He awakens from a dreamless sleep, temples pounding angrily. A low, gravely groan tears from his vocal chords, a cry he instantly regrets as the very sound causes his entire head to burst into throbbing pain.
He shuts his eyes, the very little light that leaks in through the thick, musty curtains blinding him in its intensity. The room no longer lurches as it had the previous night... but the silence, the stillness presses on his ears, unnerving him just as much.
His throat and mouth are dry, indescribably parched. There's a hollow buzzing sound in his ears, one that irritates him to no end.
As Frollo slowly rolls onto his back, memories of the night before flood into his skull, disjointed, covered by the hazy veil of drunken memory. And although he believes himself mad, he cannot help but know, deep within his bones that she had been there.
Esmeralda.
His mouth moves around her name, his tongue curving around its exotic syllables. He struggles to remember what happened after she had stumbled in, eyes bright in the dim lamplight. She had moved towards him... but there was no anger in her gaze.
She had spoken to him, hadn't she?
A pounding headache assails at his temples as he contemplates her appearance. He fists the coverlet, fingers digging into the thick fabric as each memory causes another stab of pain to go shooting through his skull.
I want to see you smile... and I want to hear you scream my name...
Oh God. Oh dear God in heaven. Shame and mortification bloom within him, and he feels sick to his stomach. He had actually uttered those foolish, weak words to her of all people.
What had possessed him? He fists at his sweat soaked hair, disgust filling him.
He remembers her reaching for her knife... his very thoughts freeze, horror filling him. Her sweet scent, her struggling form... He hadn't... taken her... had he?
His whole world spins, everything careening out of control. Things would be so much simpler if he could just remember what had occurred. All he can remember are fragments...snatches of sentences he said, and she said. Her struggling body. Her pitying gaze.
"Change, Claude,"
...you feel out of control because whenever you see me, you can't use your great big judicial intelligence around me...
She had been so cool, so collected, save for the few moments her anger bellowed forth from her, as quick and unpredictable as a summer storm. She had seen the sniveling coward... and didn't bat an eye.
Or so he remembered. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that she would be so calm towards him, so pragmatic, yet never weak-willed in the face of his... nakedness.
Perhaps he had taken her roughly, in this very bed, and she had screamed in pain and revulsion.
It's with that thought that he retches, stomach heaving. He yanks himself from his bed and crashes into the washroom, falling to his knees in front of the chamber pot and emptying out the contents of his stomach.
His throat burns from his own sick as he slowly crawls back on his haunches, feeling very much like the animal they had beaten over and over in the dungeons only a few floors below. His upper lip curls in disgust, and he turns from the chamber pot, burying his head in his hands.
I never meant for any of this to happen...
He frowns. When had she said those words? Or did she even say them at all?
It must have been in a dream. For those words were followed by a brief touch, a gentle stroking of his hair... and why on earth would she do that?
I never meant for any of this to happen...
Such a softly voiced comment, from one so used to shrieking curses at him.
I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity...
He blinks, his muscles still quivering from disgust at himself, at her for goading him.
Had she goaded him? He wasn't sure.
A vile taste lingers in his mouth, not just because of the sick he just vomited up. It's the taste of horror, of fear of his self.
I just wish you would actually change things instead of wallowing in pity...
She had pleaded for him to change. She had actually attempted to reason with a drunkard. Such a foolish endeavor.
Her comment sends a surge of self-loathing through his frame. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. She called him someone who could change the very fabric of society, but as of now, he felt more like a weak, sick cur than an actual man.
A weak sick cur that might have taken her last night. A weak sick cur that couldn't even remember such an act.
He slowly rises to his feet, legs shaking beneath him. The headache pounds mercilessly, the painful pulse intensifying with each movement. As he shuffles into the room, his eyes survey the damage. Bottles lined the floor. Shattered glass glinted in the dim light. His bed was mussed and stained with his own sweat and tears.
