A/N: To preface, I have never attempted a multi-chaptered story, so this is going to be quite an adventure for me. I wrote about 9,000 words of this one night on my phone for reasons unknown, and decided it was too thought-out and I had put too much effort into it to not publish it, so here it is!

These chapters are all going to be very long, most likely historically inaccurate, and inspired by numerous other works I've read on here, so bear with me as well.

Oh, and at times, Frollo may seem quite tame and forgiving, but I honestly think he is a lot calmer/less harsh than how he is presented in the movie? We only ever see him interact with people he dislikes; Phoebus is an expendable Captain, Quasimodo's appearance irritates him, they both have ties with gypsies somehow. He's absolutely vile to Esmeralda, yes, but if he had her in his grasp indefinitely, he would soon change his tune like below.

Warning: Attempted rape, general rape implications, and a very toxic relationship.

"But I say to you that anyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart." — Matthew 5:28

He had carried her body to the deep chambers of the Palace of Justice where his own quarters were, and laid her onto the thick maroon duvets atop his bed with every intention to take her now. Outside, Paris was burning to the ground still, but inside him, the intensity seemed stronger than the world that had been set on fire.

No flames had licked then consumed her bones like he had thought would happen, but her clothes had been charred, and that beautiful, tanned face of hers was contorted and sweating with exhaustion—despair was etched in her features, heightening when he started to tug at the rags covering her.

These would not do, he thought. If she was going to be his, she would be in finery all the time, not a prisoner's garb. He split the material somehow evenly at her torso with an effortless grasp, and felt his hardness pressing against his tights at the sight of her exposed breasts.

The seductress in all her splendour; Esmeralda's breasts when unconstrained were still large, the coldness of his dark room causing her brown nipples to harden, goosebumps evident and prickling the pert skin. Her chest was heaving slowly, and she dared not to look at him as he stared, face flushed with humiliation. She had promised herself to him, but in reality she had just wished for the freedom of her people, and he knew it. It was like a large dagger in the middle of his heart, watching her whimpering in anticipation like this, knowing how frightened she was, and yet... Was this moment not why he had destroyed the city?

"Witch," he began, hanging over her with a leer. "Are you virtuous?"

Her eyes flickered with some emotion, but she refused to look at him. A tenacious little thing, a large part of his attraction to her, but he had had enough of her games by now.

"Esmeralda," he said again, lip curled. He lowered his head so his face was almost at her neck, and saw her visibly tense. "Are you virtuous?"

Closing her eyes tightly, she managed out, "Yes."

Frollo could not help the laugh that pealed in his throat then escaped him, venomously. His chest swelled with pride—oh, he would enjoy claiming her maidenhead for himself so much, and yet part of him did not believe her either.

"Liar."

Her eyes reopened and flashed to him with anger. There was that spark, that orange against green, he enjoyed.

"I am not lying," she hissed. "Won't you get this over with? You've killed so many to take everything else! To take me! Why won't you just take me already?"

"You lie," he continued, ignoring her. His hand started to tear the rest of her garment away, his spidery fingers hard-pressed to her skin, nails catching and making her whimper more when he traced down her long legs. "Your kind—" The sound of fabric ripping filled the air and reinforced what was happening, Esmeralda squeezing her eyes shut again. "—all of you, are dedicated to spreading slander. Witchery, villainy, and most of all, the women, why... All of those gypsy whores..."

"Stop it..." she started to respond. But any outcry from her would be useless, and make him angry, so she went silent again and kept her face away.

The judge sneered, his hand at her calf when he brought his head up and glanced through one of the stained-glass windows. The world alight outside was filtering through the pictures of Christ, painting an orange glow all across the room, the tapestries. Esmeralda's brown body was glowing, too, a yellow shimmer kissing her skin—she was surely a goddess built from the flames, and she would have looked even more beautiful burning...

"Don't you see, girl?" he whispered. Suddenly his eyes felt quite fixed on the windows, the illustrations seeming to speak to him. The fixtures of baby Jesus looked disappointed, eyes searing into his soul just as the eyes of Notre Dame had when he had been ready to throw Quasimodo into the well, two decades ago now. "You are the one who began all of this, with your tempestuous ways... And I shall be the one to finish it!"

Frollo raised his hand, quickly ripping all of the fabric that was left, completely exposing Esmeralda.

