Prince Aladdin Quest (Disney Villains *Almost* Victorious)

In einem Bächlein helle,
Da schoss in froher Eil'
Die launische Forelle
Vorueber wie ein Pfeil.
Ich stand an dem Gestade
Und sah in süsser Ruh'
Des muntern Fishleins Bade
Im klaren Bächlein zu.

Professor James Moriarty, late of Cambridge and currently the Headmaster of the University of Paris, leaned back in his chair and poured out three fingers' worth of cognac. Rather more than he would have chosen in normal circumstances, but then again these circumstances were hardly normal.

Across the low table, sitting forward with his head in his hands, was his long-time friend and ally Colonel Sebastian Moran. Well, General Moran now - he had received the appointment from…him…after Phoebus was demoted back to captain and sent to the front lines against the Fae.

"I presume your experiments were unsuccessful?" Moran asked in a transparent attempt to divert their minds from their mutual preoccupation. The fact that his failure was a more palatable topic than…that…spoke volumes as to just how disturbed they were feeling.

The Napoleon of Crime sipped his cognac. "You presume correctly. 'Anti-Fae weaponry'? Where am I even supposed to start with that? We're already using iron against Maleficent's forces - swords, artillery, even slivers of the stuff in hand-held bombs! Ask ten people about any other weapons, and you receive fifteen different opinions! And to think that Mondego suggested that I try using rice!"

"How foolish," Moran said dryly. "Everyone knows the rice trick works on vampires, not Fae."

The two shared a quiet laugh, but it felt somewhat forced.

"Moriarty," Moran began hesitantly. "What do you-"

~~~

Ein Fischer mit der Rute
Wohl an dem Ufer stand,
Und sah's mit kaltem Blute
Wie sich das Fischlein wand.
So lang dem Wasser helle
So dacht' ich, nicht gebricht,
So fängt er die Forelle
Mit seiner Angel nicht.

"-think is going on?!?"

Moriarty looked about him; the Swiss countryside was oddly peaceful in light of the massive storm the two men had just experienced.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Moriarty was at a loss for words. "I…I have no idea. I've never seen an atmospheric disturbance in such a fashion, nor so violent."

Any thoughts of pursuing Sherlock Holmes and John Watson towards Reichenbach Falls had been abandoned; survival took first priority over revenge, and the two men, one tall, the other shorter, made their way back from whence they came. Towards revelation, and, they hoped, understanding.

Their two-month journey west out of Switzerland had come to an abrupt end when they encountered elements of the French Army. But it was not the French Army that either Moriarty or Moran had known. Instead of bolt-action rifles and bayonets, these carried crossbows, matchlocks, and pikes. Instead of modern artillery, they had ancient bombard cannons.

To say they had been 'captured' was too strong a word. Both men spoke French with nary an accent, and Moriarty and Moran were masters of improvisation. The chaos inherent in the situation had made it a simple matter for them to gain the trust of the leaders of this unit, and the information they had gained as a result was shocking.

Moran, in a fit of whimsy, had whistled "The World Turned Upside Down", the song played by the British when Lord Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown. Never before had the tune been more appropriate, for it seemed to the two of them that the world had been turned upside down.

Both had been devastated to learn that the British Isles had been overrun. London was gone; the King, dead; everything familiar, vanished. Neither considered themselves sentimental, but being British was a core part of both men's identity. Moran had served well and, he thought, faithfully in the British Army before turning to work for the man he affectionately called 'The Professor'; and Moriarty was genuinely proud of his contributions to knowledge and the study of astronomy and mathematics. Not as proud as he was of the empire incognito he had created, but it was his, and his name was spoken of far and wide as one of the foremost mathematical minds in the British Empire.

And it was all gone. Even the empire he had gone to such lengths to create had vanished, replaced by a world that was beyond recognition. That, more than anything else, had filled Moriarty with rage. And, in his more private moments, sadness. He had been close, so close, to achieving his goals, of truly being the Napoleon of Crime. Now? He might as well be the Napoleon in Exile.

As for where they were? France had reverted to that from the time of Louis IX, and a senior judge by the name of Frollo had taken over the country in all but name. If reports were to be believed, the king was on his deathbed, and anyone with eyes could see that Frollo had positioned himself to replace the king as soon as he perished.

~~~

Doch endlich ward dem Diebe
Die Zeit zu lang.
Er macht das Bächlein tückisch trübe,
Und eh' ich es gedacht

But in chaos and uncertainty came opportunity. Chaos was a ladder, as the saying went, and James Moriarty intended to climb it as high as he could. And what better time or place to do so than in a world that knew not of what The Napoleon of Crime could accomplish when he set his mind to a task?

The Professor and the Soldier accompanied the company of troops back to Paris, where they were introduced to the newly appointed Pontifex Immortalus. Formerly Claude Frollo, with the Holy See in Rome being overwritten and replaced by honest-to-goodness Greeks and Romans from what appeared to be the time of Socrates, the void in the church had to be filled by something. And the disturbingly intense Immortalus appeared to be the perfect man for the job.

But even a man as driven as Frollo couldn't do everything. He had immediately begun casting about for knowledgeable and trustworthy men to help him guide the realm. 'General' Phoebus was demoted to captain and placed in command of the troops facing the Fae in the heart of France, a death sentence if Moriarty had ever seen one. Moran had managed an audience with Frollo, and his subsequent display of marksmanship and conversation on military matters had convinced the man that this here was the perfect soldier to lead his armies.