His eyes flicker then to the mirror of the washroom. A fine dusting of silver hair adorns his chin. His hair falls lankly across his forehead, significantly longer than before. Whatever weight he was able to gain after his ordeal in the dungeons has been easily shed, leaving him as emaciated as before.
He looks all too similar to the monster that had emerged from the dungeons.
She had been so gentle, yet fierce with him, taking none of his insults lightly, yet never assaulting him verbally.
And yet he had slammed her into the bed beneath him, rage in his blood, lust heating his skin and loins.
He presses tight fingers to his pounding temples, feeling as if he's going to be sick again. Automatically, he paces over to an unopened bottle of wine, and quickly uncorks it, hoping to disappear into bitter sweetness coursing down his throat, hoping to just disappear.
But as he weighs the heavy bottle in his palm, a memory surges to the front of his skull.
Esmeralda, yanking away the bottle, jaw set in defiance and determination...
She... she had actually wrenched away his sweet poison...
Could it mean... she actually wanted him alive rather than dead?
He mentally slapped himself. No. Why would she be protective of her monster, her sniveling enemy that lusted for her flesh?
She had wanted him to change. A cynical, bitter laugh rasps from his scratchy throat. Such a foolish wench. So disillusioned and hopeful about her enemy.
An enemy that still believed to his bones that her people are heathens.
Change Claude.
He looks down at the bottle, the bottle that would let these thoughts of conflict vanish, would let the torment end.
But that would be proving her right. The coward. The coward who refuses to face his battles, the man who hides behind piety, and more recently, drink.
His hands clench around the smooth glass... then he slowly lowers it to the floor, where it lands with a small clink against the flagstones. His breath is agitated as his world spins around him, blurring into the background as he considers his next move.
The man of action is stifled, mired in his own inability to decide. He cannot simply languish in this room. Not when she's there, berating him after each drink.
But he's unwilling to depart his chambers and face the mountain that had grown in his absence. Bonhomme probably wrote to the venerable monarch miles away, weaving a scandalous tale of drink and madness.
His head still hurts, but he tries to ignore it as he considers the story of debauchery his chambers connote.
He needs to cleanse himself of the sin that's occurred. He needs to erase the awful sight, become pure again.
If he ever was pure to begin with.
He feels shame. He has to call the servants. The ones that he had ordered away in his madness. There's no other way to clean himself and his chambers without their assistance. And that singular fact causes him to grit his teeth in shame and frustration.
They would talk. They always did about their master, no matter how many times he threatened. He once had an efficient house. One he was in control of.
Now he struggled to control his own mind, let alone his home.
He looks at his state of undress in the mirror, and throws on his dressing gown, quickly hiding himself in the simple elegance. Truthfully it only made his image worse. The ragged, skeletal madman, poorly attempting to disguise himself as noble.
He runs a tense hand through his hair, attempting to smooth it. His breath reeks of spirits, something that will not go unnoticed by the staff. He eyes the bottles, debating whether he should dispose of them himself.
Frollo strides over to the mess of bottles and gathers them in his arms. He'll hide them in the small cupboard. Then, he'll dispose of them properly (and discreetly) when he's made himself more presentable.
With quick, yet uncharacteristically clumsy movements, he strips the bed of its dirtied sheets, piling them in the corner. He's all too aware his actions befit a maid, that his own father would berate him for such actions below his status.
But then again, he had been acting as a drunken peasant. Would performing the work of one be truly beneath him?
He moves to the door, hand hovering over the handle. He sighs, bracing himself for their judgment, while dread still gnaws him to his core. Esmeralda is there, at the back of his mind, the uncertainty of his actions the night before stretching before him like an unknown volatile sea.
An ocean that may drown him in its aftermath, and may have battered her body among its waves.
He lets out a small, choked sound, a groan mixed with a sigh of pain, and opens the door.
xxx
"Up and at 'em, little miss! You have much to do!'
