Clopin was twelve years old when he was captured by slave traders one night as he was meandering through the streets of Paris, not looking forward to going home. He'd been telling stories and doing some acrobatic tricks to entertain the crowd when some guards had seen him and began chasing him. But rather than simply running from them, Clopin, having a good head start, had turned and started taunting them which resulted in a very-near capture. His older brother Maurice had tripped one of them, leaving the others to collide with him and scooped up his little brother, darting in and out of alleys to lose their pursuers. Adriel had been alerted by one of the scouts he had situated throughout the city and when they reached where he'd been performing, he was already fuming, eyes darting from his eldest son to his younger.

"How many times-?" he began, but stopped knowing it was futile, "Clopin! Damnation, what am I going to do with you, boy? When you get home, you are in for a world of pain!"

"That doesn't sound fun," Clopin muttered.

"Not everything in life can be fun, Clopin," his father went on, Clopin rolling his eyes at the same lecture he'd heard countless times before, "Especially when you keep stirring up trouble. Now, for the last time, STOP TAUNTING THE GUARDS!"

"Yes, Pop," he gave his father a mock salute before sauntering off to set up elsewhere.

Except, Clopin never got home. As he rounded a corner, a hand clapped over his mouth and he was pulled into an alley where he was thrown to the ground, a boot pressed to his back to keep him still. He struggled, but against a group of three or four grown men, it was useless as they tied a gag over his mouth and bound him tighter than anything he could get out of without dislocating something. Even then he still fought, until something hard and heavy hit the back of his head and his world went black.

He came to in a large tent, chains clanking as he struggled to sit up, hands flying up to his neck to find an iron collar there, the chain hanging from it latched securely to the iron bars behind him. Looking at his hands, he saw chains there, too, as well as around his ankles. He glanced around, finding himself in a cage with a large group of other Gypsies, some children like him, others adults, most still either sleeping or unconscious.

"You musta really pissed them off, boy," a gruff voice came from the corner opposite of him.

Glancing in that direction, he saw an older adult Rom, grimy and sweaty, staring at him, tossing his head to the side and spitting when the boy's eyes met his.

"Never seen 'em use that many chains," he went on, "Not smart."

"What would you expect me to do?" he asked, "Let them catch me?"

"Smarten up from here on out," the man snapped, "Eat what they give you, sleep when they let you, don't be asking questions, and don't be flapping your gums at them. Obey and they'll leave you be, back-talk and they'll skin you alive. Obey, they'll sell you to a decent master who might let you free someday, in the mean time you live in some comfort, get fed regular meals. You make trouble, though, freedom'll be nothing but a distant dream, a faded memory, and pain your best friend."

"What do you mean 'master'?" Clopin quirked a curving black brow, "I answer to no one-."

"Quit your blabbering, the two of you!" a voice snapped as a club was banged against the bars, "Sick and tired of hearing your devil-speak."

"And cut the Romani, boy," the Gypsy man smirked at Clopin, still speaking their tongue, despite the guard's warning.

"You wanna eat today?" the guard prodded him.

"Yessir, just educating the young-un."

Clopin said nothing more, pegging the Rom across from him as a coward whose Gypsy pride had long been beaten out of him. Clopin soon found himself in a camp of sorts, surrounded by other Gypsies and even some who weren't, but clearly came from other bands of outcasts. Many had no idea where they were or what was to become of them, some were like the Rom who'd warned him, veterans of whatever this was who'd learned to just shut up and obey. But as Adriel knew, Clopin didn't know when to shut up and he certainly wasn't one to obey, he was a fighter even at such a young age with an indomitable spirit that drove his father mad.

In the days that followed, Clopin came to learn a new meaning of pain, the beatings he took from his father were nothing compared to what he experienced at the hands of his captors. He learned quickly enough they were slave-traders, men who found a way to make heathens like him useful and get some gold out of the deal. The old Rom had been right: those who obeyed were left alone, those that didn't were beaten into submission. Any that made trouble or attempted to fight back found themselves locked up and starved until they learned their lesson and begged for mercy. None were killed, none had yet passed away, that would only lose them potential gold, but that didn't mean there weren't sick and/or injured among them. Clopin's fiery spirit was doing him no good here, he was always in chains, and found himself locked up and starved a number of times. Almost three weeks he'd been here, his skin sickly and pale, his lean form even leaner from starvation, barely an inch of him was uninjured and he was burning up with a fever. Such was his weakened state, that he just silently obeyed and ate what little he was given, though little of that would stay down, having no strength left to fight. He wondered only dimly where they were going as they were all herded back into the caged wagon he'd first found himself in. He found out soon enough as the day crept towards afternoon and they drew within sight of the familiar walls of Paris and found himself wondering what fresh, new Hell they had in store.

