"The Lord replied, 'My Presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.'" —Exodus 33:14
She had no idea how long the carriage ride lasted. All Esmeralda remembered was the sound of the hooves, the swaying of the carriage, and the horrible, heaving sobs that fought their way out of her chest. It was like she had lost all control over her body and now she was at its mercy, tears and heaving breaths clawing at her throat and screaming into the seat. She had hoped that no one would stop and open the door and check on her, she just wanted to be alone. Horribly, and yet blessedly, alone.
The ride continued and in the silence, in the gentle peaceful calm of no one bothering her or prodding her or interrogating her, Esmeralda felt herself gradually growing more calm. Her tears still flowed and her breathing would not slow down, but with Frollo and his fire and the peasants with their rage gone her mind and body slowly started to understand that she was no longer in immediate danger and began to relax. Her limbs trembled all over and she could barely sit up, it felt like her tears had completely drained her body and there was nothing behind but her skin and her soul to give it form.
What was Frollo going to do to her? She knew what he wanted, it was the same thing that every man wanted from her, but Frollo was in no way an ordinary man. Not just being a judge, but his whole character in general. Esmeralda had never, ever met a man like him before in her life and that was what frightened her more than anything. She couldn't predict him. Only sometimes she could guess what he would do and she would be correct, and her mistakes had cost her dearly with him.
She had known during the Festival that he would try to arrest her when she defied and insulted him. That was easy. But when she had escaped into Notre Dame she had expected him to keep looking all over the city, never dreaming that a gypsy would hide in the cathedral. She had been wrong. He found her within minutes. When the archdeacon overrode his authority she expected him to give up, as most would have. Instead he found a way around the archdeacon's orders and posted his soldiers outside. Then he waited for her.
A shiver traveled through her body at the memory. No man had ever pursued and chased her with the same relentless vigor as Frollo had. Most men she could slip away from as easily as a bird taking flight and they would run around chasing their own tails for a while before giving up, but Frollo nearly burned down the city. He had become like Satan and he let loose all his hellhounds in the hunt. God he could be so terrifying, so terrifying and cold and driven...but his soul rang like steel.
Her head swam and she groaned and leaned back against the carriage wall before she understood why. They had stopped moving. Her heart pounded again and she felt her muscles tensing, waiting for her door to open.
Even though she expected it, the sudden invasion of light still startled her. "Come on out, gypsy," a rough voice ordered her.
It was the sort of voice that had no patience for anything other than a quick obeying of orders. She had grown up on the streets and she had learned how to tell what type of guards were around just by their tone. Some would brush off sass and some would not.
Stumbling and forcing her shaking muscles to move, she stumbled to her feet and nearly fell out of the carriage when a hard, harsh hand caught her arm. It would have been less painful if a statue had caught her and she hissed between her teeth, trying to jerk it away. To her surprise, the guard let go. With her feet more firmly on the ground she had time to look at her surroundings and what she saw nearly made her fall again.
Not even the most fearless and hotheaded of the gypsies had ever dared to get close to Frollo's seat of power. Doing so would have merely been asking to get caught. All she had ever seen were the towers in the distance, but now at the foot of the Palace of Justice the size and stature of it was overwhelming, much like Notre Dame but different. Notre Dame was intimidating in its sheer size and simplicity, a thing that sat and dominated by its very nature, like a mountain. The Palace of Justice bristled like something alive and angry, its sharp spires conjuring up images of spears that looked as if they would fly out at any second to impale her were she stood.
"Miss?" a voice came to her ears, dragging her attention back to the present. From the tone, this was not the first time they tried to get her attention.
She looked back down to see a man dressed in a bright livery of various shades of reds, with a trimmed black beard, but other details about him eluded her. No matter how much she squinted she could seem to hold onto his face in her mind, it kept slipping away like water.
"This way, if you would please, miss," the man said slowly and patiently, beckoning her to follow him .
Yes, following was nice. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other and let someone else decide where she was going. She tried it, her feet wobbled at first and she settled into the familiar rhythm quickly, and the man bustled off when he saw that she was moving.
She didn't remember the trip much at all, only vague impressions that couldn't really be used later in her memory. Stone halls, wooden halls, torches lighting the way, large windows that let in far too much light, staircases and warm air, and then it seemed like she had barely gone down a single hall before the man was stopping and opening a door for her. "This is your room, miss, on Minister Frollo's orders."
