A/N: I apologize for the great amount of OOC in this. I recently watched the new Beauty and the Beast and this just story just hit me right in he middle of the movie. Story also posted on Archive of Our Own

Gaston makes Belle a deal.

He has her arm clutched in his hand, face inches away from hers. Gaston ignores Belle's seething glares.

He whispers, dangerously low, "I could save your father you know."

Belle blinks. Her eyes widen.

"One word from me and your precious papa won't be sent to the loony bin," Belle's voice hitches, and Gaston smirks. If there was one thing Belle loved most in the world it was her father; she would do anything for him. "All you have to do is marry me and your father will be safe. I guarantee it."

The mob is quiet around them, their stares boring through Belle's head. She clenches the mirror tighter, "My father is not crazy."

A man steps forward, "Belle, your father said something about a beast. Is it true?"

She opens her mouth. She wants to shout that there is a beast; that he's up in a castle, and that he's kind, and thoughtful, and extremely beautiful on the inside. But the words are stuck in her throat. She glances at the mirror, it's gold engravings the epitome of wealth, and looks back at the villagers. Small town means small minded people, her father said.

Belle is a smart girl.

She shakes her head firmly, "No there is no beast."

Murmurs sweep throughout the crowd. Her father's eyes widen.

Belle is many things, but she is not a liar.

Her eyes, a deep amber, look steadily into Gaston's. "I accept your offer," she said.

Gaston beamed. He turns to face Monsieur D'arque and his men, "Messieurs, I believe an understanding has been cleared up. Mlle. Belle has assured me that her father's anxiety has gotten the best of him, and mistook an abnormally large wolf in the forest for a beast."

"But what about the mademoiselle's disappearance?" One said.

Gaston chuckled, "Apparently, she had gotten lost while searching for her wayward father. A noble family had a summer home nearby and offered her food and shelter for a few days."

"It would explain the dress," a woman said, eyeing the expensive fabric.

Gaston is a convincing actor. Within moments, the crowd dispersed, and all was quiet again in their sleepy little village.

"Belle, why did you lie?" Maurice asked.

Gaston and Belle were to be married next week. Belle was tasked with the final preparations.

"Lie about what?"

The brunette glanced over a multitude of flower arrangements for her bouquet; she didn't care at all which flowers she chose. Looking was just a pretense.

"That there was no beast."

The florist suggested red roses.

"I didn't lie."

Belle shook her head, keeping her gaze away from the vibrant red petals.

Belle is many things. But she isn't a liar.

The wedding feast was as grand as it could get. The entire village came to celebrate the momentous occasion. There's singing, dancing, pretty women, and drunken fools laughing the night away.

Belle sat on Gaston's right in her wedding dress, the personification of beauty. She glowed—not with the happiness of a newly wedded wife—in the candle light. She paid no attention to the festivities, and only barely registered Gaston exclaiming at something funny that LeFou was doing. Instead, her eyes were heavily trained on the candelabra a few feet from her.

Somewhere deep in her heart, she wished that the candelabra would move, and dance, and sing, and flirt with the duster. She stared at it, watching for even the slightest bit of movement. She doesn't want to acknowledge that it was too late. The candelabra can do anything no longer. All it did was simply rust away and collect dust for a lover that will never move again.

Madame Gaston is not happy. She is content.

Her husband does not mind that her nose is forever stuck between the pages of a book. Nor does he mind that she rarely speaks to him. In fact, he prefers it that way. Gaston never liked idle chatter in the first place.

Belle performs all her marital duties adequately. She cooks, she cleans, she takes care of her husband.

(In the bedroom, Gaston takes his pleasure, though he makes sure it is enjoyable for Belle as well. However, she is a silent participant, but by the look in her eyes, Gaston can see that she likes it. Belle hates that she does.)

Belle is a good little wife.

Belle has read every book in the village more than ten times. For the first time in her life, she is bored with reading.

And so, instead of waiting for new stories, Belle writes her own.

Belle is quiet most of the time. She sits by the fireplace, a shawl wrapped around thin shoulders, and stares at the small clock on the mantle.

She remembers being told of dreams of adventure and excitement. Of travelling to places no one else has gone to before, and to survive with nothing but one's wit and a sword strapped to one's hip. She remembers the clock telling her that, despite his dreams, he was too much of a coward to follow through.

Belle becomes the mother of two children; Jacque and Rose.

The children love their mother for she tells them the most wonderful stories.

Every night, before the candles are blown out, the children snuggle close to their mother as she weaves for them a new tale.

She tells the story of a man of fire who falls in love with a beautiful woman who was cursed to be a bird.

She tells the story of a talented musician who meets a beautiful soprano.

She narrates the adventures of a brave man who sailed the seven seas, and relies on his with and the sword on his hip to survive.

Jacque and Rose fall asleep listening to such wondrous stories.

