As Esmeralda descends down the familiar path to her home, she can't help but shudder uncontrollably, not from cold, but fear. Her breathing rattles in her chest, the only sound save for the scampering of rats.
Ice-cold water laps at her bare feet, seeping into her skirt. Her steps are slow and measured... and she feels reluctant to see her nightmare face to face once more.
She turns the corner to the Court of Miracles, expecting men in chainmail and armor to charge on her. Expecting his ring clad fingers gripping into her flesh.
But there's nothing. And that is most unsettling. There's always something. Always a vendor selling stolen goods, always women gossiping, always children wrestling each other for toys.
But it's silent. It's not safe, she thinks, anxiety spiking.
Her hands twitch towards her dagger as she darts between tents. Esmeralda turns to where Clopin's tent would be. Silently stepping between the multicolored fabrics, Esmeralda glances through the empty pathways, trying to find someone, anyone. She hears muffled mutters as she passes each tent, anxious whispers. People are scared.
Finally, as she turns towards the familiar path to Clopin's tent, she sees them. Soldiers, surrounding the tent, restraining her brother from moving.
And Frollo is with them.
Her heart jumps into her throat, and she can't breathe. Stumbling backward, she's disgusted to say her primary instinct was to hide. Slip into one of the tents, bury herself in the ground. Anything but face his gaze.
Her heartbeat roars in her ears, dulling her senses with it's angry, constant thrumming. Her hands already clench around her dagger, shaking.
Esmeralda peeks around the corner again, and from her spot, she can hear the demands of the tyrant hissing through clenched teeth and a taut jaw. Her brother is restrained, angrily shouting back at him, voice laced with profanities that would make any man blush. Frollo instead jabs a ringed finger, deep voice menacing even to her, when she wasn't even the direct recipient of its curse.
The judge came for her. That singular fact burns bright and savagely through her mind, filling her with fire. He'll kill Clopin. He'll kill them all if she didn't do something.
Visions of fire, of the panic induced memories that have overwhelmed her mind each time she thinks of the monster, are threatening to let loose their curse and incapacitate her.
She has to act now. Now.
Esmeralda darts out into the path, knife in hand, cloak hood off. She raises two fingers to her mouth and blows a shrill whistle.
Frollo's head snaps around and his eyes yet again connect with her own. Her heart pounds furiously as his face twists into one of sick determination.
And she runs, legs a blur as her feet beat a constant, heart-stopping rhythm against the ground. She can barely hear over her heartbeat, but she knows they run after her, chain mail clanging and banging clumsily as they pursue.
Clopin yells, a wordless cry of outrage as Frollo takes off after her, following close behind the soldiers he had sent after her. He sprints quickly, ignoring the ache of his bones, the creak of his knees. The pain of old wounds and age in his limbs does not register, his mind too fixated on her legs moving rapidly beneath purple cloth, hair and cloak whipping agitatedly behind her. He thinks of nothing but the sight of her, fleeing, within his reach.
Esmeralda expertly maneuvers through the dirt pathways between tents, twisting and turning down the narrow alleys. She dares to look back, and sees a flash of chain mail and black. Panic mounts in her chest, and she runs faster, forcing her legs to move.
She briefly thinks about going out the main entrance, only to immediately squash the thought. It was too exposed and direct of a sprint, they would quickly outstrip her.
Her head whips around to see the entrance to the deeper underbelly of the Court. Barely even considering the other possibilities, Esmeralda charges forward, quickly slipping down into one of the labyrinth like halls burrowed deep below the surface of France.
As she disappears down into the gaping maw of the tunnel, Frollo immediately feels a surge of anger course through his blood. No. He would not allow her to escape once again.
"Find her!" he barks out, breaths heaving from his chest.
The men dive down into the darkened tunnel, clambering through the dark. Frollo follows, eyes quickly adjusting to the darkened surroundings. The tunnel smells of decay and dried blood, a pungent odor that has a couple of the men gagging.
One stops running, bent over and about to vomit. Frollo quickly grips him by the hair, wrenching him to a standing position. "You will not stop. You will not even think of stopping until she is in custody! Or else it shall be fifty lashes. Are we clear?" Frollo snarls.
The man's face, green with sick, pales in fear of the Minister, and he instantly sprints with the others, hand clapped to his mouth. "Disgusting!" Frollo hisses in irate fury, grounding his teeth together at the absolute ineptitude of his men.
He strides quickly down the hall, observing the tunnel. It seemed as if it were only one passageway, burrowing down. At least it should be easier to sniff her out...
Unless... she meant to lure them down... only to find a way out again.
"Lieutenant!"
One of the men, breathing heavily, pants out, "Yes sir?"
"Seal off the entrance to the tunnel. Make sure she does not retrace her steps!" he says curtly.
"Yes Minister," the solider salutes, sprinting back to the entrance.
Frollo looks down the gaping maw of the tunnel, barely lit by the torch sputtering in its sconce. Noting the several enclosed cells lining the walls, he comes to the conclusion that he is in fact in the gypsy's dungeon. No prisoners are in the cells though. Who on earth would be imprisoned in a sea of murderers and thieves? He thinks sardonically.
The slapping, rhythmic sound of footsteps echoes towards him. His hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight as he becomes a hyperaware of the sound, devoid of the clanging of chainmail. And he knows within his bones that Esmeralda is sprinting out of the darkness.
Smirking to himself, he steps back into the shadows, brushing past the open cell door to conceal himself into a hidden corner of the empty cell.
