Ezmere grunted as Leon shoved him forward.

They were in the midst of the soldier's barracks, a dirty and dull place that Ezmere would have hated even if it weren't for the whipping post that towered over him.

Leon had wasted no time, but marched Ezmere straight from the cathedral to the post, seemingly intent on carrying out the punishment before Frollo could think up a way to intercede.

Many of the soldiers glared at Ezmere. One man even threw a stone that struck him on the thigh. Ezmere tried to ignore their taunts and insults even when they insulted his people as a whole. He was certain they would have shouted at any gypsy, it was his misfortune to be the only one left.

When they reached the post, Leon had Ezmere remove his shirt and vest and then began to mock his body.

This too, Ezmere ignored although his vanity made it difficult. He knew he was slim by the soldiers bulky standards, but he usually had a layer of muscle over his chest, legs and arms that added to his frame. Now, he was simply thin but he reasoned it was hardly his fault he had been laying in a bed, starving for almost a month.

As his wrists were tied above him, Ezmere began preparing himself for the pain to come. He had been whipped before. A baker had once caught him stealing bread when he was no more than thirteen years old. The stripes had faded from his skin but Ezmere still remembered their bite. It had hurt, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

Leon approached and held up a bit of leather. "My captain says you're to have this," he explained. "I myself wouldn't care if you choked on your teeth."

Ezmere opened his mouth and let Leon roughly shove the leather between his teeth, then the man's gaze fell to the white bandage around his torso.

He ripped it away and they both glanced down at the healing stab wound.

The size of the wound betrayed the amount of pain and suffering it had caused. Only three inches long, it looked like a gill that had been cut into his body and was covered end to end in small, precise stiches. A layer of purple bruising surrounded the incision.

Leon poked at it with a gloved finger, gaging Ezmere's reaction, then he drew back his fist and with two quick strikes, hit Ezmere first across the jaw then directly over the wound.

Ezmere's vision flashed black and red and he sagged against the ropes. Agony such as he hadn't felt since his stabbing coursed through his body and he struggled to draw breath.

It was in this state that the first strike bit at Ezmere's back.

If Leon had hoped that punching Ezmere would cause the whip to hurt more, he was mistaken. The pain in Ezmere's side was so intense that the whip felt little more than a strange tugging motion against his skin.

Through he could not feel the pain, he felt the blunt impact of each strike, knocking him forward into the post and driving out what little breath he had in his lungs.

Spots danced over his vision. A sea of jeering, pale faces surrounded him. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing to block out the sight but then they flew open again. One man had stood out from the crowd.

Jackson's face was burned into Ezmere's mind and he was forcibly reminded of Abella's screams.

Ezmere began to shake. His eyes bored into Jackson's and he forced himself to take a deep breath even though he was sure his side would split open.

Slowly, the spots began to fade and when he blinked, he found that he could see clearly. He heard Leon call out, "Thirteen!"

Again the whip bit at his back and Ezmere sucked in a strangled breath.

Only when Leon reached fifteen did Jackson hold up a hand for the lashing to stop.

Ezmere could feel warm blood trickling down his back and onto his legs. He did his best to ignore the feeling and focused on not making a fool of himself in front of the soldiers. His hands were untied and he carefully lowered them. His back throbbed as he crouched to pick up his shirt and vest. He couldn't bring himself to raise his arms again, so he sort of shrugged the shirt over his back like a cape to hide the cuts and blood.

Jackson jerked his head towards the street and Ezmere took slow steps after him. He walked with a permanent grimace twisting his features as he and Jackson left the barracks.

"Can you manage?" Jackson asked, looking back at him with indifference.

Ezmere merely grunted. He was standing, wasn't he?

Soon they came to a dark carriage from the depths of which glared a pale face.

Frollo threw open the door and extended a hand. Ezmere took it without question and let Frollo pull him inside. Once Ezmere was sitting, Frollo leaned back out the door and whispered something to Jackson, who glanced at Ezmere then nodded and left.

Ezmere could feel the beginnings of a throbbing headache which only intensified as Frollo slammed the door shut and they began to rattle down the street.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the side of the carriage. He could feel Frollo watching him.

After several minutes of silence, Frollo finally said, "I am sorry I could not protect you from this."

Ezmere cracked an eye open as he heard Frollo rustle around with fabric and then a heavy cloak was draped over his shoulders, covering his bare torso.

Frollo continued in a stern voice, "You must learn to behave for I cannot save you from everyone who would do you ill. Your actions have consequences now whether you like it or not."

Ezmere was too tired to argue. He let his eyes drift shut once more and did not open them again until the rocking carriage fell still. As soon as the horses came to a stop, he opened his door and stumbled out.

