Hellfire: Mea Culpa
Claude Frollo plummeted down from the Notre Dame Cathedral. He fell. His mind raced. And then he realized that death was reaching out its shadowy tendrils, slowly wrapping around Frollo. The ground was approaching, and he screamed a bone wracking, terror stricken scream as the ground came in contact with first his head and then the rest of his body soon after, his blood streaming from the punctured areas where bone had pierced through his skin. It was a sickening crunch, yet not one person paid any attention to the man who was, formerly, a politician of high power.
As soon as he had hit the ground, blackness enveloped Frollo. Claude was dead, standing, or floating he could not tell, in blackness so dark not even the coldest, most empty depth of space could compare to the darkness that enveloped him. Then, in the distance and moving closer, came a blinding light. Almost instantly, the light slid underneath his feet and around him and made a roof and walls and a floor.
The room in which Frollo now stood was glorious. Everything that was, was forever. The material seemed to hum with existence, never waning in power. Everything was more real, as though what he stood on was here for the sole purpose of servitude. The floor was marble, and the hall he stood in seemed to stretch foreword for eternity. Yet here, it did not seem like eternity. There was no time to tell him so.
The walls where made of marble, a pure white marble, with carvings and markings through it. Candles lined the walls, not flickering or wavering, but burning with a fire that never went out. The candle wax never melted, never deteriorated, it always was and would be since its birth. The flames sang not with heat, but light. The light the endless candles expelled pierced through the walls, through Frollo, through anything and everything, giving each object a somewhat transparent look.
The ceiling, Frollo looked up, was no ceiling at all, but more of a misty white cloud that moved and writhed, enjoying the life that it had. Everything seemed to have life. Yet, that was the mark of the Creator on Creation not subject to the broken world of time. Hanging from the clouds stretched chandelier after chandelier, burning with seven candles in each of its holdings. Frollo stepped into the middle of the hall, the walls seemingly farther away than before. He walked foreword nervously. Is this Heaven? He thought.
Yet the thought was not kept inside of his head. It echoed throughout the chamber with an eerie sound, never fading but moving throughout the eternal chambers of wherever he was. And then, red robbed figures formed from the floors on the sides of the room. They had no face, simply a red robe, the color of blood, cloaking the figured from head to foot. Their face was nonexistent, and simply an empty blackness looked back at Frollo, his face stricken with shock.
The figures multiplied, seeming to be standing on a ramp that got higher and higher. Rows and rows of the figures lined the walls throughout the eternal chamber of the purest white, the purest light Frollo had ever seen. Every single one of the countless figures stood erect, looking at Claude with unwavering attention, and they seemed to whisper together, in unison, a sound of wind.
Mea Maxima Culpa
These figures were the Angels of Judgment.
Frollo stood in front of a mighty throne of gold. Jewels of every kind laced through the metal, if it was a metal, and it seemed to sing with a fire and light of joy. Of purity. Frollo fell to his face in front of it, the throne larger than any tower, monastery or building he had ever seen. He was insignificant, he was nothing compared to the glory that surrounded him.
In the throne, Frollo saw as he dared to look up, a bright figure of light, unable to make out clearly, but so bright it burned into the back of his brain. Such immense power, love, joy, anger, forgiveness, mercy and sadness all radiated from the figure. A voice rang out softly, a whisper like that of wind whispering through the leaves of a tree, "judgment is to be made."
The red cloaked figures glared at Frollo in accusation, and he looked around in fear. He knew the figure that sat on the throne.
"God," he whispered. The figure did not stir, but he could tell that the eyes of the Creator of this chamber, of him, of the Universe now directed all His attention to this one human being. "My Lord, I have done as you commanded," Frollo said shakily, bowing on the ground, trying to become as small as possible. The attention was somewhat unnerving.
"Where was your mercy?" responded the Figure, "where was the love my Children are too have?" "My Lord!" responded Frollo, "I followed your commandments! But my sin was from the Gypsy! The witch!" Frollo hissed the word, spitting it out of his lips.
The red robed figures shuffled slightly. "You showed no love to those in need. I have showed you love, and given you a free gift. Why did you not give freely, as I do?" "Lord, Lord! Look at what all I have done for you!" cried Frollo in fear, not liking the tone God had. It was accusatory. As far as Frollo was known, he considered himself highly righteous, pure and proud. "I know everything you have done. I know your life. I know every memory. I saw what you saw. Felt what you felt." God said, sadness in His voice.
And then Frollo knew. He saw the horrors he had caused, the deeds he had done in the name of an almighty God. The horrors he had done for faith. And then he realized what God knew. It was not for faith. It was for himself. God was not part of these actions, it was only Frollo, for his own advancement.
Claude Frollo looked into the face of God, seeing only a bright lit figure. He knew his fate, the judgment bell had been sound. "You claim to have known me. But not I to you. Depart from me, you of little faith. You never were made a doer of the Word. You prayed your prayers and paid your tithe. My blood has never touched you, and none impure can reach the gates of Life. Depart from me, I never knew you." The voice was sad and powerful, and it rang through the halls. The hall slide away from him, and the robed figures stood stiffly, in the darkness with Frollo.
A bright light grew into existence, the robed ones becoming part of it. The light, though as bright as the Sun, had darkness written all through it. Its pulsed with the veins of hate. Frollo cried to himself. It was meant for demons, fallen angels. And now, he was one of them. Eternally separated from his Creator. And the last thing he saw before falling was Esmeralda being led into Life, real Life, with a man of purest white leading her in, holding her hand, a king bowing to her and a dove on her head, singing happily.