Justice and Temptation

by RagingFires27

A ‘whatif’ scenario which chronicles the possible aftermath that might have taken place should Esmeralda have chosen the wicked Frollo over death.

"Justice and Temptation"

a (not-so-short) Fan-fiction

…I…

It was the dead of night when the heavy doors of the Palace of Justice swung their massive mouths open, bringing inward the gaping darkness that had consumed the city of Paris in yet another watchful nightfall. A dull and resonant thud reverberated the very foundations which held the wooden frames erect as the twin doors groaned open brazenly, widening like the jaws of some majestic beast as they admitted entrance to the procession that was arriving, as well as to the waiting blackness which followed behind, issuing forth to greet the dank innards of the stone corridors beyond. The air of the hall was choked; stifling to the breath, and the dim corners of the room permitted no light, save for the faintly haunting glow that issued forth now from one single torch, held aloft in the shadowed grasp of the Archdeacon as he slowly entered his chambers.

Judge Claude Frollo himself was indeed the first to step foot through the colossal archway, a wickedly self-righteous smile etched onto his thin lips as he glided gracefully through the stone threshold, his black robes trailing fawningly after each of his echoing footfalls. The Archdeacon spoke not a word, though he continued to hold his single torch high above his dark silhouette; the only light that would enter into that shadowed quarter in these silent watches of the night.

Behind the Judge came four palace guards, their faces stern and masked by the dancing shadows the small torch cast. In their grasp there was yet one other form; that of a woman: The gypsy-girl. Her eyes were downcast, her dress of ragged cloth still bearing the slightest scents of both of sulfur and kindling, the elements that only mere hours before, had come so close to claiming her life.

But she had been spared; Spared by the wicked ultimatum that Judge Claude Frollo had offered, and in her moment of weakness, she had accepted it. In this way, death had come to her soul nonetheless, though now it simply resided in another form. Any man could see with clarity that Esmeralda was utterly conquered as the guards dragged her silent figure into the palace. She did not even strive to raise her lovely head to look about the new surroundings into which her weakened feet now trod. She already knew with a slow and horrifying clarity where she had been brought, as she knew equally well what her presence here signified. Her doom was all but upon her, and it came at a cost too dreadful to bear.

"Your orders, Sir?" The foremost guard asked the Archdeacon, his brutish voice reverberating in the utter silence that had accompanied their passage thus far.

Frollo slowly turned around to face him, his movements so sleek and subtle that they sent a shiver to the very bone, reminiscent almost, to the shift of a serpent as it soundlessly coils; all but ready to strike.

"You and the others may retire from your duties for the night," The Archdeacon spoke, his dark voice lingering upon each word in a deathly caress.

"But my lord," the guard returned abruptly, "what of the girl?"

Frollo smiled at this question. He had anticipated it with assurance and had already prepared a cunning alibi lest it should be asked of him. He did not hesitate a moment, or falter once as he delivered it with full conviction to his men…

"For her repentance, the gypsy-witch shall await a second trial," he replied, his tone dismissive, though inarguable nonetheless. "Until the affair of a proper court-hearing can be arranged, she shall remain in the dungeons, by my orders, beginning tonight. The first cell on the second floor is prepared suitably. I deem it shall be," he laughed with quiet amusement, "comfortable enough until other accommodations can be found."

"Yes, Sir," the foremost guards replied in unison as Frollo's men moved in purposeful tandem, dragging the still form of Esmeralda in their unwavering grasp.

"You heard the Archdeacon, men," the head-guard replied calling after their forms, as he allowed the other three to continue on without him. "First cell on this floor. Take her away!"

And with those final words the sentence upon Esmeralda's very existence was laid as firm as stone. All was lost, and the gypsy knew it well.

The guards departed with her down one of the darkened hallways that led aside from the Palace's main chamber; the one lit torch that the last guard bore gleamed off the cold walls for a few final moments until, it too, was lost in the swallowing darkness, concealed like the memory of some passing trance.

"With all due respect, Sir," The chief-guard asked, turning to the Archdeacon once the men had disappeared around the bend, "will you be alright, Sir? With the witch in such close proximity to your own chambers, I mean," the guard inquired. "It would alarm me indeed should I find a sorceress's bed so close to my own, what with the gypsy-spells she may be liable to cast."

Frollo looked at the man closely before he put a patronizing hand upon his shoulder and led him slowly back toward the open doors, their footsteps moving in measured unison.

"I appreciate that you fear so for my well being, Captain," he spoke, his voice pensive and languishing as the syllables dropped from his honeyed tongue, "but I do not fear her heathen- treacheries now that she is so close to her final judgment. All I can do now is leave her in the hands of the Lord, as I leave you as well, my good fellow," Frollo finished, releasing his grip once the man was once again outside.

"My safety is quite sacred, I assure you." The Archdeacon concluded gravely. " I commend you for your work in upholding the laws of our fair city, but trust me, she is powerless now," he said, looking back toward the hallway in which Esmeralda had disappeared. "…Completely powerless."

"Then goodnight, Sir," The officer spoke, satisfied with this justification, even as the remaining three guards returned from the inner-chambers as well, and stood before Frollo on the steps outside the palace.

"It has been done as you commanded, Sir," the final guard said quietly, handing the key to Esmeralda's cell over to the grasping palm of the Archdeacon, whose hand closed about it like a vice.

"Then all is well, gentlemen," Frollo smiled derisively. "And I now can do naught but bid you adieu for the evening."

"Sir." The guards replied courteously with a slight bow before they too, vanished into the darkness, lost in the shadowy streets of Paris to return to their own homes for the remaining hours of arduous darkness.

Frollo was alone now as he shut the double-doors quietly and barred them for the night, his pale fingers trembling ever so slightly as he did so, though whether from a mix of apprehension or anticipation none could tell. The old priest leant his slender form up against the dark shade of the doors as he sought solitude in those comforting shadows and allowed himself to breath in deeply the smell of night air that mingled inexorably with the scent of morbid expectation. His heavy lids closed over his eyes for a single precious moment as the realization of his power swept over him like spray across the stones of the Seine. He regained composure quickly though, did not let the clout of dominance go to his head. It was too soon for that. Too soon. There was much to accomplish yet before his plans could be fully laid, and the night was already waning.

Frollo smoothed back the few gray hairs that had come to rest upon his warm brow as he strode over to the fire-place; his fire-place that now stood lifeless and cold, a barren shadow of the roaring inferno that had dominated that same spot only a few nights prior. Nothing now remained to it but bare stone and empty rock, no roaring blaze to blame his fevered brow upon. No, the sweltering heat that Frollo felt came from inside, not out this time, and he had to dismiss it or be driven mad yet again.

The Archdeacon relaxed his thin shoulders and put his palm to his brow to quiet his thoughts as he stepped closer to the lifeless fire side and threw his torch into the waiting kindling. It ignited almost instantaneously, like Devil's fire, and yet he did not dwell on that significance tonight. Frollo turned his back to the blaze even as the room was bathed in a crimson light. He had other matters to attend to now, and having regained his self-control, he intended to see to them. After all, the gypsy-girl was waiting.

…II…

The Archdeacon found his feet digressing, soon thereafter, far from the scarlet stability that the main chamber possessed as he was inexplicably drawn down the dark and winding corridor.

The light from the grand fire in the hall was soon lost within the oppressive shadows wither his weakened soul was all but dragged; clutched in the palm of some mightier hand, toward the first cell upon the second floor; the prison of the gypsy Esmeralda, who waited within the stifling silence of her confines even at that very moment.

Though her mind was weary from want of sleep and her eyes closed at intervals, still ever and anon she would wake with a start, imagining she heard the heralding of doom that sounded within the Judge's heavy footfalls. She knew it would not be long before he came for her.

But though Claude Frollo's form certainly moved toward the creature who so plagued his somnolent thoughts, his mind was still caught in torment; writhing in the agony of poisoned reflection and impure whims. The Archdeacon was headed toward his damnation, so he saw it, and he knew it well, yet it did not slacken his pace, nor falter his resounding steps.

Who is to say precisely how tortured Frollo's thoughts were in those final moments; how mind strove against body and heart pitted itself against reason and will. One item in his conscious remained fixed though; unwavering as the grand stone columns he passed by, his dark shadow flitting here and there like the ghosts of summer moths: The gypsy was his now. She belonged to him, and that seemed to be the singular conclusion that all divisions of his psyche could come to resting terms with. But what he was to do with her…what he was capable of doing…that was where the debate sorely lied, and remained the very matter that brought his fevered soul so much agony as it twisted and contorted in violent deliberation.

Nevertheless, in that soundless hour of darkling night, he came finally upon her cell, and there he halted, his form tense and rigid, yet utterly stealthy, like the body of a jungle-cat, who, finally sensing its quarry is near, withdraws into the shadows until the opportune moment is presented for the kill.

Frollo peered into the bleak cell where he knew the girl waited within, and yet he heard no sound, saw no tangible movement as he scanned the blackness with a gaze that could have penetrated granite. Only when he finally summoned the audacity to tilt the dying light of his torch slightly upwards did he catch a glimpse of the gypsy, her silent form utterly motionless, nestled in a far corner amid the straw and stone that would provide for her discomfited bedding….should she choose to remain in the cell, that is.

What a pity it was, Frollo thought, for her fine frame to be pressed so tersely against the rubble where common thieves and strumpets had before rested their heads. The Archdeacon himself had such fine and flowing sheets of lustrous satin ruffled by nothing more than the subtle nightly breezes…such unbroken solitude within his chamber, laden with the type of fineries that any woman would have preferred and received over the cold ground of a damp prison cell. The offer needed only to be extended…and accepted.