Frollo's name leaped into her brain, dragging her out of her shocked daze for a moment. "Frollo?" she blurted out, looking around, expecting to see him hovering behind her. "He—
he isn't putting me in the dungeon?" That was the only place she could imagine him putting her.
The man gave her a very puzzled look, but spoke patiently. "Of course not. He said last night that you were to be given a room if you came here, and this is it." He waved her inside. "Come, I'm sure you will find it comfortable compared to—" he looked her up and down "—your other, ah, homes. Come, come." He disappeared inside.
Esmeralda was very, very confused. She tried to make sense of it but couldn't. Not because it made no sense, but she could get herself to focus on anything other than standing up straight, so she quickly gave up and followed the man into the room. Colors of red and gold assailed her eyes, red wood and golden bed, red and gold flames in the fireplace, it was everywhere and made her head dizzy. The bed looked nice, nicer than anything she had ever seen and she was honestly just a little afraid to touch it because anything that fancy screamed to her instincts that the moment she laid a hand on it then some puffed-up noble with far too much self importance would appear from thin air to shriek at her.
"Stay here," the man ordered her and swept out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him with a thud that shuddered the floor beneath her toes.
Esmeralda had not even turned to watch him go. She had been too busy staring at the bed, and the door shutting made her jump out of her reverie. Her hair whipped across her face as she glanced after him, but he was long gone. She was alone in the room...totally alone, in the Palace of Justice, of all places. Frollo's home.
Why?
She reached out and felt the covers of the bed. They were soft to her touch, so incredibly soft and cool, like water. A small smile graced, her face, a ghost of her former self and she very slowly crept closer, sitting herself gingerly upon the bed, as if she expected there to be a viper waiting under the blankets for her. When no misfortune befell her, she became more bold and rubbed both her hands along the fabric, delighting in its feel. Such bold and blazing colors, like—
—the fire that he thrust heedlessly at her face, the flames mirrored in his eyes. "Say it again!"
She jerked herself away from the memory, a shudder coming over her. But no matter how hard she tried she couldn't push the images in her head away.
Frollo standing right in front of her like Holy Michael as he weighed her soul in his hands, ready to cast her to the flames or lift her up and bear her away, all upon her choice.
Frollo with his torch, dark and light dancing across his figure until they melded together in a strange union that could not, should not, exist.
Frollo's voice, so loud and commanding, booming across the square in a way that made her bones tremble and how the people were pulled to his words like puppets on a string.
Frollo cutting her free...his robes nearly embracing her, hiding her from sight and for once his looming presence was a comfort rather than a distress.
Esmeralda jerked and shook her head, rubbing her face in both of her hands as if she hoped to claw the visions out of her head with her nails. On the other side of the coin she remembered every line and detail of Clopin's face, his expression of utter horror aimed directly at her. She remembered Phoebus's fall, his useless cries for help to an uncaring crowd. She remembered the smoke pouring from the Court of Miracles as they sat in the cemetery bound in chains, after Frollo had gone back down one last time with a torch in hand.
All of it was his fault. There was not a single event these past days which he didn't have his claws wrapped in. Burning Paris, burning the Court, trying to burn her, burning burning burning everywhere he touched his hands left flames how could he be Michael he had to be the Devil—
A loud click of the door opening jarred her out of her whirling thoughts. She sat up straight and stared, watching the man reappear with another servant, the latter bearing a tray and former carrying a bundle that she could not discern. Her palms pulsed with pain and she realized, belatedly, that her hands had curled into tight fists and her nails were digging into her soft flesh. She loosened them and winced at the new flares before the pain settled into a persistent ache.
The other servant, a man with a face so forgettable that Esmeralda barely even registered he had one and to her he seemed to just be a blurry figure, deposited the tray on a nearby table and made a hasty exit. To Esmeralda it seemed she had only blinked a few times and he had come and gone just like that. The other man lingered, however.
"Master Frollo wishes for you to have this, and to wear it," he said without prompting. He laid his burden next to the tray and left as well. He lingered in the doorway. "If you need anything, knock." Then the door closed behind him and this time she heard the lock click clearly.
Her mind had gone blank again at the words, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. Frollo was...giving her things? No, there was no way that could be right. This was some sort of trick, a trap Frollo was setting for her to fall into. Nothing was simple with him, there were double and triple meanings in everything and deeper layers to peel away.
