Beauty and the Beast

Let Her Go

The Beast spent a long night in the West Wing, alone with the dying rose and the echo of Belle's grief. He counted the remaining petals. He thought about the servants, about the years behind them and the finite number ahead. He thought about what breaking the curse would mean, and what it would cost him to try.

Then he thought about her face in the mirror. The way her hands had shaken.

He made his decision before morning.

He found Belle at the library windows, the enchanted mirror in her lap, watching her father still wandering in the snow. She hadn't slept. Her eyes were red.

"Go to him," the Beast said.

She turned. "What?"

"Take the mirror." He held it out. "So you can remember us." He paused. "Remember me."

"But my promise—"

"I release you from it." The words cost him visibly — each one seemed heavier than the last. "Your father needs you. Go."

Belle stared at him. She had prepared herself for many things since arriving at the castle, but not this. Not generosity this complete and unguarded. She saw the cost of it clearly in his face — the way he held himself rigid against the pain of what he was offering.

"Thank you," she said. She wanted to say more, but the words dissolved before she could find them.

The servants gathered in the entrance hall to see her off — all of them, even the tiniest enchanted footstool. Mrs. Potts pressed a handkerchief she could no longer use into Belle's hand. Chip waved both handles. Lumiere bowed deeply, his flame guttering with emotion. Cogsworth ticked loudly and said nothing, which was how they knew he was most upset.

Belle climbed onto Philippe and rode out through the castle gates. In the tower above, the Beast watched her go until she disappeared into the treeline, and then he turned away from the window and let himself feel every inch of the emptiness that flooded in to fill the space where she had been.

Another petal fell. Then another.