that one out. We all know how... sensitive the master is. He'd never invite anyone back home if he suspected one whiff of trouble."

"Then it's some sort of Spanish plot." Cogsworth stubbornly crosses his arms. "I mean, what did this Heribertez fellow ever do to get himself cursed in the first place?"

"Perhaps he simply opened the door to the wrong person." When the overgrown pocket watch puffs up for a fight, Lumiere drapes an arm over him. "Think, Cogsworth! This is an opportunity."

"For what?" The clock sniffs. "Another flea infestation?"

"No," Mrs. Potts breathes. "A friend." Lumiere beams gratefully at her. Cogsworth blinks in confusion. "Someone who doesn't fear his appearance or his temper. Someone who can share in his experiences. Someone like him." She chews her lip. "That's all more than we can offer."

Cogsworth winds up for another rant, presumably one about how dare they presume a lowly mongrel can be compared to a prince of royal blood. "H-He's not..." The clock slumps in realization. "Oh."

Another young man under enchantment. Another beast, albeit one far more personable than their own. A being of flesh and blood, one that hungers and bleeds and possesses a beating heart in his chest. The only being in the castle, save the master himself, to be truly alive.

The enchantress' spell had infiltrated all corners of the castle and its grounds. Not even the stables had been spared, nor the hounds in their kennel. No wonder the master has become so... untethered. When's the last time he touched anyone not fragile as china, to remember another's warmth?

(A small, rebel part of Lumiere still burns at such callousness. The master, when still young and reeling from the spell, could find no comfort in even hugging the neck of a horse. Or learn even his paws could still scratch behind a dog's ears.)

"Consider our guest practice, a chance for the master to... brush up on his conversational skills. To remember a life beyond this castle." Lumiere shakes his own head from such reminiscing. "Besides, he'll stand a far better chance at courting a fine mademoiselle if we can... smooth down his rough edges first."

"I suppose the master could use a refreshment on his etiquette lessons," Cogsworth concedes. "But-"

"How are the pair together?" Mrs. Potts cuts in. "Is he at least trying to remember his manners?"

"I can't remember I heard him so civil!" Cogsworth arches a skeptical brow. But for once Lumiere doesn't need to do his best to light up a grim situation. "In fact, it's the most I heard the master speak in weeks. Months, even."

Mrs. Potts' eyes widen, hope trying to shine through her maternal worry. Lord knows how hard it is for. Even before the curse. Chip might be her grandson, but she's the only mother he's ever truly known. "Is... Is he..."

"He's trying, Mary." He extinguishes his flames to embrace her best he can. "For the first time in years."

A small, tearful laugh bubbles out of her. "Figures it took someone he can't order around."

"See?" He grins at their cynical clock. "Everything is starting to-"

BANG.

They whirl around, the fire in the hearth guttering low from the violent burst of air.

It's not the master.

"Sorry about that." Madame Armoire gingerly shuts the door behind her. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

Cogsworth groans. "Oh, what is now?"

He quails under Mrs. Potts' firm stare. Her gaze softens as she turns toward the wardrobe. "Of course not, Cecile. How can we help you?"

"Our guest is, well..." Madame Armoire nervously flutters her drawers. "To start with, you might need to rethink your breakfast plans for him tomorrow." She frowns down at their contents. "And I should probably rethink my selection. Ooh! To think I can actually have someone to appreciate my talents again! I can't tell you-"

"Cecile," Mrs. Potts cuts in, calm but firm. "Is something wrong with our guest?"

"No!" A thoughtful pause. "...Yes?" Madame Armoire winces. "Well, yes and no. Depending on your definition of 'wrong.' And certain preconceptions we had about his needs during his stay."

"Madame Armoire, please." Cogsworth queasily rubs his clockwork. "Before I lose a gear."

"His situation isn't The Blue Bird. It's more like The White Doe."

Lumiere's eyebrows climb to his wick.

"I hardly see what blue birds or white does have to do with any..." Cogsworth trails off. "A-Are you saying our guest is currently..."

Madame Armoire nods.

