If the walls of Claude Frollo's bedroom could speak, they would have weaved dark tale mired in the madness of their master. As Frollo shuffled lamely into his room that night, ignoring Bonhomme and any servant who dared to speak to him, his mind reeled with her bitter words. Coward
Coward
Coward. The fearful one who makes others fear him. Why can't you just blame yourself?!
Why can't you just be a damn man and own up for what you've done?
He furiously paces the stone floors, his mind filled to the brim with her fire, scalding him, her words twisting him in the same manner as the bludgeoning tools of a blacksmith do to a white hot metal bit.
Bang! Coward
Crash! You refuse to simply believe that you can be corruptible.
Slam! Why Can't you just blame yourself?!
Each blow, each verbal hit slams into him with all the force of a sledgehammer, rattling him to his bones. He feels as if she has stretched him to the breaking point, pulling, ripping, tearing at the final remains of sanity and logic.
I did what I must, for my duty, for my city! He objects inwardly, his hands automatically clasping in prayer.
Her face flashes before him, twisted in rage. My people are of this city.
They are heathens, far from God.
What about you Minister? Are you so Godly, are you so mighty and good?
His hands quiver. Yes, he replies, but the words are hollow, shaky at best. And suddenly, she is before him in her mind's eye, terrified, quivering in fear before him. But instead of satisfaction he can only feel shame. It feels like grime on his skin, thick, potent, irreversible. The bright woman on the Feast of Fools transforms, shifting into this tired, beaten replacement.
Not so beaten, he tries to remind himself, trying to conjure the cold feeling of her knife against his neck. But nothing comes, he can't control his mind. He's scrabbling on a slippery slope with bleeding fingers, unable to find purchase, unable to keep his psyche from slipping, tumbling into doubt.
Stop, please, stop! He beseeches the deity that he had given his life to, the God above that should have stepped in long ago. But all that can be heard is silence. Stifling, suffocating, silence.
I was in the right, he repeats, over and over, as his past actions flash before him. But her words still echo in his ears. Coward.
Of course, he feared the pit of Satan. A fool would be absolutely mad to remain entirely foolhardy and sinful, in his opinion.
Flames, oh God, the flames of that hellish pit, Inhabited by the worst of humanity. It could not be his fate, could it? Not him, not the man who spent his life in the light of Notre Dame, not the man who hunted the demons of his city?
His hands keep clenching, nails digging into his own pale flesh. Nail you wish were her own digging into your frame as she screams for you...
"Stop!" he cries aloud, his knees giving out, sending him careening down to the floor.
Are you so blameless? Did you not yearn for her kiss and touch, did you not force yourself onto her as she struggled for freedom? The dark voice that sounds alarmingly like her own was poisoning him.
Did you not like that look of fear as she cried?
Did you not like to mash your lips onto her own unwilling ones?
Did you not like how she squirmed?
Did you not like how her body writhed against your own?
Did you not like when she threw curses at you as easily as knives?
He presses his head to the cold stone, panting as his mind reels, taking on a life of its own.
Let it end... let it end...
Xxx
He huddles in the shadows of his room, sniveling like a child as hellish visions spring before him. Visions of her screaming, of her running. Of her berating him.
Monster. If only he could be just that. Her monster.
A servant knocks. He yells hoarsely for them to leave. Of course they do, without delay.
Why disobey their monstrous master?
Xxx
His stomach is empty, but hunger does not come. He feels sick just thinking of food.
The days are blurring into each other. The only thing that he can possibly stand is the sweet wine he forces down his throat each night. He can disappear into oblivion.
Oh, cruel, cruel mind. Cruel, clever mind that can so easily conjure her voice, her very words as easily as his own. He has his remedies, but even after a bottle or two, she's still there, damning him. Damning the pathetic monster who can't see the point anymore.
It takes two more to finally banish the visions and slump onto his bed, blackness pressing onto his eyes.