He hates the way his pulse jumps when she sprints past the cell, black, riotous curls tossed haphazardly around her. She quickly runs up the entrance, and he waits for the sound of her capture.
But no such sound rings out. Instead, he hears the footsteps come toward him once again. From the corner of his eye, she sees her gaze dart up and down the tunnel. He can practically see the vicious schemes she had plotted becoming foiled in her head.
But there's a determination to survive, as he's seen in so many of her kind. A determination that has her dart into the adjoining cell with him in it, accidentally slamming the door in the process.
She backs up from the door, slipping into the shadowed alcove, only inches from his hiding spot. He can hear her panting breaths, can feel her frantic, erratic energy burning inches from his fingertips.
Clever girl, he thinks as she tries to make herself scarce as possible, backing away form the lit parts of the cell.
But not clever enough.
Esmeralda cries out in alarm when strong wiry arms wrap around her middle, crushing her to an unseen assailant. She wriggles and kicks, but a long, slender limb wraps around her arms, locking their mobility. She yells, only for a hand to roughly clasp over her mouth, rings clacking unsettlingly against her teeth.
The voice that hisses in her ear is painfully familiar, and also smug. "I have you now, little imp," Frollo croons, lips nearly pressing to the shell of her ear. Her scent, her sweet, familiar scent wafts to his nostrils, and he is drunk on his victory. "You will burn this time, witch. I will do it myself," he whispers.
Her body bucks against his, that soft, lithe body that still bewitches him even as he knows that she is sin, the devil's little servant. Her warmth seeps in through his robes, and he becomes dangerously overwhelmed. She feels a shuddering, rasping breath against her neck, and her disgust mingled with desperation fuels her.
She chomps down on his palm, biting hard enough to draw blood. He hisses in pain, yet delights in her fire and the feel of her hot mouth. But his grip loosens just enough.
Esmeralda launches an elbow at his bony ribcage, shocking him to his senses. He tries to grip harder, but she wriggles free, scratching and clawing at whatever she can find. With a grunt of exertion, she reaches blindly with a fist that haphazardly connects with his jaw. Frollo is surprised by the blinding pain that shoots across his cheekbone, shocked that one so small could throw such a strong blow.
Esmeralda isn't sure how, but she manages to slip from his grasp. Frollo feels her grasp at his robes, and he aims a strike to her, only to miss. His dagger is stripped from her body, and before he can comprehend what's happened... he feels cold steel upon his neck.
"On your knees!" she hisses. Frollo attempts to turn, but the steel presses harder, leaving a stinging hot trail in its wake. Immediately anger sets him on edge, as well as deep shame. Bested by a gypsy girl barely reaching his shoulder in height. He hisses in agitation, clenching his fists.
"Down!" she orders harshly.
Face screwed in disgust, Frollo slowly kneels, every nerve of his body balking at the very idea of submitting to her whims.
"Hands up," she says firmly, automatically suspicious, wondering if she missed a weapon on his person during their brief scuffle.
He slowly lifts them, flexing his long fingers. His garish rings catch the scant light. How many times had she seen those rings in her nightmares, biting into her flesh as he moved? Her vision is misted in red, and she finds it difficult to breathe without gasping.
He feels her agitation, her hatred through that single blade held to the tender white flesh of his throat. Vulnerability, weakness, submission... all the very worst things he despises, and she simply thrusts upon him with abandon, uncaring of his status, his position, his birthright.
He is nothing. Nothing compared to the steel warmed by his flesh that holds everything in the balance.
It was disturbingly familiar, this state of weakness, to the year of exile. Memory surges, and the resentment of the woman that hovers above him, who's breath washes over the nape of his neck, builds to a fever pitch.
They both hear the clanging of chainmail. And he has to stifle another cry of pain when she digs the blade in, hissing "Quiet," into his ear. He wonders if it's worth it to simply give in, have her slit his throat. Would it be better to die in defiance of the gypsy queen, or to live and follow her will?
The choice burns in his mind.
He reluctantly chooses survival... only because his death would mean her ultimate victory. And who would want to surrender such a prize?
The men rush past, and he silently curses their ineptitude. He hears voices conjecturing at the entrance of the tunnel, an argument breaking out, and a scuffle.
And then, nothing.
"Looks like your loyal dogs aren't so loyal after all," she muses, grimly smiling behind him. He glares at a fixed point ahead. He's too aware of how close she stands, of our her palm presses against his chest, keeping him inert on her knife. Without the blade, the position they have found themselves in would seem intimate, the embrace of a lover. The thought sends an involuntary shudder through his frame, one she feels through her fingertips. She frowns, deciding to not note it.
He damns his own body for reacting to her touch. Damns the way his skin flushes with unbearable heat even as the knife presses at his pulse point. Damns how her sweet smell permeates the air around him, until he can no longer breathe.
How could he have miscalculated so grievously, and allowed her to have dominion? The gypsy, the harlot. The sinner dragging him down with her.
Esmeralda is silent, inwardly debating what she should do. It would be easy, too easy to just... do it. To kill him.
How many members of her family would be saved if she simply pressed the knife? Her nightmares, gone. Quasimodo's fear, gone. The injustice, gone.
He shouldn't be alive... she thinks, her hands trembling at the prospect.
Her heart pounds as she clenches a fist at his chest, scraping the skin beneath his robe. His breathing is labored as he feels her body press into his back, her softness frustratingly close. Wanting, lust, peaks through him flooding his body with a shameful heat he wants to temper. He grits his teeth, silently praying for relief. Beata Maria, protect me sin, protect me from the temptress that holds me captive, he begs.
