Hey, this story was inspired by the wonderful story, 'Kiss the Rose" and BETAed by Trudirose. I own nothing, but the plot twists. The orignal story was written by a french women,but my version is from the Disney version. I hope you enjoy.

"And the prince kissed her lips and the princess awoke with smile. Everyone in the whole kingdom rejoiced as wedding bells rang in the air and they all lived happily ever after," the father finished softly.

The child clapped her hands as she listened to her father's voice. Maurice smiled down at his daughter, wrapping the blanket around her tighter. He felt the cold wind slipping through the old, cracked wooden door. Outside, snow fell in heavy blankets at the start of winter. Despite the cold weather, the warm fire felt cozy for father and daughter. Its flames lit up the child's cheeks pink. Yellow and orange flames danced across the cottage floor as though the story were being told once more. Through the crackle of the fire, the child dozed against her father's chest as he began another story. Callused hands stroked the child's brown locks tenderly as he stared into the fire. Wary blue eyes watched the flames intensely as though lost in the bright colors.

After a moment, a small, tired voice asked, "Papa, why did you stop?"

"Sorry, Enfant. I was just thinking," Maurice said, looking down at his daughter.

"What about?" the child asked, yawning.

Maurice sighed and pressed his daughter closer to him. "Oh, nothing." He took a deep breath and glanced away from the fire, his eyes stinging with tears. "Just…your maman loved these tales too."

The child shivered as she listened to the harsh wind outside. In the distance, horses neighed and other animals cried out for shelter against the storm. Branches beat against the walls and window in a steady rhythm. Closing his eyes, Maurice sighed deeply as he listened to the mixture of gentle thuds and the crackle of the fire in a simple melody. Unconsciously, his eyes drifted over to small portrait hanging off the wall. Shadows dance across the picture of a young woman. It was a simple sketch from charcoal, but he could still picture her beauty. Straight brown hair which fell to her waist framed a round face. Her deep doe brown eyes could enchant him with a single glance and she carried herself like a lady, despite her humble birth. A tiny smile formed on his face as a few tears rolled down his cheeks with her name perched on his lips.

"Papa, are you all right?" the child asked.

Brushing away the useless tears, Maurice looked down at his daughter. "Oui, I'm fine, just tired, ma petite Belle."

The child, Belle, nodded and yawned. Stroking her hair, Maurice kissed her head gently and led her to bed. Gently, he lay her down on the bed and sighed deeply. How long could he allow his daughter to believe in fairy tales? Fairy tales were for the foolish and he needed to think realistically. Maurice listened to the fire's music as he began to pace up and down the small room. Questions raced through his mind, but all of them went unanswered. Once more, he stared into the fire; a shiver crawled down his spine as he remembered when his own fairy tale had been taken away.

"Constance," he whispered. The name hung in the air as a few more tears rolled down his face. Her warm eyes seemed to stare back at him. Dark brown curls framed her face as she smiled at him through the flames. Maurice shook his head and sighed deeply. So many memories still lingered in the small cottage of his late wife. It was her love of stories that he wanted to keep alive for his daughter…but at what cost? Stories had kept him and his wife going, but harsh reality had crushed his heart. How long was he going to allow his daughter to dream away the world?

Biting his lip, he turned away from the fire and looked over at his child; the spitting image of her mother. A few tears rolled down his cheek as he listened to his daughter's breathing mixing with the melodies of the wind and fire. Maurice sighed and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It didn't seem possible for his wife to have been taken by a fever only two years ago. How was he going to support his little girl? Maurice sighed again. There was only one answer: move.

