The Beast’s Real Name – A Haunting Retold Love Tale
By Metaxia Tzimoulis – Rewritten & Expanded for TaleTreasury.com
Once upon a time, in a village brushed by winter winds and whispered legends, lived a young man named Elias—known not only for his musical talent but also for the most arresting eyes in the land. His electric guitar, his dearest companion, had once strummed melodies in the grand halls of a mysterious castle nestled deep in the northern forests. But now it was lost.
“That’s what happens when you play at the Beast’s castle,” his father grumbled, pointing a calloused finger at his son. His tone was part scolding, part fear.
Elias shrugged, trying to sound unaffected. “She can keep it. I have other guitars.”
“You’re not afraid?” his father asked, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” Elias replied, though something twisted in his gut. “I didn’t even see her. Maybe the Beast is just a story—something told to frighten misbehaving children.”
But then his father rolled up his sleeve, revealing jagged, white scars that tore across his forearm like claw marks. “She is real. And she’s always hungry. I barely escaped with my life.”
“She,” Elias corrected quietly, and his father’s eyes darkened.
“She is not human.”
That night, Elias lay in bed, staring at the wooden beams above him. He clenched the bedsheets, replaying the memory of the castle. No, he hadn’t seen the Beast—but he had felt something. A presence that lingered like a shadow, both sorrowful and searching.
“Not a monster,” he whispered into the darkness. “Human.”
High in the castle’s tallest tower, the Beast stood by a frost-covered window. Her clawed fingers tightened around the neck of Elias’s guitar. For a moment, she considered smashing it to the floor. But instead, she leaned it gently against the wall and turned toward the fireplace.
The flames flickered, and in them she imagined the face of the witch.
Long ago, the Beast had been Francesca—a princess admired for her breathtaking beauty but feared for her ice-cold heart. On the night of a grand ball, she had struck a servant girl for failing to bring the correct hairbrush. That same servant had watched her all evening, whispering beneath her breath, before vanishing into the kitchens.
Francesca had never punished her.
She never got the chance.
That very night, cursed by the witch, she was transformed into the creature she was now—scarred, clawed, and masked by a monstrous face. “You will read of love,” the witch had decreed, “but never know it yourself.”
And so, in a grand castle filled with books she once scorned, the Beast sat each night reading tales of love that did not belong to her. The witch’s laughter echoed in her mind. “You have no heart. No one will remember you. No one will care.”
She pressed a hand to her chest and felt—nothing.
Elias returned.
On horseback with his father beside him, he crossed the snow-laden courtyard. Distant howls haunted the air, and the castle loomed like a sleeping beast. When they reached the door, Elias found it ajar.
“It’s open,” he whispered.
His father dismounted, but Elias stopped him. “Wait here.”
He stepped inside alone.
The grand hall was dimly lit. Shadows stretched long across the floor. A sound—a soft scraping of metal—came from upstairs. Elias moved toward it.
“Hello?” he called.
The door slammed behind him. He turned in alarm, hearing only silence. His father’s voice, once pounding against the wood, faded into nothing.
He was alone now.
He found the Beast before the hearth, her back to him. Her red hair was thick, wild, like a lion’s mane. Slowly, she turned. Her face was not a mask, as he had thought, but her own—a patchwork of scars, scratches, and twisted features. She wore a gown of emerald satin, regal even in ruin.
“You returned,” she said with a growl. “Why?”
“I left something behind,” Elias replied.
“Your guitar,” she said with a scoff. “Let’s play a game. I’ve hidden it somewhere in the castle. You may search—but stay out of my tower.”
He nodded.
“And when you find it,” she added, “you leave.”
Days passed.
Elias wandered the castle, searching the 200 rooms and encountering the Beast in the strangest places.
In the library, she pretended to read.
“Have you really read them all?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied with an eye roll. “Twice.”
In the garden, he handed her a single red rose.
She stared at it, speechless, then turned away. Sunlight stung her eyes. “Why give a monster a rose?” she hissed before retreating inside.
On the third day, he disobeyed her.
He found her in the tower.
Rage overtook her. She tipped over a marble table like it weighed nothing.
“I told you not to come here!” she roared.
“What’s your name?” Elias asked softly, unmoving.
“Beast.”
“No—your real name. The one before.”
She bit her lip until it bled. “I am Beast.”
Still, he stood there.
“Stop looking at me like that!” she shouted.
On the fourth day, she found him in the kitchen.
“Dinner. Seven sharp,” she said. “Join me.”
That night, they sat across from one another at the long dining table. The fire crackled between them.
“You ever get lonely?” he asked.
“No,” she lied.
“You gave me your library,” he said. “Doesn’t that mean something?”
She stared at him. “You haven’t found your guitar?”
He shook his head.
“Then why are you still here?”
“I think you know why.”
She said nothing. Her claws trembled. “I’m sorry… about your cheek. I didn’t mean to scratch you.”
“I know.”
She rose and fled before the tears could fall.
That night, the witch whispered louder than ever.
“You are not loved. You are dying.”
In agony, the Beast clawed at her face. Blood soaked her pillow.
By morning, she was pale and shaking.
“You need to leave,” she told Elias.
“But I don’t want to.”
“I’m not your friend. I’m a creature.”
“You’re more than that.”
“Tell me your name,” he pleaded.
She turned her face away. “Beast.”
Elias left.
As he rode through the forest, he whispered to the wind: “I love you.”
He hoped it would carry back to her.
The Beast collapsed in her tower. The fire dimmed. The witch laughed.
Years passed.
Elias met a woman in a faraway town. She was strong-willed, quiet, and wore her sorrow like a necklace of thorns.
At a market stall, she turned to him.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She looked into his eyes—the same eyes she remembered—and smiled faintly.
“Francesca.”
🧠 Moral of the Story:
Love is not about beauty—it is about remembrance, kindness, and seeing someone for who they were before the world turned them into a beast.