She's quiet, so very quiet. It unsettles him, because the tension in the room is rising fast, signaling catastrophe.
Do it, Esmeralda inwardly screams, her palms clammy with sweat. Clopin wouldn't even hesitate to gut him then throw him to the dogs.
Her hands shake and she prays that he does not see their trembling.
She had never killed before. Never sunk in a blade to flesh. In many ways, she is no innocent, but in this, she remains completely in the dark. And the unknown gapes out like some beastly thing's maw, ready to consume all.
Her mind is suddenly rife with excuses, one much more prevalent than the others.
If she slit his throat now... what would be the consequences later? The tyrant would be gone. But then again, the Crown was quite adamant about putting him back as minister. They were on his side.
What would they do if she killed him? They would have a reason to completely dismantle the Court. Kill her family.
She hates that part of her is relieved at the prospect of leaving him alive. She tries not to dwell upon it, and at last speaks.
"All right... let's cut a deal," she says firmly.
Immediately, he stiffens, her husky demand sending a wave of repulsion through him. "I do not negotiate with the likes of you gypsies," he spits out, the words akin to the most profane of curses.
"Well, unfortunately for you, I have the knife, so you've got no choice but to negotiate with the likes of me," she replies bitterly.
He attempts to turn his head, only to feel it press harder. "Stop," she orders.
He grinds his teeth in aggravation, galled at the imperious way she demands his allegiance. "So, witch. What is it you wish? My death? Then do it already!" he grits out harshly.
"I don't want to kill you, but I will if you threaten me again," she responds truthfully.
But he cannot hear truth, and imagines falseness in her tone. He laughs bitterly, mockingly. "Such lies you tell... It makes me wonder if indeed falsehoods are ingrained onto the tongues of gypsy babes. You all speak such charming tales, such heathen rabble... you are masters of deceit, trickery..."
"Well, if I am such a good liar, then you should be very, very nervous Minister," she exclaims angrily, his tone grating on her ears, his very presence like an itch that she couldn't scratch.
He was silent, contemplating her words. She breathes out, steadying herself.
"I'm going to give you a bargain. A compromise. I let you go, and you call off your men. You don't harass my family. You leave the Court..."
"And?"
"I'll leave Paris. For good this time. You'll never see me again. You can escort me to the border personally."
A dark hollow laugh rumbles in his chest. "You crept through my city undetected for months... what makes me believe you will not do it again?"
"I assure you... a city that has you as Minister... is no longer a city I want a part in," she says grimly.
"And what of punishment? You broke the law. I will not let you walk away from punishment," he emphasizes, his voice sharp.
Her face screws into one of outrage, and he can hear a biting viciousness in her words as she says, "Isn't exile enough? Isn't leaving behind my family, my home, enough?"
"Nothing shall be enough for what you have done!" he spits out harshly.
"What I've done?" she whispers, shocked at his gall, at the very... ignorance of the man.
He feels the knife press tight... and he realizes he might have miscalculated.
It would be too easy... The anger that burns through her veins fuels the fire, the need to silence him for good.
"Criminals must be punished..." he says decidedly.
"Yes they should," she replies accusingly.
The world is balanced on a knife's edge, and he knows she is only moments from making her choice.
Her grip still clenches him, and he wonders when the air became so thin in this cell. When his lungs found it so difficult to take in the air around him.
But then... her fists relaxes its iron grip. "I've given you my proposition. Tell me your answer... now!"
"How will I know you have gone? That you don't lie," Frollo says.
"I keep my promises Frollo. Have your soldiers patrol the border, report to you if I'm gone. And they will say the truth," she replies.
Her knife presses. And he decides what would be best for his survival.
"I accept it. Let go of me now," he orders.
She glares down at his disheveled grey hair, disgusted by the very man who kneels before her.
"I'm opening the door. You're going to walk with me out the tunnel, and will call your men off," she explains.
"Do you think me an imbecile? I believe I would know quite well how this transaction shall proceed!" he lashes out, already pushed to his breaking point.
"Then get up, with your hands up, and move to the damn door!" she cries out in frustration.
Sick to his stomach at the prospect of submission, he slowly rises, looming above her. She takes his own knife and presses it to his back. "Two's better than one. So don't get any ideas," she says quietly.
She presses the tip of her knife to his back, and he slowly walks forward. She has to strain to reach his neck, but it's enough of a threat that he does not do anything but slowly glide over to the door.
He contemplates the very agreement he had so reluctantly chose to accept. Gone. She would be gone. Without punishment, without so much as a trial.
Vengeance. Such a bitter, angry emotion. Such a biting, brutal path.. Especially bitter if admitting defeat. His mind schemes around her deal. What is a gypsy's promise worth to him? He would break greater men's vows in the name of the law.
His hands grasp around the door, and push... only for it to remain absolutely inert. Frowning, he pushes once again.
"You're stalling!" she accuses.
He turns his head and narrows his eyes. "It's rather difficult to open a door when it is locked," he quips sarcastically at her.
Locked? Locked?!
Esmeralda's green eyes involuntarily widen in fear. It's as if her worst nightmares had spontaneously animated, came to life before her eyes.
"There has to be a way out," Esmeralda says, trying to remain calm, not let panic flood into her voice. She shoves him aside, still holding a knife to his back, and bends over to the lock, jamming one of her hairpins she always kept for situations like this. Chewing her lower lip, she wiggles it back and forth, trying desperately to get it to open,
But the padlock wasn't giving, and she suddenly remembers. "Can't believe I spent ten whole silvers on this damn lock. Lock-pick proof. That's what I get for leading a bunch of crooks. All of 'em now how to pick their way out of anything," Clopin had complained.
