Foolish Romanticist, a hunchback of notre dame fanfic

Title: Foolish Romanticist

Pairing: Frollo/Esmeralda

Rating: T

Warnings: Angst. Mild sensuality.

A/N: So basically I'm pretty much obsessed with NDdP and Frollo. I could prattle on and on about absolutely amazing he is, but that would be boring. Writing this was extremely difficult, because I was worried sick about getting everyone's characterization correct. Anyway, this is bookverse, and is influenced by the French musical. Haven't seen it? Watch it. Now. Thanks to SweetSeptemberStorm for betaing this.

It began with a fleeting glance.

Of course upon further inspection, it actually began earlier than that. You don't know exactly why you left had left the confines of your laboratory; the reasons remain unknown. Nevertheless, here you are, walking the streets, listening to the lively music echoing throughout the sweet-smelling air. Although the sun has already begun its fiery descent and the stars have started appearing like twinkling diamonds, the people have yet to stop their merry festivities. More than once you've been forced to swiftly step out of the way of a passerby with a bottle of an unidentified drink in hand. Just when you're ready to head back, you see a crowd of people. They're standing around a bonfire, watching something other than the slowly burning wood and flames that seem to reach up to heaven.

A spark of interest (that you don't really want to admit to yourself) ignites within you and before you know it you're standing amongst the entranced crowd. It takes a few moments to register exactly what you're staring at, and when you do; your heart mysteriously begins to beat faster than usual.

A gypsy girl dances around the fire; her waist-length ebony hair flows through the wind as wildly as a leaf caught in an autumn breeze. The dress she wears is as red as the descending sun, and her eyes are as dark as the sky will be in only a short amount of time. All around the people whisper the gypsy girl's name; some with a hint of desire, others with apparent scorn.

"Esmeralda. Look, it's Esmeralda the gypsy girl," you hear them murmur from all around, in varying tones. You immediately dislike the name, finding it almost sinful in nature. In fact, this whole display was sinful; how Esmeralda danced around the fire with all eyes transfixed on her seemed influenced by witchcraft.

"There is sorcery at the bottom of this," you say, ignoring the reproachful glares, and even a few women telling you to hush. Esmeralda continues to dance, but she fleetingly glanced over at you, wanting to look upon the one person who dared to criticize her sensual dance. When both pairs of your dark eyes meet, it's you who look away first. The feeling resonating in your chest is incredibly uncomfortable, so you quickly leave the crowd and gypsy girl behind. You simply regard the nameless emotion coursing through your chest as the effects of Esmeralda's apparent sorcery.

Deep down, secretly, you know its something else.

After tracking down Quasimodo, (who wasn't to be found in the cathedral) you're both surprised and horrified to learn that the bell-ringer had been crowned the king of fools. What was all the more alarming was when he began prattling on about an ebony-haired gypsy that had crowned him and how absolutely lovely she was. You put two and two together and realize that the girl Quasimodo is speaking of is actually Esmeralda. Even thinking her name stirs something incredibly foreign and alien within you.

Suddenly, an idea begins to form inside your head, and you whisper it into the bell-ringer.

"That gypsy that crowned you is a witch Quasimodo. Not an hour ago did I witness her hypnotizing a crowd of people with her dance. You must bring her to Notre-Dame, where she can be punished for her crimes," you tell the young man beside you. At first Quasimodo looks hesitant, and just before you start to wonder if the bell-ringer is under the spell of the gypsy, he nods sullenly.

"Whatever you ask, I shall do."

And the hunchback disappears into the night.

What began as a simple enough plan ends with disastrous consequences. The full details of what truly happened remain a mystery, amidst the rampant gossip that spreads like a disease across Paris. All you really know is that Quasimodo was caught trying to abduct Esmeralda, and will now be flogged as punishment. Honestly, the guilt eats away at your very core; you are to blame for all of this. But you bury the rising guilt and reason that you were just doing your duty as a priest; all you wanted was to reprimand the witch for her sins against the church. That's all you wanted to do.

Of course, that's what you keep telling yourself anyway.

Against your better judgment, you decide to be present during Quasimodo's condemnation. As expected, a large crowd has gathered to watch the flogging, as if it were a theatrical performance. You ride in on your ebony horse, and can barely look at Quasimodo without feeling guilt-ridden about the whole situation. The way he looks at you like you're some kind of savior pierces your soul; the only thing you can do is shamefully ride away.

But then you see her.

Esmeralda walks up the steps leading to the platform where Quasimodo is bound, takes out her flask of water, and actually lets the hunchback drink from it. For a fraction of a second you doubt she's a witch; surely a sorceress cannot be capable of such a selfless action!

A screeching voice from the crowd draws you from your reverie; it's an older peasant, hurtling insults towards Esmeralda and her gypsy heritage. The young girl scrambles away from the platform and disappears into the populace.