For one brief instant as the soft glow of his fading torchlight spilled upon her quiet figure, outlining the contours of her soft form, Frollo almost felt a failing of his pride and polluted egotism. Suddenly, in that brief fragmented moment, a simple longing replaced the insatiable lust that had so long torn at his interior---simply the wish to be loved by another and to devote himself to her love in return…

But the moment was fleeting. For the girl stirred from her state of restless sleep and seeing the morose form of the Archdeacon gazing down upon her, silhouetted against the flicker of a failing torch, Esmeralda retreated further into the corner, backing up against the wall like a creature caged; alarmed and distraught, though unable to escape from the bars that enclose it.

Frollo straightened rigidly at her sudden movement; his personage reverting back to that same bitterly cold superiority. Seeing the gypsy's cool green eyes gaze back at him with a mixture of such fear and disdain, returned to Frollo that familiar taste of wicked satisfaction which he so adored and craved. Any feelings of tenderness had scattered like embers into the breeze; his desire for mastery and control over the helpless creature before him was the only emotion that remained within that frigid shadow of a lifeless heart now.

The arrogant smile was quick to return to Frollo's withered lips as he gazed with thoughtful deliberation upon the girl before him.

"So, here we are, gypsy," he spoke finally, his voice thick as a low-lying fog upon a winter's day; asphyxiating to the very core as it glossed through the iron bars and alighted upon Esmeralda's ears.

"…You know," Frollo began slowly as he started to pace about the barrier, twirling the keys to the cell with subtle glee, "as much as it does entertain me to see you behind bars; caged and helpless as you are in the face of justice, there remains, even yet, another way. Unless you have… forgotten my offer."

Esmeralda was silent, but whether her silence was out of consternation or consideration was unknown to the Archdeacon who fed off the situation like a beast upon fresh slaughter.

Frollo chuckled slightly as he retraced his words, rephrasing one crucial aspect: "Of course," he reiterated thoughtfully, "I refer to my previous words as an offer now, though consequently my dear girl, they are no longer a request," he purred wickedly, smiling at her as he fingered the bars with tender satisfaction; constantly watching the gypsy-girl from out of the corner of his dark eyelids.

"Besides, my child," he added after an indefinite pause had passed, " You already have consented. If you had not, you would not be alive at this present hour," he reminded her. "It was I who saved you, girl," Frollo spoke as he gripped the bars tighter with his one free hand, his voice deepening with repression. "I know you have not forgotten that."

Esmeralda had remained pensive during the entirety that the Archdeacon had been speaking, but her gaze had never once wavered from his black form. She continued to eye him with such an acute combination of pain and contempt that any lesser man would have fallen to his knees and begged for her forgiveness…but not Frollo. Never the high Minister of Notre Dame.

"So what of it, Esmeralda?" He asked feverishly once more, his voice gliding over her unsullied name with a tone that barely concealed the dark ambiguity of his intent. "You owe your life, your being, your very existence to me. Yet, even now it still lies in a desperate equilibrium. You tread upon a fragile scale that only I have the power to tip or balance. So now but one question remains: How do you intend to repay me for my mercy? How do you propose to thank me for sparing you from an eternity of Hellfire?" he asked, his eyes gleaming evilly as he consumed her form with his soulless gaze.

It was only now that the words Esmeralda had so long searched for came to her tentative lips. She arose then; standing in one graceful motion, and took one purposeful step, followed by another, as she began to approach the bars of her cell, moving ever forward toward the abject Archdeacon himself; the one man who stood between herself and escape; the very creature who had stolen her freedom, and sought now to destroy her dignity in the bargain.

Frollo seemed, for a moment, almost taken aback at the sudden, silent motion that had led the gypsy-girl suddenly so close to his own form. He cleared his throat authoritatively, attempting to seem outwardly indifferent to this advance, yet try as he might to hide it, his eyes still betrayed his inwardly tainted thought.

Only a gateway of iron separated them now; only those mere bars to detached the Priest from the gypsy who had so bewitched him, but had that wall not stood guard between their two figures, only Frollo himself knows what may have transpired.

"You speak of Hellfire?" Esmeralda asked finally, her lovely voice quietly brooding as it cut through the silent wall of air that divided her hushed breath from that of the Judge before her.

"May I remind you, Sir, that though my life may be forfeit even yet, that if I am to die, I would still die an innocent. The circles of Hell remain open only to such depraved men and murderers that you share company with; and until you rot in the abyss that you are deserving of, I will die before I am willingly yours."

It took a moment before the Archdeacon fully comprehended the gypsy's refusal. His eyes remained fixed upon her face, set in their dark searching until a sudden wave of almost intangible anguish passed over his lean features; an onset of clarity finally shaking him. Frollo's pale face grew abruptly livid as another emotion replaced his astonishment; and one far more potent as well: Rage.

"I should have known better than to trust the word of a witch," The Archdeacon snarled, his lips curling back at the onset of imminent wrath, though strangely, he managed to harness it swiftly; to subdue the fury that had so seized him in his moment of weakness.

"But," he added, his composure returning effortlessly, "it is of little consequence," Frollo smiled, his nefarious grin returning. "For regardless of your actions or words, you are still mine; my prisoner; my captive, and you shall remain so, as long as you remain within these walls, which, consequently," he added, tapping the bars condescendingly with the blunt end of his keys, "looks to be quite a long while."

Esmeralda stepped back from his shadow, her eyes dark with resentment and commendable defiance.

"You had better get some sleep then," the proud Minister finished with a sneer, "so you may dream upon these happy thoughts I leave you with," Frollo concluded, returning the gypsy's fearless gaze, though her defiance ultimately mattered little. Even though Esmeralda remained courageous in her actions, she recognized with heavy comprehension the futility of it all. Both parties knew with full conviction who held the power; who reveled in the sheer glow of it.

"You may come to regret your rashness before the end," Frollo spoke, his voice thick with hushed malevolence, before he turned his robed back from the gypsy's cell, retracing his familiar steps with all the pageantry of a God, retreating with deliberate action down the long, dim corridor; the light of his single torch dissipating into shadow, leaving Esmeralda with no company but the darkness of her own hopeless thought.

…III…

Claude Frollo's anger was concealed by nothing save the bleakness of shadow as he strode furiously from the cell of the gypsy girl, but though darkness hid the sallow lines that creased his incensed brow, no mere nightshade could match the slow, crushing darkness he felt slowly stifling him from within. The Archdeacon's mind was ablaze with frantic notions and frenzied agendas; ways he could still triumph against the girl. If she would rather die than have him, so be it! He had the power to kill her. With but a single word he could take her life. And she could cry, beg, plead for his clemency, but it would be too late. He would not offer salvation twice.

Frollo imagined himself rejecting her pleas utterly as he led her back to the cold gallows. Only one word, and he would be rid of her spells and treacheries. Moments prior the Minister had been a man driven by the red-hot flicker of burdensome lust, but now he was consumed by a veritable blaze that set his innards to ash and rubble in a scorching wave, the truth of the matter constantly clawing at him: Esmeralda would have him as neither her assassin nor her savior.

Judge Claude Frollo had ruled Paris with an iron fist for nigh on two decades now; twenty full years he had set his traps and devices, ridding the city of its gypsies, witches, and sorcerers one at a time. Like a wolf he had hunted them in their unsuspecting herds, picked them off one by one, set justice upon these vagrants and emerged the victor in all his efforts to thwart their depraved ways. And yet now, now when it mattered most, by some cruel twist of Satan's might, he had been seduced by those very spells he had so long counteracted, and thus, seduced by the one creature who had managed to evade him.

Frollo's mind was overthrown. He would have her…someway, if it was the last thing he did in his mortal life; if it was the one sin that denied him his immortality, he would still have her. But how?

The Archdeacon's elegant form rounded a final curve and began to slowly climb the luminous granite steps, coated in dull moonshine; the same stairs which led up to his personal bedchamber, but the thought of sleep provided little comfort to him. Relief would not be so simple to gain. Shutting one's eyes could not necessarily rid one of the temptations of their innermost thoughts.

As he passed by the windows which filtered through the resplendent light of tranquil evening, even then Frollo felt watched; taunted. The heavens above seemed to cast a wry and watchful smile down upon him in their mockery; the stars gleaming dully above the mists, mingling scornfully amidst the constellations like some exotic gypsy-dance.

Frollo could not rid himself of her.

Flinging upon his chamber door, the Archdeacon all but collapsed as the weary battle raged on within his head. He tasted the sweet air of failure that seemed to blanket the dim room, wafting in from the open window; the same restful air that was comforting to so many other souls in the city, asleep and at ease. But Frollo would find no sleep this night. Not when she was so close.

The Archdeacon drew his hand to his head once again, as his eyelids batted feverishly against the weight of his deliberation. He somehow found his feet stumbling toward the window-pane, which he grasped with all his might to catch his imminent fall, throwing the lifeless remnant of the torch upon his writing-desk as he passed. Looking out into the darkness of the solemn night brought, for only a moment, a small sense of reprieve, for the moon was now hidden between layers of gray cloud, and could no longer cast her judgmental eye upon the wretch of a man she saw before her.

The wind, clear and crisp was the only solace the Judge would find that long night as he waited for fate, chance, and choice to come to an accord within him. For now it was Frollo who stood at an impasse, and he knew it well as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and came to rest upon the silent river Seine, that never-changing water that flowed ever onward out of the confines of the city walls.

