I originally wrote this for two friend’s anniversary as a gift. I told one of them that I had this blog here and they suggested I post it, so here you are:

When Belle first arrived we found ourselves in our fiercest disagreement. Two groups formed; one led by the clock, my oldest friend, arguing that we should help her and our master fulfill the obligations of the curse. They felt that our current plans, while not entirely hopeless, seemed less likely a path towards freedom than this new opportunity which presented itself.

The other camp, which I counted myself a member, thought we should continue as we had been. We believed that true liberation lay not in appeasing our master’s tormentor, but in digging out the root of our captivity. Namely in the death of our Lord.

Oh how we argued! It would have been quite a comical sight, had an outsider found themselves present at our miniature squabble, but to each of us our very liberty was at stake. When it became clear that neither side could convince the other with eloquence the insults began. Defamation of character, both alluding to our lives before and after the Incident, were hurled with such abandon one would be shocked to hear we were ever friends. But this is always the way with politics and we had, however unfortunately, found ourselves thoroughly immersed in it.

Eventually the dinner bell was rung and we each hurried off to our duties, now cursing each other as well as the Master.

The humiliation I felt that night is hard to describe. Degradation which every house servant is well experienced, were magnified, not only because of my changed nature, which at that point had lasted twelve years, but also with the knowledge that my fellow changelings might choose a course which would bring us all even lower. Not simply bowing to the Master in our assistance of his daily life, but in helping him fulfill his heart’s desire and, in my eyes, securing our servitude permanently.

As I watched them dine and converse I boiled inside. This led to the effect of my flames growing brighter, almost blindingly. A look and a growl from the Master reminded me to keep a better hold of my emotions lest I rouse him to a true anger. After what happened to poor Chip any pretense at bravery had truly left me.

As I write these words in stone with my own melting wax I wonder if it would have been better to let my flames burn and perish then in a madman’s rush. But no matter, my end comes soon enough.

I fear I do not have the strength to finish my tale; even now my flame can be seen to sputter. If any read this, know there are others who may guide you, unless they too have fallen to our Master’s cruelty. Of these you may count my old friend and once enemy, the clock. I have been assured that my untimely death has turned him once more to the struggle for freedom and he is a comrade in solidarity.

And so, fearless reader, I hope you may take my passing as a lesson. Though history is written by those romantics who long for a happy ending, we must take care to write our own stories and hold fast to the ones we love. As I know you do.