CHAPTER 9: In which the immortal Prince is put in an oubliette, and the operations of war begin.

He saw it again — that grand, strange, beautiful, terrifying thing that he had commemorated as The Head of Orpheus — that vision which only the immortal could ever hope to hold in their memory.

There was no light on the floor of the oubliette. He had not been lowered by rope in the usual manner — Luigi and Lucien simply threw him in, from a great enough height that he had died on impact with the stone floor. His bones and skull soon healed up, and life returned.

He was still tied up in the Bonapartes' makeshift bindings, though between the shootings and struggles these were fitting a lot looser. He began to squirm, hoping he could break free.

Above, Lucien and Luigi were closing up the trapdoor of the oubliette: the only way in or out. The little bit of evening light within the pit vanished with its clamorous thud.

The Prince's first focus was to escape his bonds. He couldn't do much else until that was achieved. He finally snapped the bullet-damaged belt that held his arms, and from there he untied himself as best he could, feeling around in the blackness with only eight fingers.

The Prince had waited ten years to have a set of human hands again, and after only six months Napoleon went and sliced his fingers off, the son of a bitch. The gash was healed, but there was no sign of the fingers regenerating, and the Prince was fairly certain they never would. That was why Grimhilde, the Enchantress, had ended up dead in spite of immortality — the magic could heal any wounds or override any weaknesses, but if something was altogether removed it was not going to regenerate.

Suddenly a chilling thought consumed him. What had happened to Belle? Did the assassins get her too, or did she escape? What had happened to Murderella and the coachman? He hoped they were alright, and hadn't suffered much for his sake. If Belle was alive she was probably worried sick — no, worse, for surely she believed him to be dead.

Soon he could hear the sounds of construction work on the trapdoor above. It was being permanently sealed with a brickwork cap. He had to find a way out now if there was ever going to be a way out.

He groped around in the pitch black, seeking out the walls of the cell. He knew he was an unusually good climber and hoped he might be able to scale the walls; but many men more desperate than he had tried and failed to ascend the smooth concrete of the oubliette, and they had all their fingers. The Prince's efforts went nowhere. Hope not yet lost, he backed up, ran, and endeavored to leap as far as he could up the wall. He didn't even get close to the top. Undeterred, he made try after try after try, hoping to get different results from this same action in a test of the definition of insanity.

At some point he was too exhausted to keep going. He didn't have blood in his body and that alone had him feeling pretty unwell. The magic of immortality kept him living, but he found he was perfectly capable of collapsing in an overheated heap despite that. Meanwhile, the construction above continued.

When he came to, he knew there wasn't anymore time to waste. He had to get out before they finished bricking up the only entrance. Knowing there was no cause to fear for his life, he unleashed everything he had. He tried to claw his way up the wall, ripping out fingernails but getting nowhere; he bashed his body against the concrete hoping to crack it apart, but succeeded only in breaking his bones. He fell helpless to the floor once again.

And finally the noise of the construction ended. He was sealed in.

The Prince let out a yell of frustration. There was no one to hear it.

Pitch black, alone, no food, furnishings or amusements. No way to communicate where he was. And he was never going to die.

He was trapped. Probably forever.

He had suspected his immortality since the moment he had transformed back to human. With the suspicion came thoughts too upsetting to consider. There was Belle — if he was the only immortal, that meant Belle would grow old and die while he stayed young. If they would have children, which seemed like the most natural thing in the world for them to do, those babies would grow up and grow elderly while their father remained perpetually twenty-one years old. The only thing he could hope for was the slim chance that maybe, just maybe, the transformation spell had hit her as well, and she too might be immortal without knowing it yet. But of course, that only mattered if he could ever get out of the oubliette to see her again.

His only remaining idea was to try to punch the concrete wall of the oubliette over and over again as hard as he could, so that maybe, over the course of time, he might be able to weaken it sufficiently to crack it. He broke his fist against the wall with each and every go, suffered in agony till the bones healed a half hour later, and then got back to his feet and did it all again.

Sometimes, to break the monotony, he would just bash his head into the wall and get another look at the mysterious vision until he came to.

Other than this unpleasant activity, the only other thing there was to do was wonder and reminisce about the world he'd left behind. While awaiting his fist to heal after another strike, he tried to remember happier days. His life had not been filled with them; but that had started to change once Belle came into his life. He remembered how frustrated and baffled he'd been by her, how she never seemed to behave as he expected. Finally he had just thrown up his hands and let her do whatever she wanted, and that seemed to work out splendidly. He was happy, Belle was happy. They fell in love in a matter of days.

For her sake, he punched the concrete wall once again, screaming in anguish as the bones shattered all anew, and rolling up in a tortured little ball on the floor. He tried to think of something cheerful to inspire him through it. The wedding night — the ecstasy and stupor of it all, the improvised feasts and dances, hitting its crescendo when he and Belle retired to the East Wing bedroom, he in a fresh new human body that Belle so eagerly unwrapped from its clothing, like he was an expensive candy she couldn't wait to taste. Then he clumsily but enthusiastically lost his virginity. That feeling, that he had a body that was perfectly designed for such activities! And Belle — of all people in the world, Belle — gladly, contentedly allowing him to do those things to her. His heart raced at the memory and he forgot all about the condition of his hands.

