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The villagers left sheep at the edge of the Briarwood to appease the Beast. They imagined a wolf the size of a horse, or a bear with eyes of fire.
Isolde, the miller's daughter, wasn't afraid of stories. She was afraid of starvation. The winter had been harsh, and the sheep were needed.
She crept into the woods, knife in hand, intending to steal the offering back. The forest was silent, the trees twisted like arthritic fingers. In the clearing, she found the sheep. It was unharmed, grazing peacefully.
And sitting on a mossy stone was the Beast.
It was not a wolf. It was a man, or what used to be a man. His skin was bark, his hair was leaves, and antlers sprouted from his brow. He looked sad.
"You are stealing my dinner," the Beast said. His voice was the sound of dry leaves skittering on pavement.
"You aren't eating it," Isolde countered, lowering her knife but not dropping it.
"I do not eat flesh," the Beast sighed. "I eat fear. And this sheep... it is too stupid to be afraid."
Isolde laughed. She couldn't help it. The terrifying monster was a vegetarian of emotions.
"So if I'm not afraid of you, you'll starve?"
"Precisely," the Beast said. "It is a very inconvenient curse. I was a vain lord once. I wanted everyone to fear my power. A witch granted my wish a bit too literally."
Isolde sat down. "I can help you."
"How? By screaming?"
"No. By listening."
She came back every day. She didn't bring fear. She brought stories. She told him of the village gossip, the price of flour, the color of the sunset. And as she spoke, the bark on his skin began to soften. The antlers receded.
Fear separates us, but stories connect us. And the Beast was starving for connection.
By spring, the Beast was gone. In his place stood a man, bewildered and naked in the clearing. He didn't return to his lordship. He became a bard, traveling the lands, telling the story of the girl who fed a monster with words instead of screams.