It was never supposed to happen. Ever. But God seemingly had had enough that day.
A man of the law humiliated in front of hundreds of people, a poor boy who had lived his whole life in a cathedral threatened and pelted with garbage, and now, the only one to come to his rescue accused of witchcraft.
One of these that day would have triumphed had things gone differently. But today, God refused to give aid and seemingly gave up on a holy festival.
With a flourish, Esmeralda threw a stolen helmet, intending for it to strike a pole behind the new captain's head. It was obvious he wouldn't move and the thing wouldn't hurt him at all. He was in no danger.
However, the man next to him, the minister whom she had mocked, whom she was trying to ruin, was struck.
The entire Festival was silent as the minister collapsed, clutching his bleeding arm.
Even Esmeralda was stunned at the sudden turn of events. She didn't even see him leave in his carriage. All her mind could concentrate on were excuses, it must have caught on my finger, it must have been the wind, He moved on purpose!
She finally realized that people were moving as something landed on her shoulder.
The new captain had set his hand firmly on her shoulder, gentle, yet obviously ready to grab her, should she try to escape. "The archdeacon wants to speak with you," he said.
………………….
The Palace of Justice had been built oddly. The giant monument had been built for all gruesome aspects of Justice, including with its back to the grandest cathedral built to God and his virgin mother in all of Paris.
What was truly strange, though, was how its current occupant had moved himself in. As if knowing far too well that Paris was a city of nowhere in a country barely born, the man had moved himself into a tiny corner of a tiny corner of the Palace of Justice. While this tiny afterthought of architecture was meant for him privately, he had moved into a small, windowless room meant as storage for a family that only existed in the cold wind that blew through the stones. The large, decorated room had been abandoned to the past, considered ancient by those who knew of it and nothing by those who never thought of it.
It was dark in the tiny room, as always. Claude Frollo was not against using candles; he merely felt no need to light his entire room, small and bleak as it was. This was no unusual in the slightest, not was the fact that he was sitting on a thick blanket, one white, now mottled a hideous brown from having soaked up the only remains of past injuries over the years. Still, not out of the ordinary, he tried to push away the drowsiness from loss of blood as he did his best to mend a wound caused by an angry vagrant.
The strangeness was what walked through his doorway, followed by his servant girl.
"Sir?" the girl asked, barely audible. "She came here with a note from the archdeacon. It says he sent her here to help."
Claude finally looked up. If he recognized the very girl who had dealt the wound, he was hiding it well—or too had no reason to show it and felt emotion was a waste of time. "Leave the note on the table, and do not worry."
The maid obediently shot to the table and laid the not elegantly n the desk before worryingly study her master pulling the bandage on his arm tight, waiting for the drowsiness to fade, and then continue.
"You can trust her," he said. Esmeralda wasn't going to kill him, that much was obvious. But that wasn't the point. The point was there was nothing he could do about any of this. The point was he was about to go through three months of hell, and arguing about it wouldn't make his stay any easier.
There was only one tactic that Frollo had found effective against everything that ailed him between the dark air and the cold stones. From illness, to annoyance, to things he wished his heart would forget, he merely tried to ignore it all. Attention was to be saved for his job, where he had meaning still.
There was a small comfort as he let both his aching arms rest while the gypsy gave a list of polite demands to the servant, who ran away like a songbird catching a glimpse of a cat snoozing in the sun.
Dizziness had long since taken away his ability to understand directions, and he let himself wobble, struggling to stay up in a battle he knew he'd lose. He let his hand slip and everything was a comforting black just after he felt a hand on his back.