Title: Unworthy

Author: Rissa85-Stargazing85

Rating: PG13 to R

Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance

Part: Part Three (Incumbent Dedition)

Disclaimer: Sadly, to report that I know you've all got this message by now. But BatB is not mine. =(

Author's Note: Part Three, usually this is the place where I take a hiatus for a while. (Up to months!) But this story is not boring me, so I will continue for all those dedicated readers out there. I really am going to enjoy writing this part...

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This place was colossal, she thought, almost as intimidating as being present in those large cathedrals she had been but once in Paris, when her father took her to visit the grand Notre Dame he had her baptized in, a christening service that was not inexpensive and took an extensive time for her relatives to aid in paying the funds.

But from her father, she had heard the plenty people had attended, her grandparents were, after all, some of Paris' citizens of importance. Her grandfather, Seymour Etienne, also known to some western provinces of the city as Pointe à tracer officielle Laroque, the official judicial scribe. He pulled in an adequate amount of funds he spent mostly on munificent leisure and banquets.

Her father had grown in a very strained atmosphere. The unvarying stream of visitors that his father permitted to welcome under his roof, along with exorbitant renovations that never seemed to be quite finished had stressed him. Living in a large house that was incessantly functioning like a hotel and maturing in coercive intimacy with strangers had caused her father friction with his.

His father wanted him to be a judge like himself, but Maurice was obstinate that his ingenious mind should lead his life elsewhere than in the western provincial department of Justice in Paris. He chose to live a quite lifestyle sustained by his own mind. Flabbergasted, his father and Maurice developed a tense relationship, characterized only by the monthly allowance Seymour sent to aid in his son's iconoclast lifestyle.

Perceptibly, the person who owned and maintained this structure was undoubtedly effusive. It was dim here, but lighted with many candles that cast awkward-looking shadows on the walls, in the places where they were not covered with large portraits of important looking people.

There seemed to be a plentiful amount of portraits around, framed in black onyx and some with odd pictures of serpents, while others where of fetching personas dressed luxuriously and carrying that presumptuous and supercilious smirk that expressed the core of their personalities.

She called for her father a few times, there had to be someone here because it was warm here. Someone would've had to start the fire and kept the fire going to heat such a large structure as this one. Why hadn't anyone answered her up to this point, she could hear her own voice echo from the walls, someone had to hear them. She spoke again, attempting to state her cause for gallivanting around someone else's domain.

Faintly, she felt cold and heard a distant rush of air in front of her a few feet by the large staircase covered by a scarlet rug and menacing black sculptures of beastly-looking creatures with serpents coiling around their bodies. Uneasily, she heard another rush of air, it had to have come from somewhere above her, but then she heard a door open behind her.

She began speaking again, someone was here, perhaps it was the supernatural. As much as she wanted to postulate that apparitions could possibly be veritable in existence, she had been exposed to a majority of people, one being her father, who was not superstitious at the least and laughed wholeheartedly at the whole situation.

Pausing tentatively, she opened the door wider. There were two directions, both dark and both made her feel at the very least, foreboding. This room was markedly different, it was nearly all stone, and to her left was a winding staircase, to her right was a dark corridor. All was silent, except for the intermittent rush of cold air and the sound of wind. She bit her lip before deciding on the dark corridor.

She followed it through, with trepidation, this must be some sort of dungeon, it had to be. There were a few doors to the right of her and a couple of very large doors to the left of her, which all were bolted shut. Some bars at a few to her right were there, just enough to let a pair of hands through.

The end of the corridor was near, with a forceful current of wind whipping at her cloak and tousling her dark hair, there were bars ahead, she noticed, and upon coming closer she noticed the sky behind them, with a few whips near the bars, and she noticed that above her head easily four times her height where all sorts of contraptions decorated with spikes, spears, and unraveled ropes.

She turned, hearing an audible clank, the door she had came from had closed shut. She closed her eyes, feeling herself tremble and took herself away from the nearby bars, turning her back to them and walking swiftly to the door, speaking of her father's whereabouts. Attempting to open the door, but finding it would not open, she turned and drew herself, with trepidation, up the winding staircase.