Tarps were thrown over the cages so no passersby could see what the wagons carried and those held within couldn't see where they were going. They came to a stop and led out into what Clopin recognized as the marketplace in Paris's streets where they were forced to strip and stand to allow any number of rich merchants and nobles to carefully examine each and every one of them. After what seemed an eternity, they were redressed and marched onto a stage to be auctioned off, Clopin deaf to the numbers being rattled off even when it came his turn. Adriel stood in the crowd, making sure his cloak covered the clothing and earring that marked him as a Gypsy, keeping his hood low enough to hide most of his features lest Frollo catch sight of him. This wasn't the first time these slavers had come to town to sell some of his kind into slavery, they came around perhaps once or twice a year. Just weeks ago, he'd been informed a few of them had been seen in Paris, supposedly just to restock provisions, but possibly to try to nab any of Adriel's own tribe. The timing had been bothering him, a knot forming in his stomach, for his scouts had reported their presence around the same time Clopin had gone missing. He hadn't slept in days, praying with growing desperation that his spies would locate his little son in Frollo's dungeons, hoping that the boy had finally pushed his luck too far and that soon his location would be known and they could set about helping him escape. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side as the knot in his stomach rose to his throat, his heart dropping to his feet, eyes widening when he saw his own flesh and blood half-dragged and half-carried onto the stage.

Tears pricked at his eyes, he took a trembling breath to control his emotion and keep his tears at bay, any relief he should have felt at having finally found his son subdued by the uncertainty of how to save him. He paid no more attention to the numbers being shouted than his son, his pain increasing as he saw how pale and thin Clopin seemed. His mind whirred with any number of desperate escape plots, trying to settle on the most sensible one until one voice rang out over all others, a hush falling over the crowd.

"100 pieces of silver!" a formidable, fearfully familiar voice shouted.

Though they already knew full well who it was, Adriel in the crowd and Clopin on the stage looked as one to the imposing figure astride his powerful black horse: Judge Claude Frollo. No one dared outbid the Minister of Justice, so he urged his brute of a horse through the crowd, exchanging the purse he carried for the key to Clopin's chains.

"Salaud!" a familiar voice caught his attention and he turned to look.

Adriel strode through the crowd, drawing back his hood, deep black eyes filled with hate as he gazed up at the persecutor of his people, a triumphant smirk drawing across Frollo's thin lips.

"Ah, dear Adriel," he said as though he were greeting an old friend, "I'd wondered where you were hiding yourself. Indeed, here I was wondering if you were even going to bother searching for this little runt of yours."

"Unhand my son, you bastard!" the Gypsy King roared.

"And you wonder where your boy gets the temper," the Minister remarked, "I'm afraid not, Trouillefou. You see, I've paid for it fair and square."

"It is a he," Adriel growled, fists clenched and shaking in barely controlled rage, "And he is my son, not a piece of livestock to be bartered and sold!"

"Well, he belongs to me now, dear King, so I'm afraid you're quite out of luck. Oh, don't look at me like that, it's unbecoming. You needn't worry yourself, Adriel, I'll take good care of the boy."

"Isn't the only good Gypsy a dead Gypsy? What do you want with one alive and breathing?"

"He's old enough to be educated and young enough to be cured of your heathen ways. I'm not so heartless as to execute an innocent child for crimes he may yet be saved from committing. I'm only trying to save him from eternal damnation."

Adriel glanced from Frollo to Clopin as the boy was pulled onto the Minister's horse, his gaze softening, a tear even streaming down his cheek, expecting his son, his troublesome son who never failed to come back with some form of sass, to say something, to fight. For once, however, Clopin was silent and for the first time, the boy had no words.

"Clopin!" Adriel called as Frollo rode off, "Don't just give up! Of all times to shoot your mouth off, this is it! Clopin, mon fils!"

