EPILOGUE, 1506…

"What's happening?" The square in front of the courthouse was usually crowded, but today the crowd seemed thick and unmoving. Instead of the usual hustle and bustle, people were just standing there, staring at the courthouse as if they were waiting for something.

"An execution, I think," said Giovanni. "At least, that's what I heard."

There was an old woman standing just a few paces ahead of them, and she turned to them. "Yes," she said, nodding, "they're saying Jacques Charmolue was caught doing unspeakable things with a young boy. He's to be burned at the stake today." Before Pierre could properly digest this information, the courthouse doors were flung open. Though nearly eight years had passed, he recognized Guillame and the man that he was dragging behind him.

The soldier (who, for a fleeting time, had once been his) was thin, gaunt, and covered in bruises. He was wearing a dirty prison uniform, and he limped, struggling to keep up with Guillame. His wrists were bound behind his back; Guillame had tied a noose around his neck and was leading him as though he was a dog on a leash. Pierre's stomach clenched painfully, but all he could do was stare. Everything he had ever felt towards the soldier – mostly feelings of lust, followed by hate and self-loathing – came flooding back. He remembered everything, every touch, every kiss. Pain suddenly flared up in his left hand, and he glanced quickly at the spot where his little finger used to be.

The crowd was seething. People threw things and screamed obscenities, and his soldier lowered his head, flinching as rotten fruit and small stones hit him. Several other soldiers were waiting at the platform, where an enormous stake had been erected. They grabbed his soldier (Jacques, his name was Jacques, it was so strange that he even had a name), and though he struggled, they managed to tie him to the stake.

"The filthy pervert," said the old woman, shaking her head in disgust, "he'll burn in Hell for what he's done."

Guillame turned to face the crowd now, his eyes scanning the faces. His eyes passed over Pierre and did not linger; Pierre wondered if Guillame recognized him at all. He had probably forgotten the crying boy who had vomited when he'd found out that he would have to lose a finger. "Jacques Charmolue has been found guilty of molesting a boy," he shouted, "and for that, he will be burned at the stake until dead. This perverted monstrosity has corrupted and defiled the youth of Lyon. It is my solemn duty to send this vile, wretched thing back to Hell."

The soldiers had piled bundles of sticks and straw around Jacques, and he was staring down at them in terror. Guillame lit a torch, watching as the flames grew, then turned to Jacques. "May God have mercy on your soul, Jacques," he said, "though you certainly don't deserve it."

"Guillame, please…" Pierre barely heard Jacques's voice above the crowd. Guillame only glared at him and began to lower the torch, bringing the flames closer to the kindling. Pierre turned away.

"I can't watch this," he said. He suddenly felt cold. The day itself was not hot; it was only May, and the sun seemed to dart in and out of clouds. The crackling flames from the platform, combined with the heat emanating from the bodies in the crowd, had once been stifling and unbearable. Now Pierre felt freezing, as though winter had suddenly enveloped him.

If Giovanni replied, Pierre did not hear it. He began to move, weaving through the crowd as best he could, trying desperately to ignore the horrible screaming that was now undoubtedly coming from Jacques. Pierre suddenly found himself remembering every kiss and caress. The memories were stark and vivid; in his mind's eye, he saw himself in the alley, saw Jacques pressing him against the wall. He could almost feel Jacques gripping his wrists, holding him still while he examined his hands. You have wonderful hands. It would be a shame if you lost one. I'm sure you could put them to better use. The words seemed cruel and taunting now; Jacques had held all of the power. He had stood there, tall and dominating, looking at Pierre with lust in his eyes and using his strength to his advantage.

Pierre found himself wondering about the other boy. Who had Jacques touched? Why had he come forward? Why hadn't Pierre come forward? Why had Pierre continually allowed it to happen? Why couldn't he watch his tormentor being punished? He could not shake the thoughts off, even after he'd successfully made his way out of the square and onto the road. He looked around. Marie was outside, attempting to hold her baby and hang wet clothes to dry at the same time.