Xxx
No more. No more, no more no more no more no more
xxx
She hears rumors. Startling ones that could never be true.
As Esmeralda walked home from her usual work, she came across two men seated by the fire. Their conversation was hushed, but being the inquisitive (eavesdropping) girl she was, it was quite easy to overhear what they spoke of.
"I think he's gone mad."
"You can't believe all the stuff that comes from the help, Pierre! Half the time they make up stories to amuse themselves," Mihai replied.
Pierre shook his head, ran a dark hand through his knotted hair. "No, it's different this time. I mean... you can see it can't you? The way the streets are. No guards, no patrols... its as if the whole city's stopped. He hasn't been seen in days."
"Who hasn't been seen in days?" Esmeralda said casually, using this opportunity to enter the conversation. Used to her interruptions, the men simply chuckled at her.
But then Pierre's face turned solemn. "Why, the venerable Judge Frollo of course."
Esmeralda had to hide her shock. She masked it with indignation. "What does that old bastard have to do with anything?" she said.
Pierre chuckled. "While he's an old bastard, he at least had habits. But now... little miss, have you noticed something in the past weeks? Something... different?"
"If you mean I've gotten much better payment for my dances, then yes," Esmeralda said wryly.
"Well then. The answer lies right before you. Why would it be so easy for you to get new customers, hmm?"
Esmeralda's thoughts screeched to a halt. Suddenly, things began to click in her, mind, come together. The lack of guards. The laziness of the soldiers. More lootings every night.
He hasn't been seen in days.
"So, if he's not outside, where is the bastard?" she said, still hiding her shock behind scorn.
"I dunno. Probably in the Palace. Where else would he be?"
Esmeralda fell silent for the rest of the night. Perhaps it was time she paid a visit.
Xxx
Sneaking into the Palace of Justice is incredibly easy. Too easy in fact. She has a brief inkling that it's all a trap... but then she sees how the guards doze at their positions. No scheming there.
She makes her way down the halls, stifling a shiver. She had always hated this place. Always. It gave her the shivers.
She pads silently down the halls. Most of the doors she tries are locked. The man is so paranoid, even in his own home he doesn't let anything be open.
She tries every door, heart leaping in her chest each time her hand closes around the handles. It would be too easy to be caught, to be dragged down to the famed dungeons and chained in the realm of the monster.
But she steadies herself. And tries the final door.
The knob turns in her hand, and if her heart is racing before, it positively sprints now. She stares at the knob, debating whether she would like what she would find. It's probably another empty room. Let go, and go home, she orders herself.
But the thing about those kind of thoughts, was that they usually never prevailed. Oh no. She was too curious for her own good.
With a flick of her wrist, she opens the door. And enters the lion's den.
The moment she steps inside, the smell of spirits overwhelmed her nostrils, the scent intoxicating in itself.
When her eyes adjust, she could see a large window, bare, stone floors. Turning her eyes to the right, she saw a fireplace, long burned out, big, gaping, as if it were the mouth of some beast.
"Out!"
The word startles her, causing her to whip her head over to the darkened figure slumped in bed. He is veiled in shadow, a part of the darkness that shrouds the bed covers.
He mutters something incoherently, a garbled string of abuses against her. But instead of retreating... she steps forward, into the moonlight... letting the mighty Claude Frollo know just who is bold enough to enter his domain.
He sharply inhales, a choked breath that echoes in the room.
"Not you, anyone but you!" he chokes out.
Esmeralda steps forward again... only to step on something smooth and oddly shaped. "Ouch!" she hisses, and she looked down... to see a myriad of jugs and wine bottles at her feet.
He's drunk, she realizes.
For a moment, she debates whether or not to leave. To simply retreat. He's certainly intoxicated enough that he can forget this entire arrangement occurred.
But... curiosity, dangerous as it was, overwhelms her.
So instead, she takes out tinder. She needs light. She didn't like this mystery, especially with someone as unpredictable as him.