"Damn it!" she says, banging her fist on the iron gate, hand trembling in anger that she could be so stupid, so mindless.
Especially around a man like him.
She straightens up and instantly shoots a glare at the minister's back still pressing the knife in.
"Well, did you find your way out?" he says sardonically.
At that comment, she is tempted to reach over and strike him across his smug face. But she restrains herself.
"Clopin will check the cells. He's sure to find you and I, minister. We'll just have to bide our time," she says, meeting his cold gaze. Ignoring the fear that it would be the soldiers, not the
Frollo remains motionless, outwardly tranquil even. But within his mind, a crushing feeling of dread came upon him. Trapped. With this temptation within his grasp. The situations his mind came up with were appalling, and he had to physically clench his fists and inwardly count to keep the violent clamor of his blood still.
He loathed being cornered. But it seemed as if there was no other choice. "Ah yes. Well, I am patient," he said lowly, a smirk on his face. The smirk disguised him. Disguised the turmoil of his mind.
Esmeralda seems less sure than ever, pressing the knife in. Who knew how long they could stay in their position? She didn't want to relinquish her upper hand, but if they were going to be in here for a long time, it wouldn't be smart to stay standing.
"I want you to get over to the wall, and face me with your hands raised up," she says.
He cocks his head in her direction, testing her. "And if I don't?"
The only response is the increase in pressure from the knife at his back. Scowling, he shuffles over to the opposite wall, guided by her knife-point. Once there, he slowly turns, feeling the blade reposition itself at his throat once again.
Esmeralda stares him down, knuckles turning white from clenching both weapons. Slowly, she backs away, keeping a watchful eye on both his hands. "You stay over there. And I will be here. You make one move, one move, that I don't like... and there'll be a new body in these cells," she says, eyes narrowing.
One of his eyebrows rises, but to her chagrin, he simply gave her a joyless smile. "Oh, my dear little witch, what makes you think I'd be so... unsavory?" Frollo said, already knowing her response.
"Oh, I don't know. How about every single damn time you've tried to kill me?" she said, her voice strained.
"I have no such intentions tonight. Besides, the king's attendant would be most displeased if your body were to turn up with barely a trial to convict you," he remarks. His tongue weaves quite the tale, and he must admit, that she is not the only liar in this cell.
"Still don't trust you Frollo," she says with a harsh laugh.
He had once heard her laugh freely, without abandon. This laugh... it was utterly joyless. Dismal even. He's surprised by the involuntary pang that strikes through his chest.
He scowls. What did her laugh matter to him? It was better that it is without mirth. Her mirth usually meant she was mocking him, the minx.
He remains silent, and Esmeralda backs from him slowly, and slumps down against the wall, crouching with her dagger pointed at him.
He remains standing, and chooses to focus his gaze on the wall above her head, refusing to look at her. Refusing to acknowledge her. It's better then. For both of them.
Xxx
Silence presses on both of them, still, heavy silence. Esmeralda spends her time carving into the rock floor, her scratching noises breaking the silence. Frollo listlessly looks ahead, berating himself each time his eyes fell upon her blank face, her tired green eyes. She looks so much older than before. So much more burdened.
He presses taut fingers to the bridge of his nose, mind reeling. So many questions now burst into his mind. Inappropriate to ask them, seeing as she is a criminal. But while he wishes to sentence her... he can't help but wonder. Why did she leave? Where did she go? Who is this new, tired woman who now had so much loathing, so much bitterness seeping through her skin, pouring out into this small cell?
He stifles his inner musings, attempting to think of anything other than the one person he had so wanted to see, the person who was his downfall... and yet had saved him from toppling that one day.
Esmeralda looks up from the ground at his face. He seems the same. The same austere, severely lined face. The same cold eyes. The same tall, formidable silhouette.
This was the closest she had ever dared to be ever since she returned to Paris. It was now that she saw a pale scar, running from his temple, down past his jawline. She traces the scar's path, too curious, wondering what had caused it.
But another question, far less... uncomfortable springs to her lips. "Why did you come to the Court of Miracles? Why not just let your lackeys do it?"
Frollo's dark gaze flickers down to her, her question sending unease through his frame. Of course she knows why. Why would she ask such a question? His hands clench at the stone wall behind him as he attempts stoicism, even as . "When a task arises... it s most prudent to see to the completion of such a task yourself... and not let anyone else impede its fruition," he says casually, all the while noting her tense posture.
Esmeralda frowns, lips turning down in displeasure. "So, you didn't think they would get me, so you decided to do it yourself?'" she says bluntly.
He cocks his head to the side, a curious movement that Esmeralda narrows her eyes at. "If you wish to think of it in such a way, you may."
Esmeralda ducks her head from his, focusing on a scant piece of thread hanging from her blouse. She frowns down at her lap, brow furrowed in displeasure. "There have been so many Romani that have probably broken your laws. And yet you choose to come after me," she says pointedly.
Frollo can hear the harsh judgement in her voice. His face hardens as a bitter retort works its way up his throat.
But the retort is held at bay by her burning eyes, those intense orbs that seem to burrow into his soul, climb into every corner of his being. And he suddenly realizes that if they want to both live till morning, it would be best to stay stoic and say as little as possible.
So instead of angrily lashing out... he says nothing.
Esmeralda peers up at him, looking for some sort of response. She finds none.