Esmeralda's eyelids crack open, to see Clopin shaking her shoulder. She groans, burying her face into her pillow. "Go away Clopin," she mutters into the coarse fabric, voice muffled by straw. The shaking does not cease, only intensifies. "It's nearly eleven o'clock! It's not my fault you were out doing God knows what," Clopin says pointedly.
Esmeralda's stomach swoops as she remembers just what occurred last night. She turns around, masking her troubled mind with a half-serious glare directed at the jester that proceeded to light all the lamps in her section of the tent. Although there's a crooked smile on his face, she sees barely veiled suspicion in his eyes. She huffs out an aggravated sigh, and rolls off of her mat, only to reveal her clothes from the day before still on her frame. "Busy night?" Clopin asks, folding his arms. It's then she sees the parental rather than brotherly side of him, as he scrutinizes her rumpled day clothes.
"Don't ask," she says pointedly, shooting him a warning glance. Clopin frowns, and turns away, shaking his head. Esmeralda tries to ignore the gnawing feeling of guilt as she drags her weary self out of bed and attempts to put herself together. It's better he doesn't know she rationalizes.
She's exhausted, a state of affairs only improved marginally by cold water splashed against her face. As she buries her face in her washrag, memories of the previous night surge through her mind. She feels like such a complicated mess when really it should be simple- he's the enemy.
Except, as she said before, "emotions aren't simple." God, weren't those words feeling ironic now when all she wants was for it to be simple?
She sighs, angrily balling up the washcloth and throwing it across the basin. Still rubbing at her tired eyes, she leaves her tent, trying to run through her daily routine of chores. But memories of his face, his words, the softness of his hair assail her mind, leaving her a little more unnerved than usual.
"Rosa, could you just wash the damn pots for once?" Esmeralda snaps, after a long afternoon of washing, cooking, and general aggravation.
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning," Rosa responds, the younger girl glaring at her pointedly. Esmeralda, taken aback by her comment, sighs and rubs at her face. "Are you all right, you've seemed off all day?" Rosa asks, glare evaporating as concern replaces it.
Esmeralda automatically nods her head. "I'm fine, all right? Just busy," she replies.
Rosa huffs, folding her arms. "No need to be snappy, I was just trying to help!" she retorts. Esmeralda stifles a groan, and moves away from the gossiping group of women to deposit her cleaned pots somewhere else. Her nerves had been sufficiently frayed this entire day. Esmeralda frowns. Maybe it was time to get out of the Court a little while, maybe visit Quasimodo. Get her mind off of last night.
His pained face appears behind her closed lids, and she feels a surge of unwanted pity towards him. No one's every accused her of being too kind, in fact, Quasimodo was the only one to say she was good, seeing as she was the only one to treat him like a human.
So why is it that she of all people feels a wave of pity towards a man who is so merciless?
As she trudges to Notre Dame, she ponders over her feelings. Maybe it was because for once he had showed her a part of himself no one would ever see-a vulnerable, naked part. He was drunk it doesn't count, she counters.
She slips through the busy marketplace on Rue Monge, ducking and weaving through pushcarts and customers haggling over the price of fish, wool, and spices. She barely hears their shrieking affronts and insults to each other, too trapped in the realm of her own head. He's never kissed a girl, let alone had a lover, she notes, the thought striking her out of virtually nowhere. She frowns to herself, troubled that of all thoughts, this particular one would occur to her.
Was it entirely unexpected? A man like that could never woo a woman. He'd probably intimidate and insult her too much. Esmeralda snorts at the thought of Frollo being romantic, buying flowers for some "noble woman", some shy, delicate God fearing lady more occupied with needlework than anything else.
Her smile fades as less amusing details of the previous night flood her mind, the most baffling being his final apology. He had no idea what he was saying, don't pin your hopes to that failure in the making, she reminds herself, but she can't help but wish that it was in fact genuine.
Liquor loosened the tongue. But it didn't create... falsehoods. After years of watching Clopin stumble out of taverns, she feels pretty sure of that fact. People were more suggestible with drink... but had she really been that convincing?
Why was she even dwelling on this? It wasn't as if she would try to cross paths with him again.