With a sharp, scraping noise, she strikes the tinder and lights one of the solitary lamps in the room, temporarily blinding herself.
When her eyes adjust once more, her heart clenched at what she saw. A pale, perspiring Frollo, wrapped in twisted stained sheets. Bottle in hand. Cowering in fear from the light. In all the times she had seen the man, he was... particular, neurotic even in his appearance, hair clipped so short and fine that it resembled boar bristles. But now... now his hair was untidy, lanky even. He hadn't shaved in a while, that was certain by the craggy whiskers that now adorned his chin.
His eyes were the worst though. Deadened. Reddened by... tears?
She has to stifle her own gasp, instead attempting to remain... calm.
"Get out... please out... I can't... I can't dream of you... not tonight... why can't you just leave me be?!" he groans rubbing frantically at his eyes.
She takes in a deep, steadying breath.
"I'm not a dream Frollo. I'm here. I just... give me a minute," she says hoarsely.
He simply gapes at her.
She needed to say... something... "Didn't you once say it was rude to hang your mouth open like a fish?" she blurts out.
He blinks at her, with no other response. Well, great job, Esmeralda. You now sound like his mother, she thinks sarcastically.
With some trepidation, she comes forward... and she sees him cower back, back into his bed frame. She frowns. Was he... afraid of her?
"I... I'm not going to hurt you... just don't jump me, got it?" she says.
He is still so silent, it was frightening. She slowly comes forward, and hit her foot against one of the many bottles. Biting back a curse, she looked down and plucks up one of the glass containers.
"How many?" she asks quietly, turning the bottle over. It was empty.
He still doesn't respond.
"Frollo... how many?" she repeats.
Finally, in a rough, yet small voice, he says, "This week or today?"
She gives a wan, tired smile. "Today."
His gaze shifts from hers, his bloodshot eyes disappearing behind relaxed lids. He breaths in, and she can see his lips mouth numbers. One... two...
He stops, and turns his gaze to hers. "I don't know," he says lowly.
"Hmmph," she exhales. If she had been in a lighter mood, she would have taunted him to no end.
But... there was something so grim about him. And something told her Claude Frollo was not a happy drunk.
"Well, judging by that response, and the amount of bottles in here... I'd say four or six... I mean, I only know from Clopin, but you're a little bigger than he is..." she quips. Usually, with drunks it was best to keep the mood light.
"Clopin..." he drawls, slurring the word.
Esmeralda approaches closer, and sits at the foot of the bed, at the furthest corner away from him. "Yes. My brother... he's quite... well, let's just say, when he drinks, he drinks," she says. She was rambling now... But what could someone say to their worst enemy when they were cowering and stinking drunk in bed?
Frollo gives her a curt, sharp nod. He takes another swig from the bottle, closing his eyes for a moment. He lets out a shaky exhale, and Esmeralda sees his hand tremble.
"Minister?" she asks, in a firm voice. He doesn't respond, doesn't acquiesce her.
So she tried something different. "Claude?" she ventures, almost timidly.
His eyes shoot open and he stares at her as if she had spontaneously grown two heads. His eyes blaze, spark in such a volatile way, that she wonders just what exactly churns about in his head.
"No... no one's ever called me Claude... and yet it is the woman who most fears me that even dares to call me that," he says hollowly.
She blinked. "I'm not scared of you..." she lies.
"Why ever not? I am." He says.
Her entire face softens. "Claude..." she starts but suddenly, a burst of speech, he begins to fall apart.
"I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. Because I am the monster they all fear. I'm afraid because I have no fucking clue who I am, what I will do, when I'm around you. I'm rash. I'm illogical. I make terrible, terrible decisions. Why?" he says demandingly.
She can't respond, so he charged forward, only slightly slurring his words.