"Your lack of response doesn't ease me, Frollo. It just makes me think the worst," she says offhandedly. She instantly wonders if that was the right thing to say. Why is she even speaking to him, to the man who is her sworn enemy?
He still was silent, towering over her. He's solemn, quiet, and completely unreadable.
Shifting around in her position, she looks back down at her knife, and pretends to clean its blade. Anything to keep her mind off of the man in front of her.
Silence reigns once more, damnable silence that only increases the inappropriate questions that threaten to leave him.
Finally, she breaks her silence, and says in a strained voice, "Can you please just sit down? First of all, you make me uncomfortable with you towering up there like some god, and second, we'll be here all night. Might as well make yourself comfortable."
Such an impertinent little chit. Thought herself so high, when she was simply a lowly gypsy.
She does have a point though. Already, the damp air and the immobile, uncomfortable position are making his bones ache. He needs to be alert, and he certainly can feel tiredness seeping in.
"Never thought you'd be so in tune to my bodily aches," he drawls. Her upper lip curls in disgust at the implication, and this time it's him who lets out a joyless laugh.
He debates following her request. Would she see it as weak?
He soon walks towards the wall, aware of her every expression. He sinks down, nearly hissing as the cold stone seeps in through his velvet robes.
Esmeralda looks at him, seated so uncomfortably on the stone. His back was ramrod straight, his whole body was tense. Could the man ever relax?
She wipes another insignificant spot on her blade, just to keep from looking at him.
But then, she hears the question, relatively quiet, yet still demanding. "Why did you leave Paris?"
She stops, not daring to look up for a moment. With a slow upturn of her head, she stares at him in the eyes, frowning. "What does it matter?" she says sharply. Too sharply, it sounds suspicious.
It must've been suspicious for he keeps going. "No, it doesn't matter. None of it does. But if I am to be trapped in here, I might as well have a question answered. Then you may clean that blade however much as you wish," he says wryly. She really was quite obvious in her discomfort, especially when she kept wiping at that spotless steel.
She's still silent, choosing her words carefully. "I needed some time to think."
To her surprise, he lets out a subdued and hollow laugh. She shoots a glare at him.
"So intentionally vague. I see you've grown most diplomatic since our last encounter," he says.
She bites her lip, anger surging.
But she keeps quiet, choosing to yet again wipe and scrub at invisible spots.
Silence. It's incredibly... irritating actually. To see the way she presses her lips tight over her mouth, barricading her own thoughts, her own poisonous words in. She was withholding. And he had not the slightest clue why.
Instead of explaining... she chooses to deflect, and lash. "Where were you?" she says pointedly, her emerald eyes burning.
There was the question. And he is just as unwilling, perhaps even more-so, to answer. "Exile," he says, the short word in no way encapsulating the punishment he had endured for months on end.
"You call me vague. You're about as tight-lipped as they come. You're tight everything. I swear, you're wound up so much you're going to explode..." she says. She was really rambling... not really like her. But the silence is getting to her... and at least hearing herself talk like a babbling fish wife at the market is better than hearing him berate her and her people.
One of his dark eyebrows rises. "Explode?" he says, so much derision and scorn in his tone she has the urge to slap him again.
She turns her gaze to him, and gave him such a sickly sweet sardonic smile that truly horrifies him. "Forgive the expression. Perhaps a much more educated word? Poor, uneducated, stupid Romani like me don't know educated words," she says, and her saccharine smile is laced with poison.
He narrows his eyes, her patronizing tone truly scraping across his ears like razors. "Poor uneducated gypsies... you could be educated though. If you simply turned to God." He says, almost triumphant that he has a proper response.
"No matter how many times I turn, Frollo... God doesn't listen," she says in an exhale.
The life, the burning energy drained, and suddenly, a much different Esmeralda appears before his eyes. His narrows eyes, and his cocky sense of superiority suddenly dissipates, leaving a blank slate in its place.
"When do you pray?" he remarks, attempting to pass it off as a challenge, when really, a true curiosity, dangerous, has been stirred within him.
Esmeralda lets out another sigh. He never did give up, did he?
"Why does it matter?"
"Usually, a faithful woman would know when she prays. You must not be as dutiful in your pleas as you thought," he says.
She isn't looking at him. It frustrates him.
Esmeralda turns to the gate, her hands looping through the bars. "I pray when I am truly hopeless. When things just won't turn out well... most of the time, my mind is too busy trying to figure out how to get out of this situation. Not exactly time to pray,"
"Before you sleep then?"
He hadn't meant for the statement to be whispered so... softly. As if it were an intimate utterance. He instantly regrets it, pegged it to a lack of self-control on his part. He was weak.
However softly it's said, Esmeralda hears the words.
She turns to him. He acted so... oddly. As if he were one person at one moment, then another at the next. Her brow knits together in what seems to be a common frown. "I'm too tired to pray... especially when it seems like nobody up there's listening."
"He rewards the faithful, who endure with Him despite the seeming emptiness," he intones.
"So, that's what you believe. Except you kill my people. Kill them. I guess you think that's all a part of God's law isn't it?" she says.
He had expected a firestorm of judgement from her. But instead he receives nothing more than hollowness, tiredness.
Why was she so drained?
Perhaps more goading. "Yes. The heathen races must be punished. And when you prance about with all your frivolous distractions... when you lure good Christians into your pagan traps, you break God's will. You must be punished."
She automatically shakes her head.
"You deny what I say, gypsy?"