"Ezmere!" Frollo said, clearly frustrated with his impatience. "Let me help you!"

"I can walk," Ezmere snapped and he lurched away.

Frollo pursed his lips.

Ezmere was so focused on staying upright that it took several steps for him to realize that they were not at Notre Dame, but Frollo's personal home.

He stopped dead and Frollo came to his side. They both stared at the door.

"No," Ezmere said suddenly. A thousand foul memories were crowding his mind. This was where Frollo had tortured and manipulated Abella. This was where they had fought. This was where Frollo had confessed his lust.

"Ezmere," Frollo said firmly. "I would not have brought you here if I did not think I could control myself. We must attend to your back."

And he swept past Ezmere to enter the house. He held the door open with a pointed glare.

Ezmere stared down at the cobblestones beneath his feet as he mulled over his choice. The weight of the cloak on his raw back was agony and he longed to collapse, whether onto a bed or the stone, he did not care.

He was so tired of being in pain…

And so before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped forward.

Frollo smiled as Ezmere entered the house and Ezmere ignored it.

He ignored everything from the curious glances of the servants, to the crucifixes on the walls. He ignored the room he entered and he ignored the pain in his back as he climbed onto a bed and collapsed onto his stomach.

A bottle of wine was thrust into his hand and he drained the entire bottle in four long draughts. He clutched the empty bottle long after they finished working on his back. The cold glass comforted him and he grew upset when Frollo refused to let him have anymore.

And so now he lay in a stupor, half intoxicated by the wine, half by pain and he watched the sun wheel past outside the window.

Someone had bandaged him at some point and a thick salve had been placed over the cuts, somewhat numbing them and stopping the bleeding.

Night turned to morning and because there was no other way to truly stop Ezmere's pain, Frollo allowed him another bottle of wine. This one he drank more slowly, sip by sip as he lay on the bed. He thought of Abella and the wine turned sour in his mouth.

When night fell on the second day since the whipping, Ezmere pushed himself up off the bed and began to wander through the house.

He found no guards to stop him, though this was not a surprise. He was sure Frollo would be much more careful with the men in his employ moving forwards.

As Ezmere came to the top of the staircase, he found himself looking down on the front door. There was no one to stop him from simply leaving.

He descended the steps, his footsteps silent and quick, and put a hand on the dark, brass handle. He could leave… He knew he could. It was dark out and he could hide in the shadows as he made his way out of the city.

And then what? Where would he go? To Marleen? There was no way he would even find her. The gypsies were hiding.

To Abella? If he could even find her, did he want to force her to relive the loathsome memories that would accompany his face?

He supposed he could live alone in the woods but the thought pained him. He couldn't imagine being truly alone…

No.

He balled his hand into a fist and punched the door in frustration. He felt trapped, a feeling made worse by the knowledge that it was now as much his fault as it was Frollo's.

Fed up with himself, he turned and walked down the hall in the search for company. He came almost immediately upon a dining room with a small wooden table with a chair on either end. There sat Frollo next to several candles, writing intently upon a sheet of parchment. An uneaten tray of food sat next to him along with a glass of wine.

Ezmere lingered in the doorway for a moment, then walked in and dropped into the chair across from Frollo.

Frollo looked up first in annoyance, then surprise as he saw Ezmere sitting there.

"What has happened? Are you well?" he asked quickly. His quill sat loosely in his hand as he studied Ezmere.

Ezmere grabbed a bit of cheese off the plate as well as Frollo's untouched cup of wine. "I'm fine," he mumbled.

"I confess, I did not expect you to be up so quickly. Do your wounds not pain you?"

Ezmere sighed heavily and threw back the wine. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said, "I have become so used to pain these past months that it no longer burdens me as it once did."

Frollo raised an eyebrow, then after a moment, went back to writing. "I agree you have been delt more than your fair share of injuries."

Ezmere laughed dryly. "Most of which came by your hand."

This made Frollo narrow his eyes. "Indeed."

Bored, Ezmere grabbed one of the pages Frollo had finished writing. It took him a moment to decipher the tall, slanted writing. It seemed to be a letter to a garrison commander about the unfortunate deaths of two men in an accident while out on patrol. He put the page down and said surprised, "They're dead? Both of them?"

"Of course," Frollo said without looking up. "Did you really think I would let men with such dangerous information live?"

Ezmere supposed not. He had suspected Frollo would want Leon dead but the immediacy of the action caught him off guard.

"Are you displeased?"

He thought for a moment then said, "No."

Frollo made a small noise of agreement then resumed writing. Ezmere reached past him for another quill and a blank page then he began to idly scribble the dark ink across the page as he practiced his letters.