"Whenever I see you... I... I feel so... torn... I want to stay away, have some god-forsaken peace for myself. Finally think clearly. But then I can't bear staying away, can't bear to not see your face... I know I can't... I can't want you, but I still imagine you... with me... in my bed... I want to see you smile... and I want to hear you scream my name... I want... I want things that I shouldn't, and it tears me apart. I have no claim to you. I see that now. But I still want you. I want you... but not in the simple way of lust. That would be more bearable... I want... I want..." it's at this point that Esmeralda sees his eyes glaze with what she believes are tears.
He suddenly cuts himself off, choosing to turn from her. "I'm a monster. I'm a cowardly monster. I see the things I've done... I've seen all those I kill. I didn't used to. But now I see them... every... every... I see them all," he chokes out.
He raises the bottle to his lips... only for it to be restrained by Esmeralda's firm hand. He shoots a pitiful glance at her, with weak, bleary eyes.
Her chest is tightening so painfully, she can't breathe. His words betray a broken man, a creature of the dark now maddened by his very haunts.
He was destroying himself.
She should feel grateful that he's finally breaking down, that the tyrant is at last overthrown.
She tries to remember their night in the cell... such angry, bitter words were thrown about, almost careless in how they were scattered about. He was so...so... angry.
But in a way, it had been him that had brought her back. It had been him who had poked and prodded her to finally realizing he was still a man. Not the monster hiding in her dreams. But a man who she could deal with.
In a twisted sense... he had healed her.
She stares at him, the debate raging, etched in her face.
She tests the waters. "Then change."
Claude's gaze flickers to hers.
She steels herself for protestations, for drunk rants and fury. But she hears nothing.
So she goes on. "Change, Claude," she says, testing the new name in her mouth. She does not lose her nerve and stares him straight in the red-rimmed eyes. "If you are so ashamed of what you've done, then change it. For the people you've harmed, yes, it is too late... but for the rest, it isn't," she says firmly.
A choked noise erupts from him, and she realizes after her initial alarm, that he's laughing. "Is it really? What good can I do them, when all I am suited for is destruction and judgement. No. Better to languish away... disappear into oblivion," he slurs.
He raises the bottle once more, but strong hands, strong, bold, petulant hands, snatch it away from him and throw it across the room.
His gaze snaps up to hers and he growls in absolute fury, the sound rumbling into her bones. She's reminded of a wolf, all claws, snarls, and teeth.
Anger surging in his veins, he grabs the very bold chit and pulls her clumsily underneath him, pinning her with his body. Her heart leaps into her throat, and panic sets in, raw, familiar, panic. Frollo pants, anger and lust somehow becoming one hot, roiling wave of feeling.
Her beautiful, flawless features are twisted in a snarl, as her breast heaves, straining over the cut of her blouse. He's enraptured by their swell, and his already foggy head swims with absolute rapture.
Teeth bared in response to the hot flesh that bears down upon her body, Esmeralda thrashes and fights with more ferocity than ever, about to reach for her dagger.
The movement of her hands to fetch that trusty article shock Frollo back to his senses, however frayed they are. With a rasping gasp, he jerks away from her, clawing at his own skin, wishing her scent wasn't branded on his clothes, his skin, wishing he could forget the way her soft, lithe form felt against his own. He gracelessly collapses on the other side of the bed, limbs curled in, body facing away from her.
Esmeralda stares at the ceiling, heart racing, cheeks flushed with heat. Her hands, once firmly on her dagger, shake. He... he stopped. She had thought for sure he wouldn't... but he stopped.
The panic still mounts in her body, but she feels more in control. She slowly turns, to see the minister, crumpled in on himself like a child. His entire frame trembles, perspiration trickling down the back of his neck to his stained, translucent undershirt.
It's then she sees the scars. His shirt's been sweated through, so it's not too difficult to trace the whip's path on his alabaster skin. Layers of wounds interlace on his skin, creating a canvas of pain and torture.
Her lower lip catches itself on her teeth. How many times had this man been beaten? Are you truly so naïve? Of course he was beaten! He should be, for what he's done to so many people.