There she lay in her full, naked beauty, her legs partially spread from the motion, only black curls concealing the most treasured part of her. If she had been speaking the truth, he was the first to observe her like this, and would be the first to pierce her as she had done to his heart.

His hardness by now was unbearable; his hands reached to her thighs to spread them as wide as possible, to bathe in the entirety of her, to take her as she was meant to be taken.

Then, for some reason, a great repulsion tore through him like he had not known before. Esmeralda had met his eyes, crying silently, and it made him recoil.

Claude Frollo straightened, stiffened and stepped away from her. All those weeks of searching endlessly for her, staying up all night, torturing the innocent, even if it meant she may be dead by the end of it, even if it meant there would be no salvation for him in life or death...

He found he could not do it. He could not take her like this—the sickness he felt in his stomach now was something not even a man as wicked as he could dispel.

"What?" she spat, when he remained frozen for a long while. "So disgusting am I as a gypsy that you can't even do as you want? You almost killed Phoebus for this! Take me then, Frollo, show me how worthy you are of your heaven when you violate me!"

Her words were cutting right through him. He drew his gaze away sharply and looked to the illuminated Christ, jaw tightening.

"I cannot," he murmured.

It offended her. "Murderer, monster! What does it matter if you're a rapist as well, huh? What does it matter?! Take me! I've given everything for my people!" She sat up and clutched at his robes, hard as she tugged him to her. "Take me, Minister!"

"Witch! Remove yourself from me!" he barked, shoving her back instantly. She crumpled onto his bed again and glared up at him with all the hate she could possibly muster, and then her expression softened with surprise.

Oh, how he had dreamed of her saying such things, begging it of him, but nausea was gripping him like no other; he put a finger to his temples and felt his head was pulsating as well, with a feeling he could not pinpoint very well. The same with... "I will not take you like this. I shall resign myself for the day—the week."

He gathered his composure as much as he could, retrieving his chaperon from where he had placed it upon his desk. With her being there, he knew not a wink of sleep would come to him, and he could feel her eyes burning into his back.

"What? Where are you—"

"Be quiet, gypsy witch," he shot back at her, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder. "You could not possibly imagine the amount of justification I will have to create for this... situation. Your existence has caused much suffering not to me but the people of Paris, my beloved city... If you make any attempt to leave this room in the following days to come, the soldiers stationed outside will not hesitate to spear you."

Frollo turned only to glare at her.

"Do I make myself clear?"

She dropped her head, covering herself with those thick, obsidian locks of hers. Frollo was entranced again, but only for a few moments before the sickness returned.

"Good," he said, sated for now. He was tucking parchments from his desk beneath his arm, some into his robes, sighing out to himself. No doubt he was as exhausted as she, but she was just a prisoner, and he was a public official; it was not a matter of if but when the royal envoys would come snooping and making their inquiries of his duties. "My servants will bring you food and... adequate, good-natured clothing, and I shall sleep elsewhere for now."

"I don't understand you," Esmeralda murmured. When he gave no response, she lifted her head, and saw he had already left. In the dizziness enveloping her and turning her vision black, she had not even heard the large doors swinging open, nor had she heard him ordering soldiers to remain outside at all times.

The sleep that overtook her when her weeping began, violent, then ended, withdrawn, was the quickest, most peaceful if troubled sleep she had ever experienced, and it was curled up with dried tears and soot on her cheeks that she welcomed it.

It had been a day—or two, or three, or four days—and Frollo could still not will himself to enter his quarters. She would be waiting there, he knew, and she would be ready to tempt him with her body; clothing never made a difference, because her devilish eyes would bear into him, and it would tempt him all the same.

Though he had found he couldn't bring himself to violate her like that, his mind never floated away from it. He wanted her willing—the feeling of her pliant, warm body pressed to him and opening up for him, his kisses being reciprocated, her melodic voice asking for him without any resistance, that was surely the pleasure he was aiming for, as compared to taking her by force. The latter would feel as though he was making love to a corpse, he supposed, and that was the mental image that disturbed him so that he had locked himself at the opposite wing of the Palace of Justice in his free time.