They sat in silence, the only sound that of their respective quills scratching against the parchment.

After what must have been at least an hour, Frollo sat up and tapped a finger against the table. "It is late and you must rest. I still expect you to attend mass tomorrow."

Ezmere stretched his arms and bit his cheek when the skin on his back was pulled tight and the newly formed scabs cracked and tore.

"As you wish," he said, intending the words to mock but instead they seemed only to please Frollo who stood and placed a hand lightly on Ezmere's shoulder.

"Your progress has pleased me immensely, Ezmere. It gives me great hope for our future." He then ran a knuckle down Ezmere's cheek before turning and departing, his long robes swirling about his feet.

Once he was gone, Ezmere slumped forwards and lay his head on the table. He was strangely upset by Frollo's departure, there had been no struggle, nothing for Ezmere to fight. Indeed, it felt as if Frollo was growing bored of him.

A great pain welled up in Ezmere's chest and it took him several seconds to come to terms with the ache in his heart. The sensation pounded through his body and he felt as if gravity was tugging at him, trying to force him to the ground. With a jolt of fear at the feeling, he stood up so suddenly that his chair tipped over behind him but he paid it no heed. He was already gone.

He ran thought the house until he found what he was looking for, the kitchens and from there, the wine cellar.

Ezmere grabbed the first bottle he saw and pulled the cork free with his teeth. Crimson liquid came spilling over his hand and he drank and drank, until his legs could not support his weight. He toppled to the floor amidst the sea of newly emptied bottles.

Strange purple and red figures danced behind his eyelids though they did not soothe him. Whenever he opened his eyes, he felt the world spin and his stomach churn and so he surrendered to the shapes and let them lead him deep into a world of fermented colors and dreams.

"Here! He is here! I did not know what to do!"

"I understand. You may go, Gabrielle. I will deal with him."

The noise made Ezmere jerk awake and he became instantly aware of a wetness on his face. He curiously dipped a finger into the puddle and watched as it came back stained red with wine, then the figures watching him shifted and a beam of light from the hallway lamps made him squint. Frollo waded through the sea of glass and knelt at Ezmere's side.

"What is the meaning of this, Ezmere?" he asked.

The calmness of his voice confused Ezmere, who had expecting a flurry of anger and shouting. Frollo grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up but Ezmere cried out at the pain in his back. He wondered if his blood had contributed to the red on the floor.

Frollo immediately let go and instead of trying to get him to stand, helped to push Ezmere into a sitting position.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked again.

His words rang in Ezmere's head and it was then that he knew he had only been asleep for an hour or two at the most. The alcohol was still heavy in his mind.

"What's wrong with me?" he slurred. His head pounded and he bent forward, his knees drawn to his chest.

"Nothing is wrong," Frollo assured him though his voice sounded as if it came from far away. "The wine will fade and your wounds will heal."

"No," Ezmere said too loudly. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. "What's wrong with me?" He raised his head to look at Frollo. "Why has everyone gone?"

Frollo was looking at him strangely. "Who has gone, child?"

Child. Ezmere muttered the word and chewed it over. He did feel like a child. Lost, exposed and alone. Pathetic.

He hated himself for it.

"They're gone," he said helplessly. "And…" He made a weak gesture towards Frollo. "And even you, you'll grow bored of me soon."

He trailed off and his head once again fell into his hands.

"Look at me, Ezmere."

Ezmere wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and did as Frollo asked.

Without speaking, Frollo leaned forward and kissed him. He did not touch or caress, he did not demand that Ezmere open his mouth. It was simply a kiss.

Ezmere froze and while his mind was fumbling to find a solution, Frollo withdrew. Ezmere found himself leaning after him.

There was a burning light in Frollo's eyes and he said in a voice so low and fierce it was almost a snarl, "Never doubt my affection for you. I would burn down this very city if you asked it of me."

Ezmere stared at him for a moment, then he believed him.

Frollo was breathing heavily through flared nostrils and his hands seemed to convulse several times. "I will not force myself upon you while you do not have the strength or wits to deny me," he said finally and his hands closed into white knuckled fists. "We have come too far for such brutality."

Without taking his eyes from Ezmere's, Frollo said slowly and deliberately, "You will come to me tomorrow evening."

A shudder ran through Ezmere's body.

"You will submit to me of your own desire and I shall reward you richly for it."

Then he was gone and Ezmere was left surrounded by the bottles he had drained and the feeling of Frollo's lips on his.

He felt a sudden twist in his stomach and he threw up onto the dirt floor of the cellar. Hardly noticing the burning in his throat and nose, he wiped his mouth with a trembling hand, then staggered up and stumbled back to his allotted bedroom, where he fell into a deep and troubled sleep.