No one in the castle had been well-versed in fairy tales until that fateful night. In the days and weeks afterward the entire staff had rallied together to search for another solution beyond the ultimatum delivered by the enchantress. After all, their stunned little prince had been but a boy of eleven years old back then, and certainly in no condition to break the spell on his own. They'd exchanged all the tidbits on old legends and fables they could remember. They'd scoured the library for every last reference to curses and transformations.

Their efforts had only resulted in familiarity with the common themes and conventions of the genre. Like the knowledge that Prince Charming had been cursed into a blue bird for years by a wicked princess' fairy godmother. He had been forever trapped as a bird until an enchanter had persuaded the fairy to temporarily restore him to human form.

Not like the princess that had only been cursed to be a white doe some of the time.

Mrs. Potts frowns doubtfully at the darkness outside. "That princess was only a doe in daylight, wasn't she? Even if our guest is the other way around, we're still a way off from sunrise."

Lumiere shrugs. "Perhaps he is more like the Prince Marcassin and can just change shape when he pleases."

Madame Armoire hums in thought. "Maybe. He didn't leave behind a dogskin though. One second he was just a big scruffy dog and the next not a dog."

Lumiere and his compatriots share a look of alarm. They will never forget how a haggard old beggar woman had seamlessly transformed into an inhumanly beautiful enchantress. Another enchanted young man is one thing. An enchanter that switches shapes on a whim is quite another.

Especially if he's checking in on the master's progress toward breaking the spell.

"I certainly hope this mystery guest isn't as alluring as myself." Lumiere buffs his brass in well-practiced bravado. Anything to take their minds off the unthinkable. "I don't need any competition in that regard."

Madame Armoire snorts. "Oh, he's cute all right, in a sweet sort of way. Can't stand to be fussed over. And so shy once you poke past his defenses." She titters. "Pity we don't have a mistress instead of a master. The young ladies must eat him up."

Lumiere sighs wistfully. Youth is wasted on the young.

And the stupid.

"Speaking of eating him up." Cogsworth kneads his temples as he considers a new headache. "How to tell the master about this?"

"Oh, pish-tosh," Mrs. Potts chides, sharp as glass beneath her motherly warmth. "The master will do no such thing. He may be a bit shocked at first, but he'll burn himself out in no time. And certainly not around a guest he invited."

The master at least learned that lesson. Especially around potential enchanters in disguise.

(Lord, Lumiere hopes so.)

"That's a problem for well into tomorrow. The master certainly isn't an early riser." Not when he spends his evenings brooding before his fire before stalking out into the forest to hunt God knows what all night. Lumiere chuckles. "For all we know, the point might be moot. Our guest might deign to be a dog again."

"Why not a pig?" Cogsworth mutters under his breath. "Or a blue bird?"

"And that's enough of that for tonight." Mrs. Potts tuts. "Off to bed now, all of you. We've got quite the day tomorrow."

Under her unquestionable gaze, they bid each other good night and retire.

Lumiere doubts any of them will heed her advice. Cogsworth will stay up to fret, then to plan a grandiose, regimented tour of the castle and all its grounds. Madame Armoire will carefully stow away her gowns and start curating gentlemanly outfits that best suit their guest's complexion. Mrs. Potts herself will wake the kitchen staff to revise their breakfast menu for tomorrow morning.

Lumiere himself goes to bed.

...Eventually.

He and Babette dally for a long while more.

Chapter Text

When a soft knock on the door rouses him from his slumber, his first instinct is to burrow deeper into his pillows and grumble the stars are not in position for this early morning wake-up call. He has no responsibilities today, dammit, and can sleep as late as his pleases.

Then memories of last night start flooding back. The Beast and his enchanted castle weren't just a dream.

The young man currently called Eugenio Heribertez blearily sticks up his head. "Who izzit?"

"Mrs. Potts, dear," answers a grandmotherly voice on the other side of the door. "I thought you might be ready for some breakfast."

Genito squints out at a sun sun that's only halfway to the horizon. He considers asking Mrs. Potts to come back later. Like sometime after noon.

His stomach groans in protest.

Genito groans back and drags himself upright. He pulls on his shirt and ties back his rumpled hair before shuffling to the door.

He opens the door to a tea cart heaped in food. The teapot perched atop the precarious platters smiles brightly back.

Right. Enchanted objects.

The little teacup beside her squints dubiously up at him. "Aren't you supposed to be a dog?"