Riding in his carriage, isolating himself, Frollo pinched the bridge of his long nose and sighed through gritted teeth. These last few days had been complete torture, filled with excuses for the state of Paris. No one was daring to challenge his authority, but he knew the royals had gotten involved—the fires had spiralled so high into the air that nearby cities had been alerted to what they thought was a spreading fire akin to the ones that so often plagued London, and it had cascaded up into the authorities until it reached the King.

As much as Louis XVI was fond of him, Claude could not control everyone; they were hosting a high-profile conference today at the Palace, which was why he was on his way there, interrupted from court duties. At least Esmeralda would be far from him, at the back of the intimidating building with a constant guard patrol, and perhaps a more important meeting would clear his conscience more, free him from thoughts of her.

The carriage halted quicker than he had anticipated. Frollo ceased wallowing in his sorrows to step out of it when the doors were opened for him, confusion lining his face. They were nowhere near the Palace of Justice, but in the middle of some backend streets, and another carriage was aside them, a woman stepping down out of it.

He felt surprised, but prepared himself all the same upon recognition of who it was.

"Princess Anne," he said, walking to meet her at the halfway point between the two carriages. He bowed at the waist and touched her hand as was expected, but the smile she wore on her face was thin and controlled. "I was expecting your father... Is there to be no conference at the Palace?"

"My father the King is a busy man, as you would expect, Minister," the girl spoke with full confidence. Anne of France—what a charming child she had been, but she had grown into a cold, sharp-tongued and sharp-faced woman. A powerful one as well, he could tell by the amount of soldiers eyeing him. "He is more than preoccupied with this rivalry with England, and matters that are of higher importance request him. But I was unable to let go of this predicament here in Paris. Tell me, Minister, why is half of the capital burnt to a crisp?"

Frollo could not hide his discomfort, glancing around uneasily. "This is a rather informal area to discuss it, Your Majesty."

She smiled. "Indeed, but with the King dealing with foreign affairs, I was assigned to the regency in his stead for a brief period. I do not possess the time either, so this must be quick. I need only one reason for this foul play, Claude, and I already suspect what you are to say."

He sighed another sigh, feeling his shoulders slouch only slightly. He knew Anne—could he not trust her? She was close to her father, but at her heart, she desired everything her own way, and she had always supported him despite it.

"May I discuss it in your carriage, Majesty?"

"Very well." Anne stepped back into her carriage, waving dismissively. "Men, it is fine."

As expected, her carriage was far more decorated than any other one Frollo had been privy to. He sat at the opposite side, glad to have some privacy, as much as he knew both his men and hers were mingling outside, still close and protective, still able to hear some of what they would discuss.

"You look tired, Claude," was the first thing she addressed, scrutinising him. Anne was dripping in expenses, the way she dressed, clashing with his plain judiciary outfit. A yellow bodice kept her chest tight as her hair was constrained in a bun that seemed to make her appear much older, the grip it had on the crown of her head. He could remember her being a meek slip of a thing, clutching at her father's leg shyly only a decade ago, and now she would take nothing in her wake lightly. "I know what has caused it. It is a woman, isn't it?"

Frollo stuttered, meeting her eyes with some shock. "How—"

"You may feel as though you are Paris' true ruler with your influence, but you must never forget you cannot escape the Crown," she said wisely. "That gypsy girl... Was she who you burnt the city down for?"

He knew he could not lie; she already knew, and if he challenged it, she would cause an uproar.

Meekly, he nodded. "Yes, Princess. La Esmeralda, the despicable witch she is... She had to be exterminated—she is the embodiment of all the wickedness the gypsies hold. And I was weak enough to let her entrance me..."

Anne raised a slim eyebrow. She was wondering what to say, he thought, perhaps unsure of how to react properly for once. It was certainly an odd situation he had created for himself, and he detested it.

"What are your intentions for her?" she asked.

He looked across, not knowing how to answer now.

"I do not know," he said, truthfully. "I wanted her to be mine, in the simplest sense of the word. Now she is, but I have done nothing with her. I cannot allow her freedom, but..."

"Do you wish to marry her?"

"Eventually."

The princess looked amused. "She is Romani. If she was clever enough to untangle the Minister of Justice, it will be very difficult to tame her. She will need to be converted to our faith, and even then, Claude, even then, you will not be looked at in the same light."

He put a hand to his face. "I hardly care anymore. She's disengaged something within me. Am I experiencing a bout of faithlessness, I wonder? Or is my faith not strong enough?"

