Chapter I: In Darkness

When Claude Frollo came back to himself, he was in absolute darkness. He could see nothing, except himself. He examined his hands, and saw that the flesh was whole and unburned. His hat, his rings, all the symbols of his power, were gone, and he was dressed in a simple black robe.

The pain was gone, too, and so was the blazing madness from his mind. As he examined the events that had led up to this moment, he could see them clearly, and what he saw was that he had been wrong. So very wrong. What he couldn't understand was why he was here, instead of… somewhere else. This couldn't be Hell: he wasn't in any sort of pain; in fact, he was quite comfortable, without even the small aches and pains of age that had crept into his bones in recent years. But it certainly wasn't Heaven, either.

And then a figure emerged from the blackness. A young woman, surely no more than 19. She was cloaked in light, wearing the brilliance like a mantle. Her face was plain, with a square, resolute jaw, and wide brown eyes. Her dark hair was clipped short in the style of a man, and a sword was at her waist. What she wore, he could not say, though she was not naked. She was not by any means pretty, not like Esmeralda, or any woman he had ever heard the soldiers call attractive… but at the same time she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her face was serious, but her eyes, deep and eternal, were kind… he cast his own eyes downward, shying away from that gentle gaze; he didn't deserve such kindness.

"Claude." Her voice was soft, but commanding: he could not disobey that voice, no more than he could sprout wings and fly. He looked up at her, unwilling to meet her gaze, but compelled by that gentle, firm command.

"Who are you?" he whispered fearfully. He was more afraid of the light coming off this girl than he had been of the demon.

She cocked her head, an amused smile on her lips. "Come now, Claude, you haven't forgotten me already! You know who I am." She spoke familiarly, as if he were an old friend.

And of course he did know her, despite having never seen her before. How could he ever not? "Joan of Arc."

She nodded, grinning, but there was a solemnity, even a sadness, behind that grin.

"Why am I…" he looked around, unsure of how to put it, "…here? Why am I not…?" He gulped slightly, unable to finish that. He stared at her pleadingly, his eyes silver as rain.

She wasn't smiling anymore. She looked at him with pain in those soft brown eyes. "You knew me, once…"

He had. Not personally, of course; he had been only a child. But he'd grown up in a France oppressed, a France that was England's whore, kicked to the ground and beaten. And then, when he was 11, he'd begun hearing tales of The Maid, of the woman who rode round on horseback with the soldiers, and the English curs fled before her. He'd heard of her battles, and of the great cry that had gone up wherever she went, the names of the Lord Christ and His Holy Mother. The tales were mere rumors at first, but before long they were all anyone talked of, the exaltation of Joan the Maid, the teenaged savior of France, the hero, the saint who walked among the living. And of course he'd adored her; how could he not? How could anyone not?

But the English hadn't; she'd been captured when he was 12. The day the news reached Paris, he'd gone outside and sobbed in an alley, his face against a wall. What was worse was the news that came afterward: that she was being tried not as a political prisoner, but as a witch.

This was impossible! The savior of France, inspired directly from God, a witch? Never! Or so he'd railed to his friends, and to anyone who would listen. But even as he did so, a seed of doubt had been planted in his mind, and he began to wonder…

May 30th of the following year, Joan was convicted and burned at the stake. And 13-year-old Claude didn't know how he felt about it anymore. The Church had declared her a sorceress, a heretic… not the English nobles, but the Church. And even back then, he'd put his faith in them, in the men who had dedicated their lives to the service of the Lord and Savior; and in the legal process, too, which imposed order on a chaotic world. Both had declared her guilty.

He didn't know, but still he wept, silent tears of confusion, at the loss of his once-hero, and perhaps that was the day something in him started to break. For he had hated those tears, hated that tumult and confusion in his mind that had accompanied them; and as far as he could recall, he never cried again.

He spent much of his free time as a young man, studying both law and religion, trying to make sense of it all. But slowly, thoughts of Joan were replaced by thoughts of other things, by daily worries and cares, and, too, by ambition and growing power. Later, when he was 30, and had all but forgotten, he had gained access to her trial records, and had spent a long sleepless night pouring over them. There had been no answers… and the gypsies had come by then, and everything was changing, and the young woman he had once revered as a saint was quickly pushed back out of his mind by other matters. And less than a decade after that, when she was posthumously acquitted, he barely noticed.

And now she stood before him, and he knew that everything he had believed as a child was true, because of that light washing off her in waves, and because of the kindness in her eyes. Half a century had passed, and yet for a moment he was back on that terrible day of May 30th, 1431, the tears making silent tracks down his cheeks, and swearing to never forget that day.

But he had, of course. He'd forgotten. As he looked at her, he saw all the parallels between her life and the events that had unfolded in his own, culminating in his bringing a young woman to the stake to be burned to death. He winced openly, feeling a stab of guilt as sharp as a dagger. For the first time since appearing here (wherever here was), his greatest worry was not for himself and whatever fate awaited him, but for Esmeralda. He hoped she was all right.

Joan was smiling again. "She is," she assured him, and it took a moment for Claude to realize that she was responding to his silent thought. "That's the tricky thing about you, Claude: you have a core of decency and kindness, even if most creatures don't see it, save your horses and dogs. I've always liked that about you."

That short speech raised so many questions. She could read his mind? She actually liked him, and didn't find his actions intolerable and disgusting? He picked the most pressing one: "Have you come to Save me?" His breath caught in his throat at the sudden hope filling him as he heard himself say it aloud. He shouldn't ask for this, he didn't deserve to be saved, and yet—

Joan shook her head. "I can't," she said sadly, and his heart plummeted in fear. "I'm sorry, but it doesn't work that way."

He said nothing; he couldn't. Stretching before him in his mind was an eternity of torment, and terror had stolen his words. A single tear rolled silently down his cheek.

"You do have a chance, though." His head jerked up, a wild hope burning in his eyes, still filled with tears. "A… test. If you choose to accept it."

He barked a hysterical laugh; she'd offered him a chance to save himself from damnation! How could he refuse?

Her face was sober. "What I have offered you, from my Lord, is a true chance at salvation. But... it will be difficult, and painful. Perhaps you will even wish you had never accepted it at all." She stared at him, unsmiling. The slightly wild grin faded from his face. "And Claude… I cannot guarantee that you will succeed."

He nodded grimly, his brow furrowed in resolve. "I understand." He took a deep breath. "I will accept it, be what it may."

Her face broke into a grin, brilliant as the sun. "I am glad." She took his hand. The gentle touch flooded him with warmth and strength. "I leave you now, then. In the hands of Someone far greater than I." She began to fade into a blinding whiteness, so bright he had to close his eyes against it. But her hand was still on his, and he heard her voice once more: "Good luck, my friend."

Then she was gone, and he was once more alone in the darkness.