You'd give an arm and a leg to see her again.

Time passes. Hours turn into days, days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. Your dreams are now plagued with images of Esmeralda dancing against a purple and pink hued sky; sometimes of her leaning towards you and pressing her ruby lips against your pale cheek. Even just uttering her name is like saying a profanity; it sends a shiver up your spine and makes you feel an almost childish delight. You feel completely overpowered, intoxicated by this emotion that cannot be named. You've never been confused about something before in your life, until now.

"What could this feeling I'm experiencing be?" you murmur to yourself, while looking down on the streets below. Different people pass by doing various things, all the while not even noticing that you're looking down below on them. Of course, fate steps in and there she bloody is dancing in front of your coal black eyes. Your whole body goes stiff, and off in the distance you can hear a child tell his mother to look up at the stone gargoyle that resembles a man. Esmeralda has this power (witchcraft) over you that chills you to the bone and captivates your mind and soul.

You're perfectly content by just watching her from afar (it's the only way you can truly observe her dance), but then you spot something out of the corner of your eye. There's a man with her; tall and gangly and performing tricks with chairs. Before you know it you're rushing down the stone steps and into street; fueled by the desire to know who exactly this man is, and secretly, to see the ebony-haired dancer up close. However by the time you get there she's gone, leaving you behind in the dust.

You interrogate the chair trickster (who actually turns out to be Gringoire, a man you've almost since forgotten) endlessly about Esmeralda. Questions are asked that have long been on the forefront of your mind; (Gringoire, thank God, hasn't laid a finger on her) but when he mentions the name Phoebus another powerful emotion surges through you. (That seems to happen a lot lately) Although this time you can tell what it is: jealousy. The feeling burns inside you, like how Jehan describes it when he's had too much to drink. Gringoire chatters on about how Esmeralda says his name in her sleep, (you do the same with her name) and how she's starting to neglect her dancing because she spends more time thinking about him, (you've been doing the same thing with your science). You must know who this man is, or you'll go stark raving mad.

Like that hasn't happened already.

You find out who this Phoebus is; Phoebus Châteaupeurs, Captain of the King's Archers. Tall, blonde, muscular: every woman's dream. You're not at all surprised really; he's practically the real life figure for every single storybook hero there ever was. You can't compare; with your pale skin, eyes as dark as the feathers of a raven, and overall stern disposition. Women want the heroic man with strong arms they can run into when they're afraid, not the stern, pious man that hasn't cracked a genuine smile in at least a decade.

You can't compare and that's the cold hard truth.

Jealousy. It's a simple eight letter word. Right now however, it's taking you over body and soul as you watch Esmeralda and Phoebus together. Suddenly you begin to regret even following Phoebus to this godforsaken house where he hopes to steal Esmeralda's virtue. You notice how her rosy cheeks flush, how her breath begins to quicken, and how she murmurs his name in a surprisingly husky tone. Oh how you wish you were in his place, holding the gypsy close to your body and for the first time in your life feeling like a man!

Jealousy is traded for rage, and you just now take notice of Esmeralda's knife on the floor. You've always been a careful man that planned out everything beforehand and considered the consequences of everything you do. All of that's dashed out the window now, as you take the knife in your hand and plunge it into Phoebus's back. Immediately Esmeralda begins to scream (oh how you'd love to hold her close and tell her it's all right) and you quickly leave the dingy room without a backward glance.

Hours later you realize you've just pretty much handed the gypsy her death sentence.

She's sentenced because of something you did. Esmeralda's being tortured and oh Godit hurts you inside so badly. Ever so slowly (as you hear her screaming from the torture) you begin to realize that you honestly love this girl. The realization hits you hard, and actually takes your breath away. Love. Over the years you watched lovers with envy, secretly wishing to have someone to hold, kiss, and protect. Now you do and the world seems like such a more beautiful place now that you're in love.

Until Esmeralda's screams echo in the room and break your heart in two.

You're walking to her cell, with unsaid words readily rehearsed on your lips. You've come up with a carefully worded speech on how you're irrevocably in love with Esmeralda. After countless rewrites, plenty of swearing, and a sleepless night, you've come up with something you think will do. Sure it certainly has too many 'I love you's,' and far too many mentions of her 'smoldering dark eyes that mesmerize me with a single glance;' it's not like you've had much experience at this. Truth be told, you honestly feels a little excited about finally confessing your love formally.

When you finally do enter the cell, your boyish giddiness immediately disintegrates with one look around the prison cell. It's cold and dark, and the constant sound of water dripping grows more annoying by the second. (This is not where you put someone you love) Your mouth runs dry as a wave of guilt hits you head on, especially when you see the bohemian curled up in a corner.

"Is-is it t-time?" She whispers timidly, sounding much older than her sixteen years. You nod sullenly, before realizing the girl cannot see you.

"Not quite; you still have an hour. I'm the priest, come to hear your sins."