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A female was here. He had heard her frolicking around the castle, in her feminine voice that bounced and echoed from the walls and toward the West Wing. She had declared something about her father, it must be his daughter then, which was looking for her. They both had the same crude manners, wandering into places that did not belong to them.

Indignantly, he had watched from the fourth level over the railing, and saw her small form dressed in virginal white and soft cobalt, she had draped over her a navy hood that covered her head and dark shoes. She was valiant and inquisitive, the second attribution almost divulged as a given. He had followed her, from the fourth level, to the third, and stopped at the head of the second staircase, watching her every move, hearing her sounds down to her almost whispered monologue.

He was slightly stunned to find that his thoughts had settled to his mother. Odd it was that she made him bethink to recollections of his passed mother. She did not look much like her, his mother's hair had been a blonde and with a fine grade of tresses that curled tremendously and so cleanly that she kept to a length that stopped at her waist. Chanelle had also been none to exploratory or questioning, and felt at ease in familiarity. Strange that he should seek reminiscences of her at the moment.

The young woman had opened a door, the door to the Chambre de torture, and compulsively he slipped in, letting the door slam behind him, her father was to be found if she followed the sound he made. But he didn't want to speak to her, he felt errant compulsion to scrutinize her from afar. Without delay, he heard her stop and diffidently linger before whirling around and trudging swiftly toward his direction.

Adroitly and noiselessly, he backed upward the staircase with swiftness, until he felt the end of the staircase coming, then he hid in a dark corner of the top of the staircase's elevated imprisonment cavity.

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The staircase seemed like it would forever be winding, until she was sure that she was going in circles. Minutes had passed and she was still walking, her limbs began to feel weary, and she paused looking ahead and relieved that the staircase had ended. It was very dark, and the torch she had managed to take with her from its position on one of the walls had supplied feasible light in the small space of the winding flight of steps.

Here it was of little use, soft light had entered from an unknown source in a blank expanse of wrought iron bars that was centered above the room. She spoke again, with dwindling confidence, and heard her father's voice answer her back.

She exclaimed her surprise, shivering and feeling his pale hands through the small opening of his bolted door. She peered in frenetically, noting his bluish-tinged lips and unfocused eyes. His limbs felt as if she were gripping the snow that tinged the French countryside in the middle of winter. She recoiled, before attempting to warm them herself.

"Papa, I must get you from here! I...It's very cold, you must be freezing. Here, warm your hands by this torch." She placed the torch to the door and watched as her father placed his hands to it, dependably.

"You must leave, Belle! I don't want you to be in here!" his command was preemptory and final, emitting all the finality that an authoritative figure could muster while his effectiveness was severely curtailed by his handicapped position.

"Who's done this to you? You must tell me...What happened?" she questioned, recoiling as she at length noticed the deep scratches that ran from his wrists to his elbows, four deep scratches, hardly healed.

"You must leave, Belle." Her father spoke slowly with all the energy of someone who has been deprived of rest and food. As her father spoke thickly and with as much energy as he could congregate, she knew her answer.

"I want leave you, Papa. Not until I find who's done this to you. I'll search all over the castle until..." she felt a massive dark hand grasp the back of her hood and veer her about with so much force that she now faced the direction of the intruder, her torch had been flung into a patch of damp collected water at the far side of the cavity. "What are you doing here!" He questioned, severely.

"Run Belle!" her father commanded, nonsensically.

She noticed a dark and outlined figure, glide toward her father's locked door and she fretfully inquired, "Who are you?" turning her head swiftly, following the form and clutching her hooded cloak about her. She moved nearer to her father, instinctively, almost as if she were endeavoring to panoply him.

The stature of this, this cumbrous creature was so prodigious that she felt infinitesimal just being near to it. Fangs gleamed ivory and sharp, even in the dimness of the poor light that she was becoming adjusted to. He answered her in a tone that was ultimate and with puissance that seemed unabridged. "The master of this castle."

She hesitated before rejoining, "I've come for my father. Let my father go please, can't you see he's sick." She ended her request in a plea, her father remained unenthusiastically hushed and she looked back, thinking him unconscious until she realized he stared out at her vacantly. She turned from him, having not the courage to look into his eyes.