Shaking her head, she takes the steps of Notre Dame two at a time, launching herself to the heavy wooden doors. She pushes her way inside unaware that someone is watching her.
Xxx
Every cell of his body urges him to forget this endeavor.
But the small voice at the back of his mind still nags at him constantly, keeping him awake each night. The voice whispering that he must know. That he must confront her about the events of last night, no matter the cost.
She is a gypsy. Her words used to mean nothing compared to his. However, if she spreads rumors about the minister preying on her once more, and it spread up to more savory society... he shudders as he thinks of the consequences.
And so, he had ignored the massive headache grinding away at his sanity inch by inch, and emerged from the Palace, robes pristine, hat balanced carefully upon his head. Frollo passes off this trip as an avoidance of the inevitable, of Bonhomme, for if the servants shifty glances and unease are to be believed, he has managed to squander away any nobility he had hoped to attain. In translation, Bonhomme would be knocking on his door with a summons from the King quite soon.
He had slipped away from mounting responsibility, like a teenaged squire avoiding his duty. He scowls in response to this musing, loathing the way he manages to debase himself further with each action so far.
They were whispering about him; he was sure of it. As he rode through the streets, still attempting to find a purpose to his wandering, he could hear the silence, then the resulting hushed tittering around him. He can feel their eyes in his back, their curious, prying eyes that are hungry for his demise.
His wandering brings him to Notre Dame. And he remembers with sudden clarity despite his pounding temples that she visits the hunchback often. Of all places to find her, to speak with her in relative privacy... this is the only feasible option.
He sits upon his horse, absolutely mute, feeling more like a fool than anything else. After waiting for what seems like an eternity, he decides to move away, forget the whole affair... only for fate to bring her at Notre Dame's doorstep once again.
His heart races as she tears up the stairs, hood strapped over her head. He only knows it's her because of the momentary flash of her face, of her purple skirt beneath the anonymous cloak. His hands tighten into fists on the reigns as his breath shortens.
When she disappears into Notre Dame, he dismounts the horse and quickly glides in behind her, the eyes of the cathedral judging his every step. His skin prickles beneath their stony glares, and he momentarily wonders if this is how the accused in his courtroom feel under his own gaze.
Scowling at his weakness, he slips into Notre Dame, and subtly walks over to the staircase leading to the hunchback's loft. There is only one feasible exit to the front door...so all he needs to do is wait, like some spider for its fly.
He waits.
He paces, his mind still focusing on the damnable memory of her beneath him. Her soft warm body wriggling... no, not wriggling in delight or pleasure, fighting, he corrected, wincing.
Even now, he so wanted to believe she had just... given herself to him. Lay on his bed, those beautiful limbs spread, arching her back and letting him kiss her, touch her...He runs a tense hand through his now-clipped hair, his skin suddenly burning white-hot.
She must have been afraid.
Finally, he hears small, light footsteps from up above. He backs away from the foot of the stairs, his head upturned expectantly at the figure that now descends the stairs.
A small grin touches her lips, and her eyes are bright with a happiness he hasn't seen in them before. For a moment, his heart leaps in his chest as his eyes consume her beautiful, vibrant smile, her rosy cheeks, and the ebony, thick tendrils of hair fluttering behind her.
He feels privileged to witness such a rare moment. For he knows that when he enters her sight, that smile will vanish. And hatred will replace the tender fire in those eyes. So he steals this small sight, greedily wanting more. And yet terrified to admit that seeing her smile affects him more than he cares to admit.
Finally, she turns the corner of the spiral staircase and her eyes fall upon him.
For a moment, she stops, debating inwardly whether or not to dash up the stairs. Why, for the love of God, is he here of all places? Instantly, she's suspicious.
"Did you come here to punish Quasimodo as well as Phoebus?" she calls out to him harshly, unable to disguise her own agitation. The memory of him, pleading in his own bed for her company, flashes behind her closed eyelids, and she feels her cheeks flush red.