A makeshift rope composed of sheets tied together and a slim figure carefully and expertly slid down as far as the sheets reached before dropping to a ledge. He'd been an acrobat since he could walk and he'd always been good at climbing things, so scaling the walls of the Palace of Justice, though daunting, was simple enough. It took several minutes, but at long last he was able to drop safely to the ground and took off running as fast as he could. He was weak and still burning with fever, but the extent of his weakness he'd feigned, saving his energy for this very moment, though admittedly he'd had no idea he'd be sold to Frollo, but it didn't matter. At that moment, Frollo was entering the small room he'd let the boy sleep in, intent on making sure the fever hadn't claimed him, eyes widening when he saw the window open. Rushing over, he saw the rope of sheets the wretched boy had made (clearly the real reason he'd complained of being so cold), and looked down to the street where he could see the slim form of that damned Gypsy child running. He rushed from the room, shouting orders for his horse to be readied, and mounting it once he reached the dark streets, urging it into a gallop after the boy. Clopin ignored the burning of his lungs and his protesting body, focusing solely on running as fast as he could toward Notre Dame. He was quite sure he had until the morning before Frollo realized he was missing, but unfortunately the furious hoof beats behind him begged to differ.

"Merde," he muttered.

No longer concerned with his body's protests since the hoof beats were driving him onward now, Clopin ran as fast as he could, darting in and out of alleys in a desperate attempt to lose Frollo to no avail. Frollo stayed close behind him even as he frantically rushed across to the empty square up Notre Dame's steps, constantly reminding himself not to look back. He ran up the steps, the doors to sanctuary only a few feet away, then made the fatal mistake of looking behind him to see how close Frollo was to find the minister baring down on him. He turned and rushed to the doors, but Frollo was close enough to reach down and grabbed his wrist before throwing him to the ground and dismounting. Momentarily dazed by his intimate meeting with the ground, he was too slow to get up before Frollo grabbed his arm in a vice grip and reached for the whip he'd wound around his belt. He drew it back as Clopin struggled, turning his face away, crying out as the lash caught him in the face, leaving a deep cut extending from over his right brow to his cheek. Frollo released his grip on the boy's arm, Clopin falling back with a hand over his eye, blood falling to the stone steps through his fingers. He gazed back defiantly as Frollo advanced on him, half-expecting to hear thunder to accompany the storm brewing in his eyes.

"Frollo!" a voice came from the doors to the church, the Minister stopping to look at the Archdeacon.

Clopin grasped the momentary distraction and scrambled to his feet, dodging the long, thin hand that reached for him as he darted to the Archdeacon who pushed the boy behind him.

"Sanctuary," Clopin said, glaring at Frollo with his good eye.

"Come, child," the Archdeacon said, turning and putting a gentle hand to his back.

The kindly old man led Clopin away to a private room where he tended to the wound on his right eye, washing away the blood, shocked at the depth of the wound the whip had inflicted.

"Can you see?" he asked him.

Clopin forced himself to open the eye despite the pain, but found he could see very little and shook his head, letting the eye fall shut. In time, his sight returned and the wound healed, forever scarring him, the bright red scar standing out against his tan flesh. He took to carefully applying stage paint, expertly mixed to flawlessly match his skin tone, to hide it. The years passed, Frollo occasionally managing to recapture him, which led to countless beatings, countless trips to the dungeons where he'd be stripped from the waist up and whipped till he bled. He learned to give no voice to the agony he was left in, to allow himself rest between the beating and the return to the small chambers Frollo kept him in. He always managed to escape, sometimes in a few hours, sometimes within a few days, but inevitably he would make it home, no beating ever enough to beat the fire out of his spirit. Frollo's hold over him irked him to no end, calling another man 'master' a tremendous blow to his pride, but it only made him all the more determined to fight against him. Even when Frollo fell to his doom fifteen years later, even then Clopin was not free, he was just another possession to be passed onto Frollo's successor.

As much trouble as he was, he was worth more to Frollo alive than dead, allowing him some hold over his father while Adriel still lived and being the key to the Gypsies' secrets when Clopin rose to become King of the Gypsies. Besides, Frollo aimed to punish the stubborn Gypsy and refused to kill him for one reason:

"Death… is a release, not a punishment."