He went to her, tapping her on the shoulder. She smiled at him. She could not hear the muffled sound of the crowd, and if she smelled the smoke in the air, she didn't seem to care. He took Mikhail from her wordlessly and watched as she resumed hanging the clothes. Pierre paced back and forth, and began talking to his nephew. He had always secretly feared that Mikhail would not learn how to talk properly; Marie couldn't talk at all, and though Dmitri's French had improved, he still spoke with a thick Russian accent. Pierre made it a point to talk to his nephew whenever he could, often making up stories or simply telling the baby about his day.

"Your mama's hanging clothes right now," he said. "I'm surprised you're awake, Mikhail. It's your naptime. Have you been giving your mama trouble?" Mikhail only looked at him, his small hand reaching for Pierre's mouth. He turned his head as the baby continued to grab at his moving lips. "I certainly hope you haven't. How will she get her chores done if she'd got to carry you around everywhere because you won't take your nap?" He kissed Mikhail's hand. "It's a good thing you're so cute. Otherwise she'd be cross with you."

Marie had finished with the clothes now and was approaching him. Thank you, she said before reaching for Mikhail. Pierre reluctantly handed the baby to her. There was something very soothing about holding Mikhail. When he held Mikhail, it was as though nothing else really mattered or existed. He watched as Marie rocked him in her arms, making little cooing sounds at him while she did so, and he wondered if she felt the same way. Did the rest of the world vanish when she held her baby?

He did not follow her into the house. She would probably try to put Mikhail down for his nap again, and Pierre's presence would only distract the baby. He glanced back at Lyon. A thick column of smoke was billowing upwards from the center of the town, and it made Pierre shudder. It was a fate that could very well befall him, and he looked away. He headed towards his own house. It was small and windowless, and he could sit inside and force himself to think of other things.

~xXx~

"You were smart to leave when you did," said Giovanni. "Urgh, the stink! It's like I can still smell it." He glanced back over his shoulder at the town. "They're just leaving the body there, too. I mean, he doesn't deserve a proper burial, but doesn't the smell bother anyone?"

Pierre could see the charred, twisted corpse in his mind's eye, could see crows picking and pecking at it. He had not seen Jacques's widow in the crowd. She was probably humiliated by her late husband's atrocities, and would probably wind up leaving Lyon with her head hung in shame. Everyone would look at her and wonder how she had ever loved such a foul creature. It would be better for her if she just left.

"He was married!" Giovanni continued, "his widow watched the whole thing, crying the entire time."

"That's horrible." So she had been there.

"And she had no idea! How can you keep such a horrible thing a secret?"

It isn't hard, thought Pierre. He looked at Giovanni and shrugged. He had kept his love for Giovanni a secret, had been doing it since he was fifteen or so. It was relatively easy to keep a secret; all he had to do was keep his mouth shut. It was much harder living with the secret, lying awake at night and knowing that Giovanni was with Katarina. Seeing Katarina pregnant had been agonizing. Her swollen belly and the children within were only further proof of what she and Giovanni shared. They were in love, and their love had produced children, little bits of flesh and blood that smiled and laughed and called him 'Uncle.'

"I feel sorry for her," said Pierre. "She must be so ashamed."

Giovanni shook his head. "The people in the crowd began throwing rotten fruit at her."

Pierre had seen the woman a handful of times. She had always been laughing and smiling, her hands tightly clasped around Jacques's arm. She had always looked up at him with love in her eyes. He could not imagine her crying, tears streaming down her face as the crowd pelted her with fruit and cursed at her. Would the crowd to the same to his mother or Marie? If he was ever caught, exposed, discovered, he would be burned at the stake, but what would happen to his mother and sister? Would they watch him die? Would the crowd turn on them, swearing and throwing rotten fruit? He couldn't disgrace them like that. He couldn't put them through that shame.