She seems quite flustered; Frollo's gaze briefly flickers over her flushed cheeks, her anxious demeanor, trying to ascertain just what occurred only a day before. When she looks at him pointedly in the eye, he himself feels scrutinized, and averts his gaze, addressing an unknown point above her head.
"I have no business with the hunchback, gypsy. My affairs lie with you this fine afternoon," he clips, ignoring the way his stomach twists and turns in his abdomen.
Esmeralda's heart leaps in panic. He can't possibly remember can he? He had drunk enough to completely incapacitate a horse, let alone a man.
His eyes do not focus on her, she notices. That stony face also does not betray much of what occurs in his mind. Esmeralda's hand twitches to her dagger, hidden beneath her skirt.
She instead decides to play it cool. "And why on earth would you have anything to discuss with me? Don't tell me you actually give a damn about the Romani people," she says wryly, descending the stairs with as much devil-may care swagger that she can muster, swinging her hips and setting her jaw.
Frollo swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as she strides so flirtatiously, yet fiercely before him. The mental image of a tigress, beautiful yet ferocious, springs up in his mind.
"You know quite well what I am to discuss with you," he lashes out, too rattled and addled to even correct her foul language.
Her heart thunders in her chest, and she has to steady herself to keep from sweating. "Care to enlighten me?" she taunts, aware she's in a dangerous position, but unwilling to relinquish her hand. Keep your cards close, Clopin had told her once.
The minister, however, seemed more agitated by the response. "Don't play games, witch!" he snaps, teeth exposed in a fearsome grimace.
He's only a man. No monster, she reminds herself as her limbs begin to tremble. She decides to remain silent, giving only a pointed glare.
His jaw twitches, teeth grinding together. He leans forward, towering above the small dancer, nostrils flaring as her sweet scent wafts into his nostrils. "Last night, I received a most interesting visitor in my chambers. An unexpected, gypsy visitor," he hisses, his breath washing over her face.
She folds her arms, closing herself off to him, while tilting her head in query.
There is no response, and the silence unnerves him, the unknown gaping before him like the maw of a cave. Frollo resists the urge to lurch forward and simply throttle the woman.
"Care to explain why you were in my chambers?" he says lowly, his voice sharp.
Her fingers thrum against her arm while a nervous pulse beating within her. She grips at her own forearms, trying to find he bearings. "I was... curious," she starts, praying to God her expression is one of stoic strength.
"Curious? Perhaps you've confused inquisition with malicious intent." He threatens, a cruel smile touching his lips.
"Believe me, you were in such a drunken state, if I wanted to, I could slit your throat," she fires back, fists clenched.
"Really? Or did you attempt to and ran into... conflict," he drawls, anxiety still twisting his insides as his calculating gaze scans over her face.
"Conflict? What conflict?" she says, blinking in confusion.
Her expression is ambiguous in nature. Frollo's eyes never leave her face, attempting to parse out what happened. Esmeralda's own gaze takes in his anxious, shifty nature, his absolute scrutiny of her, which makes her skin crawl.
"You know... what I speak of," he mutters, suddenly panicking. Memories of the night before swim in his mind. He feels physically sick as he considers the reprehensible actions of the night before.
Esmeralda then realizes something is vaguely wrong with him. His face is unnaturally pale, corpse-like in fact. His fingers are clenched into shaking fists that he attempts to hide from her. Her gaze slides to his own eyes that shift from hers in anxiety. "Frollo? What are you talking about?" she asks lowly and suspiciously, her brows lowered and her mouth in a frown.
His last shred of self-control easily snaps, and all he can do is accuse as fear clutches his chest. "You have all the evidence you need to destroy me. Why do you play games when before you were so intent on my absolute annihilation?!" he snarls, driving forward and reaching for her with shaking hands.
But when her arms rise in defense, he abruptly realizes where they are, what the stakes are for him and her. He yanks his hands back, and backs away, shoulders stiff, each step away from her heavy.