"Of course I do. It's hard for me to agree when you diminish my people, my family, to just a bunch of... what was the word... heathens." She says, pulling her legs in on herself.
In the process, her skirt hitches up, displaying a flash of those beautiful legs. His eyes flicker over the expanse of dark skin, his fingers itching to touch. His face blanches, and his robes were suddenly becoming too hot.
He's silent, that surprises her. Her gaze darts up to his, only to see just what he was so focused on.
With an angry huff, she yanks down her skirt, skin crawling in repulsion. "I can't believe you," she says, anger coloring her tone.
The hollowness was gone. But instead of feeling triumphant at her combativeness, he simply feels shame. "What?"
"You going on, talking about how pious you are in killing my people, and then in the same sentence, ogle me like some piece of meat at the butchers. It's sick, and absolutely..." she struggles to find the word.
"Hypocritical?" he remarks dryly, his mind too addled by the whole situation to object to her accusations.
"Sure! Completely! And I'm sure you're going to blame me now, say I lured you, say I was the one who ensnared you," she says angrily.
He scowled. "Need I remind you of the Feast of Fools? You knew exactly what you wanted to do. You were completely capable of preventing what happened," he says bitterly. An old, buried anger was roaring in his veins, threatening to consume him.
She is on her feet, and turns to the bars. "Minister, I never meant to be your downfall. You did that yourself. I wanted to show them, that audience that we didn't need to fear you. That we had a choice. Fat lot of good that did me. You just... couldn't... stop yourself. And you know what? I don't have a damned clue why. Jesus Christ," she says.
"Do not take the Lord's name in vain," How can she not know why? His hands itch to strike out, to... bruise, to caress, to... to the heaven's above, he still doesn't know what he wants of her. Death or consummation? Whichever gets her to still that wicked tongue, he thinks darkly.
"I've had enough of your sermons Minister. I've just about had it. I don't want you. I never did. Why do you insist on chasing after me?" she says.
With angry, jerking movements, she sits down on the floor again, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him. For a moment, she looks, really looks at him.
"You should've just gone to a whorehouse," she blurts out.
At this comment, he rears up, nearly knocking over the small wooden bench at the center of the room. His teeth are clenched, his fists tight. "What?!" he hisses, venom spewing from his mouth.
She still stares defiantly up at him. "You only wanted me when I jumped into your lap in a skintight red dress. That, and your constant spewing of chastity and celibacy values, and I can only come to one conclusion. You're obsessed with it. Sex. It drives you insane, to the point of... hurting people. Then you wouldn't have burned down Paris."
"How can you suggest something so vile, so distasteful? I would never stoop so low, so... so far down into filth," he spits out, lurching forward.
Esmeralda feels her heart leap into her throat when he twitches towards her, and automatically raises her dagger. "Really? So nearly raping me on the bell-tower, that's not vile and distasteful?" she says in a quiet voice.
He freezes, each muscle tensing. Immediately, the memory comes flooding back. The way he had cornered her. The way he had crushed her, nearly killed her. Nearly violated her had it not been for that soldier that pulled him off her.
For one of the first times in his life, he had no defense. No response. He cannot very well say that he was not blame, for he remembered each moment on that fateful so clearly, with such painful clarity. He can remember her muffled scream as he had crushed her lips so violently, the way she wriggled and fought so valiantly against her attacker. The way her eyes widened, filled with tears as he hitched her skirt to her thighs...
Shame, hot shame flooded him. He had tried so desperately to forget. To move forward. But the scars were there, on both of them. The scars on her wrists from being tied to the pyre. The scars on his back as punishment for taking what wasn't his.
She waits for the piousness, the words of damnation hurled towards her. But nothing. Silence.
His eyes are cast from her, glaring at a point on the stone floors. Nothing. He says absolutely nothing and she still is afraid of him. She hates the creeping fear, hates the simple unknown of his silence. He was probably plotting to kill her now. Find a way to slam her into the floor... finish what he started.
She really hates how good her memory is. How all of a sudden, she can be transported to the floors of Notre Dame, can feel the cold stone seeping through a coarse white prisoner's shift, can smell smoke and fire all around... can feel his heavy dead weight on her, pressing, crushing... She swallows past a growing lump in her throat, one that prevents her from talking. One that silences her.
His final victory. She wants so badly to call him out, to confront him about that night... but it was those actions that now silenced her.
He waits for something. Anything.
But nothing. The two figures in the cell are speechless, rendered mute.
He feels an itching frustration, one that burrows beneath the skin. Something was wrong with her. Why would she just... stay silent? Why did her eyes look glazed over in fear, when before they burned?
She should be mute, he thinks.
Yet why was her silence so unsavory? It did not answer the deep seated questions that ache to be released from his tight jaw.
Why did you leave Paris? She never did answer that question, instead deflecting it with vague answers and redirection. She was hiding something.
The dangerous curiosity of a man too intelligent to accept silence as a proper response rears its head once more.
And suddenly, his words are accusing. "Why did you leave Paris?"
His words are sharp, stinging like a slap to the face. Her head snaps up, her throat still blocked by memories. And regrettably, the only thing she can say is "What?"
"You know what I said. You are no invalid. So answer me. Why did you leave Paris?" he drives onward, the maddening need for an answer forgoing any previous judgement.
Her mouth parts, that beautiful mouth once adept at hurling verbal knives through his frame. He sees a slight tremble in her jaw, one that has him reeling with the possibilities.
"I told you," she finally exhales through her lips, finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak around him.