But the words feel cruel. It alarms her that she should feel pity for him. But she does, a pity that swells in her breast. She tries to discard the feeling, tries to push it down.
Oh God, why did she come at all?
She hears a ragged breath, one torn from a clenched throat. Then, a voice croaks from the trembling form.
"Why do you insist on goading me when you know how dangerous I am? I have tried to understand, to restrain myself. But each time, you insist on putting yourself in harms way..." he remarks hoarsely.
He shifts away, trying to forget. "I don't feel in control anymore," he says hollowly.
Esmeralda stares at the map of scars on his back. The whole situation feels so surreal. "Why... why don't you feel in control? Because I won't be yours? Because I'm the one person you can't force into doing your bidding?" she remarks suspiciously.
"If only... it were that simple," he softly mutters, his voice so low that were the room not completely silent, she would have never heard that.
"Claude... please look at me," she says, breath hitching with fear.
Frollo is suddenly paralyzed. His arms clutch at his chest as his heart pounds violently, banging against his ribcage with each painful beat.
She sees his head shake in answer to the question. She purses her lips.
"Please look at me," she entreats softly, as if speaking to a skittish animal.
Not wanting to seem like a coward, he turns, bloodshot eyes meeting emerald. She slowly bends down to his eyelevel. For a moment the intimacy of the situation makes his head swim. He has the overwhelming urge to pull her body into his arms, inhale her sweet scent.
His hands twitch, wanting to touch... but he instead grips at his dirtied nightshirt, forcing himself not to pull her lithe form towards him.
Esmeralda can see the fire raging in his eyes. Once tempered by his cold, stern demeanor, it now burns unfettered. He does want her. But, fear still does not clench around her heart. He looks too weak, too guilty to look at her, let alone touch her.
Somewhat assured, she stares at his features. "Why don't you feel in control?" she murmurs softly.
His dark eyes disappear behind pale eyelids and his mouth opens. But he feels her hand quickly but firmly tap at his arm. "No Claude. Look at me," she murmurs calmly.
She can see his whole frame tremble as his bloodshot eyes reappear. Although his head swims with drink and distress... her visage appears before him with startling, almost painful, clarity.
He hates the vulnerability, the absolute nakedness of both his body and soul. Her green eyes can see everything. The scars on his back, the tears that form involuntarily in his eyes, the trembling of his limbs are displayed like some sideshow attraction for her to ogle at.
The intensity of those green eyes... usually, she casts the fiery gaze of judgement of hatred upon him. But now, in the stifling silence, her eyes burn into him with an emotion he can't name... like curiosity, but deeper.
Esmeralda watches as he shifts uneasily before her, dingers twisting at his nightshirt like an anxious child. She can see he wants to turn away... but she can't let him.
She turned away all too often from people willing to help, and they had simply accepted her avoidance. She can't let him make that mistake.
"Whenever I see you... I feel... out of control... simply because I am. All my life, I've made it through the political factions, the schemes by shutting down emotion. By running on logic, the mind..." he trails off, his eyes becoming unfocused.
"And when you see me... logic doesn't exactly work?" she asks quietly, placidly.
His eyes trace every contour of the face before him. Her beautiful, beautiful face so often twisted into a mocking sneer, a visage of hate.
But there is no hate in her eyes. No anger. Only calmness, a stillness that rivals any secluded pool of water.
"Quite the opposite," he hoarsely says, rubbing at his tired eyes.
"Okay... let me see if I have this right... you feel out of control because whenever you see me, you can't use your great big judicial intelligence around me... you actually feel emotion, like every other human being," she says, and he can sense an undercurrent of skepticism in her voice.
"Is it really that simple?" he retorts defensively.
"No, of course not. If it were simple, every suitor chasing a woman would instantly stop. Every woman marrying a man for money and not love would instantly feel affection for her husband. Emotions aren't simple, Claude. They can't be controlled and suppressed as easily as stamping a scroll. They're complicated. They're fucking hard," she says, laughing softly.