A smell reached her nose that instantly distracted her from her musings: food. She had no idea what it was but it smelled delicious, her stomach growled at her almost painfully loud, and it was only then did she realize how starving she was. When was the last time she had eaten, actually? She couldn't remember, everything before Frollo's visit to her in that cage was either a frightening blank or like trying to see through a haze. She felt detached from those foggy memories, as if they belonged to another person, a demon who masqueraded as her that let her see what it had been doing through the window of her mind's eye.
Her stomach growled at her again and her limbs moved, sliding off the bed and stumbling over to the table and seating herself in the chair. It was an odd feeling that only served to make her feel more disconnected with everything around her. She was used to either holding her plate in one hand and eating with another, stuck somewhere too poor to afford tables, or in cheap taverns where crowds of people pushed up against her at the table and her plate was little more than stale bread with food piled on top of it. This was...a noble's refined table and she was sitting in a refined chair.
It was wrong, she felt like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way.
But the smell! That was more than enough to send those thoughts skittering away to whatever corner they dwelled in until she would need them again. On the tray was some sort of soup and bread that she didn't care to look too deeply into. The first bite nearly burned her tongue, but she didn't care and simply blew on it before eating it. She ate so fast she barely tasted it but the mixture of chicken and spices was still enough to set her senses dancing; she had only smelled such things before in the wealthy markets, she didn't even know any of their names.
It was too much, all of it too much. The hot food stuffing her stomach sent warmth and life flowing back into her veins, but she had eaten too quickly. Pain twisted in her belly, sharp and sudden as a knife, and it frozen her in place, too afraid to move. Even breathing was hard, her breaths came in quick, shallow gasps until finally it started to subside.
She should have known better. She grew up on the streets for crying out loud, one of the very first things she ever learned was not to eat anything too quickly after going without food for a long time!
With a groan, she leaned back, her eyes flicking to the bundle next to her. Her dark brows dipped as she stared. She did not like it in the slightest, things (she couldn't call it a gift) from Frollo were bad. But...he had fed her and let her stay in this room, for now, when he could have easily burned her at the stake. He wanted her and he wouldn't bring her all the way here just to spoil it now. At least she was hoping so.
Her hand reached out and touched the fabric wrappings with the same trepidation that she would give to a snarling dog. It was rough, but that was not the important part. She unwrapped it very gently, then a gasp left her lips at what it revealed to her. A dress of light blue wool, light as the sky, and with vibrant orange and yellow among the folds. Her hand had frozen in mid-reach, stretched out to the dress, and she pressed it forward the last few inches to graze the dress with a very tips of her fingers.
This was too much. She stood up abruptly, wincing as her stomach cramped again and her head swam. Everything was too much, everything was pressing down on her again. Her memories, her relief at being alive, Frollo.
She stumbled back, groping her way toward the bed. It was as cool and soft, she had somehow managed to completely forget about that until she was touching it again and now it was like she was experiencing it for the first time. She couldn't even have dreamed of sleeping in such a bed, mostly because she tried to dream realistically, and to be laying on cobblestone roads one day and then a few hours later crawling into this bed made her question her own mind.
Maybe she had actually died back there. Maybe Frollo had lit the fire and she had perished and she was now in some very strange sort of heaven. Her head felt clouded enough for it.
She curled up under the blankets, burying as deeply into them as she could without hampering her breathing, and was asleep in minutes.
When she woke up she was in the dungeons. Pitch black, just like dungeons should be, and—
No, she could feel the soft fabric of the bed enveloping her. She couldn't be in the dungeons, she had to be in—the room. The room that Frollo had put her in. A whole room. That was still odd to think about.
She looked around, noticing faint shafts of moonlight coming in through the window, and a pile of logs in the fireplace that were all red coals. Someone had to have come in her room and stoked the fire, there was no way the coals would still be glowing if she slept through the whole day. Why wouldn't they have awoken her, though? Nothing made sense.
Her head felt much clearer after such a long and deep sleep. This time when she stood up she did not stumble, and she squinted her eyes to adjust them to the gloom. She noticed a candle holder on the nightstand with a long candle sticking out of it, and she hooked her finger through the loop to carry it with her to the fireplace. It took some blowing and fanning, but eventually she was able to get the coals hot enough to light her candle with. The beautiful golden glow seemed to soften the impressions the room made around her and she found the idea of being in this room at all easier to accept in her mind.