"Yes, river," Frollo spoke aloud as he slowly sought to regain equanimity within himself. "Continue your proud path. Escape from Paris, as I cannot. Take pleasure upon your appointed road. Woe be to me, who has no choice!" he cried. "And yet," he continued, after a trenchant pause had passed, "we are not so different. For even you, in time, shall be…misled," he spoke solemnly, turning his gaze away from the window for a spell. "When your body yearns to free itself, river, to break into tributaries and flow apart from your allotted path, then you will be tested as I am. Then you will know the horror I feel, with the knowledge that those two parts of my soul can never merge as one again," he concluded gravely.

"But they can," replied a sudden, jarring voice that seemed to arrive from above and below all at once, falling upon the unsuspecting Minister's ears with an aura of unspeakable dread.

"Who is there?" Frollo cried out, whirling around in an instant, as his gaze frantically sought to pierce through the black chamber that had now abruptly become as welcoming as a tomb, for the sound indeed had come from within and not without. It's owner was somehow within that very room.

The Archdeacon groped vainly in the dark for the remnants of the torch he had so recklessly cast aside, now lamenting his past actions terribly, for he was blind with naught but the light of a clouded moon to see by, and was thus, powerless; caught at unawares by his huntsman.

"Speak!" Frollo commanded aggressively, his eyes darting about the corners of the room where all shadow seemed to issue from, and where he believed his attacker lay in wait. "Say your name! Why have you entered these chambers?"

"My name?" The voice asked, the familiarity of the tone undeniable and yet impossible to place in the heat of the moment, though now it at least was apparent where the chill intonation issued from; the furthermost corner of Judge Frollo's chamber.

"Do you not know my name?" The voice asked amusedly, the tone betraying a hint of wanton sarcasm as it glossed over each word with slow discretion.

"It matters not whom you are, but that you are here unlawfully!" Frollo snarled, rearing up to his full height with a tenacious pride, unafraid even despite the feelings of precariousness this situation should have created within him.

"You have no purpose here!" The Judge declared.

"Purpose?" the voice questioned. "What purpose do you believe me to need?"

"Guards!" Frollo called angrily.

"They cannot hear thee," The unknown speaker replied knowingly, the slightest movement of black against black moving against the wall as he spoke.

"What do you want then?" Frollo cried out. "Are you a thief? A demon? Show yourself, cowardly serpent!"

"If you insist, I shall reveal myself to you," The voice agreed, taking a step closer, though the body of whomever this being was still remained bathed in unalterable shadow.

"Then step forward," Frollo demanded.

The figure acquiesced willingly, its slow steps finally bringing the body of the unknown entity into the pale light that the moon, who now spilled her blue illumination in through the chamber window. The strange man, for man it was indeed, was robed all in black, a long dark hood overshadowing his eyes and face, so no visible feature could be made out… or recognized. He stood no more than two paces before Frollo, his dark hood bobbing slightly above his brow, though the thick layer of impenetrable shade that was cast upon his face remained.

"I command you to reveal yourself to me!" Frollo ordered, "or I swear that you shall come to reject your impudence, stranger."

The man in the black robes laughed long and low, the sound resounding deep and immeasurable out of some infinite void that crossed the proverbial with the unfamiliar all at once, like the song of the Seine itself, wise, dark and timeless in its agedness.

"A stranger, am I?" The man asked. "Perhaps, now that I withdraw my guise, you shall admit that I am not so strange to you, after all."



Frollo watched with a morbid fascination that mingled inexorably with his impending fear as the black figure before him unveiled his looming mantle and was thus revealed to the Minister at long last.

The Archdeacon gasped aloud, his face suddenly contorted in a violent state of suspended horror. The Judge sought to regain his voice, to cry out into the waiting darkness, but no sound would come; no words could cross his lips; no excuses or objections now that he recognized with frightful comprehension the face that stared straight back at him; bathed in the full light of the blue moon:

It was his own.

The man who stared back at Frollo was Frollo. But how could that be? How was it possible?

This man, this being, whomever he was, was, indeed, made in the same exact replica as that of the Archdeacon. The likeness was incontestable. The man's slender form, cloaked in glistening black cloth was the same as Frollo's. His air, his authority, the way he managed to stand perfectly still as he looked onward at the dismayed Archdeacon… all was a direct echo. The way both breathed, inhaling with regality, and exhaling all the impurities of the world were utterly akin as well. But the face…the face was the most frightful of all, for no two lines were different. No crease of the brow was unlike, no raise of their pretentious eyes was dissimilar. That same hooked barb of a nose rested upon the axis of each face, those same sneering lips, curled in a perpetually knowing grin; those same hollow cheeks; same black pits of eyes that bored through to uncover every failing….all were seamlessly identical.

"What devilry is this?" The true Archdeacon asked in disbelief, when words would finally arrive to pass his parched lips.

"You still refuse to recognize me?" The Entity asked.

"I recognize you, yes," Frollo announced. "I recognize you as the foul fiend you are, sent from darkness to destroy me in my time of weakness! You are not welcome here, in any guise you so choose to take! Begone, wretch! This house stands upon hallowed ground which your impure feet may not tread upon!"

"You have the audacity to lecture me on impurity, Minister?" The Entity questioned, his tone sardonic and frigid, as he spoke with Frollo's same voice.

"I said, begone!" The Archdeacon commanded.

"You do not wish to know why I have come, but only when I intend to leave," the Entity replied with a startling insight as he withdrew his gaze from Frollo's for a moment and focused it upon another item; an article of some sort, that appeared, as if by magic, out of the stillness of thin air. This item, whatever it was, seemed of great interest to the spectre, who began to fawn over it, threading the soft fabric between his pallid fingertips.

Though he knew not what the enigma before him possessed, Frollo was suddenly struck with a dull throbbing in his temples; a recognition that came without understanding; something he feared somehow, though he knew not why.

The Entity chuckled quietly to himself as he held aloft the article he had been so fondling so it could now be seen with full clarity in the light that cascaded hauntingly through the window-frame.

It was the gypsy-girl's scarf.

Frollo stepped back despite himself. "It is not possible!" He spoke with a shudder. "I burned that. It was gone…it was…" he stopped.

"It was lost in the fire, yes," The Entity continued for him, "but why does that distress you so? What could be a simple trick of the eye makes you look as though you had just seen a ghost, Minister. I return it to you now, as evidence."

"Evidence? What do you mean?" Frollo asked.

"You think I have not been watching you,' The Entity replied with a patronizingly sympathetic smile. "But I have. I witness your torture day by day. I see how it divides you. But… have you ever paused to consider that it is a needless burden that haunts you so?"

"What do you speak of?" Frollo asked in an act of denial, useless though it was.

"The girl." The Entity replied assuredly. "Esmeralda. The woman who has so consumed your thoughts, your ultimatums, your faults, your…sins."

"It is not my fault!" Frollo growled. "I was bewitched by her heathen ways. But I maintain my power even yet. I can still combat her and the spell she seeks to cast upon me."

"Truly?" The Entity asked. "Well then, if that is truly the case, I seem to be wasting my time here."

"What?" Frollo questioned. "I do not understand."

"If your power exceeds my own, there is no purpose for me in your house. If you have the capability to dismiss Esmeralda from your eternal thought, then it seems as if my services are not required here after all," the voice finished, withdrawing the hand that still held the scarf out of the moonlight where it once more vanished into the blackened air. The black apparition turned once more toward the corner of the room, placing his back to Frollo one final time as he began to slowly glide toward the corner of the chamber where he had first appeared, gradually retreating into the encompassing shadows beyond.

"Wait…" Frollo spoke, his voice startling even himself as it emerged hoarsely from his throat, halting the steps of the mysterious figure with the mere plea of desperation that coursed through his weary tone.

"You could….help me?" Frollo asked weakly.

The figure in black turned back around.

"I could," he replied in that familiarly pensive voice, "if you so desire my assistance."

"What are your terms?" The Archdeacon inquired with grave trepidation.

"If you ask for my aid, I will render it to you willingly," The Entity replied. "I will help you obtain your…desires. But if you dismiss me again," the voice continued, "I shall not return to you twice. If you reject my offer, I shall leave you alone, even as you were before, desperate in those doubts and temptations you so seek to fight…and fail to conquer."

Frollo paused, considering this ultimatum. This enigma could aid him, he did not doubt it. Within that familiarly frightening exterior, a power resided that could be felt, locked away within those vacant eyes that stared expectantly back at him.

With aid, Frollo could obtain what he had so long craved; could keep his pride and power and finally slake the lust that had so long ensnared him body and soul. But was a bargain with darkness worth it? Was the Archdeacon truly ready to suffer eternal damnation for but one night of mortal rapture? To join that weak, licentious crowd he so hated and at the same time somehow envied? To live as a human man rather than a servant of God for just one night…was this worth his immortal soul?

"Creature…man…emissary: what am I to call you?" Frollo asked after a long and tentative pause had passed between them.

"I remain only that which I am," The Entity replied, "nothing more. There is no title that suits my purposes."

"Then do you not truly exist?" Frollo asked.

"Existence is a strange notion, so simply attained and just as quickly taken away. But if you can see me, hear me, feel my breath upon your face, then I should say I exist. I should say I always exist, even when you cannot behold me in human form. For I subsist within you, my good Minister."

"Should I be frightened?"

"Of yourself?" The man in black replied. "No, Claude. Be not frightened of what you are capable of, or you shall fail. If you wish to end your torment, first you must comprehend that it lies within you, and can be altered by yourself alone. I am only here to show you the way."

"Then whomever, or whatever you may truly be," Frollo spoke finally, "I do ask willingly for the aid you can render. I implore you to help me cleanse my soul of this perdition by… allowing me one night of mortal existence, damned or no though I may be afterward."