A bitter, mocking laugh reverberates against the walls of the cell, surrounding her with its sharp, cutting sound. "I interrogate criminals as my duty, Esmeralda. And your answer is, in my professional opinion, a deflection from the truth. So, tell me. Why did you leave Paris?" he repeats with grim-faced determination.
Something sparks in her eyes, a reminder of the woman on the Feast of Fools. "I left Paris. Why do you care?" she accuses. A tactic. She aims the question at him to make him defensive... pushing the focus away from her.
Frollo smile is without joy as he considers his next move.
"Why did you leave Paris? And be specific, I so hate the usual trite hogwash your kind are so intent on spewing," he says mockingly.
"Would you like me to be specific?" she says before the words could be stopped. She snaps her lips tight over her teeth, realizing with horror what she said. No. No, she couldn't be weak before him.
But he had seen the anger, the fury that had colored her eyes and cheeks. And he wants... he needs more of it. "Specificity. Unless you wish to be a politician, I doubt vagueness has any benefit. I find that your lot tend to be most direct, uncouth even in their language," he says, his mocking tone setting her teeth on edge.
"Fine, you want direct? I left because... because of what happened," she says, failing in what she had wanted to say. Because of you.
"What had happened? My God, if you think that's specific, someone must instruct you on the truth of language," he says wryly, all the while calculatingly looking at her.
And suddenly she is on her feet, fists balled, stance apart.
"You want the truth? Well here it is. I left because I couldn't walk in the square without smelling smoke. I left because every time I walked down the street, I had to check and make sure one of your brutes wasn't chasing me, even when no one was there. I left because everyone but me had forgotten what you did. I left because I could not breathe, could not sleep while I still walked the streets that I nearly was killed on!"
The words hang heavy in the air, echoing in his ears. She feels so short of breath, the heavy words finally out from her mouth.
But the heaviness returns. No. No no. She had revealed her fears to her worst enemy. She... oh God, how could she be so stupid?
Esmeralda settles back down against her wall, her big green eyes flickering up to him. Her cheeks burned with mortification.
So much anger, so much fear. It all radiates from her in waves. Frollo is reeling, reeling from the admission. He... he hadn't known. Not truly. And now the truth is etched so painfully on her face that he believes himself an imbecile for not seeing it before. It is so obvious. He is the monster that haunted her nightmares. The garish specter that still chases her in her sleep.
A painful stab of something jabs his chest, and he suddenly can't breathe.
Esmeralda shuts her eyes, and Frollo suddenly has a desperate desire to brush the hair from her face. To place his arms around her taut frame.
He banishes the thoughts form his mind, as quickly as they had appeared there. The dangerous temptations of a woman who wants him dead.
"Esmeralda..." he says, his voice gravelly, thick.
"No. Just... don't. Forget it," she says severely.
He's silent. Probably thinking of all the ways to torment you, she thinks darkly. For the hundredth time, she feels stupid, foolish.
And then, in the silence of that cell... one, strongly voiced word rings out.
"Liar."
Esmeralda's head jerks up from her arms, her green eyes staring at him in confusion. Then, those same eyes narrow.
"What?!" she says in a breathless voice.
Frollo turns his indiscernible gaze at her. His brow knits together, his jaw is firmly set.
In that same, grave tone, he says, "Liar."
Esmeralda blinks once. Twice. Then feels a defensive surge. "And just what am I lying about?" she says, her voice so hollow. What would bring the fire, the courage back? Frollo is too far down this path, so he keeps going.
"I refuse to believe that the woman who once defied me, who once spat in my face on what should have been her funeral pyre, would be so weak as to let me be the monster in her nightmares. If you are looking to extract my sympathy with your obvious lie, then you will have to do much better than that," he says, all the while gauging her reaction. Eruption in five, four, three, two...
"Obvious lie? My God, you truly never understood, did you? You paint me in your mind as some demon, a powerful servant of Satan that would never back down. But you're wrong. I'm human. I feel. I fear. I fear. You've just never understood that because you see me as the devil," she shoots back, words burning from her mouth.
The words struck him. And for the first time, he sees her.
She was no witch. She hardly was the fearsome temptress he painted her to be.
Only a girl, a slip of a girl. Only a girl who had the courage to stand before a crowd and scream her threats at him, with hardly more than a weak dagger and a whole lot of nerve within her.
She's not the monster he once believed.
"How could I not, when you seem so content in leading me to the path of hell?" he remarks lowly, almost imperceptible to her ears. He needs to grasp onto the last thread of his once stable logic. No. She is the enemy. She has always been the heathen witch, he cannot feel otherwise.
The words he speaks are quiet. Hardly the most brutal of verbal attacks he has made.
But sound carries. And the words are the last straw.
She suddenly is above him, knife drawn, blade pointing at him. His gut twirls in anxiety as she towers above him. How did she get here so quickly? She is quivering, shaking from the raw emotion pouring from her.
"You know what your problem is? You refuse to blame yourself! You refuse to simply believe that you can be corruptible. Instead you blame everyone else. Why can't you just be a damn man and own up for what you've done? The countless lives you've snuffed out, innocent lives. Well, what kind of man is that? Blaming others just so he can escape being damned? You're not a monster. You're a coward!"
For a moment, she stands, knife in her palm, eyes narrowed in hatred. And her words, for one of the first time, wound him. He sees the girl, frightened in the square, clinging to a burning pyre. He sees a woman twisted by his own manipulations.
He sees his life, and her observations don't sit well with him. But... there seems to be truth there. A terrifying truth that he had never seen.
So he is silent, too shocked to fight her. Wondering when she'll take the knife and slit his forsaken throat.
