Eight years in the past, in a castle settled amongst mysterious woods, a young ruler was turning twenty-one years old. Prince François Bonne-Fois was a beautiful, charming man with a wicked, black heart. He was everything French, both good and bad. Though outwardly beautiful beyond imagining, he was a cruel, unloving, selfish boy on the inside. Without self-satisfaction, his face was known to grow dark, lined and ugly with the anger that filled him. However, this night was not an ugly night for François, who had the most extravagant party of his young life well underway.

It was a genius plan, for the greatest birth-day of his life (so far; next year would have to be better or he wouldn't be beautiful for that whole day). A grand masquerade had been set up, all the adoring masses with enough money, good looks, or both, were invited and present. All in fantastic masks and gorgeous costumes. The Prince had insisted on a theme for himself and his castle staff. All were to have costumes tailored like their favorite animal of choice (after approval by Bonne-Fois and the supervision of the makings of them. He wouldn't have any unsightly mistakes).

The Prince, himself, had always adored the looks of smooth, green, exotic frogs. Never a bumpy toad, but the green amphibians always attracted his eye. Naturally, his costume was tailored to this. His mask was basic in shape and size, revealing all of his face, save the barest stretch across his eyes (yet, if the storyteller may note, his bright, big, blue eyes were fully visible through the frames. It was, really, a lazy mask. Simply a way to showcase his looks rather than hide them).

His body was in the best gold and green, strung with expensive ornaments and priceless gems. The finest velvets and silks and pearls and gold. His golden hair was pulled back at the connection of skull and spine with a emerald ribbon, his hands were covered in almost-gaudy rings. If any man could look so beautiful in such cloth, it was François.

He waltzed amongst the guests, soaking in the stares and attention. Everything went perfect, everything was fine.

Until there was a knock upon the doors. A silence fell, servants nervously examining the Prince's face. They felt relief when he simply turned and marched towards the door, still smiling. Guests gathered at the hallway, curious. Who would ever dare be late to any of the Prince's parties, much less this one?

The offending tardy soul was an old crone, hunch-backed, wizened, toothless, dirty, and ugly. The Prince stared at her with an expression of disgust and sick amusement.

«What is is you want?» He asked her in the native tongue.

She took her time answering, looking over the Prince's intricate clothing with the eye that wasn't milky from blindness and lazy from misuse. When she did reply, the wispier of the women in the room shuddered, covering their assorted faces in gentleman's shoulders. Her voice was disgusting, gravely and abused.

«Can sir spare some food? Or perhaps a room. I am on my lonely way to Lyon, and I have gotten lost in the storm. Please, sir, I will pay as I can.»

She reached a knobbly, vein-crossed hand into her tattered robes, pulling out a simple silver mirror, with a golden fleur des lis embossed upon the backside.

François laughed, the hallway imitated him.

«It will take more than that, woman. Far more!» He tipped a wink at the crowd, who laughed again.

Unabashed, the crone reached into her sleeve and pulled out a dying rose.

«Will this do for sir?» She inquired. He laughed again, obscenely. Snorting and wheezing until he was doubled over on the door's frame. Rather nervously, the crowd tittered their chuckles and amusements.

«Will this do? Will this do!? Off my stairs, hag! You've already harmed my eyes for the evening. If I didn't fear catching your ugliness, I'd punish you in my dungeons for insulting me like this! A mirror and a rose? Why I've never-!»

His words were cut short with a crashing sound. A hellish crash that caused many screams. he didn't understand, until his guests were running past him, out the door, out of his house. François spun, to see that the ballroom chandelier had fallen. He turned as the last couple fled, eyes filling with terror as he looked to his servants, for they were the only ones who had remained.

He assumed that the hag had left, until a golden, blinding light filled the hallway, and his servants began collapsing with screams of pain, clutching their masks.

The Prince faced the woman again, only to find the most beautiful being he had ever seen floating in her place. Golden and white robes flowed about her, her hair tossed wildly in a nonexistant wind. Her eyes were the coldest green he had ever seen, though, and that scared Bonne-Fois so deeply that he fell to his knees.

In a resounding voice, in the language from across la manche, she spoke.

If he had not been raised as a prince to know this language, he would never have heard the curse that was put upon him.

"Francis Bonnefoy, prince of these woods and ruler of this estate, you have condemned yourself by your own hideous soul to a life of solitude. Your heart is ugly and dark; you have never known or given love. Those higher forces that I represent condemn hearts as black as yours. Francis... François. You will become what you imitate at this moment over the next eight years, unless you can learn what true love and beauty is. Unconditionally."

The light grew brighter, and, at that moment, a terrible and intense pain surged across the flesh that François had hidden beneath the mask. He clutched the mask, trying to rip it off, but found it immovable. When he removed his hands, he found blood smeared across them. Tears of pain and fear filling his eyes, he looked at the Enchantress again. He tried to beg in garbled English of a man desperately afraid, but she cut him to silence with her voice's tone.

"The mirror you rejected will become your only hope. Upon its handle is a chain and pendant. I believe you will find its use in your own time. Your timer is the rose that was not good enough for your shallow tastes."

She raised a glowing hand, in which she held the rose. Though now, it was made of gold and full of the same mystical, terrible beauty as the Enchantress.

"Eight years, Francis. Eight years until you--and all your servants--become those animals you imitated this evening."

"Non," He begged, falling to his knees, choking out the words past the thick blood that leaked from where the mask had sewn to skin, "Please, non!"

She said nothing more, only looked upon him with disdain before fading away. Where she had once stood, the rose and mirror lay.

It has since been just over seven years and four months, where our story truly begins.

Author's Notes:

François Bonne-Fois: Basically, Francis Bonnefoy. Though his usual name is passable as a French name. François Bonne-Fois is a lot... Fancier, though. The first name means 'Frenchman', the surname means 'Good-Times'. So, his name can pun out to mean 'Good times with a Frenchman'. He's referred to as Francis by Anglophones by my own personal choice.
« and »: French Quotation Marks. I'm not skilled enough in French, yet, to write conversations, and I think this is an easy way to represent the language changes that will happen.
la manche: The English Channel. 'Language from across la manche' refers to English.

That should be all. Thank you so much for dealing with this so far, I really hope you enjoy it. If you're questioning the rating, later chapters will contain violence, a mention/scene of non-con, and thematic themes that are more appropriate of traditional fairy tales. You know, the ones Disney doesn't tell you.

I'm aware that this is basically a rip-off of Beauty and the Beast, but I'm going to define it, don't worry. Stick in! Updates soon!!