Moran's subsequent recommendation had seen his friend Moriarty appointed as Frollo's Learning advisor. The dialogue between Moriarty and Frollo on matters of chemistry, alchemy, and mathematics had convinced the taller man of Moriarty's credentials and academic prowess, and he had immediately appointed the British man to lead the University of Paris.

Moriarty was flattered in spite of himself. To come from a mere mathematics chair to leading the oldest university in the world was a remarkable achievement, and he studiously ignored the fact that it was only possible because the only competition was, well…non-existent. As things were, Moriarty was the single most brilliant man in France, perhaps in Europe. But the bonfire doesn't brag about out-shining a candle.

As he started on the projects given by Frollo, Moriarty watched and waited. Circumstances notwithstanding, he had not given up on the hope of once again achieving dominion over what he saw. But he had to be patient; Frollo would be wary of betrayal, especially from a new and unproven ally, and so Moriarty would have to earn his trust.

For ten months he toiled on behalf of the erstwhile pope. He created iron weapons to fight the Fae once Moran made it clear that the creatures were vulnerable to it; designed mirrors that were immune to the scrying attempts of the witch Grimhilde; established a new mathematics department in the University; drafted up designs for remodeling and renovating Notre Dame Cathedral; and even delved into the synthesis of chemicals for Frollo's personal alchemical experiments.

Moriarty had been careful, though, to avoid bringing up the most devastating weapons of which he was aware. For as he toiled, he watched, he observed, and he drew conclusions. And the conclusions to which he arrived chilled him to the core.

Moriarty was a man of learning, a man of science, a man of reason. He put little stock in fairy stories, and even facing Maleficent's forces, undead trickling their way across the Channel, and the sorcery of the Mirror Queen, he had seen little to truly shake his convictions.

But Frollo? The man disturbed him like little else ever could. The fanaticism, the unyielding zealotry, the unsettling obsession with fire, the constantly-burning pyres that wafted the ashen remains of dissenters to the sky…it spoke of a man for whom the phrase 'moral insanity' was not nearly powerful enough to convey the depths of his madness.

More unsettling still were the physical changes. Frollo tried to cover them up, of course, with perfumed robes, cake makeup, and rouge to bring life to sallow cheeks, but to a man with Moriarty's observational skills and capacity for deduction, he might as well have written his life story across his forehead.

But what he saw didn't make sense! Skin grew taut across increasingly sharp cheekbones; the rosy hint of life in his skin vanished, to be replaced by an ashen pallor. Were he a physician, Moriarty would have been hard-pressed to deny that here was a man stricken with a wasting disease.

But that overlooked the man's unmistakable vitality, a level of energy that only seemed to increase as the symptoms were exacerbated. At times, it almost seemed as if his eyes glowed, lit alight by a flame imperishable.

So, almost a year into the man's service, he had reached out to his friend General Sebastian Moran, commander of the Papal Armies of France. Moran, for all that he served Frollo, was at the end of the day Moriarty's man through and through. He shared the Professor's concerns, concurred with his observations, and with only a little prompting agreed to Moriarty's plan to re-establish the network that had made him the terror of Europe and the Americas back in home.

They had set up observers to track Frollo's movements, search for any weaknesses. His plan was flawless; Frollo, oblivious in his arrogance.

So why did anything that could go wrong, did?!?

Their first agent got himself killed when a city guard confused him for a pickpocket. The second broke his arm when a roof tile fell on it. The maid they subourned was framed for vandalism and expelled from her job in Frollo's kitchens. And so on and so forth.

Eventually, Moran himself took to the field. He followed Frollo and his retinue incognito, disguised as a beggar. He utilized every trick he had learned as the greatest big-game hunter in India to keep out of sight, to track down his prey.

They had reached Notre Dame, and Frollo, dismissing his retinue, had entered his private quarters deep in the basement of the old cathedral. Moran, not to be discouraged, had picked the lock. And then-

~~~

So zuckte seine Rute
Das Fischlein zappelt dran,
Und ich mit regem Blute
Sah die Betrog'ne an.

Moran took the cognac with shaking hands. Even for a man as steeled against death and danger such as him, he looked as if he had seen the devil himself.

And for all that Moriarty knew, he actually had.

"At least now we know why he goes through maidservants so quickly," Moriarty observed.

Moran shuddered.

Moriarty examined his friend. In a moment of uncharacteristic compassion, he felt the urge to ask how he was doing.

So he did.

Moran swallowed. "Let's just say, Professor, that I wish you could create a device to scrub one's mind of unwanted memories." Pause. "That poor girl…"

The urge to gloat did not arise. For what could Moriarty say?

For the fact was that their leader was not mad. No, although he desperately wished that was the case.

No, Frollo was a bona-fide monster if there ever had been one. One who, if Moran was to be believed (and Moriarty had no reason to doubt his old friend) sustained his life by stealing that of others.

Before, Moriarty had been driven to rule because it satisfied his ego, his conviction that he was the smartest, the best to rule others.

Now? He knew without a doubt that he was a far, far better alternative than whatever thing Frollo had become.

He would be patient. He would play his line. He would muddy the waters, make the world unclear. He would reel him in. And Frollo would learn one day that he was no Fisher of Men, but instead, the fish itself.

For he was James Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime. And not even a lich could - would - stop him.

He chuckled bitterly. To think that he would ever be the hero in his own story…

An ironic thought occurred to him. "Holmes," he whispered, "must never learn of this."

Moran's head rose from his hands. "But didn't you-"

"Shhh," said Moriarty. "Let me have this moment."


A/N: Thanks again to @TempestK for collaborating with me on this!