(There are times that Gaston would quietly lean against the door to the children's bedrooms and listen to his wife tell stories. He would ask for her to tell him one, but he knows it would never work. Besides, this was the only time Belle would sound so alive and happy.)

The bookshelves in Gaston's home are filled to the brim with journals, all written in Belle's neat cursive script. It seemed that Belle never stopped writing unless she needed too.

Gaston doesn't mind. He indulges his wife's whims. It kept her happy after all.

Rose sits by Belle's feet, close to the fireplace. She is ten.

"Maman," she asks, "Can you tell me a story?"

Belle smiles, her fingers making quick needle work on a new scarf. "What kind of story would you like mon petit?"

Rose's amber eyes sparkle in delight, and she clutches her doll tighter, "Tell me the story of the man you love!" The villagers always talk about her parents; the village beauty marrying the strongest, handsomest, most skilled man. It seemed so romantic to her.

Belle's hands pause. Silence. Her breath quickens, and her vision gets a tad blurry from moisture. She swallows a hard lump in her throat that she didn't know was there.

"Once upon a time," she says, her voice small and shaky.

Rose pouts, "You always begin the story like that!"

Belle laughs, "That's how some of the best stories go." She takes a few deep breaths to slow her heart down. She could do this. She could tell this story.

So, she tells of a beautiful, but odd, girl who ventures into the woods to save her beloved father. She tells the story of roses, a candelabra being friends with a clock, and of talking teacups. Of snowball fights and libraries. Of dances and magic and beasts. Of love and happily ever after.

She tells the story of a prince with eyes as blue as summer sky, and as lonely as a single petal on a dying flower.

Belle dies from an illness at the age of thirty-six.

Beloved daughter, wife, and mother.

She is not buried in the local cemetery.

Her last request was to be taken to a castle in the woods, where the gardens would serve as her final resting place.

Jacques and Rose think it was crazy. There are no castles in the wolf-infested forest.

Their father, however, tells them to go. It was their mother's dying wish and it must be fulfilled.

So the children traveled. They rode in a cart with a coffin in the back, holding their dead mother's corpse. Even in death she was beauty.

They came upon a fork in the road, and headed right. Strangely enough, none of the wolves came out. After some time, they arrived at an enormous castle surrounded by a vast maze garden. Jacques and Rose glanced at each other, eyes wary, for the castle was the same as the one described in their mother's stories.

"What are you doing here?"

A shadow behind the open door spoke to them ever so often.

"We're burying our mother," Jacques said. He wiped a smudge of dirt on his cheek, then huffed as he continued to dig.

"Aren't you afraid?" The shadow asks, "A terrifying beast lives in this castle, don't you know?'

Rose laughs. "Our mother was a story teller, and our father is the best hunter to ever walk the earth. We aren't afraid of beasts."

Silence. Then "What was your mother's name?"

"Belle," they answer.

A shuffle...then a muffled thud. "So she came back."

Jacque stops digging, "Did you know our mother?"

The shadow steps out of the door. It was a towering figure, dressed in a thick, long cloak that covers its entire figure. It was barely there, but they could see the stranger nod their hooded head.

They leave a single rose on top of the buried heap when they were finished. The shadow only watches them as they slowly get back up onto the cart.

"Oh!" Rose said, "I almost forgot!" She reaches into her satchel and pulls out an item wrapped heavily in cloth. Jumping down from the cart, she walks swiftly towards the shadow.

"Maman's very last wish is to give this to a person in the castle. I guess she was talking about you."

The shadow tentatively accepts the gift. They hold it gently in their hands as if it was the most fragile thing in the world, then slowly, slowly unraveled it. Beneath the layers of cloth was an old mirror, engraved with lavish gold designs, and a polished mirror.

"That's what mother's been hiding?" Rose exclaimed. "We could have made a fortune selling that!"

"Now Rose," Jacque said, "It might have been a memento from grandmama. Besides, you know how odd mother is."

Rose bit her lip, "Yes, she was rather strange."

The shadow shook its head, "Your mother? Strange? How so?"

"Well," Jacque mused, "It might be because of grandpapa. He was always a little weird."

Rose nodded, "Maybe. But it did make her stories interesting! Oh, the things she could make up.

The cloaked figure laughed, a deep rumbling voice, and Rose could see his eyes beneath the cloak.

Eyes that were as blue as the summer sky, and as lonely as the last petal of a wilting flower.

"Belle was many things," He said, "But a liar, she was not."

He turned around, cloak swishing about him, and retreated to his castle of solitude and silence, sentenced to grieve the passing of a woman who came back far too late.

And the children, who were not quite children anymore, leave the strange castle to contemplate the truth of their mother's tales, and think about the man who—in another lifetime, might have been their father.

Happy endings, it seemed, are the most heartbreaking lies.