Raphael shivered in the Paris night. From recollection, the note didn't state which catacomb entry he had to find, just to go to one by eight o'clock.
He was always fascinated by how quiet some streets could be, how seemingly lifeless and desolate they appeared. He walked in the centre of the road, making even steps as he passed apartment buildings and closed houses with light escaping the windows, but no shadows, no voices.
The young thief could feel the weight of nighttime Paris rest on his shoulders. With his focus cast down on the uneven bricks, he was startled by the crackle of a radio. Lifting his head, he saw a pair of old gentlemen sitting on their small veranda, smoking cigars while a young boy was playing with a radio on a small table between them. Eventually, a jolly little tune erupted from it, and they all laughed and praised the young boy.
Raphael couldn't suppress a smile and lingered on that simple image as he continued.
"How's it going, Raphael?" his Father called.
Raphael was sifting through their record collection, quickly deciding which music to play. "I'm deciding."
"Perhaps pick an Irish jig," his Father called, "Those are always a fun listen."
Raphael pulled out a record with a picture of an old-timed Irish band. "I found one," he called as he quickly ran into the living room. His Father sat in an armchair, facing the fireplace as he swirled his scotch drink.
"What're we thinking?" he asked, leaning forwards to his son.
Raphael proudly presented the record, prompting a whistle from his Father, "Excellent choice, son. Go play it."
Raphael laughed as he ran to the phonograph and started to set up the needle. He adjusted the knobs and dials, placed the record in the centre and gently placed the needle on edge. The music came to life, and his Father made an audible sigh and leaned back in his armchair. The Irish notes made Raphael want to dance, but instead, he sat by the phonograph and rested his ear against the wooden table it sat on, feeling the vibration from the horn and through the box.
It was a common sight for the two of them. Raphael would be allowed to stay up late to sit by the fire with his Father and listen to music. Sometimes he could have a sip of his drink.
Stay positive, he mused. Do not lose hope. I am my Father's son.
Paris had potentially dozens of entrances to the catacombs, some documented, some 'unofficially' found. Raphael knew of a handful, some obvious tourist ones that people are too frightened to venture down, and some undocumented ones that are difficult to get to or unassuming.
Raphael approached one hidden by the shadow of a bridge. He approached the bridge and looked down to the water that ran underneath it. He hopped the fencing and slid down the sidewall to land on the pathway alongside the river, following it until he couldn't see his own hands from the dark shadow.
At the mouth of the bridge was a doorway. In the dead of night, it was impossible to tell the difference between wall and door. He reached forwards, double-checking he was at the correct bridge. The door was made of wood and damp to the touch.
Raphael hoped they would find him. If one was unfamiliar with them, the catacombs could trap groups of people at a time in their maze of tunnels all throughout Paris. He never used them, having heard stories of thieves and pick-pockets who liked to use them as an escape route and disappeared without a trace.
The ring in his hand suddenly started throbbing, not with light. However, it did glow, but almost like it was alive in his pocket. He fished it out and held it before the door, able to see the magnitude of the catacomb entrance. Between his fingers, it felt like a heartbeat inside jade.
He turned his back on the door, positive if they decided to open it, he would hear the creak. He faced the water, listening to rhythmic but uneven ripples of the brook. He squatted down against the water, not to touch it, but rather to stare at it, focus on his reflection in the water. It was very distorted.
He fished around in his other pocket and found his Father's coin. He bit the inside of his cheek, his fingertips trembling by how tightly he held the coin until it flipped, and it flicked into the water. In a panic, Raphael launched his arm into the water, somehow managing to find the coin. He pulled it out and checked it, his panic turning to sadness as his upper body trembled. He held the coin to his chest and tucked his head down.
He pleaded with himself not to freak out.
Anita needs you. Raphael narrowed his eyes when he heard his Father's voice rather than his own.
A bell tolled somewhere. Where ever it was seemed close to the river, as the water rippled with each toll. When one finished, another started. It bounced off the walls under the bridge and made Raphael feel uncomfortable. He shook his head when the vibrations affected his ears, made his skin feel clammy, made his face feel like it was being shaken.