Esmeralda paced the room, touching the walls, the bed, the table, all the furniture as she passed by it. Everything but the dress. The floor was cold under her bare feet but she hardly noticed it, not when her feet were used to much worse. Around she went again, the room becoming more believable as she kept touching it. This wasn't a trick, she really was in this room and it was (maybe) hers?
The door was dark and harsh, the shape reminded her of the indomitable Notre Dame. She stared at it, wondering. Who had been in her room? Was it was of the servants or Frollo himself? She couldn't imagine Frollo coming to visit her without waking her, and yet the thought of the judge leaning over her sleeping form and staring at her was something she could definitely picture. But Frollo wouldn't tend to her fireplace himself, not when he had a whole staff of willing servants to do such work for him.
With steps that made no sound against the stone, she went to the door and hesitated before knocking. It opened a second later and light poured into the room through the hall, blinding her for a moment. "Yes?" a man's voice asked her.
Words did not come to her. In fact she hadn't thought of anything to say since she was sure the door wouldn't open anyway. "I—" she faltered, frantically stumbling for something to say. "Where is Frollo?" she asked and immediately regretted it. She only wanted to know if he had come by earlier and that was all.
"The minister is asleep and is not to be bothered," another voice answered her, another servant. "Now that you are awake, would like some food from the kitchens?"
"Um," she replied, her hands clenching the candle nervously. People asking her if she wanted anything was rare. As in, it never happened. The question thrown at her so calmly and casually made her head spin. "Yes?" she said, her tone curling at the end as if she was the one asking the question.
The servant and guard exchanged a look. "Very well," the servant answered and bustled off down the hallway.
The hallway. Now that Esmeralda was more awake she noticed the details better. Indeed made of stone, with torches flaring brightly in their prisons, and windows to show the night sky. Definitely not underground, at least. She knew there were eyes on her and she looked up into the face of the guard, who was staring at her expectantly. For what? She floundered again and took a step back, closing the door behind her in a rush.
She pressed her back against the door, trying to calm herself from the whirl of new events and sensations that small interaction provided her. So could she just ask for food and receive it? Was that how things worked around here? That couldn't possibly be correct but those were the impressions she was getting. Back in the Court everyone had their own food and the rare communal stew pot often had fights and thievery around them. In the Palace of Justice it was just received upon asking?
The room swam in front of her head again and she pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to calm her heart. She hadn't recovered yet from, well, everything, she guessed. She remembered times where she had almost been caught while trying to escape guards, and a few memorable occasions where she practically had been captured and her friends had to come to her aid. Even those took a couple of days to get over. To be imprisoned and put right on the stake, believing she was going to die—her heart still trembled at the very thought of it.
She had to sit down. The table was closest and she made her way over to it, plopping into the chair with little grace. As if drawn by an invisible hand, her eyes fell inevitably onto dress, laying precisely where she last left it. She wasn't going to touch it again, she told herself firmly, she would look but not touch. She was indeed grateful—in a small, bitter way that made her jaw clench just thinking about it—to Frollo for saving her but Frollo was going to have to get used to some disappointment in his life.
Damn him for sending her a dress like this. Esmeralda would have been much happier if he had just sent her some servant dress instead to replace the white chemise she was still wearing. She would have laughed at his attempts to humiliate her and worn the clothes proudly.
But, perhaps he knew that already. Maybe that was why he sent this dress.
Esmeralda sighed and placed her head into her hands. Trying to second-guess Frollo was far too much of a headache. She rubbed her temples, her mind briefly thinking about the others. How had she gone from hiding from Frollo to wondering about the dress he had sent her within a day?
Well, she knew exactly how but that didn't make it any less confusing.
Or accusing. She had betrayed them, after all. Turned her back when the rope had been offered to her and grabbed it, letting the rest of them drown.
A knock at the door startled her and the servant entered, carrying a plate and a goblet which he set down in front of her with a bow. Then he turned and started to tend to the fire, poking it and throwing logs onto the coals.
That was starting to make her just a little uneasy. She knew servants were often ignored completely by their masters until something was needed and thus acted like such, but that didn't make it any less strange to see. Instead she tried to focus on her plate, which a large pie sat upon, much bigger than the ones at the market which could fit into her hand. she picked up her fork and took a bite, smiling widely at the warm food which was so often a rarity with her life. The center was colder, though. The pie had been made a while ago and then warmed up by the kitchen fire.