He frowns, too far gone to correct her language. But her words still seep in nonetheless. "I just want peace. I just want to be able to sleep," he nearly groans.
Esmeralda props herself up on her elbow, her red lips screwing into a frown of puzzlement. As her gaze shifts from him to an unseen point to contemplate his statement, he studies her intently, eyes raking over her relaxed posture, her wrinkled nose, her lips. How is it that even now, even when he has no right to do so, he can't help but feel a strange thrill that she's here, in his bed? Even when her intentions against him are so plain, he can't help but wish she would wriggle closer to him, whisper words of empty comfort in his ear, and kiss him.
His very heart aches with the pure pointlessness of it all.
When she finally looks back at him, she sees his own eyes dart down in embarrassment, reminding her of a child caught sneaking sweets. She blinks, finding it so odd that he seems so timid now, when outside of these walls, he's such a fearsome, raving figure.
She tries to brush aside the incident. As she stares at him, something occurs to her. Why not ask it, he's so drunk he won't remember anyway? "Have you ever been in love before?"
He then shoots her such a withering look that she automatically knows what his answer will be. "No," he retorts, and he rolls his eyes.
"All right then. Have you ever courted a woman before?" she asks lazily.
"No."
It's then her eyebrows rise. "No? Not anyone? I don't mean formally, I just meant..."
"I knew what you meant, and my answer remains unchanged," he clips, his voice still flat and humorless.
She tilts her head, staring at him in disbelief. "Childhood sweetheart? Unrequited love? Infatuation? Anything?" she prods, her eyes flashing.
He sighs, a long-suffering sound. "Nothing. While you were busy cavorting about the streets, flirting with boys and being a general nuisance, I was busy with studies and becoming a good man of the church. Women were and still are, distractions." He says.
"Even as a kid you were a stick in the mud," she grumbles under her breath.
"What?" he counters, hearing her words still.
"Nothing. So...you've never actually... wanted someone. Flirted with someone... in fact.. I probably was the first person to kiss you besides your mother, wasn't I?" she asks, and he can see anxiety in her eyes.
Her gaze seemed to pity him, and he suddenly felt cornered. "There is no shame in remaining celibate." Muttering under his breath, he admits, "It just presents some... difficulties."
"I'll say," she comments wryly. She stares at him, her gaze serious.
"So... it really could have been anyone who danced that day. It didn't have to be me. It could've been anyone who gave you the slightest bit of attention and you would have... pursued them," she concludes.
His gaze snaps to her own, and he instantly blurts out, "Not anyone."
Esmeralda folds her arms. "How can you say that? I'm pretty sure that any woman who had danced for you that day, you would have gone after them in a heartbeat."
"Except it mattered what kind of dance. And it mattered... what you did afterwards," he says nearly incoherently.
She frowns, a petulant, but serious look that he sees all too often. Then, she asks, "Afterwards?"
Frollo sighs, a long, mournful exhale of breath, and leans his head back against the pillow, weariness present in the lines of his face.
He decides whether or not the words that tumble around haphazardly in his head should be given a voice. But his mouth already moves, loosened by drink and her nearness. "No one has ever felt the need to challenge me before. When you defied me... I thought you impertinent. Irritating. But..." he trails off.
"But?" she remarks, eyebrow arching over her blazing eye.
"There was... something... something of you that stirred my own desire. Awakened the sinful impulses I've never felt before."
"My looks?" she remarks dryly, rolling her eyes.
He scowls at her. "Believe it or not, I have come into contact with women who are just as beautiful, if not more-so than you. At least they have..." he suddenly cuts himself off, but she guesses what he's about to say.
"The proper skin color? Proper breeding?" Esmeralda accuses, folding her arms as a look of pure aggravation slips onto her face. Frollo stares at her dumbly. No. He hadn't meant that. Not really. Because in fact her dark skin is so very alluring, despite the negative connotations on her status. Because he can't imagine her lily-white and polite. There's a terrible, wild beauty to her coarse manners, her need to swear... one that stirs his thoughts.