He winks. "Only some of the time."

"Chip!" Mrs. Potts scolds. "Mind your manners."

"Oops." The teacup winces. "Sorry, sir."

"No offense taken, Chip." He steps aside as the tea cart wheels itself in. "But you can just call me 'Genito.' That works whether I'm scruffy or not."

"Care for a spot of tea, dear?"

Genito blinks. Steam trickles out from Mrs. Potts' nos- um, tea spout. At least the sugar bowl and cream dispenser don't have faces. But his teacup very much does. And sounds exactly like a little boy.

"Uh..."

Chip rolls his eyes at Mrs. Potts. "Told ya he'd be weird about it, mama." Another teacup diligently hops up beside them, not matching the rest of the tea set and thankfully without eyes or a mouth. He flashes a gap-toothed smile up at Genito. "Don't worry! This one's just a cup."

"Thank you." He gingerly picks up Mrs. Potts and pours himself a generous helping. Cream and sugar scoop themselves into his cup.

"Can I have some too, mama?"

Mrs. Potts stares down her son. "You're not about to show Mr. Genito that little trick of yours, are you?"

Chip freezes. The cream dispenser shuffles away from him before pouring a single drop into his cup. "...No."

Mrs. Potts' affection shines through her sternness. "Maybe later, dear."

Genito smiles into his tea. Then his brow furrows at the heaping platters of food.

Before leaving home, he never would have questioned where such abundance came from.

Every household in Manoa keeps a household altar for the city's greatest gods. Back home any craving can be solved by simply plucking a snack from thin air. He hadn't properly appreciated such convenience until first leaving it all behind. Since then he's had to pay for or pilfer every meal. There's been nights he went to bed on an empty stomach because he can't steal from someone who really needed that dinner more than he did, when he didn't the coin to purchase it honestly or the room to hunt down an alternative food source.

But this isn't home or the endless bounties of the Summerlands. Surely it all has to have come from somewhere. Maybe the castle keeps livestock on its grounds for the meat and eggs. And they have fields that yield wheat for bread and flour. But all the fresh fruit at this time of year? A castle this ostentatiously wealthy probably does have a greenhouse to support such a rich diet.

Then why does the Beast hunt out in the wolf-infested woods? All this food must only sustain him. It's not like walking, talking objects need to eat. Or do they-

Chip giggles at his expression. "It all comes from magic."

"Chip!" Mrs. Potts hisses.

"But it does, mama! It's a magic castle!"

"Of course it does." Genito snorts at his own stupidity. "Silly me."

The teapot's trepidation mellows as she remembers he was a dog just the night before. "Only the ingredients, of course. Chef Bouchard and the kitchen staff prepared it all themselves."

His parents do the same, from nictalizing maize to rolling out dough. His maternal relatives go one step further by still purchasing their ingredients out in the marketplace. Mama Sija may be the immortal grandmother to the Lady of the Fifth World but insists on haggling. And scolds every new generation of shopkeepers that simply give her a low price without first arguing back on it.

Genito samples his first dish. There's a floral undercurrent of magic to the bite, a taste almost like rose hips. But it doesn't take away from the decadence.

He certainly can't let his hosts' generosity go to waste. Genito slowly and politely devours every bite of breakfast.

As he finishes up, Madame Armoire knocks. Her drawers are filled to bursting princely attire. "Well now, how shall we find your color palette? Ah!" One of her doors hopefully pulls out a sapphire waistcoat. "I bet you look dashing in jewel tones."

Genito dubiously accepts her offer. He nearly sneezes at the overpowering stench of magic - not a pleasant spice like in the food, but strong and cloying. Even the fine fabric makes the back of his neck prickle. "That's, um, very kind of you."

Madame Armoire groans and snatches back the waistcoat. "I'm so sorry, dear! Last night I didn't have the chance to take your measurements, and I don't have my Olivier's eye for men's sizes. Instead I tried to take a chance with..." She stuffs the offending article back into the depths of her wardrobe. "Hmph. You just can't trust the castle with finesse."

Before he can thank her for trying, her eye lights up. "Later today I can have my husband come by so we can get started on some proper attire." A beat. "If-If you feel like it, dear. We certainly wouldn't want to impose. Especially since we don't know when you plan on leaving us."

