Night falls quickly upon the city of Notre Dame. As the solitary rider plunges through the inky black night, he pulls his cloak tighter around his form, eyeing the streets warily.
The hollow, jarring sound of the steed's hoof-beats echoes down alleyways and streets. But the stillness of the night is interrupted by the distinct, rolling sound of thunder. Storm's coming in, the rider thinks, as the first drops of rain splatter against his cloak.
Soon, the cobblestones are slick with rainwater, as the clouds empty their contents onto Paris. The rabble-rousers, the prostitutes, the beggars, the crooks... all of them retreat from their usual spots into shaded alcoves, away from the stinging rain.
A bolt of lightning splits the sky, temporarily blinding all who stubbornly refuse to hurry inside. The man's grip on the reins tightened, and he quickly crosses himself. Tonight was no night to be outside, but he did have orders to follow. Orders that must be followed, or else it will be his head on the line.
Finally, after turning yet another winding corner with bated breath, the man is greeted by the imposing Palace of Justice. He audibly gulps as his eyes look up at the sharp, unforgiving spires, the harsh, sharp angles of the edifice. He rides forward to the first gate, guarded by two... well, the polite word is soldier, but the more adept word would probably be brute.
"Good evening. I am Lord Bonhomme, head attendant to his majesty. I was told that I would be expected," he says over the pouring rain.
The two men nod, and unlock the gate. "Dismount your horse, we shall bring it to the stables," one of them says curtly.
Lord Bonhomme uneasily slides off the beast, legs wobbling. He truly despises riding. He much prefers more sedate activities.
He is lead by one of the guards deeper into the entrance tunnel. Torches have been lit, but only cast a scant amount of light in the passageway.
"Has the minister been deposed?" Lord Bonhomme asks in a business-like tone.
"Yes sir. Minister Duchamps left early this morning. His quarters were cleaned out," the man says.
Bonhomme nods. "Right then. Is he... has he been informed?" he says in a hushed voice.
The soldier halts, a frown appearing on his face. He turns to Bonhomme, brow knit in worry. "We have not sir. We were told by an earlier message to not let the prisoner know," he says carefully.
Bonhomme chews on the inside of his cheek. With a sudden movement of his hand, he claps the soldier, poor nervous youth, on his shoulder. "Well then. I will inform him then."
The soldier leads him to the first cell, and fetches a ring of keys from his belt. Bonhomme notices how the man's fingers' tremble as he inserts the key into the lock, opening the door with a heavy metallic grinding noise.
Bonhomme's nose twitches as the smell of blood, urine, and God knows what else, enter the corridor. Fighting the urge to gag, he enters the dimly lit room, where a solitary torch now burns.
A man hangs from the ceiling, arms stretched high over his body, wrists bound by metal shackles. His feet, bloody and rubbed raw, support his weight poorly. He can barely stand without the aid of the chain that binds him to the scaffolding.
He reeks of sweat and blood. Judging by the dark, dried blood that once seeped through his shirt, his wounds stretch from his back to his torso.
His head is lowered, shaggy gray hair matted and dirty.
He hadn't woken up from his sleep when Bonhomme opened the door. No. It is when Bonhomme steps closer to the skeletal man hanging on the scaffolding that his form convulses.
The man raises his head, and dark, glittering eyes meet his gaze. But Bonhomme feels a cold chill seep into his bones, not from the dank cold of the dungeon.
It was from the sheer, raw emotion, the anger that burns in his eyes like fire.
"Claude Frollo."
Xxx
Frollo blinks the blurry haze of sleep, only to see the man quickly leave the room. Pain, dull, constant pain reverberates in his bones as he attempts to move, only to feel the manacles once more chafe against his bleeding wrists.
He expects the lash to come down again. Or a new, metal trap of torture to be bound to his feet, his hands, his arms... whatever limb is ordered today. That's what consistently occurred, each day, for an eternity, when people came into his cell.
Soldiers come in once more, and he involuntarily tenses, although, from previous experience, tensing caused a much greater amount of agony on his end. He sets his jaw, too stubborn to close his eyes. He wants to see just what these brutes do to him.
Except... when the soldier comes toward him... there is no article of agony within his grasp. The other crosses behind, and Frollo's entire being prickles. Would they simply beat him with fists now? Like savages? Was that the new part of his punishment?
But he only feels a pair of hands move tentatively to the manacles which enclose his wrists. And with a small click, he falls until his bony knees slam down on the ground.