He lied. There were no other women as beautiful as she. But if he admitted that... he stifles a shudder at the consequences.
Esmeralda can see the indecision and struggle right there on his face. Her harsh gaze softens minutely. "You're a prick. A racist, bigoted prick. But something tells me you are very, very, very confused on the subject of me," she says, pursing her lips.
"No, I'm not. You came into my life, and then chaos ensued. You challenged me, and suddenly my beliefs feel fruitless. I have no confusion that you have caused me turmoil...I simply want peace again. But how can I be peaceful when every time I must sentence a gypsy, I see your face? How can I go about my duty when I hear your voice... screaming at me... berating me... blaming me?" he says in a rush of air, the words tumbling from his lips before he can stop them.
"Not my fault that you actually developed a conscience," she replies firmly.
"I've always been moral."
"...To those that fit in your narrow world. Did you ever consider that there were good people who weren't white, rich, and born to a good family?" she retorts hotly, her calmness quickly dissipating, replaced by aggravation.
He remains silent, tongue weighed down. If he was confused before, he's in absolute turmoil now. And suddenly, her gaze shifts, becoming one of... pity.
"You know, you could have changed things. You have that power. If you weren't you... if you were... better... you could have made people think of us differently. They wouldn't throw rocks at us in the street, we could have a chance of getting decent jobs instead of stealing. If anyone could have changed things... it would have been you. But there was just one problem..."
He stares at her, ego stinging from her calm yet biting words. She continues: "You never knew us," she finished.
His head shifts and he turns his focus to the ceiling, his head reeling and pounding from both drink and her.
Esmeralda hears a long tired sigh exhale from his lips. "Has it all been for naught then?" he accuses but the characteristic acidity of his tongue feels like a charade for his own benefit. She tilts her head, still out of her depth. But what does it matter, he won't remember it tomorrow, she reminds herself, the glass bottles littering the floor attesting to her claim.
"Not all. But we are suffering, Frollo. My family suffers under your reign. You say we are just a pack of thieves. But how could we possibly not steal for our food if no one will trust us to walk behind them, let alone work for them?" she says firmly.
"And what do you propose I do about it? Let your heathen brethren run amuck in the streets? Legalize their criminal activities!"
"Perhaps you shouldn't assume that the slightest bit of tolerance would cause us to absolutely rebel!" she cries out indignantly, and he can hear the aggravation coloring her words.
Livid with rage, she rolls out of the bed, straightening her clothes and he can see her intention to leave. "Wait," he utters his voice suddenly weakened.
She hears the new tone of voice, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up as she freezes.
His addled mind cannot help but crawl towards her, can it? He should feel disgust at the weakness, at his sniveling cries for her company.
But although she torments him, he cannot be alone. He cannot let her slip from his fingers, even if he cannot touch her in the usual sense.
"Please..." the wretched words tear from his lips. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic. He's too far gone to care.
She slowly turns, and he can see her discomfort and absolute baffled expression. "Please..." he repeats, his lips twitching around the word, it might have been repeated twice or thrice more, he can't tell.
Esmeralda looks at the pitiful man whose entire body twists towards her. She's still so angry with him... and yet... pity swells in her breast.
Suspicious of his intentions, she slowly lowers herself onto the bed, eyes never leaving his. In that moment, she seems his taut frame relax minutely, and it makes her wonder why she of all people affects him so strongly?
She knows that talking to him is getting her nowhere. She's said all she wanted to say. So she sits there, and waits for him to make his counterattack, his harsh slap of a comment that will send her running out, cursing his name.
Her expectant stare burns holes in his skin. The pressure to just say something mounts in the room, the air heavy and oppressive on his skin.
He swallows past the growing lump in his throat. In her emerald stare he sees his pitiful face. He can see every gypsy there in her gaze, crying for help. He can see her own struggling form as he tried to...