"Mr. Genito isn't leaving yet," Chip pipes up. "He just got here!"

Barely refraining from nervously gnawing on his lip, Genito glances between the three of them. "That's, uh, something I should probably discuss with my host."

"That may take some time, dear. The master certainly isn't up at this hour." Mrs. Potts nods in satisfaction as the last of his plates stack themselves up on her cart. "I can see if Lumiere is ready to give you a tour of the castle while you wait for him."

"Don't have Cogsworth join you," Chip whispers to him. "He can talk forever."

Neither his mother nor Madame Armoire chastise him for that one.

A guest.

For the first time in almost nine years, the castle has a guest.

One he personally invited.

After showing Eugenio Heribertez to his room the Beast immediately retires to the West Wing. For once he doesn't brood over his rose. Instead he scowls down at the mirror. When to check that his guest is settling in? That the impossible talking dog hasn't just vanished in the middle of the night?

No.

Eugenio is a guest. The Beast can't just spy on him like that. Not when Eugenio himself so readily agreed to leave the West Wing alone. How would the Beast feel if someone invaded his privacy when he thought himself alone? His servants learned long ago the West Wing was forbidden to them. (He's destroyed too much of it for even them to repair. Here he doesn't need to bother with hiding the b-)

Growling, the Beast drops to all fours, and paces the confines of his quarters. He can't bear to leave them now. Not when his anxious staff might be waiting just outside the doors.

Forget the forest tonight. What if his guest suddenly wants company? Or if he decides the castle too confining?

In one moment, the Beast feels like even his claws can wear through the marble flooring. He turns a vengeful eye toward what remains of the family portraits.

And then in the next that restless animal energy drains out of him, his mind exhausted like it raced far ahead of its own body. It's been a long night. His awkward, stilted conversation with Eugenio is the most he's spoken to anyone at once in... weeks? Maybe months? The Beast has nearly lost all sense of time beyond that of the rose, still bright and blooming. It still has another year before it begins to wilt.

The Beast collapses into his nest. Sleep pounces after him.

He sleeps in fits and starts, dragged back down by a black tide every time he tries to wake. Nightmare fragments slice into his subconscious like shards of shattered glass.

He dreams of a cursed dog fleeing from him. The Beast frantically follows, always one step behind... until he slams into the barrier of his prison. The dog vanishes into the darkness, heedless of the desperate cries for him to come back. The Beast calls out until his voice breaks down into guttural noi-

-and then it is the wolf pack that finds that black dog first, who tear him apart like they do all other trespassers-

-until the jaws sinking into the dog's throat are the Beast's-

The Beast jolts awake, chest heaving. No more nightmares drag him down.

Morning light streams in through broken windows. A crisp breeze stirs up thick motes of dust.

His stomach growls ravenously. He never did have the chance to eat last night. He'd just barely taken down the buck before a giant scruffy dog interrupted his dinner.

The Beast huffs at the rotted remnants of past kills. Even he still has the self-respect to not pick over them.

Maybe he can slip out for a quick meal before anyone realizes he left again. The servants don't expect him to be up for hours. He doubts their guest is up either. A dog gallivanting through the forest like that must be as nocturnal as any other beast.

It's not like anyone will notice. He normally enters and exits the West Wing through ways that don't invite prying eyes. The only reason he used the front doors last night was because of Eugenio. A guest deserved the castle at its best, not to be smuggled in like another dirty secret.

And then his keen ears prick up at a familiar voice passing just beyond his quarters.

"As you can see, the pseudo facade was stripped away to reveal a minimalist rococo design. Note the unusual inverted vaulted ceilings. This is yet another example of the Neoclassical baroque period, and as I always say, if it's not baroque, don't fix it!"

Another voice, one that doesn't belong to any servant, politely laughs along while the first titters too loudly at his own joke.

The Beast's lip twitches. Cogsworth always enjoyed roping a not-quite-captive audience into one of his rambling, nonsensical tours. Of course he 'treated' their first guest in a decade to one as soon as he was conscious.

The Beast rises from his nest. A proper host should rescue Eugenio from this situation before Cogsworth talks him out of staying. Or bores him to death.