"Will you follow my orders? Will you heed the words I say? The actions I entreat you to take?"

"I will," Frollo replied. "If it shall bring me respite I shall do it."

"I offer you more than simple peace," The Entity spoke. "I offer you a breath of life; the power to fulfill your innermost fantasies and to feel with full sensation the gratification they contain. By this time tomorrow night, no more will your mind pose the question of 'what if?' You shall have all you crave, my friend, if you dare to take it."

"Done," Frollo agreed, the eager wave of expectation flushing his pale face as he extended his hand and clasped it in the palm of ghostly figure's as the two shook in a firm lock.

"To your future," The Entity smiled evilly.

"To Esmeralda," Frollo concurred. "By this time tomorrow, she shall be mine."

…IV…

Minister Frollo awoke at the coming of the dawn, the soft light of morning flooding in through his open window as the discrete breezes of a Parisian morning wafted through the satin curtains. The Archdeacon was at his desk, his face lost in a shuffle of papers scattered by the morning wind. The bells of Notre Dame were tolling solemnly. It was Sunday service at the grand cathedral.

The weary judge rubbed his head drowsily, as if he somehow sought to recollect a matter that eluded him; the whisp of some reverie that evaded the morning light. His head ached with dull memory from lack of rest and the remembrance of some obscure recollection. Had it all been some elaborate dream? Some scornful hoax his mind had played upon him? The gypsy-girl still resided in her cell down below, that at least, had been no delusion. But what of the man in black? The bargain? The plan?

Frollo stood slowly, his limbs tense and lethargic as he timidly looked out the window toward the waiting day beyond, chafing his eyes begrudgingly, attempting to dismiss the large black circles that had formed beneath them from want of rest. It had been naught but a figment, he decided, as he looked out upon the present. Nothing more than some strange illusion that he had so imagined. In the light of day the idea of shadowy specters and moon-filled chambers seemed the stuff of legends and not modern life. Frollo looked down dismissively, confounding himself for believing in such paltry notions. But as he looked down, turning aside from the window, he saw it. There, clasped in his hand, was the gypsy's scarf, even as he had beheld as he it the prior night. He crumpled it quickly in his palm, his eyes flashing about the room with the gaze of a wild beast, as if he expected to see his shadowy visitor return from out of the cold stones once more.

But it was not to be so. The room was filled now with the light of early day, with the chirruping of birds and the lilting sound of a lute far beyond in the stone causeway where the vagrants played their nameless tunes…where the gypsy-girl had so frequently danced in days before; unaware of the gaze that, even then, had so oft followed her delicious form…

Frollo unfurled the scarf once again, gingerly caressing it with his wary fingers. He remembered now, the images of the previous night flooding back into his conscious. He smiled grimly. It had been no dream. And tonight…. tonight would be proof of it.

A sudden knock came upon his door, jarring the Archdeacon's thoughts like crackling leaves in an Autumn wind. Frollo crumpled the scarf compulsively once again, slamming it into his bureau drawer.

"What do you want?" He asked loudly.

"Minister Frollo?" came a questioning voice. "The church-service, Sir. Your presence is required at the cathedral."

"Ah yes," Frollo muttered, remembering. "Duty. Prepare my carriage!" He called out. "I shall leave at once."

The footsteps of the guard slowly died out as they returned to the rooms below to make ready for the Minister's departure. Frollo looked about his chamber tentatively before withdrawing the scarf once more from his bureau drawer.

"Duty…" he repeated to himself again with a cruel chuckle. "Yes, for the day I shall remain a man of my obligations, but when the sky blackens above and the moon unveils herself once more," he smiled wickedly to himself, "I shall return."

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

The undertakings of the day passed abysmally slow for Minister Frollo. The usual requirements that his position mandated him to accomplish seemed to extend far past their appointed hours, as the endless march of time continued staggeringly onward. Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall had all come and gone twice, so it felt, and still it was not even yet midday.

Each instant the gleaming sun overhead shone down upon his dark frame, the Archdeacon was reminded how long and oppressive a wait he still had before him until night eased his troubled mind; before his plans could be set into motion. His only consolation through the tireless day was his memory. Over and over, the scenes of the past night revisited his head and became, each time he recalled them, all the more lucid….

There was no mistaking the quiet anticipation that haunted the Minister's steps that day, or the sly smile that spread across his face when he deemed none to be watching: Frollo was ready.

It seemed a veritable century when the low melancholy bells of the grand Cathedral finally raised their deep throats in the song that accompanied evening mass, the hour for the good people of Paris to pray, the Public officials to go back to their homes and hamlets, and gave the good Minister leave to return to the Palace of Justice where, unbeknownst to all, the gypsy-girl waited…helpless in her isolation.

…V…

Judge Claude Frollo closed the door to his bedchamber slowly, allowing it to click shut with that familiarly dull reverberation that not merely echoed within the surrounding hall, but seemed to toll a similar bell of doom within the Archdeacon himself. The arrangements were all but in place, now that the watchful hour of twilight had finally descended upon the city once more. The sun, now finally having submitted with incandescent restlessness back into the curvature of the hills and villages that lay beyond, had finally declined her same iridescent path. No outward change had occurred in the world; no noticeable sign that this evening would prove any different than all the others that the golden orb had found herself sinking into. All Paris had surrendered to another evening of transcendent peace; all praising the gloriousness of the day, none giving any heed whatsoever to the wonders that night could provide in its own turn…none save for one man, that is.

Claude Frollo watched the hue of the sky turn from tedious pastel to radiant indigo, set slowly aflame with a thousand burning white stars, and in this moment, the somber Judge actually allowed himself to revere its hushed magnificence. However, this single moment of unspoken relief was to be his last show of emotion that entire night. Soon thereafter, Frollo's eyes would once again glaze and blacken. No shred of passion would again plague his silent face. The Archdeacon had his orders, and he did not intend to fail now that his objective was within plain view; so very close.

If indeed the Minister did feel even the slightest stab of lustful impatience, his dark gaze did not betray him any longer, as he stood fixedly at his window looking out. No, quite the contrary in fact. One would have almost believed the Archdeacon to be cured of those inner-thoughts that had so recklessly heaved themselves upon his onerous brain the night before. But whether Frollo was, indeed truly cured, or simply was playing the part to achieve his own ends, none could say for certainty, so convincing was the newfound strength that had alighted upon him.

By and by, the dark silhouette of the Minister took leave of his view from the window, his ebony form turning back toward the inner confines of his spacious room, his robes gliding obediently after that majestic form. Frollo was a man of power once again, any fool could have seen that in the way the Archdeacon once more carried himself; gloating and imperious. His head was held erect and high upon his slender neck once more; his eyes refilled with the same contemptuous scorn as he looked upon the world without any feelings of either pity or joy.

Turning aside from his view, in one elegant gesture, Frollo reached up high above his own head and seized two items, shrouded in shadow, from the top of his lofty, dust-ridden shelf.

The first was a loaf of fresh-bread, heated to sweet perfection by Paris' finest baker only that afternoon. Frollo had picked it up himself as he sought to wile the day away. The second article though, was of a wholly different sort and nature entirely; fine wine, it was, contained in a vial that looked as if it had been carried straight out of antiquity and brought to the inelegant present.

The bread was to serve as Frollo's nightly meal, which he often took alone in the vast fire-chamber below; but the wine that resided in the peculiar urn… that would serve an entirely different purpose.

Tonight though, Frollo did not intend to dine unaccompanied. Tonight, he would extend an invitation of both his company and his meal to another, one he knew could not, even despite her pride, refuse the luxury of a fresh repast in her current state. The gypsy had not eaten for nearly two days now, and had drunk naught but rain-water that caught in droplets along the dank channels of her cell. She would have to accept the Archdeacon's summons.

Frollo's plan was now fully prepared. And dinner was where it was all to begin. The bread, as had been his orders, was wholly pure, fit for the both of them to eat. The wine however, which Frollo was not to drink, was far from ordinary. When the haunting specter had handed it to him the previous night, he had wondered at its hinted purpose, but now fully comprehended the worth of the marvelous gift that he had been given. For, as has been before mentioned, this was no ordinary wine. This liquid, that was to pass none but the gypsy-girl's lips alone, was an inhibitor to the mind…as well as a powerful aphrodisiac to the heart. One sip and its possessor would begin to feel lightheaded; perhaps even slightly more at ease with her company. A second taste, and the drinker might even believe herself to be harboring amorous feelings for her host. A third, and she would be utterly captivated by the movement of his lips as he spoke, the graceful arch of his hand as he rested it upon the tablecloth. And if she consumed the entire beverage… Esmeralda would be utterly powerless to Frollo's advances, for she too, would then be wholly consumed by an equally insatiable lust.

The Archdeacon's very skin trembled at the thought, but he maintained his poise, dismissing the preemptive shudder that strove to inhabit his body. Frollo, rather, placed his two items in the wicker-basket that waited by the door and exited his chamber, beginning the long downward spiral that led to the cellblock below.

The Archdeacon withdrew the familiar set of keys from beneath his dark cloak as he stepped down into the memorably dim corridor, gliding like a serpent around that one last bend until he stood once more before Esmeralda's cell.

And there she was within, even as he had left her. So graceful and demure she seemed, resting there in the corner like some wilted rose that has long been stifled of the sunlight it so needs to survive. The resolution was gone now from Esmeralda's eyes; her spirit seemingly all but quenched.

