A/N: Okay...leaving out a description of Claude worked when I only meant for it to be a oneshot. I'm still addicted to the version I've been using (1982 Derek Jacobi). That's where my description comes from. I had to rewrite this chapter five or six times before I got satisfied with it. Claude/Esmeralda fluff coming up. I couldn't help myself.
Esmeralda's POV:
"What have I gotten myself into?" Margot muttered.
Margot was a friend of ours. She was letting us stay until we could make more permanent arrangements for the archdeacon. They fought like cats and dogs—Margot was like an old mother and treated the archdeacon like her son. The archdeacon, of course, did not welcome this type of fawning and fussing and spent a majority of his time alone. He was careful to prove he wasn't ungrateful: he would not allow Margot to carry anything heavy or do anything that involved physical exertion. She would then tell him that just because she was old didn't mean that she was an invalid and they'd start arguing again. It seemed that neither could please the other. Quasimodo, Pierre, and I were rather amused, much to both of their chagrins. I kept my distance from the archdeacon, not wanting to provoke his passions now that he was showing some restraint. I knew it was difficult for him to be around me.
One night, however, an encounter with him became unavoidable.
Quasimodo practically ran over me in his state of panic.
"Esmeralda! Esmeralda!"
"What is it, Quasimodo?" I asked, seeing his one good eye wide in fear.
"My master is gone! I can't find him anywhere!"
His hands seized mine and I could feel the tremors of fear racing through his muscles.
"Are you certain he's missing? Maybe he just went for a walk," I said calmly.
He didn't seem convinced.
"All right…how long has he been gone?" I asked.
"Since the sun was right there," Quasimodo said, pointing to a spot in the sky.
"Did he say anything to you?" I asked.
"No."
I frowned.
"What was he doing before he left?"
"Praying."
An ominous feeling emerged in the pit of my stomach. As much as I hated to admit it, I was glad I had known where he was. As long as someone else could tell me where he was, it made it easier to avoid him. I knew that we were both safe then…but now…
"Come with me," I told Quasimodo. We found Pierre trying to talk an unconvinced soldier into buying one of his poems.
"Pierre, I need your help," I told him.
The soldier left hastily.
"What is it?"
"It's the archdeacon…Quasimodo says he's gone missing."
Pierre didn't particularly seem to care at the moment.
"I think he might be ill," I said after a moment, "he's been looking rather disheveled lately."
"That's hardly surprising," Pierre said dismissively, "that cathedral's all he's known for a long time. It would be enough to put anyone into a state of shock for things to change so quickly."
"Still…something's not right. We should help Quasimodo find him, even if it's just to relieve his panic."
Pierre reluctantly agreed.
"You're right," he sighed, "you go that way. I'll go this way. Quasimodo, why don't you go back to the house in case he comes back?"
Quasimodo nodded, glad to know that someone was acting.
"Take this with you," Pierre said, giving me a small dagger, "I doubt seriously that he'd do anything to you if he really is sick, but it can't hurt to take precautions."
I hid the dagger in the folds of my skirt and we split up. Pierre knew it would do no good to tell me not to go out in the dark—I had been defying some of his protectiveness since we were married.
Now, I was searching for the only man who had ever been an active threat to me. Somewhere, shrouded in the darkness, I hoped for the shadows to yield him.
It was getting cold very fast now that the sun had gone down. I looked around, hoping he would see me and come forward. I shivered a little; I wished I'd remembered to get a cloak. I had been inside brushing Djali's coat when Quasimodo had found me. The other gypsies knew not to harm him since he had befriended me in the bell tower.
A movement to the side caught my attention. I whipped around, heart thundering. I stared into the shadows, hoping it wasn't someone with ill intent.
Then, I saw the eyes.
Lit by the moonlight, they had an unnatural glow to them. I had seen them before, but they had a certain glassiness to them now.
He stared at me for a moment, staying perfectly still. Without his robes, he looked even thinner than he had at the cathedral. The white shirt he wore hung loosely around his scrawny frame. The trousers he wore were only held by the belt; they might have fit him once. His cheeks were hollow and pale. He looked more like a specter than the shattered shell of a man. Beneath the shirt, I could vaguely make out the line of bandages that Margot had put on him.
"Esmeralda…"
His whisper was barely audible. He said my name as though it were something sacred and wondrous. I wondered how he was staying upright; his body was shaking violently.
"Quasimodo is looking for you," I told him. He shrugged carelessly.
"You had him very worried," I continued awkwardly. I wondered if he was listening to a word I said.
His blue-green eyes blazed with an unnatural light. It was as though his insides were burning up and the glow of the flames was showing through his eyes. When he walked, he seemed to be shaking even worse. It was as though his skin was all that held him together.
"Stay there," I demanded, not wanting a careless carriage driver to run him over. I crossed the street, secretly praying he'd keep his hands to himself.
"You were worried?"
He seemed surprised. I was puzzled; when had I said that?
"Quasimodo was worried," I corrected him, "he asked us to help you find him."
He swayed uneasily. Out of instinct, I grabbed him to keep him from falling to the cold stones.
Goodness…he feels as if he just popped out of an oven, I thought, his body's like a glowing coal!
"Come on," I sighed, "you need to be inside out of the cold."