He wondered briefly what Giovanni would do. Giovanni would be disgusted, naturally. Would he show up to watch the execution? Would he throw things? Would he turn against Pierre's family?

"Is something bothering you?" asked Giovanni. His voice jolted Pierre from his thoughts.

Pierre shook his head. "It's nothing," he lied. "Mikhail was coughing earlier. I should go and see if he's all right."

Giovanni nodded. "Musetta was a sickly baby," he said. "You should boil water and stand by the kettle with Mikhail. The steam will ease his cough."

"I'll try that," said Pierre. He hated lying to Giovanni about anything. If Giovanni inquired about Mikhail, found out he'd been lying, what would he think? Would he suspect anything? Pierre brushed the thoughts away. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to go home and shut out the rest of the world, to sit in the dark and close his eyes and try to forget everything.

~xXx~

He did not know why he had kept the boots. They no longer fit him, and he rarely, if ever, dug them out of their paper sack and looked at them. He shifted the sack in his arms. He couldn't bear the sight of the boots, hated to think that they were even in his own house. He had to get rid of them. It seemed only fitting that they should be burned, but a fire at this hour would only attract attention. He did not want to have to explain to anyone why he was outside burning a pair of boots. Burying them would have to do.

He did not want them anywhere near his house, but it was much too dark to go into the woods. He hated the woods, had always hated the woods, and if he entered them in the dark, he would only get lost. He hated being lost more than anything, and the mere thought of being lost in the woods was just too much. He would bury the boots near his own house, and would try to forget that they were there. Perhaps he'd dig them up later and move them.

He was a few paces away from his house, digging as quietly as he could. The little shack he'd built was sandwiched between the house where his sister now lived and Clopin's caravan. The night was still and peaceful, and the sound that the shovel made when it hit the dirt seemed magnified. It seemed as though his actions would wake everyone up.

The hole was too shallow, and Pierre was too focused on making it deeper to notice the door to Clopin's caravan open. The soil seemed to trickle back down into the hole, and Pierre cursed. He had to bury the boots deep in the ground to ensure that no one would ever find them. He paused, frowning at the hole. He did not notice Clopin approaching, and nearly screamed when Clopin reached out and touched his shoulder.

"What are you doing out at this time of night?" asked Clopin, yawning.

"I…I couldn't sleep." It was a stupid excuse. Pierre had always had a knack for lying, for creating excuses and falsehoods on the spot, but he'd always found it impossible to lie to Clopin. Clopin had a way of staring at him as if he could see through the lie.

Clopin bent down and picked up the sack. "Are these boots?" he asked. He pulled one out of the sack, holding it up and squinting at it in the moonlight.

"They're cursed," said Pierre quickly. "They…I think they're dangerous."

"Curses don't exist, Pierre, you know that." Clopin stopped looking at the boot. He was staring at Pierre now. "These are too small for you."

"I just want to get rid of them."

"They might fit my son in a year or so."

Pierre swallowed. He did not like the idea of anyone else wearing the boots. "I really…I don't think…I…" he sighed, "please, Clopin, just let me get bury them."

Clopin put the boot back in the paper sack. "What's bothering you?"

Pierre shook his head. The secret lay in the back of his mind. It threatened to crawl out of his throat like an animal, and he clenched his teeth until they hurt. No one could know, especially not Clopin. Clopin would tell the Council of Elders, he'd have Pierre put to death. "I can't talk about it."

"Has someone hurt you?"

Pierre shook his head again. "Please, just leave me alone."

"Is it about that soldier? The one who was executed?"

Pierre was so startled he dropped the shovel. He bent to retrieve it, his hands shaking. He hadn't seen Clopin in the crowd, but then again, he hadn't seen Jacques's widow either. "No," said Pierre quickly. He could not bring himself to look at Clopin. He felt Clopin's eyes on him, felt the pity and surprise. He fumbled with the shovel, jamming it into the dirt, trying to focus on the hole. "It's in the past. It doesn't matter anymore."