Esmeralda's coal-black eyebrows twitch up across her forehead as utter bafflement floods her. She quickly reviews his comments, his pale, quivering face, and his accusations. He looks like he's about to be sick, for Christ's sake.
"I don't play games Frollo. And I don't intend to blackmail you for getting drunk, how on Earth would that possibly work?" she says, testing the waters.
Frollo blinks, visibly taken aback by the comment. In his obsidian pupils, Esmeralda sees an epiphany dawn within them, causing the agitated snarl upon his lips to slowly relax. Frollo's whole frame collapses, as he realizes that if what he thought had occurred had truly occurred... she would indeed make it known.
Esmeralda remembers his comments. And she realizes just what he was so agitated about, and her eyes widen.
"You... didn't think that we... that you..." she starts, her face draining of blood.
He takes in a shuddering breath, stress still evident in his features. So she decides to put the matter to bed.
"I came into your room. You were drunk. We spoke. You tried to force yourself on me-" Instantly his mind is blank with terror, but the end of her sentence fortunately dispels that fear, "-but you stopped. We spoke again, and you fell asleep," she finishes with a finality that indicates him of her honesty.
A sigh puffs past his lips as his racing heart at last calms. He runs a hand over his sweaty brow, cringing at how disheveled he appears before her. He attempts to subtly adjust his posture and slip back into the stone-faced role he used to be so adept at. But the mask has slipped off, and Esmeralda now sees the absolute turmoil he has been driven mad by.
It's not lost on her how his entire body completely collapsed at the admission of his innocence. Her lower lips catches on her teeth as her eyes scan over him. He sees her glance and instantly clasps his hands behind his back, attempting to be solid. There's an implicit dismissal to his body language that she cannot accept.
"You thought you had raped me," she finally says bluntly, and his whole body quivers at the very word.
"I thought... something regrettable had occurred," he says, uncomfortable at her direct manner. His fingernails dig into his palms as he waits for her verbal onslaught. He debates whether a retreat is necessary, but his pride balks at such a prospect as running from her.
Her eyes burn wholes in his body, the intensity of that gaze shocking and absolutely breath-taking. He can see her queries churning behind that gaze, her mind debating with itself whether to speak.
Esmeralda squares her jaw, and says, "Why did you find me?"
He doesn't respond right away, the lines and angles of his face sharp and rigid, resembling stone. She steps forward boldly, to see his body twitch in agitation.
"Why find me, if you were so sure that you had done that?" Esmeralda challenges, thoughts churning behind a lowered brow and a set jaw.
"I was not sure, that was entirely the reason," Frollo retorts, his words percussive in quality, the harsh, defensive strikes of an animal backed into a corner.
"But why even bring it up? Why not just let it go away? Honestly, if it had happened, whom would I tell? My family? They're oppressed already. Phoebus? You've made sure he's absolutely useless. And no noble would actually believe me," she reminds him.
"One cannot be sure of that. You can be most... vocal when you will it," Frollo tactfully replies.
Still perplexed by the whole situation, Esmeralda asks pointedly, "Were you here to pay me off? Bribe me, slip me money like I'm some street whore?"
"I would do no such thing!" he hisses, balking at that absolutely disgusting prospect.
"Then why come here? Minister, I was pretty sure that you would want to forget that night entirely. Why come here, and bring it up again?" she exclaims, her gaze burning.
"I didn't... want to cause anymore issue with you," he rationalizes.
"Me specifically?" she comments, one of her eyebrows arching high on her forehead.
Blast, he thinks. He's quickly losing his solid footing, his mask slipping off. He can deny it, but it would still appear suspicious. She's too clever, too nosy to accept a simple denial or deflection.
"Perhaps," he hesitates.
Esmeralda shakes her head, irritated by his close-lipped manner, the ambiguous answers. She can feel a change within him, a realization that could explain this whole affair.
And he still remains silent, too cowardly to even try.