"I believe that is something only you can answer for yourself. Whatever she has started, has it ended?"

It had not; Esmeralda was frustrating him now, to talk about her was chipping at him.

"Yes," he lied. "Her presence exists only in the Palace of Justice now. Paris need not be harmed any further."

Anne nodded, seemingly pleased. "Then I may breath a sigh of relief, and so shall my father when he learns of this." Frollo opened his mouth to ask the inevitable, but she was a step ahead of him. "For you, I will twist the truth, convince him gypsies have become less of a nuisance, and it has been worth it for the damages... But, Claude, you dare to pull such a stunt again, and your post will be relinquished. I cannot right all of your wrongs, Minister. Do we have an understanding?"

He nodded. "It is a crystal understanding, Your Majesty. I thank you with as much gratitude as I can maintain."

She pushed the door open, and her soldiers held it as she gestured for Frollo to leave. He stood, patting down his outfit in the hot air that enveloped everyone, embers seeking to drift down still from nowhere, and turned when Anne called for him again.

"Frollo," she said warningly, hanging her head out of the open window now, before the carriage would start to pull away. He was on the steps of his own, looking intently. "Do not make me regret this conversation, please."

"You will not, Princess. I meant it when I said I owed you my gratitude."

She nodded, then retracted herself. "May God bless you, Minister."

"And you, Majesty."

Despite it, the Palace of Justice was a destination for him anyway. This headache of his was pounding too much, and the weariness in his limbs was too much to bear now. He had discussed Paris with at least one member of the royal family and spent countless hours counselling the clergymen that protested, he was surely allowed to rest now.

As he made his way down the corridor to his temporary lodgings, he was stopped by one of the servants calling his name.

"Oh, Minister, I know you wanted no update on the gypsy, but..."

He faced the servant with a deep frown. "Yes, Carmela?"

"She just won't eat," the woman said with a frown all her own. Carmela was an Italian but for some reason she had been trained in many languages. Sometimes, she seemed otherworldly and out of place with her complexion and her mannerisms, but Frollo had never held much interest in her; she was a good worker, and the only one he could have a mildly entertaining conversation with when the Palace was empty at night, because she always seemed to be awake. "We have tried for days since you assigned us to her, and she will only drink water. She says she does not want any of your food, and..."

She trailed off at his expression. Pinching the bridge of his nose again, Frollo nodded to himself and waved his hand.

"Don't attempt to burst a blood vessel over this predicament, Carmela. I shall see the gypsy girl now. Tell the others to leave us for a while... I just need a moment, then I shall see her."

"Yes, Minister." Carmela paused, hesitant to leave. "If I may ask, Minister, are you all right yourself?"

He was not, but he did not feel comfortable sharing something like that with a mere servant. Although people thought ill of how he treated others, he had always regarded the servants with some scope of respect, knowing he had come from a lower-class family himself before the power had engulfed him. He could share some humility in the name of the Lord.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. There is no need for concern. Go, pass my message into the others. I won't be a moment."

After a while of gathering himself, he steeled his heart and made his way in the opposite direction—to his usual room, where Esmeralda was being stored. The soldiers had cleared from outside her door as he had wanted, and when he entered, he did so cautiously.

"Esmeralda?"

No response. He gently closed the door behind him, taking a precaution by locking it, before he walked towards the figure with her back to him, at he table he usually took supper upon.

Esmeralda was dressed in a powdery-green dress—no, it was emerald, like her namesake, and it accentuated her curves perfectly. Her obsidian hair was held back in a golden hair net, and Frollo regarded it with distaste to himself; she looked so much better with her hair down, but then he was entranced all the same.

"Esmeralda," he repeated. She would not look at him and it wounded his pride. He decided to pick up his chair from his study desk and placed it beside her, seating himself down with his broad shoulders straightened. "So, I have heard that you are refusing to eat. Gypsy witch, is it your intention to starve within my walls? I certainly do not wish such a date for you, after all I have sacrificed. You would take the clothes I bought for you, but refuse what your body needs the most?"