The soldiers move toward him to hoist him up, but Frollo growls, "No." It seems even after his personal hell, he could not let anyone, let alone the very men who had turned on him, assist him.
His arms feel so heavy, after spending so long suspended in air. He stifles a hiss of pain as he adjusts himself to rise from the ground, old scabs breaking as the lash-marks of yesterday, the day before that, of last week, were pulled by scant muscle and bone.
He rises to a kneeling position, head spinning. With much effort, he steps onto one foot... then two... slowly rising, berating his own weakness. His feet feel like liquid, while his limbs feel like solid, ungainly stone.
The soldiers watches as the former minister of justice struggles to stand, their eyes shifting away. Frollo's dark eyes flash wildly. What on earth was going on? Were they moving him to a different cell? One more vile perhaps.
He staggers to his feet, gripping the sides of his dirty, thin breeches to anchor himself. The soldiers then flank him on either side, regarding him with suspicion. He nearly scoffs aloud. Even if I were to run, who's to say I would last five minutes out in Paris in this state? He thinks darkly.
He attempts to walk normally, only to nearly gasp in pain as he presses his raw soles down onto the ground. His feet had been broken, but put together with some care. Still, they feel the old pains, the old, deep bruises that resulted from that particular session.
He is hobbling. It is pitiful. He nearly snarls in frustration when he stumbles yet again, nearly crashing down onto the cold flagstones. He grits his teeth. He needs to stay standing.
He struggles to step down the hall, each step a herculean labor. Everything aches. Each movement ignites a new host of maladies. Bruises, lashings, malnutrition. All caused him pain now.
He is led to the south stairwell. He schools his face to be passive, but inwardly, he is baffled. Why would they take him out of the dungeons?
After an eternity of hobbling like an invalid, he is taken to his... well, what used to be his... main study. He is suddenly paralyzed as his eyes flicker over the familiar cedar wood, the worn, yet sturdy chair. The clean surface of the desk is clear of any debris, any of the old parchments and tomes that he had insisted on making a permanent habitation on the desk. Everything was orderly of course, he was too fastidious to ever be less than perfect.
He is not a nostalgic man. In fact, he preferred to eliminate memories of the past in its entirety. But at that moment, such an intense wave of wistfulness crashes over him, so powerful, that his very legs tremble. Was that really him, the man that had once sat at that chair, hunched over mountains of erudite papers? Were these his own objects, did his scarred and chafed hands really touch the smooth lacquer of this desk?
He is silent, his face set grimly. How far the mighty have fallen, he thinks hollowly.
He hears a rustle behind him, one that causes him to jerk his head to see the stranger who had visited his cell. He stands awkwardly, as if unsure of himself. But from the color of his garments, he is a man of most high purpose. A man from the crown.
"Good evening. I had the servants prepare a meal. Would you please sit, and we may discuss some matters?" the man says, motioning to the small dining area, usually used for meetings with other magistrates. Frollo doesn't nod, doesn't refuse either. He simply moves forward, his dark eyes flashing at the stranger beneath harshly knitted brows.
He nearly collapses in the chair, then has to stifle a groan of agony as yet another of the hundreds of lacerations reopen. He grits his teeth. Whatever the man wishes to discuss, it would be done properly. Not with him wincing and squirming about like some criminal.
He sits stiffly, back still ramrod straight despite his obvious discomfort. Old habits never die, he thinks offhandedly, as he looked down at his plate.
Instead of bread and water, meat and mutton, soup has been placed before him. His mouth involuntarily waters. How long had it been since he had seen food like this? How long had he been in the dark, slurping at grey, tasteless trash, trash that could hardly be considered food?
The animalistic instinct, to devour, to rip into the leg of mutton like a low beast nearly overwhelms him. Instead, he carefully picks up the knife and fork, damning his own fingers for trembling. With slow, agonizingly slow, movements, he slices through the meat, nearly cursing at how slow the process is when his stomach twirls painfully with hunger.
Bonhomme watches the man eat, his own face probably one of concern. The man is so thin. He had heard rumors of the former minister's punishment... but... seeing it was a much different experience.
Frollo can feel the stranger's eyes upon him. He feels like a wild animal, cornered, captive, exposed to an ogling audience. He is desperate to eat, to swallow the food whole... but he refuses to be an animal before a civilized guest.
"You said you wished to discuss something with me?" he remarks, his voice gravelly, yet harsh on the man's ears.