"Perhaps?" she questions tilting her head to give him a perceptive, querulous look. He inhales deeply, the headache still pounding at his temples. Rubbing at his eyes, he tries to formulate an answer... one that does not have to do with the sounds of her screams echoing in his ears, the fear filling those eyes... one that does not have to do with the sick feeling in his stomach when she shut herself down before him that night so long ago in the cell.
Esmeralda jumps on his hesitance with a ferocity that defines her character. "Perhaps isn't an answer Minister. I want an answer as to why you're here. I believe I am owed that, especially by you," she lashes fiercely.
"Owed? I owe you nothing," he automatically counters.
"Really? Nothing? I think you know quite well what I am owed," she replies huskily, voice low and dangerous. And despite his multiple denials, he knows he is quickly losing credibility.
Not to be intimidated by a small dancing gypsy, he straightens before her, his pose militant as he stares unflinchingly at her emerald gaze. For a moment, the tension rises between them, thick in the air they breathe and cohabitate.
She won't accept anything less than the truth. So he decides to give her a somewhat honest answer.
"I... felt at fault," he replies, the singular statement suddenly making things all too clear within his own addled mind.
She gives him such a look of bafflement, he immediately regrets remaining within the sanctuary. "Christ, I think that's the first sentence I've heard you say while sober beginning with 'I felt'," she teases, her mind still puzzling over his words. At fault? It was one matter for him to admit fault while devastatingly drunk. It was an entirely other matter sober.
Did he... actually feel remorse for what happened? Her heart raced, but she quickly shook herself out of that mindset. No. This was Claude Frollo. He couldn't change that... dramatically. Could he?
"My personal life is of no one's concern. I am a public official, and should not be subject to such expectations," he replies sharply.
"All right then. But maybe when it comes to me... things are a little more... personal," she emphasizes pointedly, nodding her head.
He scowls, the corners of his lips pulled down in an all too familiar frown.
"You know I'm right," she replies stubbornly.
"A little presumptuous on your part, don't you think?" he clips.
"Maybe. But then again, who was the one assuming I was a witch? Isn't that a bit presumptuous?" Esmeralda replies sharply.
"You're quite persistent in your denials. One might think you're hiding something," Frollo says, a small smirk appearing on his thin lips.
"And you're quite persistent in avoiding the issue instead of talking about it," she replies without hesitation. The smirk instantly vanishes. "Frollo, I just want a specific answer. And quite frankly, I'm not letting you leave here without one," she says, crossing in front of him and blocking the exit to the sanctuary.
"You dare?" he drawls, eyes piercing her. She only nods and folds her arms, a challenging glint in her eyes.
He strides towards her, invading her personal space. This would be the part when she would usually step away. Instead, the green-eyed vixen holds her ground, and he secretly admires her gall. His entire form hums with a sweet anticipation as he steps closer, the risk of losing control increasing, as well as his own thrills.
Her heart races, but she remains unmoved, knowing his proximity to be a tactic of the great politician of Paris. And also knowing that a quick shriek would bring the archdeacon running.
"Go on, Frollo. Let me hear it," she says cockily, and her cheeky nature both arouses and irritates him. Oh, he wants so much, her proximity to his burning body does such wicked things to his mind... he wonders how she would beneath him...
He's then starkly reminded of the night before, her struggles beneath his body. And his heated thoughts are doused by cold reality. Startled, he jerks his head back, stomach twisting in knots. She sees the momentary panic flash across his severe features, and realizes that until today, and until that previous night, she had never witnessed fear upon his face. Vulnerability. It was something so rare, she can't help but draw closer, only to see desire flare up in his eyes once more.
Sighing, she slumps back once again, growing increasingly tired of the push and pull between them. Especially with regards to something she feels can change things.
He remains silent. He visually gorges himself on her beautiful face, the determined set in her jaw, the full lips turned down in an appealing pout. Oh God. If only he could shove her away, deny her sweet poison. But the addiction, the thrill of being in her present races through his frame while it simultaneously makes his skin crawl in repulsion at his lack of control.
Why be vulnerable towards her? It would be all too easy to shove her aside, brush her off like a stray patch of dirt on his robes.