"Will you be needing anything else?" the servant asked of her, now a roaring fire in the fireplace after his ministrations.
Esmeralda shook her head at him, and he bowed and left the room. She watched him go with unblinking eyes, and the second the door was closed she dug into her pie with all restraint gone, sighing at the taste. Spices again, and now that she was more focused she noticed a few of them. Cinnamon, definitely, that smell was unforgettable. Perhaps cloves, too? There was a heavy sweet-spicy aroma and taste to the meat that was just divine.
She reached for her cup and took a swig and another delight hit her when it was rich wine she drank and not beer. Not the cheap tavern wine she was used to, either, but a rich, heady wine that tasted exactly like the grapes that made it rather than vinegar's grandfather.
Between the pie and the wine she found her head in a whirl and this was without a doubt the best meal she had in her whole life. The soup was a close second but her head had been so clouded and unfocused on everything that she couldn't remember the soup that well, just the faint tastes and impressions it left behind. When there was nothing but crumbs behind she stretched herself out languidly, sighing and holding the rest of her wine in her hand, the goblet mostly drained at this point.
She stared into the fire, smiling and swaying back and forth to a tune only she knew. Or was the room swaying? She frowned at the thought and checked her cup, before shrugging and drinking the rest of it. It went down so easily that it made her want to dance and set her belly aflame, prodding her to get to her feet. But she had barely taken a step before she tilted and had to grab the chair for balance. No, it was the room spinning alright.
How in the world had she managed to get drunk? She only had one, albeit large, cup of wine and it didn't even taste like alcohol that much! Unprompted, a memory dragged itself to the forefront of her mind:
A gypsy man, filling their cups with wine as he lamented, jokingly, of how the common people often drank such a harsh wine while the nobles' tongues were softened from their much gentler vintages. He had said he one managed to steal a bottle of wine from a wagon shipping a load to some noble's estate, and he boasted several times how rich and flavorful had been, but also soft. He drank the entire thing and later spent the whole night throwing up and passed out with his cloak around his head to stop the world from spinning.
The laughter from the memory, Clopin's being the loudest of them all, cut her like the finest knife and her eyes burned from the onslaught of emotion that welled up in her chest. A single, sharp sob was all she would allow herself to make before she bit her lip and pressed her palms hard into her eyes. She had to stop. She had to stop thinking about them. She had to stop thinking about the Court of Miracles as if it was still there and she could flee to it if she only managed to sneak her way out of this place.
It was gone. They were gone. All the colorful banners and wagons and tents, all of them had become fuel for Frollo's fire. And so had they. Clopin, but then who next? Phoebus?
Stop it! She bit her lip so hard she thought she was going to taste blood at any moment. The pain brought her back, gave her something present and now to focus on. She had to stop thinking about them, she had to survive now, for all of their sakes. If anything she could do that for them.
Esmeralda sighed and stumbled over to the bed. That had wine probably been just as potent, maybe more so, than anything she would find in some dockside tavern. That was why she was so dizzy and letting her guard down, letting those feelings control her. She had to learn how to get a hold of herself, the war with Frollo was not over yet and she knew he would be pitiless against her.
She nearly fell onto her bed, smiling briefly at the rocking sensation and the feeling of the blankets around her again. A part of her wanted to scold her for sleeping so much, but did she really have anything better to do? Besides, she was still exhausted from everything that had happened since even the Festival and what was going to happen if she slept some more hours? She buried her face into the pillow and drifted off in contentment.
This time, her sleep was not peaceful.
There was always a presence hovering in her mind, never seen but always felt. It pursued her like a hawk and no matter where she ran in her dreams, it would always follow. She tossed and turned in her bed and yet it persisted, something above her, knowing who she was and simply watching.
Whatever dreams she had were merely fragments she could remember. She knew some were disturbing and others were peaceful, memories of happier times, but they were all blown away by the feeling that crept along her spine and soul.
At one point, she felt her skin tingle as her hair was tugged and parted. For a moment Esmeralda smiled at the familiar sensation, then a bolt of terror went through her as she realized someone was running their fingers through her hair.
She jerked awake, a gasp leaving her shocked lips. Someone was stroking her hair, someone was—her head whipped around and her eyes darted up to meet: his. There he was at last, leaning over her and his dark eyes locked onto her face like a hungry man seeing a feast before him.
Judge Claude Frollo.