He felt Clopin's hand on his shoulder. "Pierre, why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I liked it." He blurted it out without thinking. The words flew from his mouth, and he bit his lip, regretting it immediately. He wished he could take them back, wished he could clog Clopin's ears to them. "I mean…I…I was fifteen and…it felt good."

Clopin was silent, and his silence was making Pierre uncomfortable. He gripped the shovel, deepening the hole. "Please don't let them kill me."

"Oh God, Pierre, no. No one is going to kill you – "

"What I felt was unnatural – "

"He molested you."

Pierre let the shovel fall from his hands. "I'm in love with Giovanni," he said finally.

"That man corrupted you," said Clopin, "he's the reason you feel this way."

"I've always loved Giovanni. Even before I met the soldier." He rubbed his forehead. He had half-hoped that letting the secret out would make him feel relieved. It didn't. He felt worse. Telling the secret only made it more terrible. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's fine." Clopin's voice sounded tense, though, and Pierre glanced at him. Clopin was staring at him, thinking hard. Pierre wondered what he was thinking. Clopin was fiercely protective of his family; he viewed Giovanni as a son, and if he thought that Pierre was a threat, then he'd kill him without hesitation. "All right, have you ever been with a woman?"

Pierre nodded. "They were prostitutes…" Somehow admitting that he'd been with whores was worse than admitting that he loved Giovanni. At least what he felt for Giovanni was love. He felt nothing for the prostitutes he'd been with; half the time he hadn't even really enjoyed their company.

Clopin was shaking his head. "No, that doesn't count." He sighed, thinking. "All right. Heracles got a letter from Hans a few days ago. The circus will be coming back though here next month."

"What does that – ?"

"Hans has recently employed some lovely young acrobats," said Clopin. "You need to fall in love with a woman." Pierre stared at him, confused. Would it be possible for him to fall in love with a woman? He didn't feel anything for Katarina; he hadn't felt anything for Theresa, and he'd married her (briefly, ever so briefly, it practically didn't count). "It's easy," continued Clopin, as if reading his mind. "The circus will return, then you'll meet a pretty girl and fall in love with her."

"I'd have to leave, wouldn't I? I'd have to go with her."

Clopin nodded. "Yes," he said, his voice firm.

Pierre nodded. "All right."

Clopin looked down at the hole, letting his hand fall off of Pierre's shoulder. "That hole looks deep enough," he said. Pierre turned, glancing down at the hole. He was surprised at how deep it seemed now. He tossed the paper sack into the hole and picked up the shovel. He scooped dirt over the paper sack, hiding it completely. He moved quickly, working in silence, keenly aware of Clopin watching him. "Pierre," he said, "you can never tell anyone what you told me."

"I know."

"Good." Clopin yawned again. "It's late. Try and get some sleep."

"Thank you."

"You'll be all right, Pierre," said Clopin, "everything will be all right."

~xXx~

Her name was Tess, and she spoke with a clipped, English accent. Her skin had probably once been quite pale; her face and arms were sunburned, the pink peeling and revealing a deep tan. There was something pretty in the unevenness of her skin and the broken way she spoke. She was plain when compared with the other two acrobats, Morgana and Oxana, but she was friendlier, easier to talk to.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said, "I don't speak good French."

"Your French isn't that bad," said Pierre. "I can teach you, if you like."

Tess smiled at him, brushing her short brown hair out of her eyes. Like Katarina, she kept her hair cut short. It was curly; little brown corkscrews seemed to shoot out in all directions, and she was forever attempting to smooth them down. There was something cute in the way she patted her own head. Pierre liked her, though he knew that he hung around her more to please Clopin than anything else. Clopin had not told anyone about their discussion, but once the circus returned to Lyon, he began watching Pierre like a hawk. Pierre was not sure if it irritated him or frightened him.

"Tell me about your act." He did not know the first thing about teaching a language to anyone. He supposed that talking was the key.

Tess blushed. "I don't know how to say it," she said. "I can show you."