Bonhomme gulps. "Right. My name is Lord Bonhomme, I'm an attendant of the king."
Frollo is silent. The man obviously knew who he was. Claude Frollo. Former Minister. Soldier's whipping post. What was the point of introducing himself? Instead he peers at him, his face as still and harsh as stone.
Frollo's silence must have unnerved the man, for he rushes through his statements in a solitary exhale of air:
"As you know, you were found guilty of abusing your position as minister, and have been serving your punishment, which to date is life in prison..."
Frollo says nothing.
Bonhomme feels sweat bead on his brow. "In light of recent events, however, his majesty King Charles VII, is most mercifully granting you a pardon, under certain conditions."
It was then that the man's head jerks up, and that he nearly drops his own fork. Frollo's eyes shine with true mystification. A pardon? Freedom from this earthly hell? His heart races with the elusive emotion of hope.
But his victory soon feels like a façade. What if this were some trick? Why ever would he be released? Choosing his words carefully, Frollo says, "Conditions?"
Bonhomme quickly nods. "You would be reinstated as minister. But you would be barred from leaving Paris, at any point, nor would you be able to come to his majesty's court. At this point in time, your position is tentative. You will be advised by one of the king's attendants-that's me, by the way," he adds sheepishly.
When Frollo still doesn't respond, Bonhomme continues. "You will be advised by me about all matters. And, his majesty adds that if there are anymore... violations made... your previous sentence will be reinstated, with no chance of pardon. Is this... clear?" Bonhomme says hesitantly.
Frollo is shocked. Absolutely paralyzed with the surreal quality of this situation. He had to have gone mad in his cell to be imagining this very exchange.
He tries to stifle his own relief. He needs to be logical. He keeps his stone-like mask upon his face, refusing to show the emotions of desperate joy that threaten to pour from his self.
"This... is a most... advantageous proposition, one that I am most grateful to be offered. Might I inquire as to why the king is willing to reinstate me to my position?" he asks in a calculative manner
Usually when men were told of their freedom, their reaction was tears of joy, relief, happiness. But Claude Frollo wasn't most men, as Bonhomme could clearly ascertain. Bonhomme clears his throat, Frollo's question clearly treading on delicate territory.
"It seemed there were some... inherent difficulties of your post which your successor was not as adept at handling," he says.
Frollo leaned back in his chair, looking every bit like the noble he once was. Ah. There it was. Incompetence on the part of his successor. He cannot help but feel smug that in this political quagmire called Paris, he is not so easily disposed of.
A cruel, cold smile spread on Frollo's face, one that made Bonhomme's face pale. The former tyrant shifts his eyes up to the attendant. "It seems as if I will accept this most gratifying offer," Frollo says slyly.
Bonhomme bobs his head once, reminding Frollo of an agitated hen. "Right. Well then, if you will please sign this document," he said, plucking a scroll from his robes.
xxx
The next hours fly by in a dizzying, surreal array of color and sound. Snatches of Bonhomme's stammering speeches ingrain themselves in his mind, while others drift in and out, passing by as fleetingly as clouds.
He is later taken up to his bedroom. Standing within the room, he feels a twinge of hatred. Someone else, an incompetent, blundering fool, had used these chambers. His chambers. It was most good that the successor was gone, else Frollo strangle the man himself for looking at, let alone sleeping, in his room.
He trudges over the carpet, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He feels so dirty, so soiled, next to the pristine finery around him.
The fire is lit, and physical warmth seeps into him. But a residual inward coldness still remains. When he closes his eyes, he can still see the four walls of that cell, can taste the metallic tang of blood on his tongue from the countless times he had gnashed his teeth to keep from crying out in pain. When he opens his eyes, he is back, back in his sanctuary, with opulence lining the walls.
He shuffles his way to the dresser, opening the doors. His old clothes have been placed neatly into the drawers. They had been planning for his return for some time.
Instead of feeling triumphant, he feels empty though. Tired. Decrepit.
With laborious movements, he strips himself of his dirty prisoner garb. He looks down at the bloodstains, the dirt, the encrusted sweat that layered the garb, and feels repulsed.
With a small toss, the clothes land into the roaring fire, curling, disintegrating into ash.
Shouldering on his night shirt, he winces as old lash wounds sting. But he was too tired to bind his wounds tonight, too tired to think anymore.
He collapses onto his bed, vanishing into darkness as soon as his head sinks into the pillow.
xxx
Thanks for reading! Please review if you want! :) -Cgal