The creature had a voice that boomed and was tinged with irritability and retort. "He shouldn't have trespassed here. No matter how exemplary the reasons!" He turned to the staircase, having no qualms of conscience about leaving them both here alone without light or fire.

She began again, "But he's in poor health, he could die. I'll do anything." She begged, with all the desperation of a prisoner wishing for life while being placed on the threatening gallows. He spoke to her quickly, citing there was nothing that she could do to release him.

Entreating again, she, with desperation, hurriedly spoke to herself speedily. "There must be some way...Wait." She lowered her head, they had not much to offer him financially, and their possessions were trinkets compared to his opulence. But perhaps, she could free her father... "Take me instead."

He stopped abruptly, "You," he tone became soft, "You would...take his place?" The generousness of her character was not lost on him and he felt near a measurable amount of obeisance to her. Though reluctant he was to feel so.

She paused, "If...If I did. Would you let him go?" He turned, and in her bright orbs, he saw the irresolute but guarded expectancy of an innocuous child. He sauntered up to her in his full height exposed to carry more weight with his statements.

"Yes." he desisted before continuing, thinking of her advantage to himself. "But...you must promise to stay here forever." He presented the brusque veracity of the situation to her, not feeling coarse enough to deceive her into a naïve and ensnared incarceration.

She bit her lip, and found that her voice no longer quaked. Remarkable how necessity seemed to calm the mind to become rational. She instructed him blankly and intrusively. "Come into the light."

He stepped into the nearby light gradually, the light showing his sharp, salient and malevolent talons, his ill-kempt and burnt sienna-brown fur, his paramount height, the jutting fangs, and the maroon cloak that covered him. She took all of these descriptions and let them build in her mind before she gasped, and closed her eyes tightly holding her father's hands, as if they could save her from her circumstances.

"No, Belle! I won't let you do this!" Her father shook her hands attempting to let some weight fall into his statement. She stared at her father's hands, it was he who had raised her, taught her, loved her in spite of her Spanish-Moor blood that a few of her relatives had hissed about, that a few of their relatives had spoken about.

It was he that loved her, cared for her, surrendered with some difficulty his relaxed and satisfactorily bachelor lifestyle for her. She felt as if she had taken enough from him, she obliged him much, at least this much that she was planning to immolate. A question appeared in her mind to contemplate: Was she contemptible of him?

She stood and held her head high, already the tightness in her chest and throat causing her eyes to sting. She closed them, not wanting to appear frail and wishing she could deliver all the confidence that she had seen the pictures in the hallways incorporate. "You have my word."

Her father's words at once seemed remote and futile, the situation seemed surreal, comparable to when one was underwater and looked under around still immersed. She dropped to her knees, letting her decision coagulate and she felt the tears on the edge of her lashes, her eyes still closed.

Her father. He was holding her, muttering that he was elderly had lived his life to its peak, but was hushed when the Beast took her father by the back of his hood and dragged him away. It was as if life sparked in her again, and she spoke out, "Wait!" twice in succession, but to no avail.

She flew to the window, hearing her father's words echo back to her about sparing her, letting her free. And then muffled, she heard the low tones of the Beast, with menacing brutality. She felt her tears slide down her cheeks languidly, and she closed her eyes and breathed erratically.

It had to be suppositious. An insufferable anguish such as she was experiencing could not be fit for reality. She looked down, seeing nothing but thick fog and a wide expanse of concrete that was held up by columns whose length ran into dense and cinereal fog. The height she was at had to be rather high, for she could feel the wind and the ensuing iciness.

Standing there stationary looking out, her head pounding, her tears stinging cold on her heated cheeks and her red-rimmed and wet eyes, it would seem as if she was not real. A shell of a human, broken by decision and weakened by anguish. But she forfeit her lifestyle for his, a life for a life. Her mother had given her life to deliver her, her father had sacrificed his life to attend to her. Perhaps it was principled that she should capitulate hers.

But with her altruism was what she placed as some degree of self-regard. She had not gone in ten years a day from her father, and now she was not to see him again perpetually. Her eyes watered again, and she attempted to inhibit her tears before they wavered and fell from her dark lashes.