He stretched his jaw as the tolls continued, clenching and unclenching his jaw to ease the feeling. He pocketed the ring and coin to press his hands to his head, wincing as the sound continued.
Eventually, the final toll lingered in the air. Raphael sighed with relief, "Eight o'clock," he acknowledged standing, "They're late."
The darkness under the bridge and the darkness that comes from a blindfold appeared eerily the same to him. The only indication from one or the other was the sudden tightness around his eyes and his head being jerked back. On instinct, his hands snatched at the blindfold, and his legs attempted to kick whoever was behind him. His foot struck metal, and he only succeeded in scratching himself through the fabric.
Someone else grabbed his hands and forced them behind. He gritted his teeth in sudden pain. "I get it! I get it! You don't have to dislocate my shoulders! I'll move quietly!"
After a moment of silence, his hands were bound and his blindfold tied. He was shoved towards the doorway but never heard it open.
Only heard it close behind him.
*
When Anita finally spoke, she expressed being annoyed at having short hair and uneven hair. Maria believed it was to lighten the mood, but the more she complained about it, the more the two of them realised what had just been done.
Anita ran her fingers through the uneven slice through her hair and sighed.
"Short hair might suit you," Maria attempted, "When we get out of here, I can fix it for you before I leave."
"You think we're going to get out?" Anita asked, slouching by the wall next to Maria.
Maria rolled her eyes, "Please, try not to be so cheerful, Ann."
Anita cast a stern glare as he folded her arms, "Please, try to be realistic." She pushed off the wall and started pacing again. Maria had managed to prevent two panic attacks within the last however long and didn't know if she had the emotional energy to avoid a third. "Do you even understand what is going on?"
"You've already told me. They think I'm the Lost Royal, and they took my pendent," Maria replied half-heartedly.
"Those pieces of jewellery were hexed by witches. I didn't think it was possible, but everything says, 'I'm magic.' But I don't understand how that's possible because there's no such thing as magic, only reactions and illusions."
"Anita, calm down."
"I'm not going to have a panic attack if that's what you're worried about," Anita replied. Despite this, she continued to pace. "They want you, the necklace, the ring and that crown because altogether something happens. But I don't understand what!" She kicked the door to their cell in frustration.
Maria wasn't sure what to say. Anita's expression suddenly hardened as she backed away from the cell door.
Maria heard their clunky steps and saw their long casted shadow as the Unknown Royal knights approached. Three altogether, unable to stand side by side due to the length of their armoured shoulders in the narrow hall.
The one in the centre ducked his head under the cell frame as he stepped into the small room. His shoulder creaked as he gestured for the girls to get up. "Jusqu'. Maintenant."
Maria hesitated, prompting the violent swipe by the man as he demanded, "Maintenant!"
Anita pressed her back against the back wall as Maria stood up. Her legs felt numb as she nearly stumbled over. "Haut les mains," his otherwise deep voice echoed behind his helmet.
Maria obeyed, holding her hands together in front of her. The knight produced rope and wrapped it around her wrists, tightening them with every loop before tying them off and attaching her to a loop on his hip. She tested them out, attempting to loosen the ropes or wriggle free. She was yanked forwards, unable to brace herself against the ground as she willed herself not to fall to her knees. She winced as she pulled out the door, Anita calling out after her.
Looking over her shoulder, Maria saw the indecision in her eyes. Anita went to object but returned to the wall, biting her lower lip to keep from talking as Maria was pulled down the hallway. Moments later, Anita started cursing in French, demanding the knights leave her alone.
Maria attempted to stop, determined to turn back and calm her down, but her knight continued walking, and she didn't have the strength to pull against him. She called out to Anita, but she didn't respond, too busy screeching at the other men to hear her.
She had expected the air to clear up, not be as damp as a dungeon made of stone and broken pipes. But the air didn't change. I think it's actually worse… Maria gagged as she bent over to press her hands against her nose. The air was thicker with a new scent of dampness; mud, sewerage and grime. The air was colder the more stairs they ascended. She could only see one step in front of her from the lack of light, the only saviour being the occasional burning torch at the top of stairwells.