"Gypsy-girl," Frollo announced loudly, wasting no moment to speak lest involuntary weakness seek to seize him again, as he rapped heartlessly upon her cell-bars with his keys.

Esmeralda slowly raised her head. Recognizing the Archdeacon, her eyes filled with a soft spite; a cruel gaze that upon her fair face made her appear all the more courageous and beautiful, but even this defiance slowly faded into the obscurity of weariness, her soul far too weak to display such rapt emotion for long. Esmeralda resigned herself from her moment of contempt and turned her glance slowly away from the Minister's.

"What do you want with me?" She asked coolly, avoiding his stare.

"Want with you? Why nothing, of course," Frollo replied, his tone blandly inhabited by an indifferent nonchalance. "I wish nothing from or of you, I am but here to inform," he continued, pausing slightly before he began once more.

"I thought," Frollo slowly persisted, "that it might concern you to some degree, that your court-date has been set for the morrow. At dawn in fact, if I am correctly learned. And to the court is where you shall then be escorted by my guards, where the ruling and your final sentence shall be passed."

Esmeralda looked up at the Minister frigidly.

"My sentence?" She asked, a slight strength returning momentarily to her voice. "It will take more than threats of justice to frighten me," she replied assuredly. "You cannot so easily intimidate me. Do what you will. Try me. Torture me. Kill me, if you wish, you have the power! But know that even death I would welcome now. Anything to be free of your clutches."

"You disdainful wretch," Frollo replied authoritatively, unmoved. "How dare you bring me into this matter! My duty is a simple one, and I follow it with the utmost concern and consideration, and that is to make sure that justice is done to those guilty of crimes against God; It is my obligation to see that they are punished in this life and the next for their transgressions. You seek to hold me responsible for the effects of your sins, gypsy, a most unwise blunder," Frollo cautioned, his eyes glaring with intensity.

"Nevertheless," he continued, clearing his throat and regaining his self-possession, "It is God's duty to be your judge; not mine."

"And what then, if not to mock my suffering, is your duty here, Minister?" Esmeralda retaliated.

"To begin your purification, naturally," Frollo replied.

"And what is that to mean?" Esmeralda asked distrustfully.

"I am here to provide you, should you choose to accept it, your last worldly meal, so you may have the chance to ask for your redemption in God's most merciful eyes. It is a tradition, the last night of a prisoner's stay in the Palace of Justice, to partake of such a repast as an innocent, or should I say, before they are proven guilty before the court; before their falsehoods are revealed before the watchful eye of Our Lord."

"You offer me a collation?" Esmeralda asked.

"I prefer to call it your last chance of salvation," Frollo countered. "Which you may I seek to remind you, accept or refuse by your own free will."

Esmeralda looked up at the Minister's face, featureless in the dim light of impending night. This man was the murderer or her people; the assassin of her kin. To break her fast with him was to sup with the very Devil himself. This offer, as innocent as it may sound, could not possibly be an act of mercy from this utterly unmerciful man. To agree would be to turn her back upon both her sense and her people. She could not.

"I will never consent," Esmeralda replied firmly at long last.

"You would rather starve?" Frollo asked inquisitively. "Rather die than accept absolution from God? Your crimes must be far more abominable than I originally suspected for you to so wantonly reject salvation."

"I do not reject salvation," Esmeralda returned, "merely the hand that offers it. You are a demon!" she whispered accusingly. "You would just as soon poison a woman as look upon her."

"Poison?" Frollo asked. "Why would I ever consider a blasphemy such as that? Why would I, a man of prowess and conviction, attempt such a lowly feat as murder?"

"Because I rejected your love," Esmeralda replied.

"Love?" Frollo echoed in a facetious cry of cold laughter. "Love?" He repeated. "Are you implying that I, a public-official, a man who upholds the sanctity of church and law, a man of God, could ever suffer myself to love a creature such as you? Is that what you are suggesting, you pretentious she-witch?"

"You spoke the words yourself merely yesterday!" Esmeralda refuted.

"I'm afraid, girl," Frollo replied collecting himself, "that you painfully misunderstand my intentions. There is nothing from you which I desire, nothing you could offer me that would force me to freely abandon my jurisdictions; my life, my pride and principles. I will not deny that I am a harsh judge of character. That I am both willful and unmerciful, as I'm sure you have heard and realized before tonight. I do not take my obligations lightly in any case, or allow personal matters to pervert my duties. There is no mortal who receives preferential treatment from my hand. Every man, woman and child is dealt with in the same manner; seen in the same light."

"Yes," Esmeralda agreed. "In your eyes, we are all damned."

"If you so choose to be," Frollo replied arrogantly. "But for you to even have the audacity to believe me capable of the impurities of the common, adulterous soul that lies within every heathen, vagrant, and nameless ruffian, then you are sorely misled," The Minister reiterated coolly. "I devoted myself to my faith long before you graced this world, girl. It would take more than a sorceress to shake me from my virtue; more than an accused prisoner to come between myself and God. I fear, you deem yourself too powerful, gypsy."

Esmeralda looked deeply at the Archdeacon; truly looked. There was no remorse in his unyielding gaze; no hidden agenda that he would allow to be revealed. In his stance was divulged nothing save an utter mercilessness; a conceited cruelty; a mockery of her indomitable spirit. And in but one regard, the Judge was correct. There was no room for love within his pitiless heart; within the creature that stood before her, out-shadowing the sun, withholding her freedom for power and sport.

As Esmeralda beheld him in all his prolific glory, with all his supremacy and disdain, a strange doubt crept into her thought, and Esmeralda, in that instant, truly questioned herself. to wondered if indeed she had somehow misconstrued the cruel Minister's want for domination with a want for sensuality. Had Esmeralda been the one in the wrong all along?

"So, I ask again," Frollo continued, ignoring her thoughts as he haughtily flexed his pale hand in the light of the corridor, admiring his extravagant rings in the last remaining light of day. "Will you accept my offer for repentance?"

The Archdeacon did not look upon the gypsy-girl as he spoke, continuing to twirl his long, pale hand in the light, catching the glint off his luminescent jewels. This small motion seemed to, more than anything else, utterly cement the truth to Esmeralda: This man could afford no love in his callous heart.

But if truth be known, Frollo's brief motions actually signified a far greater danger that was creeping across his body; for every time he caught the eye of the gypsy-girl, he was overwhelmed by that cool beauty which meshed so discreetly with the perfection of her valiantly dark words. The Archdeacon feared the power she had over him, feared that if it grabbed hold, it could not be denied twice. Esmeralda, though she knew it not, was slowly destroying the wretched Minister from the inside out, breaking down his already frail façade.

Frollo cleared his throat once more. He could feel her eyes upon him; feel that sultry gaze watching his every move. He could not give in so easily. He would not. He was too close to fail now. Far too close.

The Archdeacon forced his gaze back upon the gypsy, shaking himself loose from the clutches of his weary mind.

"So," Frollo continued once more, "will you accept your final meal; accept the mercy that our Lord God may yet bestow upon you should you choose to ask for his aid? Or would you rather wallow in your doubt; in doubt and darkness, hollow and cold, unaided and utterly without hope of clemency in this life, so long as it lasts?"

Esmeralda looked up at his face one last time before her lips parted in a reply that would not come; that arrived stillborn. She searched his lean, cold face for mercy, for compassion, but she saw none. She was utterly alone. Frollo's eyes gazed back at her, unmoved by her plight; utterly blank. The Archdeacon had done it. He had trapped his thoughts behind closed doors and locked windows, and they would not slip again, such was his lust for triumph. The gypsy Esmeralda rested in the palm of his hand now, and within, Frollo reveled in his victory with a diabolical triumph that could be felt dancing across his flesh.

The gypsy-girl slowly moved, standing once more from her dark corner, shakily beginning to walk toward the dark silhouette that stood before her; toward the door to her cell. Though she did not wish him to see her fear, she knew it inevitably glimmered in her frozen eyes as her heart beat rapidly within her chest with each soundless step she took towards what was likely to be her doom.

For a moment Esmeralda stood there before the Archdeacon, neither she nor he speaking a word. Her presence was enough to signify her acceptance. Frollo slowly turned the key to her cell, sliding the door aside with a hollow clang; unlocking her prison; releasing her from her confinement.

An instant passed before either made a move. Esmeralda stood before the Minister, refusing his gaze, as their two forms stood so close they all but touched, the girl utterly helpless now without the safety of her confines to block her from Frollo's uninhibited glance of vicious condescension which, in turn, mingled with a suppressed yearning that Esmeralda remained oblivious to; that she believed to be purged. In that singular instant, nothing stood between them; no buttress or wall, nothing that separated the priest from his most dire of temptations, but Frollo's mind was already made up. He would not come so near to failing twice.

Without a second glance, the Minister turned his dark back to her and beckoned with nothing more than a gesture of his hand that acknowledged his desire for her to follow. Esmeralda was trapped and she knew it with dark clarity. She had no choice but to follow down that dark corridor, after the figure in black, softly stepping ever onward toward unalterable fate.

…VI…

The Archdeacon was cautious to the utmost degree that his cordialities seemed nothing more than the usual pleasantries that were obligatorily bestowed upon prisoners once they chose to accept redemption. Frollo strove to make no movement that would betray his inner mind, gesturing rather, for the gypsy-girl to enter the spacious confines of the entry-room before him.

A long table was set for two within the stone hallway, and a set of glowing candelabras stood like echoing sentinels upon either side of it, making painfully clear the utter emptiness that suffocated the room with that solitary sense of restless foreboding.