"I have done nothing wrong, Monseigneur." You shift uncomfortably, trying to stifle the intense desire inside you of wanting to hear her say your true name.

"You murdered Phoebus Châteaupeurs and hypnotized the city of Paris with your dances." Something in her dark eyes suddenly sparks with life as she glares at you. If looks could kill, you'd be nothing more than a corpse lying on the floor right now.

"I've done nothing of the sort! For me, dancing is like talking, not sorcery! Let me go; what have I honestly done to deserve your hatred?" Esmeralda cries, as a sob escape her lips. You stand there motionless for a few moments, feeling hurt that she honestly believes that you hate her. Conflicting feelings seem to bear down on you all at once, and you feel like you're finally breaking inside. With one small intake of breath, you say the words you've been trying to stifle for a long time.

"I love you."

You pull the hood of your cloak down, exposing your face and making Esmeralda gasp in realization.

"What have I honestly done to make you love me? Me, a poor gypsy girl, and you the archdeacon of Notre-Dame?" She hisses, regaining a bit of strength and the ability to stand.

"Why do people fall in love? It's a question that's been asked for decades and still cannot be answered. I've asked myself the same question and haven't come up with a conclusive answer. Perhaps it's the way your eyes sparkle like two onyx jewels, how you pout your lip childishly when something doesn't go your way, or how when I see your smiling face it seems to glow brighter than the sun? Do you know I haven't slept properly in months? My peaceful dreams are now plagued with images of you dancing and smiling and some things I couldn't even begin to tell. You've bewitched me heart and soul, Esmeralda," you say in a rush, like all of this as been pent up inside you for years.

"Leave. Just go!" she cries, dashing across the dungeon and trying to push you out of the cell door.

In your dreams you pictured Esmeralda running towards you, confessing that she too felt the same way, and then you'd kiss her passionately. That's why they call it dreaming however, for the look Esmeralda gives you is anything but romantic. (This isn't how it's supposed to go.)

"But why?" you ask somewhat stupidly, taking a hold of her little hands roughly.

"Y-you killed Phoebus, I realize it now. You're the reason I'm rotting away in this cell and not happily dancing! You treat the poor bell ringer like a slave, and yet you still parade around as a man of God. You expect me to love someone like you? Just go, and let me have peace in my final hour!" Esmeralda shouts, pulling out of your grasp and brushing away the salty tears that fall from her eyes.

Perhaps if she had better hearing, she'd be able to hear the sound of your heart breaking. You stand still for a few moments, wondering if perhaps this is just some nightmare you're experiencing. (It isn't.) The beautiful young girl that found a place in your cold heart has just rejected you, and oh Godit hurts worse than if you'd been stabbed in the chest.

"If you leave with me now, you won't die, Esmeralda. You'll live a comfortable life; I'll take care of you and protect you more than Phoebus ever could." Maybe, just maybe, she can be persuaded.

"I'd sooner face the gallows than spend my life as your wife." Esmeralda curtly replies, dashing away whatever hope you had left within you. Your body goes rigid, and for the first time in a long while, you feel like your old self again.

"Do not worry gypsy, you'll get your wish within the hour," you hiss, exiting the cell swiftly and without a backward glance.

It was either you or the gallows, and she made her choice.

Esmeralda escapes with the help of Quasimodo, (who you now realize loves her too) but just throws away the one chance she had at escaping death to fight alongside her people. If she threw away that one chance, then so be it.

So you signal for her to be sent to the scaffold.

She hangs by her neck; swaying, swaying, swaying. Time stops, you stop breathing, everything is still. Something reverberates in your chest, and a few moments later, a sob escapes your lips. You've never cried before, not even when your parents died. Yet here you are, a grown man, sobbing like a child. It's all right though, because you never had the normal childhood and never been in love. It all felt so magically new, and it's just been ripped away. What's worse is that you caused this. Perhaps if you had left her alone, lit an extra candle, and prayed harder for the will to stifle your love, none of this would've happened.

Quasimodo stands next to you, silent and motionless as he watches the girl sway gently in the breeze. It dawns on you fully now that Quasimodo loved her as much as you did, and how it's funny that she didn't love him back either. (It's a cruel irony)

Suddenly he turns to you, (and you already now what's going to happen next) and pushes you off the ledge of Notre Dame.

Falling. Falling. Falling. You've always wondered what it was like to fly: now you know. As you fall it feels like time stops, and you turn your head slightly and notice Esmeralda being taken down from the gibbet. You'll be joining the girl you love soon; how utterly ironic that the only place you were able to be together was in death. So you smile ever so faintly as you remember:

It all began with a fleeting glance.

If you'd be so kind to drop a review, I'll personally send Frollo over to your house, where he shall deliver to you a chocolate cupcake. With a bribe like that, I can already guess your mouse is quickly hitting the review button.