Six: the number kept circling through the fifteen-year-old's mind. It didn't seem possible for her father and her to have moved so many times. Had it only been a year and a half since they had moved to the small town? Belle sighed as she ran her fingers along the spines of four books. Each title seemed to beckon to her as she straightened them on the shelf. Tossing her ponytail behind her shoulder, she climbed down the ladder and glanced out the window. Candlelight reflected against the dark canvas outside, its light bouncing around the store, illuminating the oak floor and shelves. Once more, her fingers ran along the spines of books, a small smile forming on her lips. Behind her, she heard a loud crash. Turning around, she saw books spread across the floor. She squinted her eyes against the dim light as a soft moan met her ears.

"Monsieur Valjean, are you all right?" Belle asked.

From within the darkness, a high, squeaky voice called out, "Oui, I'm fine, Mademoiselle. It was just all these books were so heavy."

Shoving the box away, the bookstore keeper walked up to Belle. Candlelight danced across his white hair and brown apron as he dusted his hands off. Round spectacles were perched on his nose with his dark brown eyes sparking behind him. Laughter shone through his eyes as he began to pick up the volumes. After a minute, he glanced over at the young women and smiled. Her eyes shone with excitement as they trailed over each title.

"Do not worry, Belle, You'll have time to read all of them at some point," Monsieur Valjean said, chuckling lightly.

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she bent down to collect the books. Stories had been her life since childhood, but no one seemed to understand. After a few minutes, she heard the cuckoo clock strike seven.

Placing the books on a table, she said, "I'm sorry, Monsieur, but I must be going. It's getting late."

Valjean nodded and handed her a small brown pouch. Coins jingled inside as he pressed it into her hand. Belle bit her lip, but accepted the money. How could she refuse money to help her and her father? Pulling on her cloak, she bid the bookstore keeper good evening and slipped outside. A gentle, cold wind bit against her face as she walked through the deserted center of town. Lights flickered in the windows, guiding her way through the darkness. Despite the quiet evening, Belle could still hear all the remarks and jeers from the townspeople. Belle shook her head as she tried to ignore all the words she remembered, but the words continued to echo in her ears. Every day it was the same, the same harsh words: different, strange, odd, and not right. Again, she shook her head as she turned down another street. Off to the right, she heard roars of laughter erupting from the tavern. Her grip tightened on her cloak, and she quickened her pace, her eyes cast down on the ground.

"Bonsoir, Belle. How are you?" a strong, baritone voice asked.

Raising her eyes, she saw the town's great hunter, Gaston. He was a strong muscular boy, only two years old than she. A tiny smile formed on her lips as she gently nodded to him. "Good evening, Monsieur. I'm fine," the young women replied.

"And where are you heading so late at night?"

"Home, I just finished working at the bookshop," she said.

Gaston gritted his teeth and sighed. When would the girl ever learn that books were not meant for girls? Shaking his head, he smiled at her and stepped closer. Carefully, he raised his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, his fingers toying with her hair.

"Don't you want to have a drink first?" Gaston asked, gesturing to the tavern.

"I really must get home. To help my father," Belle said, stepping away from him.

After a moment, Gaston nodded, taking her hand in his and kissed the back of her hand. "Of course, Mademoiselle. I will see you later. Good evening."

She nodded and watched him enter the tavern. More roars of laughter ran out onto the streets. Bright light blinded her for a moment before she was again shielded in darkness. Tightening her grip on her cloak, she turned and continued her journey. Off in the distance, she saw the lights of her home. Unconsciously, she squeezed the pouch of coins before she entered the cottage. Lights bounced off the walls from a fire crackling in the stove. A wooden table was set in the center of the room with two large chairs. Papers were spread across the table top with her father hunched over it. Belle smiled over at her father, closing the door quietly.

"Good evening, Papa," Belle said quietly as she unclasped her cloak.

Maurice glanced up from his work and smiled at his daughter. "Good evening, Belle. How was work?"