The fire had been lit once more within the spacious hearth. As it kindled to new life, it spread those same flickering crimson wings out upon the floor, darkening the already stifled hall with scarlet apprehension. The shadow of the flames encased themselves upon the haunting scene, writhing with twisted longing as they groped their flitting fingers out toward the two figures who stood now at opposite ends of the table, fanning the slightest heat that permeated the skin with tepid trepidation.

The gypsy Esmeralda watched the fire closely for a moment, seemingly transfixed by the omnipresent glow that crept across her flesh. It was the Archdeacon's singular movement that jarred her glance back to the present, as he extended his long, cloaked arm out toward a waiting chair.

The gypsy-girl wordlessly took her tentative seat across from the Judge, who still stood with a quiet knowledge upon the converse side of the table. Esmeralda did not once take her eyes from his dark form, looking upon that hateful figure with a keen distrust, which, strangely she found to now be mingling with a dark curiosity; a mix of repugnance and fearful awe inhabited her stare as the Minister's robes glimmered broodingly for but a moment in the fire-light as he took a step toward her, his motions direct and inescapable.

Esmeralda recoiled slightly as he came nearer, as if she wished to avoid the utter inescapability of his wretched stare, which unyieldingly afflicted her every movement, seeking to penetrate down to her core; that gaze which remained riveted upon her even yet in morbid fascination.

"Why do you withdraw?" He asked tentatively when he had finally neared her. "Do you still distrust me even yet, child?"

"Yes," she answered quietly. "Yes, and always."

"If only there was something I could say to amend that," Frollo spoke, his brash voice now strangely soothing as he spoke. "But, no matter, I suppose," he spoke with a smile. "For I am here to offer you your chance of redemption in the eyes of our Lord. I look for neither your friendship nor your trust."

Esmeralda gazed up at him spitefully. "Then do not seek to catch me at unawares. There is nothing you can do to make me believe a word you say," she replied angrily. "You seek for nothing more than to mock my pain."

"Do I?" Frollo asked, amusedly.

"Why else would you stand over me so? Gloating in your triumphs. You have won! Are you not satisfied?"
"You believe your plight entertains me, do you?" He questioned "Once more, you are sorely misled."

"Then why do you remain?" Esmeralda spoke irately.

"It is customary for the wine of the prisoner to be poured by an untainted hand," he smiled, taking the bottle from beneath the cloths of the wicker basket he had carried from his chambers. "It is simply part of my duty," he spoke, extending into a mock-bow. "You suspect me too much, dear girl."

"You have given me no cause to trust you," Esmeralda replied coldly.

"You have give me no cause to appear trustworthy," Frollo returned disdainfully. "Though if you think that I am a danger to your life, you are most unfortunately deluded. If I had wanted to, know that I could have easily killed you half a dozen times tonight already."

"Comforting," Esmeralda replied, her gaze darkening.

"I do not seek to provide you with comfort, merely with the truth," the Archdeacon replied mellifluously. "So, I shall pour your wine and then withdraw, as further proof that I have no ill-will towards you on this night."

The Archdeacon smiled subtly as he uncorked the strange vial. Esmeralda watched as his pale hand came nearer toward her, taking her goblet in his grasp. A mauve liquid streamed into her glass, sparkling in that dreaded fire-light which seemed to ignite the spill of wine with a strange, other-worldly glow. The peculiar beverage swirled in her cup with all the grace and agility of a dance, twisting with elegant beauty within the goblet before it finally settled, dark as the poignancy of night which had enclosed about them. Frollo's hand lingered for a moment as he tipped the bottle back upwards, the fire-light tracing upon his pale fingers, bathing his outstretched hand in a configuration of dancing shadow. Esmeralda's eyes locked unwillingly upon that deadly grip, so terrifying in the power that it grasped the vial, like a brittle rope that slowly tightens about the victim's throat. It was in this small fragment of a moment, as Esmeralda's gaze remained riveted upon Frollo's movements, that she saw, almost intangible though it was, the slightest trembling shudder run through the Priest's finger-tips. The movement was slight, almost not there at all, as if it was being fought from within; silently attempting to be suppressed, but this motion that she had discreetly been privy to, had not been a shiver caused by either fear or cold. No, this shudder had been one filled with inescapable passion; a concealed intensity that the gypsy could suddenly decipher with startling clarity.

"Why do you look upon me so?" Frollo asked, noticing her glance, as he raised a condemnatory eyebrow in her direction.

That stone voice roused Esmeralda from her reverie; jarring her thought. The Archdeacon was not aware that the gypsy-girl had witnessed his failing moment, and Esmeralda did not wish him to know. He still held a mastery over her, one that could not lightly be denied. Something in his voice; within his very aura, was of a deadly nature, concealing a withheld fury that if provoked could even yet overflow with the same heat, force, and tireless intent as the very fire itself, which even at that moment, blazed to new heights within the shadowed hearth; laughing with its wide open sneer at the gypsy's plight; at her powerlessness.

"It was nothing," she spoke with quiet denial. "Nothing."

"You act with such cordialities, Esmeralda," The Archdeacon smiled, his silver-tongued voice gliding across her name with a cruel interest, "and yet there is no need to feign that you are not hungry," he added, extending the basket of bread to her. "You are here to take a meal, after all."

Esmeralda looked back reticently toward his hand. The shiver that had so tacitly passed through the Minister's fingers was gone; dissipated in the mounting shadows that consumed the room gravely from some unknown beyond. Whatever fleeting moment had seized Frollo, it had passed…or perhaps it had never even occurred at all; had been nothing more than a trick of the light upon his cold grip.

"Take it," Frollo spoke, his voice stern in its dark furtiveness as he extended a loaf of bread her way. "I only offer once."

Esmeralda tentatively obeyed his command, taking the loaf of bread from the Archdeacon's outstretched hands, her motion returning that knowing gleam to Frollo's smoldering eyes.

"Do you accept this last meal as your final chance for redemption in the eyes of our Lord?" He asked her, his hands bridged in feigned-prayer.

"Yes," Esmeralda replied.

"And do you ask for his mercy and clemency to fall upon your most unworthy soul?"

"With all my heart," Esmeralda replied in a quiet whisper.

"Then, I grant you leave to partake of your meal," Frollo replied, slowly turning his back once more to the gypsy-girl as he returned to his own seat upon the converse side of the table.

Esmeralda could not help but stifle a shudder as his chill form passed by once again, so close that she could feel the slightest breeze ruffle her hair as his blackened robes all but touched her bare skin.

Frollo seated himself upon the opposite end of the table, wordless in his motions, reveling in some obscure thought that had come to occupy his urbane mind.

Esmeralda could feel those cold eyes bear down upon her once more, and she knew with frigid certainty that her every move was being watched. And yet she was so hungry, so wanting of sustenance that she would have not cared should one thousand cruel, cold eyes be cast upon her form. She slowly began to eat the bread-loaf upon her plate, the soft crust so comforting to her dry throat, the taste so welcoming after days of nothingness. Esmeralda, despite the graveness of her predicament, was actually allowed a single fleeting moment of tranquil contentment as she hate; her hunger slowly abating as the soft nourishment passed her lips.

Frollo continued to watch her silently. The time had all but come. He would propose the customary raising of the glasses, where finally, Esmeralda would drink. His aspirations were so close within his grasp now, and in every movement the girl made; every gesture, every time she closed her eyes to savor the taste that lingered upon her crimson lips, Frollo's lust grew all the darker in its surmounting concentration.

"Do not neglect the wine, my girl," Frollo reminded her quietly.

Esmeralda stopped eating for a moment to look upon him, his relentlessly honeyed voice returning her to the unnerving present.

"It is the blood of our Lord," he reminded her, seeking out an excuse for her to drink. "Your final plea for salvation. May you find it, God willing," he spoke, raising his own glass, which, unbeknownst to the gypsy-girl contained nothing more than mere water.

"God willing," she nodded, as she slowly brought the liquid to her lips and unsuspectingly allowed the impure drops to work their spell upon her as they slowly trickled across her tongue.

Frollo surveyed the scene in anticipatory awe. He had done it. The girl was all but his. And now….now only time would tell how the bewitching brew would work upon the gypsy Esmeralda; would numb her to the Judge's awful will.

…VII…

The full darkness of night had now descended into the cool streets of sleeping Paris, creeping methodically into the deepest corners and hidden passageways as evening's full cloak of starlit azure blanketed the fading sky above the tranquil city.

Night, in all its watchful glory had arrived even to the Palace of Justice; had crawled up the steps; seeped through the cracks and crevices of the supercilious architecture of those stone causeways, delightfully fluttering within the smoldering tongues of flame that leapt within the hearth; concealing its black breath within the furthermost corners of the haunting halls.

However, it was entirely possible that the deepest strain of ebony thought burned from within, rather than out, as the Archdeacon's mind was overrun with the faintness of anxiously darkened contemplation.

Judge Claude Frollo himself had long since finished his evening meal, and now but remained out of inner entrapment, locked away within the wistful silence that night had brought upon him, as he continued to watch the gypsy-girl before him. Frollo had not spoken the entire time since she had begun to sip the delicate contents of her goblet, for fear that he would wake from this nightly reverie; to find it all nothing more than another figment. He hardly breathed, such was his discretion; merely became a pair of eyes; ever-watchful and unyieldingly intent as he looked upon the gypsy-girl, his flesh burning with halted anticipation, waiting for some unknown stroke of fate to prove to him that the potion had succeeded in its intended purpose. His eyes smoldered with expectation, his soul binding itself up within the graceful motion of her lips as she brought the rim of the goblet to her lustrous mouth…

All time and movement seemed to move so doggedly; to be caught in some cruel web where each action seemed suspended within an hour, and Frollo could do not but watch; watch and wait.