He didn't smile, but his expression told me that he'd follow me anywhere. That's why I was so surprised when he tore away from me a few seconds later. He knew we were headed to Margot's and he didn't want to go back.
Quasimodo rounded the corner and let out a joyous yell when he saw his master. I think he woke half of Paris with the noise. People began to open their shutters and snap angrily at him.
"Shhh!" I hissed.
I couldn't help but smile when Quasimodo tackle-hugged Claude. The gesture nearly knocked him over. Irritated, Claude shoved him away.
"You must come home master! You are sick!" Quasimodo told him. Not giving Claude a chance to protest, he picked him up as though he weighed nothing more than a sack of grain. Claude protested, striking at him, but the blows were weak. Quasimodo seemed hurt emotionally, but he refused to let go of Claude.
"Let's go," I told Quasimodo, "we need to get him off the street."
Pierre found us and came sprinting down the sidewalk.
"I see you found him," he commented.
Right at that moment, Claude let loose a nasty bout of swearing, causing all of us to wince. I wasn't aware that he knew such words and oaths.
"Don't worry, Quasimodo," I told the distraught hunchback, "he's very sick…he doesn't know what he's saying."
Quasimodo nodded. The three of us hurried back to Margot's. Margot's knitting fell to the floor when she stood up.
"My God!" was all she could muster.
"He's got a bad fever," I explained, "I think he's been hallucinating a little."
Quasimodo finally eased Claude to the floor. Furious at being handled that way, he crossed his arms and glared. Quasimodo winced under the intense stare, but he was refusing to believe that he'd done anything wrong. Deciding that he'd endured enough abuse, I grabbed Claude's hand and led him away like a child.
"Come on," I told him gently.
He resisted for a moment as though he suspected something. Then, he followed me.
"What were you doing out there?" I couldn't help but ask. I was speaking to him as one would a child, but I couldn't stop myself from doing it. His eyes watered a little bit.
"Looking for you," he choked out.
"Looking for me?" I repeated stupidly.
"I haven't seen you since that night you brought me here," he lamented, "I promised not to bother you again…I didn't dare get close to you…but I just wanted to see you. I wanted to be sure that you were really all right. One look…that's all I wanted."
Pity shot through my heart. He seemed so broken. He blinked and a solitary tear flowed down his flushed cheek.
"Shhh," I whispered, "don't cry. You'll make yourself worse."
He swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure.
"You're ill," I told him again, "you need to rest."
"You'll leave again," he accused me, voice raw with sadness and resentment. I suddenly realized that he would probably try to follow me as long as he could walk. His own health meant nothing to him. It was dangerous for him to be wandering the streets in such a state; he would be defenseless.
"I won't," I told him finally.
"Yes, you will! You always do!"
His voice was loaded with anger now. Good God, was there ever a more miserable man? The fever only seemed to intensify his already strong emotions.
"Calm down," I said quietly, "I am not going anywhere."
He stared into my eyes as if he could carve the deception out of my soul with the sharpness of his gaze. After a long moment, he seemed to relax.
"You won't leave? Do you promise?"
"I swear on Quasimodo that I won't leave," I said, being genuine, "but you must promise to let us help you."
Sensing it was safe, Margot entered the room. Pierre and Quasimodo undressed Claude; I turned my back to allow him some modesty. Once he was covered up again, I turned back around.
There were two small beds in the room; I decided to take the other one. Without undressing, I simply took my shoes off and lay down.
It was a rough night. Claude was having a lot of hallucinations and nightmares. Terrified, he lay curled up in a ball beneath his covers and refused to uncover his head. I could hear him pleading with God to get him away from all of the terrible things he was experiencing.
I walked cautiously over to the bed.
"It was just a nightmare," I whispered, "it's over now…it can't hurt you."
Under his ragged ash-blonde hair, I could see a part of a blue-green eye. My heart ached for him.
Maybe that's why when he crawled into bed with me like a frightened child that I didn't chase him away. The vengeful archdeacon of Notre Dame had vanished—in his place was a frightened little boy. It was hard to be upset with him for any reason in that moment. I held him as a mother would and stroked his hair. Eventually, his ragged, frightened breath slowed and he slept. I sang to him until I felt the tension leave his body.
He didn't move after that. He lay perfectly still and slept. His temperature rose and fell constantly and he was damp all over from sweat. I didn't dare try to shift him; as long as he was asleep, he wasn't suffering.
"Poor thing," Margot commented, seeing how the man clung to me as though for dear life.
I wasn't sure what was worse: the dreadful silence or the times when he cried out to God, asking why He had abandoned Claude in his time of need. The things that Claude saw must have been horrible. Always, though, he recognized me and I could get near him when no one else could. The lash-marks on his back were badly inflamed, so we had to be very careful with him.
"It'll be a miracle if he survives this," Margot sighed. She had never borne children, but she loved them intensely. She had come to think of the archdeacon as her child.
Each time he cried my name so piteously, it was getting harder and harder for me to leave him alone. No one said a word about it, but I could tell from their knowing looks that they worried about this attachment I had formed to him.
It's just until this illness passes, I reminded myself, I can't live the rest of my life in such close proximity to him. I'll leave when he gets well.