Arthur knelt there, shaking, arms in a grip by the bird-woman. His chest was heaving, his body shaking; he had never, not once, felt this much despair. The woman waited a moment before, once again, speaking to him in perfect English. In a small corner of his mind, he found himself angered that she had hidden this ability from them until moments ago.

"The Prince has issued you a room, upstairs. You can go to it now, or we can force you." her eyes drifted sternly over him, watching him slowly stand. She released his arm, taking his movements as surrender, and made her way to the staircase. However, he did not follow her. Instead, he stumbled into the cell once more and collapsing in the furthest corner. She turned, locking eyes with his streaming, reddened ones. She was fully aware of her orders, but she was also aware that some things wouldn't budge. With a sigh and the slightest shake of her blond head, the bird-woman retreated up the stairs and out of sight.

Arthur pressed himself to the corner, eyes unearthly wide. Unblinking, staring at a wall and trying with all his might not to shut them. Blinking would seal that this was all reality. A terrible, horrible reality where he might not see his father ever again. Where he might die alone, lost in a world of men in masks.

His body failed him, then, and he blinked. He let out a ragged, weeping breath, and his head collapsed onto his own bent knees. What would he do? What was he supposed to do?

The cell door was still open.. Perhaps he could simply make a break for it? Run after his father and into freedom? No, no. They'd kill him. He knew that they would, and he simply couldn't do that to his father. Should he ask to leave? Beg and explain how deeply he needed to leave, hope they let him go..? No, no. They would never, and it would ruin his dignity. Without that, what would he have left?

So he was left to ponder what options he had left. Why did they even wish to keep him? He was at a complete loss, mind left to merely decide that he must have some use to them that he was not yet aware of. An idea filtered into his mind, an idea that would surely work. He would not move from here. He would refuse meals, water, and care. He'd let himself begin to die and deteriorate so greatly that they would have to let him go home. After all, what use would he be dead?

Arthur stuck to this plan for three long, terrible days. Days where different masks would come down and check on him, attempt to talk him into going to the room their mysterious master had set aside for him. He would never respond, never even look at them. In fact, he feared he would lose his voice. Arthur also feared he would go insane, staying alone and silent like he was. His days were full of hunger and thirst, his nights equally full of desperate dreams that were beginning to fade. Maybe they would let him die.

If anything, he hoped he'd die in his dreams, no matter how insane they were trying to become. In the end, they were still dreams of caring for the Doctor, being home. Sometimes, his brothers had returned. Occasionally, they were living back in the Isles. But most dreams ended in masks and cloaks and hands strangling him, shaking him.

Shaking him hard, grabbing his shoulder? His eyes flickered open, blinking the haze away and finding the bird-woman looking straight at him, crouched just in front of him. He would have jumped, if he possessed the strength.

Their eyes stayed connected for a moment, until he glanced towards the side of her, where she had set down the usual tray of food. In the process of turning his gaze back to her, he spotted something that, for some reason he could not place or explained, frightened him as greatly as the first night he had come here. Her shoulders, partially exposed by the cut of her blouse, had a thin, translucent cover of wispy.. Feathers? Clear, fragile ones, but.. Feathers!?

His eyes trailed up to her face, and his fear must have been apparent, for she actually gave him a small smile.

"You shouldn't be starving yourself, Arthur," She picked up a crystal goblet full to the brim with water and held it in front of him, "I doubt you really want to die. Here, drink."

He shook his head weakly, eyes fixed on her eyes, trying to read the thoughts just behind them. This was the first event even nearly representing kindness that he had received in his dreadful stay, but he could not bring himself to trust it. They were merely trying to get him to give in to their wishes.

He wouldn't allow it, he'd push her away if his arms weren't so weak!

She wasn't weak, though, and she could press the goblet to his lips and know that, in desperation, he would drink. The water was like new life in his dried, raspy throat; he drank until he was trying to swallow air. The bird-woman smiled lightly, saying quietly, "My name is Marie. I am a servant of lord Bonne-Fois. He is very displeased with your behavior, and insists that we leave you be."

Panting past the water that still dribbled down his chin from where the goblet had spilled, Arthur quietly asked, "Then why are you bothering me?" Her behavior was strange, the change in her voice was jarring, but he would not deny how welcome it was. He wouldn't, under any circumstance, trust her, though. She must, surely, be up to absolutely no good.

"Because my Prince does not realize that you are as stubborn as he is," She stated, placing the goblet back on the tray, "And that his own stubbornness could kill you. Then where would we be?"

Arthur was confused by her closing statement, but scooted himself closer to the wall, now able to hold a slightly better posture, "That's nice. Now, Marie, if you would leave me alone, I would deeply and greatly appreciate it. I'm a bit busy, an--"

She cut across him bluntly, "Your father is safe and healing at his home. We've been watching him."