From the top of the stairway he watches Cogsworth scurry into view, Lumiere hopping at his heels.

Behind them follows a tall human figure.

"Now, if I may draw your attention to the flying buttresses above the-"

The Beast roars, launching himself over the balustrade.

"WHO ARE YOU! WHAT ARE DOING HERE?"

His servants scatter when he rears up to his full height.

After yelping in shock, the man bares his teeth back.

The Beast blinks.

The trespasser blinks back. Then he twists his expression into a barely restrained smile. It does not disguise the sharpness of his canines. "Hey, you invited me."

Now the Beast flinches back from that voice from a stranger's shape. "Y-You're..."

"Still called Eugenio Heribertez. And still called a dog." His tight smile grows into a shit-eating grin. "Though I don't always take that so literally."

Lumiere clears his throat. "Ah, I believe the monsieur is attempting to say-" He cuts off under his master's furious glare.

Blue eyes snap back to his 'guest.' Even an average human would tower above most of the servants. The Beast still has a considerable height advantage over him. His black hair, tied back in an unruly ponytail, is the same color as the dog's. A black goatee frames a warm brown face. He definitely doesn't carry himself like the gentlemen from the Beast's distant memories, especially not with those thin gold hoops piercing his ears.

For a moment the Beast's suspicious stare lingers on the earrings. In the morning light they don't look quite right. Almost like...

His nostrils flare. No trace of her. Only the fragrance fresh water and the summer woods, the faint undercurrent of heady flowers he can't place.

The same scent of the dog, though now with a human musk.

Just as he recognizes those dark, intelligent eyes.

"It is you."

A small part of him shrieks to drop to his knees and grovel at such a grave misunderstanding, to beg for mercy.

It hadn't spared him last him last time. Now the Beast stands tall and grave for his punishment. What else can possibly be done to him?

"That's what I said!" Eugenio gestures at himself. "Does this, uh, change anything?"

"...What?" he blurts out. "D-Do you want to be my prisoner?"

Cogsworth sucks back an agonized groan. Lumiere tries to best to pinch the bridge of his waxen nose.

"No! I just can't... control this like I usually can." Eugenio nervously fiddles with one his earrings, then switches to rubbing the back of his head. "This is who I'm gonna be most of the time. If that's a problem, let me know now so I can get out of your ha-... uh, not overstay my welcome with your generous hospitality. You've all done so much for me as it is."

"It's no problem at all!" Lumiere effuses over Cogsworth's protests. "We only want you to feel welcome here. Isn't that right, master?"

Every eye turns to him. Even the suits of armor down the hall anxiously lean in for a better view.

His gaze darts away from this irritating young man. Apparently the Beast is cursed even by enchanted curse standards. Eugenio Heribertez gets to be himself under daylight. Even at night he's only (sometimes?) stuck as a giant, normal-looking talking dog. How come the Beast is perpetually trapped in a terrible in-between? And why does Eugenio get to gallivant wherever his heart desires? The Beast's own freedom only comes from the mirror.

Under his rage and seething envy yawns something even deeper, more desperate. Something that makes him swallow back his bitter growl to instead bite out, "If Monsieur Heribertez wishes to stay, let him stay. He's our guest."

Dropping back down all fours, he doesn't stalk back for the West Wing, but the welcome refuge of the forest.

The frigid air does little to chill his blood. 

He hopes for a hunt, a cranky bear, even the wolf pack. Something, anything, more straightforward than a castle staff and all their constrictions.

Or a stupid magic dog.

Despite facing down a furious beast, Genito Heribertez doesn't flee screaming into the woods. Or somehow curse them even worse for the impunity. Thank God for small miracles.

Cogsworth stubbornly pastes on on his brightest smile and dives straight back into his tour. Their guest seems all too eager to follow suit. 

He can't fool Lumiere. While Genito politely nods along to Cogsworth's most inane trivia, his eyes scan their surroundings for potential hiding places and escape routes. Lumiere himself once employed a similar strategy when plotting out his trysts. 

Lumiere throws himself back into his own time-honored duty of thwarting Cogsworth's attempts to bore any guest to sleep. He brightens Genito's mood with lively anecdotes about the castle's history. (Not without dropping any actual names, of course. Lumiere was a discreet host even before it became imperative to conceal the master's true identity.)