When he was able to punch again, a doubt seized him. Might she be happier as a young widow, who lost her lover in the prime of her life, leaving her to move on and do whatever she wanted with the rest? The terrifying fact remained: he was immortal, and he wasn't sure that she was. The thought of watching her grow old and ugly and ultimately dead while he persisted forever young horrified him. And now that he knew of his immortality, he would absolutely have to tell her about it. Would she be appalled by the revelation and leave him?

Using his weaker, mutilated left hand, he punched the wall again. His ring struck the stone of the wall and produced a quick spark of light; but he scarcely noticed it amidst the pain of his knuckle bones splintering beneath the skin.

Amidst his screams of anguish he wondered: Would she still be waiting for him if he got out? Would she even be alive? If it were to take him fifty years to escape, would he find her old and ill and waiting for death?

He persisted as long as he could, punching the wall in hope that it might someday lead to an escape — hopefully sooner rather than later. But gradually he grew too exhausted. Immortality meant he did not need normal things to stay alive; but his body seemed to still recognize them as necessities. Sleep, food, air, water, sunlight, blood. He couldn't seem to regenerate blood without the water and food to build it up, and he found it was extremely uncomfortable to operate with his veins parched and empty. His stomach prodded him to get some food. His brain shrieked at him to get some sleep. His lungs cried for more oxygen, because there was little in the sealed oubliette.

He finally curled up on the hard floor and fell asleep, dreaming of worrisome reunions with Belle where she didn't want him anymore.

…

Russian soldiers were getting their good night's sleep. There was no use in attacking Paris by night when you couldn't see your targets. Even a soldier's gun held only one bullet at a time.

Meanwhile, at Murderella's house, the very wakeful aristocrats were loading up their firearms and sharpening anything that might make a decent shiv.

"Murderella?" asked Belle, wiping tears from her eyes.

Murderella, in the midst of loading up a pistol, turned to her. "Yes, Beauty?"

Belle forced a hint of a smile over her tense face. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Murderella smiled in response, relieved. She knew Gutslasher's smoking mixture would snap the girl out of it! "Plenty." She called to one of her servants. "Bring another whetstone!"

A whetstone was brought. Belle began sharpening toothbrushes into deadly points. Her dear departed Beast was never long out of her thoughts, but at least for the time being, she had a new purpose to look forward to. The aristocrats were planning to act against Napoleon, the man who appeared to be behind her husband's murder. And these had been Beast's friends; surely she had some duty towards them. It wasn't revenge she wanted, nor anything so malicious as causing pain to others; but she did want to protect others from harm. The harm Napoleon had done and was doing was notorious. She had to try not to be selfish — she had to work for a greater good.

Dawn scarcely cracked before the distant sound of gunfire began. The Battle of Paris was on.

…

Emperor Napoleon formed slambang plans and hurried to lead the fight against the foreign invaders. The battle was only just beginning for the Coalition armies. None but the Russians had yet entered the city, and it was the best time of any for the French to fight while outnumbering their enemy.

One-hundred Imperial Guard Dragoons were sent ahead, and they met with immediate good fortune: their appearance came as a total surprise to the Russians, and they were able to capture a large group of the enemy soldiers directly. By ten in the morning the Russians were overrun by Napoleon's forces entirely. They chose to fight rather than retreat, mostly on the mistaken hope that they'd soon receive reinforcements from the Germans. Napoleon's signature grapeshot was being fired from the Imperial cannons, gruesomely dwindling their numbers.

French soldiers were sent in with bayonets. By now the Russians were running low on both men and ammunition. This final skirmish sent the remaining ones into an unsuccessful retreat: the French managed to box them in, and by evening the Russian commanders were prisoners, and the Russian cannons were captured.

Napoleon had only lost about two hundred soldiers versus the Russian loss of over two thousand.

But the Corsican Fiend knew it was not time to rest — more enemy troops were on their way, and it was likely there'd be another fight in the morning. He hurried to reevaluate enemy positions and delegate tasks to his trusted advisors and marshals.

He particularly called for Luigi.

"You're the one who knows everything," said the elder brother, adjusting his imperial ermine cape over his military redingote. "We need a location in between these points — " he pointed to two spots on his map, "where we can create a temporary headquarters should the British come in, as I think they will. Is there any suitable location?"

Luigi looked at the map and groaned. "I do know of one, but it's bad timing."

"We are in a war," said the Emperor. "I do not know if there is such a thing as good timing in the circumstance."

Luigi gave in. "It's the mansion of the Marquise de Montsangue, alias Murderella. Lucien and I were just there a few days ago, when we picked up Blondie — that is, the Capetian. She was harboring him, and she was part of the scuffle. I don't think she would be very friendly towards us right now; and after that incident, is likely to be quite hostile."

"Well, everybody is on guard during an emergency like this," said Napoleon, carelessly.