And yet... it seems as if no matter how hard he wished to avoid her, fate, and his own desire brought her before him. He had attempted to remain distant. So had she. And yet, she had been thrust before him while rescuing her brethren.
Pushing her away now seems useless. He's so tired so very tired of trying. His soul hangs in the balance, but even he, the pious, venerable Frollo, has no inkling as to the difference between sin and virtue now.
There is no right decision. Only blind grabs in the dark for an anchor, something... or someone... to cling to.
"I came because I needed to see the damage. It's most disconcerting to wake with scattered memories of a night that might have been illicit in nature. After speaking with you...part of me was... horrified."
He steps forward, and she nearly gasps at how close, how intimidating he can be. "You have killed me many times. With one dance, you sent me toppling from my station. With one dance, I was bound to you, and with one dance, I was sent into personal as well as public turmoil," he hisses, the words not so much an attack at her, as much as the shame of a man in conflict with himself. She blinks in mystification, at the absolute savagery he displays towards his own person, a person he once thought blameless.
"When I woke up this morning with memories of a night where you were..." he stops himself, unable to form the vile words. Unable to damn himself further.
He maintains his composure. "...I feared... that I had damned myself once more... that I had lost my control that I have longed to regain... I feared I had... hurt you," he says in a voice barely above a whisper. His whole body balks at telling her. He feels too vulnerable, and he does not wish to wait for her tongue-lashing. So he decides to strike first.
"Your circumstances, your birth, you skin, they disgust me. I am disgusted with myself for wanting you so. But my own self-loathing has to do also with your pain, your fear of me... I... I see you scream for mercy and feel sick to my stomach," he admits, and his head tilts downward as he averts his gaze, that piercing gaze from her own.
Esmeralda's mouth goes dry as a figurative storm of emotion brews within her. Anger, confusion... anticipation and hope all swirl within her as the world she thought she knew spins off its axis, sending her careening.
His lowered gaze, those intense eyes now burning a hole in the flagstones, his deeply etched wrinkles... they tug on something within her, and her heart races at the prospect of this unknown man who now stands before her.
But she cannot forget his bitter, angry words. This is no changed man. Not by a long shot. He is bitter, angry, at war with everyone and himself. As curious as she is about him... he's dangerous.
She shakes her head, throwing on her hood and latching her cloak. "What am I supposed to say in response to that, Frollo? You insult me, and then you say you don't want me to be in pain? Until you say something that doesn't make me want to slap you, we don't have any business together. I appreciate the sentiment that you... care of my wellbeing. But for now, good day and goodbye," she says, the very words feeling odd in her mouth.
Esmeralda turns quickly walking from him. Something gnaws at her gut, something that turns her head to see that he is watching her retreating form so intently, his gaze hot and piercing. Her face flushes hot, and she removes herself immediately, feeling strangely hollow.
Frollo feels the magnetic pull of her affect him... he wants to follow, he wants to hold, he wants to keep her...
But through sheer willpower, he roots himself to the stone floors of Notre Dame, knowing how many people would be present to watch him, knowing that he would be known as a predator of gypsy women if he simply follows her.
Knowing that she would hiss at him, claw at him and strike him if he dared to come within her presence.
Of course he berated her for her birth. Why should he not, when everything in his childhood taught him her race was made up of heathen harpies preying on weak willed men?
It seemed appropriate to distance his self from her. And yet... now he is discontent, uncomfortable, unsatisfied. Frustration fills him to the brim, and his frayed nerves seem to split even more.
Approaching footsteps from the hunchback's keep shock the minister back to his self, and he quickly strides away, unwilling to face the boy while his mind berates him at every turn. He fluidly exits the cathedral, attempting to forget, while his stubborn heart refuses to slow its agitated beat.
xxx
Thanks for reading! As pointed out by a reviewer, i have a few grammatical errors I've got to correct! I promise I'll get to them, and thank you to that reviewer for pointing it out! -Cgal