"I will take nothing from you," Esmeralda finally said, face creasing into discomfort. He was far too close to her, perhaps; for some reason, he wanted to cater to that, and moved to the side more. Her shoulders loosened and she faced him then. "I don't need this..." She looked to the lavish plate of food before her. All sorts of expensive meats had been prepared tenderly by the servants, as he had requested. Only the best for the girl. "Feast. The cost of this, a dozen children wouldn't need to starve and beg on the streets for months."

Frollo pursed his lips, cocking his head. "Are you going to force me to feed you it, or will you stop thinking of the possibilities and simply eat it yourself?"

Unexpectedly she snapped at him. "Minister, are you as dense as your scripture? I don't want it!"

She startled him by throwing the plate onto the floor, but he hardly reacted at the same time. All he did was raise his eyebrow, surprisingly not angered in the slightest as it shattered, amused by her brief flicker of fear.

"That was certainly unnecessary," he said, dryly.

"As is your post! You're the most corrupt man in Paris, claiming you're the holiest! Don't think I have forgotten that you nearly touched me!"

"My," said Frollo with a smirk. "The witch certainly knows the extent of her poisonous tongue. But why does she expect me to bow down to her and worship her when she is being so difficult?"

After that, Esmeralda would talk no more. He probed her with disparaging questions and comments, and all she did was keep her gaze to the oak before her.

It was becoming irritable to him, but not because she wouldn't answer him. It was the emptiness he had noted in her eyes, the lack of life in her. Making love to a corpse... He hadn't even gotten that far and she had already perished here.

Clearing his throat, he stood up, attempting to elicit a reaction from her. An angry one like when she had smashed the plate would please him at this rate, as she would be responding to him in the least. He gauged the mess when he went to his desk, knowing he would have to call a servant in later.

"Perhaps we ought to read a passage from the Lord's word—see if we may grant you some peace in such destitute times?"

She said nothing. He stared at the back of her head and retrieved it anyway, coming back to sit beside her, finding a suitable passage within mere seconds—all the words were scalded at the back of his skull—before he placed it before her.

"Here, why don't you read it for us both, witch? Your first foray into conversion."

Esmeralda looked down at where his finger was pointing, opening her mouth to say something, but her eyes glossed over for some reason. She was concentrating, and he blinked.

"Esmeralda? I hardly have time for your stalling. I could be at the courts right—"

"I can't," she confessed, her entire face flushing in embarrassment.

"You cannot what?"

"I can't read."

Why did it surprise him? Frollo's eyebrows raised. Of course gypsies were of a lower class than even peasants, they were subhuman and he expected a grand lack of intelligence, but from Esmeralda, a woman who would bite at him with such a vernacular...

This would not do for a future Minister's wife, he thought. Well, he was still not sure if that would ever happen, but he was content with that being his reasoning for the offer that fell out of his mouth without a second thought.

"Then I shall teach you," he said quickly. Now he was the one to look partially embarrassed, because she immediately caught his eye properly for the first time, shock in her now.

"Why?"

Yes, why, Claude? "So you may ingest the Bible, of course." A sufficient reason. "I would never have the time to teach you passages vocally. It is much easier to read. We shall start with French, then move onto Latin. It would make you so much more eloquent."

He paused. He was telling her rather than asking, and why did he feel compelled to change that?

"That is, if you wish it."

Esmeralda looked even more shocked. She cast her eyes away to think, then looked back to him.

"It would give me more to do than stare at these blank walls," she mumbled. "Fine, Minister. But please... I don't want to be a Christian. I have too many problems with your faith. If you think I'm capable of reading, I'll accept that."

The relationship between them seemed to change in an instant. Claude smiled with pride to himself—he was progressing somewhere with her. She was accepting something willingly... True it spouted from boredom, but it was a step forward, was it not?

"Excellent. Your conversion, we will work on that later." She did not ask why he wanted her to convert; she kept her suspicions silent. "We shall start tomorrow. But, I do propose something from you to make it worth my while."

She looked disgusted. He flushed, not meaning that at all.

"That you eat," he clarified, turning away and bringing the bible before him instead. "I can't stand the thought of you withering away like some peasant when it doesn't have to be that way..."

He heard the clattering of cutlery and glanced, pleased again, to see Esmeralda beginning to cut into the tender pork on her plate. She hesitated when she lifted it to her mouth, but consumed it, and soon she was eating with such fervour that it heightened his pleasure.

He had not won the war yet, but he had certainly won a battle. The witch would soon be his.