"Whatever you think best," said Luigi submissively. "But I suggest whatever you do, don't send me or Lucien to talk with her. Get someone else who had nothing to do with it."

"Point taken. Thank you, Luigi, you may go." Soon as he dismissed Luigi, Napoleon called for one of his dispatchers. He gave instructions that the Marquise be informed that her mansion was needed for military use, and she'd be given twenty-four hours to vacate the premises or else prepare to let the army move in with her.

…

The cold, empty bed was just about the least comfortable place Belle could imagine; and laying there alone for those many hours when sleep should come only gave her a span to ruminate upon her loneliness, and the fact that she would never see her beloved Beast again, with his warm complexion, his blue eyes, his over-expressive face, his cowlick, his annoying habit of hogging all the blankets, the songs he'd sing at her, the way he'd pick her up and swing her when happy. If sleep did come, it only brought nightmares in which she watched him die over and over again.

After a couple days, Belle didn't try to get sleep anymore. She and the aristocrats stayed awake and occupied, together. She understood now why they cherished their late nights. They all had the same tortured eyes and gaunt faces of people who couldn't bear sleep for the horrible visions it brought to them.

Gargantua had been teaching her how to load a flintlock gun. Some new skill to keep her occupied.

At this time Murderella came into the room and announced the news she had been given. Napoleon would use her mansion. The request was made about as nicely as one could expect from an Emperor in such a scenario. It would be a hill to die on if they wanted to fight against it.

Gutslasher pointed out that, if she allowed the army to use the mansion whilst refusing to vacate the premises herself, it could be a beneficial situation. "You might get close to the Fiend, and we will know first hand how the war-men fare, and what goes on. The time to strike may be more apt, more late on. And you will know just when that time shall come."

Murderella agreed with the assessment. She gave her servants instructions to reply that they would allow the military use of the mansion, provided her own household was not displaced; and for the time being, the aristocrats were considered part of the family.

Belle was horrified by the announcement. Now she would have her Beast's murderers roaming in the same house? "I don't think I can do it!" she cried, appalled. She covered her face, as if to weep. "Maybe I should go back to the village now. I don't care if it's dangerous to travel. It can't be any more dangerous than Paris!"

"Trust me," said Pream, sitting his thin body at her side. "A waylaid coach is a very dangerous thing. But, that said, you are free to do as you like."

She thought about what he was saying and couldn't help but agree. But it wasn't a happy agreement. She began to cry again.

Slowly, haltingly, Pream extended his dainty arm and put it around Belle. It was a gesture of consolation, done like he knew he was going to regret it.

It was a few hours later that the French military began to move into the house. Murderella's servants were under orders to be courteous and helpful to them, though her guards remained on watch.

Joseph Bonaparte was head of the military operation in the mansion. The eldest of the Bonaparte brothers, he was the only one who had grown up expecting to live the life of a nobleman, as he would be inheriting their father's title. Nobody expected Napoleon to pull off what he did: it left the younger brother outranking him. All the same, he was bred up to be more of a gentleman than a warrior, and this was depicted in his manners.

Since the Marquise was cooperating with the military, he had every expectation that he would be polite towards her and her household. As his men moved in behind him, he sought out the Marquise to greet her personally. He discovered the lady amidst a group of others who, one could tell at a glance, were all ancien régime. Weapons as jewelry, tribal feathers and facepaints, polished shoes that cost more than most families made in a month. No mistaking them — except maybe the sad-faced girl in the group who had a different haircut, but clearly she had the same traumatized eyes as the others. She was one of them.

"Good evening," said Joseph cordially, bowing as he spoke. "Is Madame de Montsangue in our midst?"

Murderella stepped forward and behaved as custom commanded for greeting a guest, taking his hand with a curtsey. The gentlemanly General introduced himself.

"Bonaparte?" asked Murderella. "So you are related to the Emperor?"

"My brother," he said.

"How fantastic," she said with a smile. "I'm sure, then, you will keep us all very safe from the enemy."

"If madame would like," said Joseph, his accent thick as lasagne, "I can show you how we are setting up. We shall, of course, try to be as little of a bother as is possible."

"Oh, don't even worry," said the Marquise sweetly. "We're all just going to stay in the bedroom here. Get some rest." Murderella pointed to the bedroom in which her group was about to withdraw.

"You all sleep in the same bedroom?" asked Joseph, skeptically.

"YES," said Humongous in reply. "THAT IS HOW WE ROLL."

The aristocrats and Belle speedily filed into the room and shut the door. The Marquise called goodnight over her shoulder.

…

Another day passed, and Napoleon had beaten back another Russian attempt to invade the city. But even if he got rid of them entirely, the British and the Germans were still in wait. There wasn't time to rest, but there was nothing more to be done, either. His orders were known to his Chief of Staff and to the marshals.

The Emperor decided to retire to his palace. It would be a more comfortable place to rest, for sure. He and his retinue were packed up, and — heavily guarded — they made their way through the city's war-torn streets.

From a far-off hilltop, the telescope of a Württemburg spy observed the activity. Over the next several days, plans were drawn up that made careful and deliberate use of this information.

…