A muffled noise attempted to pierce the walls. At first, Maria couldn't guess what it was. The possibility of a dragon crossed her mind, perhaps pride of lions when she attempted to be realistic, but she quickly realised it was a waterfall. The sound of crashing water vibrated in the air, unable to think from the growing drone as they continued up more stairs.
At the top of the stairs, Maria was in awe at the beauty of an otherwise horrible place. A man-made platform had been carved in a large circle twenty meters from a monstrous waterfall that crashed down to a small lake one hundred meters below. The walls were glossy with water, and stalactites seemed to drip from the ceiling, a handful of them combining to create a very erratic looking stone throne on the edge of the platform. The vapours from the waterfall lingered in the thick air and caused Maria's eyes to tear up.
She felt herself begin to sweat, unable to tell if it was from the humidity or the company.
Two dozen silver armoured knights stood in military straight rows of six, each armed with a sword in their hoisters and a shield on one arm, aside from one who held a crown in one hand and allowed the pendant to dangle from the other. At the sight of her necklace, she wanted to rush over and retrieve it but felt the discomfort of her wrists at the consideration.
A lone gold knight stood by the throne, his back turned to his armada and prisoner as he examined the ledge's edge and water below. "Sometimes there is beauty in rather strange places, don't you agree?" he offered, looking over his shoulder, "Catacombs are renowned in Paris; however, I chose this space with considerable thought." Maria tilted her head at his words. With his thick accent, she almost couldn't understand him.
He turned, his purple cape flying from his influence, as he acknowledged the girl. "Is this any way to treat a princess?" he asked, his tone suddenly concerned as he gestured to Maria. "Her hands should not be bound. Go on, free her."
Without a word, the knight uncovered his sword and sliced down Maria's wrists in one strong swipe, severing the ropes that bound them. Maria felt faint as her hands trembled, the cold of the steel lingering. She whimpered as she pressed her hands to her chest. With the wave of a hand, the knight was dismissed and joined his company in the lines.
"Miss Maria Stephany," the gold knight took Maria's hand in her moment of distractedness and kissed it.
Maria, determined to keep a level head, replied, "Sir Lucian." She took back her hand and glanced around at her options, noting only two ways down.
"This is a much more civilised way to meet," he confessed. Behind his helmet, she thought there was a smile, but what caught her eye was a gleam of orange.
"As opposed to what? Chasing me in the dead of night? Attempting to kidnap me at a bridge?" Maria stepped away from him but hit the other knights behind her.
"I admit it wasn't the way we had intended. This whole situation is very… complicated, to say the least." He held a hand out for her to take. "But if you cooperate, make this easy for everyone; this can all be over in a matter of hours." When Maria didn't take the hand, he added, "You'll be free to go back to your small town and live out your life away from all this royal nonsense and affairs."
Maria clenched her jaw. She did not believe him. Sensing her hesitation, the man grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him, so close that Maria could see the tiny specks in her eyes from her reflection. "Take your seat on your throne, Your Highness."
Maria was unable to fight against him as he dragged her to the stone throne. He clutched her arms and made her stand tall. His eyes glowed in the shadow of his armour, an erratic and frightening glow. "With your help, we can restore the royal family." Maria was unable to speak. He shoved her back, forcing her into the chair as her head hit its back. She sat there in a daze, attempting to pull a hand to her woozy head only to feel it forced against the arm of the chair. She blinked away her dizziness, noticing the metal loops locked around her wrists; her other hand was in a similar state.
"What is this…?" Maria sobered up and tried pulling her hands through the restraints. Her hands couldn't fit, and she started squealing as she kicked at Sir Lucian. She barely missed him.
All the knights readied their weapons but were dismissed by Lucian. "Leave her be. She's scared. She's confused. Completely understandable." He picked off an invisible speck from his cape and said, "Perhaps a familiar face would help?" He reached up and unclipped his helmet and slowly lifted it, his orange eyes and sly grin stealing Maria's ability to breathe.
"Mr… Durand…" Maria managed to breathe.
He made a performers gesture, as if he had announced a huge finale. "Surprise," he said, his thick accent evaporating from his before indecipherable one.
Maria felt sick, grunting as she slouched forwards.