Esmeralda looks at him. But she then looks at the knife.
"Not worth it." She says, lowering her arm. She stalks away to her corner and sinks down, as her own words suddenly occur to her.
He's no monster. Not for her. He's a pious, God-fearing coward.
And although he may be fearsome... the clarity that he's not a monster lifts some of the weight from her chest.
Her words seem to sufficiently shut him up, she decides as she stares at him. She doesn't care of what he thinks. Not anymore.
Silence presses on both of them. But the uneasiness has left, replaced by a mutual need to be quiet. Because the words they aim at each other are too harmful to continue.
Esmeralda barely looks at him. He doesn't matter. He's nothing; not a monster, a coward. A man. A worthless man.
The worthless man in question can't look at her. But for different reasons. Oh she matters to him. Matters more that she should. And her words, her terrible words like poison slowly sapping his form of strength... he has heard words hurled towards him. Monster, fiend, destroyer; but never coward. His pride, his sinful pride feels attacked. And yet, he cannot shake off her words as easily as before. He cannot simply ignore them
This whole affair... chasing her once again... being trapped in the same cell. Taking in her presence... letting her through the once iron-clad defenses.
It unnerves him. It maddens him.
He can't be wrong. No. He can't...
Can he?
For what seems like an eternity, they sit in silence. Esmeralda at last feels... as if she can breathe once again.
Monsters weren't so scary when you saw them for what they were.
Finally... sounds echo down in the hallway. The clinking of keys. Esmeralda immediately is on her feet, knives in hand.
The soldiers are coming... but they are led by Clopin.
"Clopin!" she calls out.
Her brother breaks out into a run towards the cell, panic in his eyes as he reaches the entrance of the cell. His hands are shaking, the keys rattling around his fingers as he unlocks the door. "Esmeralda! What did he do?! Did he-" His eyes are wide with absolute terror as he scans over her, checking for marks, injury, the signs of a struggle.
"I'm fine. He's fine too, in case you're going to accuse me of anything," she aims towards the soldiers who stand a good distance from her brother. A few of them are bruised and cut. She sees Brutus, as well as a few other members of her caravan, standing behind them. It's quite clear a skirmish occurred between them.
Clopin grabs her tight, pulling her out of the cell. The way he clenches her tight reminds her of when she had once gotten lost in Paris as a child. She squeezes his shoulder, trying to assure the rattled jester as best she could.
"Did he do anything?" he hisses, his brown eyes darting from her to the minister in the cell.
Frollo watches as she assures him, barely hearing her words. He's too preoccupied with the chaos that brews in his own mind.
The soldiers are there, the absolutely useless men, looking worse for wear. He can't speak, can't berate them. It's only when one of the men stands right in front of him, timidly inquiring of his state of being, that he finally rises to his feet, folding his arms in front of him. He needed to close himself off from his surroundings, isolate himself from the rabble
He exits the cell, to see the faces the gypsy horde, glaring and ready to attack at their small queen's command. He does not look at her, cannot look at her when her gaze scrapes across wounds so raw so very fresh. Coward. She calls him a coward... for not blaming himself...
He can't be wrong, can he? He... he was justified. Wasn't he?
The soldiers look to him for orders. But he cannot find his tongue, the one weapon that he thought could never be taken from him.
His mind...where is his mind?
Frollo's back is to her. Esmeralda's smile of relief fades as she realizes that there is the little matter of her promise to him.
She clutches to her brother. Clopin's gaze darts down to her panicked one. "Esmeralda?"
"I... I made a deal.. and I intend to keep it," she says back to him.
Frollo hears the words above the cacophonic din of his agitated thoughts. No. He cannot escort her to the boundaries of Paris. Not like this. Not after that.
She would destroy him.
He turns his head minutely, glancing at her through his peripheral vision. He speaks quietly, his voice gravelly, "No."
Esmeralda is taken aback, and flinches. "What do you mean?" she asks, puzzled.
"I said no," he says sharply.
The soldiers mutter among themselves.
"Out, all of you. Out!" he hisses to the men.
"But sir, the girl-"
"I said out, lieutenant. Do not make me repeat myself again!" he spits out.
Esmeralda's mouth hangs open as her mind wildly ponders and flips through the various scenarios that could result of this, of his sudden inability to answer a damn question. "I..."
"Do not even speak to me!" he grits out. Pain, inexorable pain clutches at his chest, as uncertainty, dangerous and all too prevalent, addles his mind.
"Sister, should we let this rat out?" Clopin asks, his hand clenching her shoulder.
Esmeralda frowns. What did Frollo's words mean? Could she stay in her home, or would he simply come after her again? Was the deal on or off?
She knows the consequences very well if she let her brother have his way. The way involving swords, nooses, and lots of blood.
"No. He's not worth a war," Esmeralda replies firmly.
Clopin looks at her in conjecture. But seeing the firm, steely gaze, he nods.
"You may leave... but I suggest you stay out, old man. Next time, you'll see quite the show from my performers," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he pats Brutus on the head.
Frollo does not respond. How could he, when he struggles to grip onto the last scant shreds of his logic that dissipate before his eyes?
He stalks away, his head bowed for once. And as Esmeralda stares at his retreating back, she wonders: why?
xxx
Thanks for reading! And thanks to the last reviewer who alerted me that I had put my chapter up in the wrong text form (would've been horrible to read, oops on my part! :) Class is starting up, so I thought I'd write some Fresme angst ;) Thanks again for reading and reviewing! -Cgal