She was wearing pink trousers that came down a little past her knee. Pierre watched as she tucked in her white blouse, then suddenly pitched forward. She did a quick cartwheel, then began walking on her hands. She paced back and forth in front of him. "I don't know what this is called," she said.

"You're walking on your hands."

"Walking on my hands." She righted herself. "Walking on my hands. What about this?" She did a cartwheel.

"A cartwheel."

"Cartwheel. Cartwheel. All right, what's this?"

He watched as she moved. She was swift, her movements graceful and fluid. "A flip."

"A flip. My act is…cartwheel, flip, walking on my hands…"

"That's right."

Tess laughed. "You're a good teacher, Pierre."

"You know what would make your act better? Juggling."

She looked confused. "I'm not sure…what is 'juggling'?"

Pierre picked up the small purple balls by the rest of Tess's equipment. "I haven't done this in a while," he said, tossing one into the air. "I'm afraid I'm not good at it." He attempted to juggle, but the purple balls fell to the ground in a heap.

"Oh!" Tess picked the balls up. She began juggling, her hands moving quickly and gracefully, tossing and catching the balls with ease. "Juggling. That's what this is called in French." She nodded. "Sometimes I juggle with Morgana and Oxana." She looked at him, catching all three of the balls and holding them. "I can teach you."

"I'd like that."

"Here, try again." She tossed the balls to him. "You almost had it the first time." The balls seemed to move too fast, and he couldn't concentrate on all three of them at the same time, especially now that Tess was watching him more closely. Tess was laughing again as she picked up the ones he'd dropped. Pierre felt slightly embarrassed. "You need to keep your arms close to you," said Tess. She moved behind him, placing her hands on his elbows and pressing them to his sides. "Like this."

She did not move, at least, not right away. He felt her pressed against him. Her body was thin and warm, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. She was staring at him, her hazel eyes wide. She moved, gliding to his side, and he let her kiss him. His lips brushed against hers only briefly. Her lips were soft and warm and nervous.

"What's that called?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

"A kiss."

She smiled. Her smile was an infectious one; Pierre had noticed that whenever Tess smiled, everyone smiled with her. He himself was smiling now. He liked Tess. She had a certain sweetness to her, and she was pretty in her own way. He would leave Lyon, join the circus with her, and he was sure that he could learn to love her in time. Nothing needed to happen right away. They were both young; they both had all the time in the world.

END

Author's Note:

As per usual, much thanks go out to Victor Hugo's masterpiece, "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." Thanks goes to the Disney version (but not as much; Hugo's work is superior).

Also thanks to Tod Browning's film, "Freaks," the basis for Hans's circus.

Mad love and much thanks go out to Sunrise19 for reviewing. You rock. Much thanks also goes out to the people who read but didn't review (it's cool; I don't review everything I read either).

Just to clarify - hooking up with Tess is not going to magically "cure" Pierre of being gay. Pierre happens to live in medieval France, and it basically just sucks to be gay in medieval France, what with the intolerance and the lack of indoor plumbing and the poor hygiene. Medieval France just sort of sucks for everybody, basically.

Jacques Charmolue is named after a character in Hugo's original "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." He has a very minor role; he is a torturer who forces Esmerelda to (falsely) confess to killing Phoebus. On a similar note, Pierre has a last name, which is another nod to Hugo's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame." In "Esmerelda's Choice," I mention it a couple times. Pierre's last name is Gringoire, after the character in "The Hunchback of Notre Dame."

Traditionally in medieval times, thieves would lose their entire hand as a punishment for stealing. I decided to go a bit easier on Pierre here and have him lose a finger instead of his entire hand. I also thought there was something a bit more sinister about just losing your finger, like a "three strikes, you're out" kind of thing. When Guillame presses the burning metal against Pierre's bleeding hand, it cauterizes the wound, closing it and stopping the bloodflow. They do it in the film "The Boondock Saints," so much love for that film too.