Like a punch to the gut, the words were knocked from his mind. Father.. Healthy and safe? Was she lying to him? If so, for what reason? Well, that was obvious. To trick him. He scowled, and she read his expression. With a sigh, she reached into her cincher and withdrew a silver handmirror from it. She turned its reflective face to Arthur, muttering a phrase in French.

It flashed, and his eyes widened as he watched it with widened eyes. The mirror showed him the inside of his home, where Britannia was puttering about, wrapped in a blanket, looking for something. As he tried to grab the mirror, she took it away and pocketed it again.

"No.." He almost begged, the breath gone from his voice. Another glimpse. He'd kill for another glimpse.

"You'll see more of him in the future, I'm sure. He's well enough, I thought knowing that would make you eat, at least," She stood, brushing off her skirt, "I have duties upstairs, if you don't mind." Marie turned on her heel, as to leave.

Arthur forced himself to stand. Oh, he was sure he had gone mad from the hunger, thirst, and nightmarish sleep, but that image of his father spurred him. Her words that hinted seeing him again, words that would surely happen sooner with good behavior. He directed his feet to follow after her, the things scraping the ground as he went and directing her attention.

"What are you doing?" She inquired, perking a brow, causing the mask to move slightly.

He didn't respond, merely stopped just behind her. He was already swallowing the pride that still resented this, he wasn't about to give in more and admit it. Understanding, she grinned and led him up the stairs, into the entrance hall and immediately up one of the spiral staircases. He struggled to keep her pace, following her down dark hallways, lined in paintings and mirrors, suits of armor and fleur des lis. Some amount of travel, later, he was led to a doorway, which was opened to reveal a spacious room, elegant and high-class. The bed had four-posts and a canopy, there were foreign rugs dashed upon the ground. Two wardrobes, many tables. A bookshelf. A door on the other side of the room, slightly ajar to reveal the bathing room it contained within its threshold. There were tall, beautiful windows against the farthest wall, and a meal already set on one of the tables. It would have been a dream to another man, but, damn it, Arthur hated the fleurs that peppered the room. This 'Prince' had some seriously disturbing issues with the symbol.

"This is where you will stay. The Lord requests that you do not wander far from it, for your own health." She did not wait for a response, this time, and merely escaped the room silently, shutting the door behind her.

As he ate and stripped down to merely his trousers, he pondered her words. Do not wander? For his own health? What did that mean? Would they hurt him, or was there something.. Terrible? He snorted into his food (which was far better than any food he, himself, had ever cooked, but he'd never admit that. After all, French cuisine was far inferior to the... delights of the British Isles... Ahem.) with the thought that wondered What does their prince look like? Oh, all the most terrible and humorous of images came to mind. In the end, Arthur decided the funniest and far most likely was a snail. Because he was a bloody frog, and frogs liked snails, right?

He bathed not long after, but only after scoffing in distaste when he found the room to also be covered in-wouldn't you have guessed it-fleur des lis. Arthur spent good time bathing; the water was warm and nice. Having left his clothing behind, in the room, he stepped from the bath with a drying towel wrapped around his waist.

It was nearly dropped in his scream of finding another person waiting on him in the room. The cat-man, sitting on top of one of the tables and examining his rather pointed fingernails. The masked one of the duo glanced at Arthur, smiling coyly and standing. Arthur found himself backing slowly into the bathing room, cheeks and shoulders blotching red.

"W-why are you in here--!?" He stuttered, then remembering this one had not appeared to know English.

As Arthur backed into a wall, Jean-Luc smiled wider and sauntered up to the other, a hand reaching for towel, "Monsieur, the Prince has sent me~ I'm to dress you."

If that wasn't the most absurd thing Arthur had heard in his life, he'd be the Queen, herself. And why did this one suddenly know English, too!?

"What? No, I don't need you to dress me! I've been able to dress myself for twenty-two years, now! I don't need a... A cat to teach me how to put clothes on!"

"Chat," The Frenchman corrected him, grasping the towel and removing it with rather surprising strength. Arthur made an undignified noise of protest, but was dragged to the front of one of the wardrobes. While he stood there, covering his privates, Jean-Luc continued, "I am Jean-Luc, servant and adviser to our Prince, François Bonne-Fois," Now Arthur had a full name, at least. Jean-Luc opened the wardrobe, which was full of clothing, and began shuffling for something he thought would suit the Briton, "We have... Long awaited a guest, such as yourself. This is your room, you aren't to leave it unless instructed otherwise. You will be expected to dine with our Lord this evening. I will escort you. You will wear these clothes, and you will eat the food. He is to be addressed as Prince, and only that.

"He will also expect the utmost courtesy from you. You are to be polite, all right? He will have trouble pronouncing your name, and you are not to get angry over this..." He continued, on and on, but Arthur had stopped listening. Grace his captor? Never, he had already moved upstairs, did they expect him to play nice? He nodded politely when it seemed appropriate, allowing himself to be dressed down in softer clothes than he had ever touched. Jean-Luc stepped away to admire his work, smiling and giving Arthur a little bow before retreating the room and calling, "I will see you in a few hours time, Arthur!"