"Hey, hey, hey," Mr Durand lifted her chin, "You're alright. This will all be over in a jiffy."
She couldn't put her feelings into thoughts.
"I imagine you're feeling confused," he stated as Maria managed to hold her own head up, "And you have every right to be. You're just the poor Lost Royal."
Maria's eyes darted up, a newfound fear resting in her chest.
"I can explain what's going on if you like." Without an answer, he began a recount. "It all starts with King Louis VII, having an affair with a neighbouring kingdom's royalty. And thus, created Claude Albrecht, the firstborn bastard son of our proud King a few centuries ago." Maria gulped as she pressed her back against the throne, still trying to pull her hands through her restraints. "For years, there's no mention of this bastard until on her deathbed, his mother tells him who his real Father is; the King of Paris."
Maria stopped whenever the man faced her, trying to appear focused on his recount. He continued to pace. "Now, that's where it would've ended, had it not been for the fact that he had been born the year before the current prince, Phillip II." Durand approached Maria, bracing his hands on her restraints to lean into her, forcing her further back into the chair. "He was the rightful heir to the throne of Paris, the potential King of two kingdoms, able to unite them as one realm. But he had it taken from him when Louis VII crowned his son at an early age, specifically so he couldn't claim the throne without some sort of social disturbance."
Maria could feel his breath against her skin. He backed away from her, "But what's a man to do? Now he can't go against the entire Royal Family, all attempts at claiming his heritage was met with punishment, banishment from Paris! Being shunned from everybody!" He raised his voice, in the same breath, he calmed down. "But some believed him. His Kingdom believed him, and some subjects of Paris realised he was indeed the rightful ruler of Paris. All completely unknown to society, they called themselves the Unknown Royals."
All the knights made a single stomp on the ground at the mention of their name.
"There were attempts to show people the truth, but none of it worked," Durand informed, "The Royal Family wasn't interested in figuring things out legally, simply preserving their family line that has now long since been ignored. So, there was only one thing left to do; overthrow the family, make people see the truth." Durand declared his words as if he were recounting a monologue, adding mechanical gestures as if this had been rehearsed, pulling out his sword and aimlessly flicking it around. "But no one would listen, and eventually, the Royal Family attempted to kill the Unknown Royals. Picking them off one by one."
Maria gulped as he swiped the air. "Drastic measures, he went to these witches for help. Mere superstition, of course, but it couldn't make anything worse obviously."
He snatched the pendant from one of the men and showed it off in front of Maria. His accent was faltering, switching randomly from foreign to French. "Never would've believed these would have maintained their magical properties after so long." He examined it himself, smiling, "A real gem this was. A present from Phillip II to his wife upon their marriage. It was almost poetic. He managed to hex it." He was looping the pendent string in his fingers. "He almost put his plan to overthrow the Royals into action, when one day he just disappeared." He made manic laugh, "Just like that. Nowhere to be seen again. And given time, boom! Completely erased from history!"
Whenever he bellowed out a word, Maria winced. He returned to an uncomfortably close position, one of his hands going near her face to push aside from hair. "Do you know what really happened, the Claude Albrecht?" His question is rhetorical as he stayed close to Maria. There was a long pause as she waited for an answer.
He backed away from the throne and yelled, "They assassinated him!" He swung his sword at Maria.
She squealed and closed her eyes, expecting to be beheaded. But instead, a deafening clang erupted from beside her. Unable to keep a steady breath, she opened her eyes and saw he had swiped at the side of the throne next to her head, an activity he seemed to have done repeatedly, as evident by the countless marks and dints in the throne's metal.
"All that was left," he yanked his sword from the cathedra, "were the hexed items; the Royal Crown, the Queen's Pendant and the Bastard's Ring."
Maria forced herself to speak, unaware whether it was out of curiosity or simply to stall. "Why do you care so much now? What is the point of all this? Why are you telling me?"
His orange eyes seemed distracted, but he answered, "It's all I've known. It's been my family's purpose, just as it's been your family's to 'run this country.'"
"It's not-"
"Shh!" He slipped the pendant over her head and backed away from the throne, turning his head as if he had heard something, "Seems like we have company."