All the better the master stumbled upon Eugenio Heribertez out in those woods instead of some poor lost damsel. They all need time to... remember themselves. It will be hard enough for any maiden to let herself be wooed by the master without an overeager staff jumping down her throat.

Even Lumiere. His initial urge to wow their guest with a bombastic dinner show would have spooked him out the door. Mrs Potts was right in her assessment that Eugenio Heribertez needs a delicate touch. Whatever the young man did to get himself into such a state, it wasn't by demanding too much from an enchanter. 

After narrowly averting disaster with the master, not even Cogsworth feels like tempting fate today. No need to poke and prod their guest for measurements or subject him to even a small meal in the grand dining room. They prolong Genito's tour instead. Nine years moldering under enchantment have not robbed the castle of all its splendor. Even this late in the year the gardens are glorious. 

Cogsworth fills the air with idle chatter. Lumiere can't help but do the same. Anything to keep their guest from asking questions about their predicament. Or the West Wing. 

But Genito never does. Perhaps he was raised better than to pry into another's private business.

(Or perhaps he found out the hard way. Like how the master learned to not be deceived by appearances.)

There's still more ground to be covered tomorrow. Cogsworth had simply wanted to show off the library for its impressive mountain of books... until their guest's jaw drops in true, guileless awe. 

"More books than you'll ever be able to read in a lifetime!" Cogsworth expounds at once. "Books on every subject ever studied, by every author who ever set pen to paper..."

He happily prattles on while Genito devours the shelves with his eyes, squinting against the growing gloom.

"Perhaps he should start with one, Cogsworth," Lumiere breaks in tactfully. "After all, dinner awaits." 

Genito snaps out of his daze. "Thanks, but I'm still pretty full from-" His stomach growl echoes through the library. "Will... Will the master be joining us?" 

"W-Who?" Cogsworth prattles. "Oh! The master. Yes, the, ah, master. Well, actually, he's in the process of, ah, um circumstances being what they are..."

"The master is sadly indisposed tonight," Lumiere interjects smoothly, "but hopes you enjoy our humble hospitality." 

Not that anyone's actually seen the master since he slunk out of the castle. He was up unusually this afternoon before his encounter with a human-shaped guest set him off. Lumiere doesn't expect him back until dawn at the earliest. He might be gone for days more. Over the last few years his departures from the castle have grown... increasingly lengthy. (If not for the enchantment keeping him bound to the forest, would he even come home at all?)

Genito takes a long moment to peruse the shelves but still seems to choose a book at random. He frowns out to the darkening sky.

It's night by the time they escort him back up to a quiet, simple dinner in his chambers. Not even the crackling fire and rosy candlelight can disguise the cold blackness outside the windows. This late in the year night falls hard and fast over the mountains.

Late autumn also brings the wolf pack closer to their walls. Something especially has them riled up tonight. Lumiere winces at their barking, yelping riot. At least a violinist would help drown out their racket. 

"Ah, monsieur, would you perhaps care for some mus-"

A furious, agonized bellow rises above the din. Lumiere's candlelight gutters out. 

Eugenio Heribertez throws open the balcony door. He charges for the railing.

Lumiere and Cogsworth cry out in alarm. Their guest has hurled himself over the edge before they can even make to the door.

By the time they scurry to the railing, the black dog is only a blur on the bridge. Then he leaps over the high stone wall and out of sight. 

"Oh, thank Lord." Cogsworth sags in relief against the rail. Then he squints dubiously down at the drop below. "B-But how did he-"

"For God's sake, man!" Lumiere barks. "Get the physician!" 

"The physician?" The clock's eyes pop open in realization. "The physician!" 

He rushes for Doctor Tasse. Lumiere instead heads for Mrs. Potts. They need hot water, cloth, all the supplies even a living physician's bag won't have on hand. 

The servants can't prevent their master from picking fights with predators. They can't charge off to his rescue. All they can do is do their best to clean up the mess when the master inevitably limps back home exhausted and bleeding.

And tonight sounds like quite the mess.

Perhaps it's for the best Lumiere was turned into a candelabra. Like this it's a lot harder for his charge to make him drop dead of a heart attack.