A few hours time. Wasn't that laughable? He spent some time standing in front of the mirror, looking at the far too gaudy clothing, letting his brain mull his situation. He wasn't as openly, inescapably depressed and lost, as he had been. Spite and something else were keeping him from slipping into that darkness.

He was upset, still, but he was also warm, clean, and fed. He was going to stay here until they rid of him, let him free, and he was going to demand they let him write his father. Surely.

They couldn't expect him to cooperate to the level they had suggested, anyway. It was utterly unreasonable, and even the French bastards were likely to realize that. Lousy, weak white-flag-wavers that they were. He could probably shake his fist and they'd being his father to him!

He laughed with this thought, feeling his heart lighten with it. He spent time that he lost track of, wasting it with exploration of the room, a nap, an angry bout and more spite. He was not even aware of the time that had passed until there was a quiet knocking at his door.

Startled, he inquired the identity of the visitor, hearing Jean-Luc respond that it was he.

Dinner. He had forgotten.

With almost a sneer, he threw himself down on the bed, feeling a giddy rush of power. Dinner? Honestly, he'd never allow, he'd never let them. And what could they do about it? They'd have to feed him, eventually. In no way would he even consider tending to these masked frogs.

"Monsieur, if you will please come out..." The Frenchman called from the other side of the door. Arthur found himself smirking wide, back pressed against the door. Jean-Luc attempted to push it open for a moment before cursing quietly in French and pulling back. In a low tone, he hissed against the door, "My lord will be very displeased. You should show yourself if you don't wish to irritate him further."

Arthur didn't respond, he merely pressed harder until he heard the other man walk away.

He'd always been incredibly stubborn, possibly one of his worst traits, but, in this situation it was surely the best defense.

Or so he was deluded for the next 48 hours, until he began to starve again. They had not once even gone to check on him since his refusal of dinner two nights previous. By this point, however, his hunger was hitting a low he had only felt in his cell, that feeling slowly turning the gaudy, lavish room into a completely different type of hell. Somehow, it was more irritating to lie about on a soft bed with a bathroom that ran magically warm water than to be curled in the dark and hard cold. He felt it to be a more delicate and terrible torture.

At night, he did not hear quite as many people walking, however, and he finally decided that would be a good time to attempt to run and sneak food. In fact, he had devised the best plan for it. A change in clothes, so they couldn't smell him over their own overly-perfumed clothes. No shoes, as to avoid being heard. A good shower beforehand to keep him awake and on his toes.

So he snuck down the hallway, down the staircases and into corridors. Assuming from smells that he was hopefully on the right route. However, he had never been able to explore previous to this, so he felt a certain discomfort working off of guesswork alone. Ever now and then the matter got even worse, as he would jump at creaks and scuffling noises.

Finally he felt close, but the hall was lined with several doors, leaving Arthur turning silent circles as he tried to figure his best option.

When the farthest door, the one he faced directly on that fateful moment, opened grandly.

He felt himself recoil.

The creature was taller than he, but not by a substantial amount. Just enough to be notable.

Notable enough to cause a shuddered gasp.

His hair was golden, yet a cold shade of the otherwise warm tone.

Cold enough to make his brow sweat.

His clothing was intricate. Deepest green satins and silks, pinned with gold and strung with pearls. A cape fluttered behind him, attached to a single shoulder. The fleur that pinned it caused him more fear than that symbol ever had.

Enough fear to make his head pound.

Every inch of him was in the finest, down to the back of his draft-fluttering hair, which was tied with an emerald ribbon. But his mask.

The mask that made him want to scream.

It covered his eyes, his nose, and the greater parts of his cheeks. The forehead only had a sliver at the topmost, the lips were exposed with his chin.

Oh, heavens his eyes gleamed like a wolf or other such horrifying predator. Arthur felt intimidation in those eyes that the devilish servants could not even cause. If those eyes hadn't fearfully enchanted him as they had, he would have been more terrified at the long-fingered and webbed hands, with rings forever caught by said webbing.

However, Arthur's mind was far too busy trying to collect a scream, hide it at the same time, freeze his body, and tell it to run.

That was the strongest impulse. To run. Especially when the door shut loudly, the terrible green man's eyes narrowing as he stood on the spot and stared and oh Jesus and Mary and every part of the good Bible's saviors and saints. He couldn't move but he knew that he must run.

"What ahre you doing 'ere?"

Author's Notes:

It's been a WHILE, hasn't it..? I don't have an excuse.. I lost the muse for a bit, but I'm back, baby~! I don't have much to say on this chapter. But here's your stupid prince~~ Ask me any questions you have! Working on next chapter soon.

I actually set up a blog for progress and updates on this story. tales-of-the-froggy .blogspot. com/ I should be able to post updates about haituses there, as well as my original concept arts. c: Please stay tuned in. I'm so thankful for all of you! ~Dei