Nearly a half-hour prior, when Esmeralda had allowed the first sip of wine to pass her untainted lips, the effect had appeared almost instantaneous. She had seemed dazed, almost bewildered by the feeling that the wine had stirred within her so suddenly. Esmeralda had put a wavering hand to her head, trying to collect her thoughts as they fled to escape her, logic abandoning her mind; reason eluding her. She had looked to Frollo in this moment, her gaze falling upon his lofty form. His eyes, even then had been riveted upon her. Her vision had blurred then, blurred and cleared again, as if she was falling into a potent sleep. The events of the evening seemed to be the only clear account within her mind. She saw Frollo's lips curl into a thin smile as he observed these events, before her eyes shut heavily once more, trying to regain hold upon the present.

Esmeralda recalled with peculiar clarity the strange tremor that had shaken the hand of the Archdeacon as he had poured her the wine, and a thought occurred to her then, within that moment of remembrance; a hidden thought, a secret thought, one she was not supposed to consider if the draught had truly possessed her within its grasp. But there it was, all the same, staring her in the face: Was it possible that this seemingly pious paradox of a man, this Claude Frollo, was nothing more than a talented actor? Esmeralda rubbed her fevered brow once more as she recalled his denial when she confronted him with the feelings she had so long believed him to possess. He had refuted her accusations with such blatant conviction…And yet, doubt still lingered within Esmeralda's mind. Beneath that seemingly austere and heartless exterior of cruelty and shadow, could it be possible that this man had been burning all the while? Could his act of righteousness simply be nothing save a convincing charade? And if this was so, how could his mask be stripped away?

All these thoughts had come and left the mind of the gypsy-girl, banished once and for all after the second sip of wine seized her in its grasp. Now, finally, a half-hour after her first swallow of the polluted beverage, her goblet was emptied, as she tilted her head lightly and allowed the last remaining drop to catch upon her rubious lips. Esmeralda placed the goblet down before her, in one deliberate motion that somehow made the Archdeacon's nervous heart kindle anew with such an intense mixture of trepidation and temptation. Had his plan succeeded?

Esmeralda traced her fingers around the stem of the wine-glass with a coy satisfaction; a subtle purpose ingrained within her luminous stare as she concentrated wholly upon the empty goblet. Her movements were slow and sensual, akin to some haunting ballet. Frollo was utterly transfixed by every move she made, as he leaned forward discreetly within his chair, intoxicated in his watch.

Esmeralda's gaze fell upon him slowly, as she looked up for the first time since the beginning of the meal. Her glance caught the Minister's with a strangely inexplicable heat, igniting hidden urges that the proud Archdeacon, even then, had never before wholly allowed himself to feel. Frollo grasped the edges of his chair for support, and yet the gypsy's stare did not waver from his discomfited form, but remained, rather, locked upon him; all-encompassing as emotions consumed the man who weakened before her. Even when the Archdeacon shut his weary eyes, he still saw that sultry stare, burning like the imprint of the sun upon his corneas. He saw her; felt her, knew she was searching his soul.

"Are you feeling well, Minister?" Esmeralda's voice quietly asked, gliding sumptuously upon the air as she spoke. An unknown change now inhabited her tone, glistened behind her words. Slight though this alteration was, it remained wholly audible to Frollo's perceptive ears. Her voice caressed every syllable in a deadly embrace as she spoke, her breath sighing faintly between each sensuous word.

"I am…tired," Frollo murmured dismissively as he took leave of his seat, attempting to straighten his rigid figure with the same air of authority and derision that he so usually possessed, but it would not come to him. He was weakened by this exchange and was yet incapable of countering the gypsy's fiery glance with convincing words to deny his true thought.

"What prevents you then from retiring for the evening if you are so…exhausted?" she asked, her jade eyes subtly pleading as she spoke.

"You…do not know?" Frollo replied, pausing slightly after the full sentence had unintentionally escaped his dry lips. He stood there stalk-still, his eyes hovering above Esmeralda's form; afraid he had given too much away too soon.

The light of the fire flickered temptingly about the gypsy-girl, cresting upon her raven hair which she allowed to fall seductively upon her bare shoulders. He could not help himself now. Frollo's mind was utterly enamored by her blazing grace and beauty. He no longer cared for discretion, nor did he have the power to apply it.

Esmeralda smiled slightly as she relished his words, her fingers continuing their trailing path up and around the stem of the wine glass, reaching a crescendo finally upon its rim; twirling playfully as Frollo's tension mounted; his desire increasing with each move she made; and each novel sensation his mind brought darkly forward in turn.

"What does this silence mean?" he asked her, his voice tense; plagued with residual questioning. "Acceptance? Refusal? Will you yet deny me?"

"What do you mean, Sir?" Esmeralda asked him, her breath soft as the wings of a dove, illuminating the very darkness with the quiet significance that lingered within the confines of that same illustrious voice that had whispered for so long within the Minister's own secret thought.

Frollo could not bare this charade a moment longer. This was all the evidence he needed to prove that the potion had achieved its desired effect. He had come to it now. This was his defining moment. He still had a choice. He could refuse her; reject her advances, and in doing so reject that same desire that would lead to his imminent destruction. It was all too simple to catch her in the trap, to bear her back to her cell, back to the obscurity of darkness where he could purge her from his thoughts…but it was already too late. She could not be purged. The threshold had been crossed, and Frollo realized with dull clarity that the option of righteousness was now closed to him forever. He stared eye to eye with his very condemnation, and realized with utter clarity that he was already embracing it with glorified reception.

"Esmeralda," he spoke, her name sliding from his lips with incontestable yearning, as he slowly began to walk toward her, his dark robes catching the glow of the resplendent fire, giving him the appearance of burning outwardly as well as in. The gypsy rose to greet his advance, her walk lingeringly subservient as she gracefully edged forward toward the Priest, her moves slow and sumptuously steady.

Their two forms stopped only a mere pace apart from one another, bathed in the warmth of the audacious firelight; that flaming torrent which was now sole witness to the corrupt revelation that had seemingly seized both souls in its unwaveringly desperate grasp.

The Archdeacon's eyes welled with morose desire as he looked down upon his prize; the gypsy-girl: his savior and his damnation all at once, but now all hesitance was gone from his leering soul. Frollo welcomed his forthcoming sin with dark delight.

"To live a mortal life," The Archdeacon whispered aloud, savoring the idea with sweet satisfaction as it caressed his lips. "To feel the contours of your body against my own. For one night, I would willingly suffer eternity…Simply to know the softness of your breath; the warmth of your flesh; the taste of one…impure… kiss…" he spoke, his voice filling with aching aspiration as he gently reached out one pale hand, which alighted gingerly upon the naked skin of Esmeralda's tender neck.

The gypsy-girl looked back at him, her eyes reflecting the Minister's tainted longing, even as Frollo tilted his head ever so slightly toward hers, his eyes closing as he bent forward, inebriated by his craving; reveling in that final moment before his victory.

Esmeralda was his.

The moment when their lips first quietly touched was so torturously soft in its infinite caress; so wildly enlivened with repressed urges; so livid in its passion and its darkness. Damnation and Eternity had now ceased to subsist as the Priest's mouth slowly enveloped that of the woman he so craved. Repercussions no longer existed. This kiss grew, mounting in ravenous delight. The feel of flesh upon flesh, so utterly incontestable in its lust; hypnotic in its power; sublime in its rapt immorality…

And yet, it was not to be.

The Archdeacon's moment of glorified delight was stopped with such uncouth abruption, even as the gypsy's kiss met his own again with yearning…for a cold feeling, altogether alien to the situation at hand, interrupted the taste of the gypsy's ample lips as they met with his own. A pressing sensation as harsh as steel had suddenly twisted up beneath he Minister's rigid chin, halting the path of his ardent kiss before he could truly revel in the sublimity of its triumph. A knife was pressed ruthlessly against his pale skin, only a mere thrust away from drawing blood.

Esmeralda disentangled herself from his lustful grip, breaking free with a sudden, concealed power as she grasped her weapon with cruel anguish, pushing it against the exposed flesh beneath Frollo's staunch chin.

Frollo's arms went up instinctively in an act of defenselessness; Seized with vulnerability as the situation slowly began to sort itself within his previously oblivious mind.

"What are you doing?" He asked the gypsy.

"You are not in a position to ask questions now, Minister," Esmeralda replied callously. "If you value your life, that is."

"But the wine…" Frollo spoke after the moment of bewildered disbelief released him. "You drank it…you did…" He sputtered convulsively.

"Did I?" Esmeralda questioned, as she looked back toward her place at the table. The long, limp tablecloth which dangled wearily upon the floor was kicked aside with sudden force by the gypsy-girl. And now Frollo saw with sudden, irrevocable horror that he had been deceived. For there, upon the floor, previously hidden to his prying eye lay a puddle of still red liquid; silent as a bloodstain upon the stone tiles. The gypsy had poured the wine out in secret!

"But how?" Frollo asked, a sudden powerless fury seizing his voice.

"How did I know?" Esmeralda finished. "Really, Minister you are far from secretive. I saw the pulse that all but rushed through your blood from the second you poured your potion into my cup. Every gesture you made, every knowing smile, every longing glance that followed only solidified my belief. Did you think I was a fool? That I would not notice? That I would not suspect you? I told you I could never trust a creature such as yourself. I would never have believed your lies of reform!"