A choked gasp wrenches from his throat, causing her to stumble back. He runs a tense hand over his face, wanting to just disappear into sweet oblivion.
"I'm sorry," he finally chokes out.
Esmeralda's heart nearly stops. "What?" she utters, shock in her wide eyes.
He removes his shaking hand from his face, fisting at the sheets as he stares into those impossibly large eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his scratchy voice breaking on the three syllables. Perhaps that shall appease her. To admit fault. To just crumble before her.
There is no satisfaction in her gaze... only shock.
Exhaustion floods his bones as the drink finally incapacitates him. Esmeralda swims in his gaze, and the world tilts on its axis as he lowers his head to the pillow, the room spinning around him. He breathes in deeply, to smell her evocative, sweet scent that brings hot tears to his eyes.
Esmeralda tilts her head, eyeing his sleeping face. There's a small pang of shock at seeing him do something all so human... sleep. His facial muscles relax minutely, and she can still see his inner battle raging. The grim downward turn of his mouth, his tense brow... they all paint the portrait of a man at war with himself.
And for some reason, born from morbid curiosity, she leans over and places her shaking fingers on the riot of silver hair on his head. She flinches, expecting him to lurch up and grip her fingers in his own biting ones.
But he doesn't move, save for the small twitch in his facial muscles. And she's surprised to feel soft, if thick, hair against her fingertips. Her heart pounds, and her mouth became dry as she considers his words of admitted guilt. Despite herself, her fingers curl gently over his scalp... until she hears a low moan of longing pass from his lips. She snatches back her fingers as if she's been burned, trying to shake off the feeling of his soft hair against her skin. A low sigh breathes from his mouth, another action that keeps reminding her that the monster who stalked her dreams is only a man.
She lingers too long at his bedside, her eyes mapping out the lines of his sleeping face, the etched, tight lines at his brow, the suspicious wetness at the hollows of his eyes. Her head spins in reaction to the absolute turmoil she has just played witness to.
What was gained by tonight? Admission of his guilt? Getting to see him cower and snivel like a weak and pathetic mongrel? She wishes she could find simple satisfaction out of his pathetic self. It would make things so much clearer.
But instead, her eyes still trace out the lines of his face, and a strange sadness settles in her chest. She bends down, and hesitantly speaks.
"You won't hear me... I... I don't know why I'm doing this... I never meant for any of this to happen... I just... want things to change..." she swallows past a lump in her throat.
"It is your fault. I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity," she says, a little more bite in her words.
She pulls back from him, her face flushed as she realizes how intimate this all is. Her skin feels too hot as she quickly slips out of bed... his bed... and hurriedly ties on her cloak. She feels so much like a fugitive leaving the scene of a crime, her blood pulsing frantically, sweat running down the back of her neck as her muscles quiver with nervous energy.
He unsettles her so deeply it makes her stomach twist in knots. Esmeralda grabs the lantern, and quickly snuffs out the light, plunging the room into darkness.
She does not even wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Esmeralda quickly runs across the stone floors, wincing as her feet hit the unpredictable disarray of bottles at the foot of the bed. Heart leaping into her throat, she departs from the room, quietly fleeing from the lion's den with as much speed as her legs can allow.
When she emerges from the fortress, her skin is aflame, and her heart beats with panic. The cool air does nothing to soothe her troubled mind. Of course she knew Frollo was not some monster lurking in the shadows... but she hadn't expected to see him... weakened... babbling every last fear ingrained in his skull... becoming all too human.
When she finally slows her frantic gait, she has to lean against an alley wall, panting as she closes her eyes. As she flickers her gaze to look up at the night sky, she raises her trembling hand, the same one that had traced over his silver hair, to her chest, cradling it.
He would never change. It would be too much wishful thinking to hope this was the moment.
He won't remember, she thinks.
If only she could forget.
xxx
Hey! School has kept me really busy, so updates will be slow... but don't worry, I'm not abandoning these stories! Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Happy holidays! -Cgal