Belle sighed and looked down at the small bag. She felt the coins dig into her skin through the cloth as she looked over at her father. "It was fine. Monsieur Valjean gave us some money and oh Papa, the books. He got all new books…"

Belle sighed again as her father went back to his work. Her eyes drifted over to the right, resting on the small bookcase. Eight books filled the shelves, pushed up against the wooden frame by stacks of paper. Pages and pages of sketches for numerous ideas for inventions were stacked up high, while the books remained untouched by the man who had bought them. Yet, she knew each story by heart, the books' worn binding counting the number of times the stories had been read. Shaking her head, Belle walked over and placed the small coin bag in front of her father. Maurice looked up and nodded before returning to his work.

"Papa, is everything okay?" Belle asked.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. Just busy with this new invention idea," Maurice said.

Belle raised her eyebrows and picked up another discarded piece of paper. "I thought you were busy with trying to work on the woodchopper, Papa?"

Despite himself, Maurice chuckled. "You are just like your mother. She was always picking up on things like that."

Belle smiled again and set the piece of paper down on the table. "Well, as long as you don't forget it. But is there something wrong, Papa?"

Maurice sighed, walking around the table to stand in front of her. His old, rough hands slid into her smooth, soft ones. Gently, he rubbed her wrists as he stared into her eyes. Tears rimmed his eyes and took a deep breath, his body shaking. After a moment, he collected himself and led her over to a small, worn couch. Belle opened her mouth, but Maurice laid his index finger to her lips as a tiny smile formed on his face.

"Don't worry, Enfant, it's nothing horrible." He took a deep breath and then began again. "It's actually very, very good news. Belle, I...I…when your mother, God bless her, was on her deathbed, I made a promise. It was a promise about you. We were so poor and she wanted to see you have a secure life. I promised her to see you wed by the age of fifteen at the latest, And now, I have found a husband for you. He is a good, strong man who came here asking for your hand tonight, in fact. Now nothing is set, but there is no finer match, I think."

"Who, Papa?" Belle asked.

"Monsieur Gaston," Maurice replied.

Belle felt her body go numb. Marriage, marriage, the word kept circling through her mind. Her eyes dropped onto her lap. She felt Gaston kissing her hand again and she shivered. The great hunter of the town had asked for her hand - it didn't make any sense. He mocked her passion for books and joined the townsfolk in their gossip and laughter of her and father. Was her father blind to the see the odd looks? Could he just ignore all the cold remarks that circled around her every day? All the other girls in the village fawned over Gaston, and yet he had singled her out. She bit her lip, trying to make sense of it all. Her gaze rose and settled on the tiny sketch of her mother. Her mother had asked this of her father, to marry her off at fifteen. Belle took a deep breath and glanced over at her father. "

Do I have to, Papa? I mean to him?" she asked.

Maurice laid his hands over hers and stared into her eyes. His own worn eyes seemed to be searching for answers themselves. After a moment, he sighed, patting her hands. "I have already accepted his offer, Belle. I can't go back on my word can I?"

"No, but Papa, why him?"

"Ma cherie, please consider this. I'm getting on in years, and I won't always be around to support you. Gaston is very well-respected and a good provider - you'll never go hungry. It is a great match,"

"Papa, please. I don't want to be with him."

Again, Maurice grasped her hands in his. "My child, you can't live in a fantasy!" Taking a deep breath, he stared into her eyes. "Just sleep on it, Belle. Monsieur Gaston doesn't expect an answer until tomorrow. Sleep on it for now and we can discuss it in the morning."

Belle felt herself nod, but his words still echoing in her ears. Can't live in a fantasy? Did he believe her to blind to see reality? Once more, her eyes shifted over to the small picture of her mother. Closing her eyes, she sighed, stood up, and walked over to the bookshelf. Maybe it was her own fairy tale coming true in a way with this marriage, she told herself. Picking up a book, she smiled at this new idea. After all, all the women in her stories married and most of them were happy. She listened as her father left the house to retire to his special invention workshop in the cellar. Left alone, she pressed the book to her chest and whispered, "I will marry him."

Should I continue or no? Please let me know. Thanks.