"A hoax." Frollo spoke, sneering wickedly as understanding gripped him. "Such a clever witch, as I have said before. You knew to play along was your only chance of catching me at unawares! Yet your powers of deduction cannot save you from your fate now. You're as good as dead for this act of treason. Trust in that, if you cannot trust in anything else I say. For retribution shall find you swiftly if you so dare…"

"Your retribution?" Esmeralda interrupted mockingly, thrusting her knife mercilessly closer to the Minister's tender flesh. Frollo flinched as the point dug pitilessly into his neck, drawing a single drop of crimson blood to taint its clean blade.

"What retribution do you think you can inflict if you are dead? Really Minister," Esmeralda smiled darkly, "you deem yourself too powerful."

Frollo's eyes glazed with unfathomable betrayal and hatred which intermingled within him, recognizing his own words as they spilled vehemently from those lips he had so worshipped moments before.

"So what now, gypsy?" He asked her evilly, somehow maintaining that imperturbable air of condescension as he spoke. "Where do you intend to go? What do you plan to do now that you have me within your grasp? Kill me?"

"No," Esmeralda spoke, her lips curling into a dark glower of contempt. "I shall not spill any more of your blood tonight. For unlike you," she spoke, withdrawing slightly, " I value my soul. I would not forsake it so willingly by allowing myself to fall to your level of heartless carnage…so much as I may wish it."

"My level?" Frollo whispered violently. "You heathen-wretch! Do you not think I will find you if you run? That I will not catch you if you flee? How far do you truly think you can get before I close the gates of Paris and trap you once more in my net? You know I have the power to do it," the Minister threatened sinisterly.

"Yes, you have your power," Esmeralda agreed. "Power over those weaker than yourself. Power to control the masses, to make the poor and defenseless fear you. And yet for all your dominion, you can never make me love you."

"Love?" Frollo laughed haughtily. "Love? Love has got nothing to do with it!"

"Do you still deny yourself?" Esmeralda asked. "Are you still so arrogant to deny yourself?"

"I could have offered you freedom," Frollo sneered, distancing himself from the question. "Could have given you sanctuary within these walls. To willingly be mine, to belong to me. But you have chosen to make this… difficult. I will not offer again. Give yourself up to me and I shall be lenient!"

"I do not wish for your clemency," Esmeralda scoffed. "To be yours? I would rather burn tonight!"

"I cannot grant you that request," Frollo spoke with soft anger. "But know this: whether in a day or in a century, I will find you wherever you hide. I will hunt you like a wolf among the unsuspecting flock. I will follow your scent; haunt your steps; always watching; always waiting. Around that corner, you shall never be safe. Up that dark alleyway, you shall always wonder if I lurk within the shadows. And you shall never know if your fears are justified until I have, at last, found you again, but by then it will be too late for escape. I cannot spare your miserable life twice, just as you cannot evade me for eternity. Give yourself up now, I command you!"

"Your threats hold no sway over me any longer," Esmeralda spoke, her knife remaining fixed upon Frollo's flesh; a constant reminder of who truly held the power. "You can pursue me to the furthest corners of land and sea. Do your worst. I will never be yours."

"You shall be mine!" Frollo snarled. "Someday you shall indeed. And then you will regret your rashness that you would not give yourself to me willingly. For when we meet a second time, I shall not be merciful."

"Merciful?" Esmeralda echoed incredulously. "That word is as unfamiliar to your lips as any other or hope or compassion. Now move toward the door," she ordered assertively.

Frollo could not refuse the command. His black form backed away from the table slowly, as the once-proud Minister retreated toward the double-doors at the entrance of the Palace; all the while, Esmeralda's cruel steel grating against his skin.

"I will discover you," The Archdeacon spoke again, slowly turning around once more, despite Esmeralda's firm grip upon the knife.

"Unlock the doors," she spoke aggressively.

"I don't think you would truly do it," Frollo replied, taking a step forward, challenging her.

"Kill you?" Esmeralda asked. "Continue toward me, and you will certainly find out just how serious I am."

"You said you wouldn't," Frollo spoke again, his voice rising slightly as he continued to advance, a sly smile beginning to cross his lips.

"And you believed me?" Esmeralda retorted determinedly, though despite the valor that occupied her voice, she still withdrew somewhat as the Minister came nearer, seeking to corner her.

"You will let me go," she spoke forcefully.

"Will I?" Frollo asked, regaining his confidence as he reached out his hand to grab her.

But Esmeralda was still quicker. The gypsy-girl took this moment to seize a hidden knife from beneath her skirts, which she flicked up to the neck of the Minister in the flash of an instant. Now two blades of cold, penetrating steel encroached upon Frollo's soft flesh.

"You will," Esmeralda spoke compellingly, advancing upon Frollo once more. "It would be unwise to make me ask again."

The Archdeacon was at an impasse now as the two cold knives firmly set themselves against his white neck. The two figures returned slowly to the massive entryway, where Frollo begrudgingly began to remove the wooden bar that locked the great opening. The massive doors swung open slowly, grating abrasively against the stone passage with reluctant pride, as the first whisp of fresh night air wafted inward from the outside world.

"Freedom…" Esmeralda whispered as the soft night wind kissed her flesh.

Frollo watched her contemptuously, his cold eyes locking one final time upon her own. "It shall not last forever," he threatened. "I keep to my vow. I will discover you. When and where may remain undetermined, but I swear to it. One day…"

"Yes, one day," Esmeralda spoke gravely. "Perhaps so. But not this day. And until my hour of judgment arrives, whether it be from your hand or no, there is nothing more I can say or do now, except to leave you as you are; solitary and unaided, cruel and alone. Until we meet again, Minister," she concluded, her gaze piercing the Archdeacon's one final time before the gypsy-girl withdrew her weapons in one swift and mellifluous movement, and ran down the Palace steps, where she thus disappeared, her graceful form merging with the shadows of the night until she was lost within the darkness of the streets of Paris.

Frollo stood motionless upon those proud steps for some while, lost in his own dark, unfathomable thoughts, before he returned through that familiar threshold, the doors slamming shut behind his passing form. The Minister's face contorted in impending rage, though the true fury that inflicted his features was lost within the gathering darkness that fell like a stifling cloak within the Palace hall.

The Archdeacon's only comfort now lay in the glowing embers of the once grand fire, now diminished to nothing more than a ragged echo of the scorching glory of its former self; weakened to nothing more that a few smoldering coals, darkling within some remote depth of unimaginable anguish. In this moment, as Frollo beheld the empty fire, he was seized with a certainty that he was no longer alone.

"What happened?" The voice asked, emerging from somewhere within the dead flames, though no body could be seen within the cold hearth as the last brilliant coals grew dull and lifeless.

"She…escaped," Frollo spoke, twisting his hand through his disheveled hair in mounting anger and pained powerlessness.

"You mean, you let her escape," The Entity replied, his black cloaks barely visible against the bleakness of the dim hearth.

"I did not give her up!" Frollo cried aloud in his own defense. "I will not give her up."

"I practically handed you that girl on a silver platter, and you let her go so easily?"

"Cease your judgmental mockeries!" Frollo demanded, trembling with suppressed thought. "And do not for a moment think that I wished her to go! I had no choice. There was no alternate option. She bewitched me! She made me believe that my plan had succeeded…when all along she saw through me! Read my innermost mind! Do you know how close I was? Her heart, her soul… all were within my grasp! I touched her skin against my own! Her lips converged with mine! I can feel her against my body!"

"But she is gone now, nonetheless," The Entity replied softly. "Which leaves me with but one question for you, Minister: Do you give up? Will you now admit yourself defeated?"

"What more can I do?" Frollo asked pleadingly. "She is gone…"

"But will you allow her to go… freely?" The voice asked coldly.

"She will evade me," Frollo spoke weakly. "She will consume my thought, day and night, as I lay awake in my agony, longing for what could have been; craving what almost was. I will see her, feel her, writhe at the thought of her touch, now that I know it well. I shall be inflamed in my damnation…. And yet even there she will evade me," he concluded reproachfully. "I will find no solace so long as she lives freely. Free to love another, free to escape my wrath; to evade my…desire."

"Then you must be unmerciful," The Entity replied, as a cold hand, like the frigid breath of death alighted upon Frollo's shoulder. "When you cross her path again, it is you who must make the choice. One of you shall be destroyed. But which shall it be? Will the good Minister forsake his reputation; his salvation now that he has been given a second chance? Or will the gypsy be justly punished for her sins, for the sins she all but made you commit? And if you are to meet again…will you destroy her? Or rather, should I ask, will you allow her to destroy you"

"She shall not prove my doom," Frollo resolved, turning his back from the watchful fireplace. "She will be mine…or she will burn."

"Is that your final vow?"

"I swear to it," Frollo grimaced. "I swear upon my pride, my life. Until my soul leaves my body and wastes in the abyss, I will not yield until it is fulfilled. Will not rest until she either consents to my bed or hangs from the gibbet. She will be mine, or she shall die."

"Good," The voice smiled.

And with that, Frollo found himself alone once more within the dark emptiness of the silent stone hall, a cool wind blowing in from an open window high above; the cruel light of the moon the only remaining witness to the Minister's agony as its luminous light spilled silently upon the Archdeacon's motionless form, smiling upon his misery.

As Frollo collapsed wretchedly into the darkness of his vow, a slow sound began to escape unknowingly from his throat; a soft laughter that parted his dry lips, gaining volume as it sinisterly reverberated across the vacant room. The monstrous splendor of his oath seized him in its grasp; a hope parting the darkness of his mind. It was not over yet. Frollo's cold voice shook as it rose, hovering with gleeful malice as it drifted out the open window, and there wafted through the darkness of Paris upon a watchful breeze.