The air during the late hour of the night grew heavy and the humidity pressed down, suffocating. The scent of the oncoming rain was dark and heady. The only person who dared venture out into the weather like this was a man clad in black. Jehan Frollo dismounted his black stallion, a powerful beast of a Frisian, his brother's old horse, Snowball, and looked to the charcoal sky. Stillness fell over Paris, and in the silence came the low crack of thunder to the pattering of tiny raindrops. Then he heard it again, like the negative reflection of the cathedral's bells pealing in the distance, the thunder rolling across the malevolent sky. The untamed power reverberated and echoed across the landscape, waiting, waiting. Without waiting for the coming storm to break, Jehan hurried his steed to the inn's stables and wasted no time in seeking shelter from the bitter cold and the coming storm.
September in Paris was a brutal time, filled with unpredictable storms such as this. One could never be too careful. Not something to be caught out alone in, he mused.
Jehan Frollo hurried towards the inn as it began raining perhaps a little heavier than usual. The grass was soaked, and the mud squelched beneath the young lord's boots, but upon entering the inn, he could see what he was looking for, or rather, who he was looking for, over in the far-right corner.
He gave out a heavy sigh, finding a table in the darkest corner of the tavern and thought that enough for them.
In his sleeplessness, Jehan Frollo was drunk on the silence. For hours, it had seeped into his pores, dowsing his mind in its thick toxicity. The usefulness of his thoughts left him long ago, leaving these fatigued thoughts and hallucinations of his sister lingering in his mind. Jehan wanted so very much not to think at all, wanted instead to be absorbed into darkness the night had promised him hours ago. He wanted to wake, refreshed to streaming white daylight, unaware of the hours between now and then. Nevertheless, his wishes meant naught here, and the idiocy continued as he found himself at the corner table, alone.
At last, his contact decided to join him. He could see the lone man leaning up against a rather moldy, disgusting looking wall, a cloud of smoke concealing his features, no doubt from the pipe the man was lazily smoking. If he recognized Jehan, he gave no indication of familiarity. No wave of the hand, no smiling. But then again, thanks to the man's heavy black cloak he was shrouded under, his contact was an enigma even to Jehan. One of the hearth keepers, a cute little slip of a thing by the name of Ingrid Damas, who could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen, came over with a shy smile on her face, a tankard of ale clutched in her hands and a small plate of food bearing a loaf of bread, what looked to be roast duck, and a variety of different blocks of whole cheeses. "Here you are, lads," she murmured softly, tucking back a wisp of light brown hair that had fallen loose from her messy French braid.
"Thanks, sweetheart," Jehan offered quietly, throwing her a charming smile, his gaze lingering on her backside as she sauntered off, hollering something to a few Romani men as they vacated the premises. He chuckled, imagining what it would be like to find this girl after the establishment closed and have a little fun, and—no. No time for that tonight. Not yet…
Irate, Jehan shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts and returned his attentions to the man currently seated across him. The youngest Frollo brother risked one more glance across the establishment towards young Ingrid's way, and, almost as if the young hearth keep had a sixth sense to be able to tell when a man was staring at her, she turned, her face pale.
She observed Jehan Frollo with the gaze of a stranger, that aloof judgement with no strings. From afar, he could tell she had made some opinion of him. He could tell it as such by the look in her hazel brown eyes. But he didn't care what she thought of him, Jehan did not come here for Ingrid Damas.
Jehan took a moment to gauge their surroundings. Why his contact, who had up to this point, remained quite silent, had insisted upon meeting here, at the Three Ravens Inn, a solid forty-five-minute ride by horseback, even longer if he walked.
The tavern was, as he suspected, almost entirely deserted, save for the little hearth keeper, the old bartender, and the loner who was now currently sitting across from him, still smoking his pipe and seemingly chewing on the ends in annoyance.
Incredibly dark inside, the establishment's only source of light was a few candles scattered on the various windowsills, and occasionally the hot streaks of the lightning outside would illuminate the tavern in a temporary blinding white light.
The wind howled outside as at last the stranger spoke to him.
"You came," said the man's gruff voice, sounding amused, and for just a fraction of a second, Jehan found himself growing annoyed. How dare this man think that for a second he wasn't a man of his word? He was, after all, a Frollo, and his family had always prided themselves on two things: keeping their words and paying their debts. Of course, he came tonight.
Jehan smiled, albeit without showing his teeth, before gesturing towards the little hearth keep bringing two tankards of ale. Normally he preferred wine, but tonight required something a little stronger, for he was now turning desperate.
Twice now, she had rejected him, and she was increasingly becoming a thorn in his side by spurning his advances, and desperate times called for rather desperate measures, so here he was, in this godforsaken place that dared to call itself a tavern, though it looked like one good gust would blow it down and that would be the end of the tavern known as the Three Ravens.
"After what happened the last time you and I spoke to one another, I presumed you were no longer interested in seeing me," replied the cloaked man as he folded his surprisingly gentle hands and placed them on the rickety old wooden table, revealing an emerald and a ruby ring resting on two of his fingers. The man's cloak obscured his face, making it nearly impossible for Jehan to tell who his companion really was.
Judging by his voice, however, Jehan ascertained that the man was young, younger than Jehan, perhaps closer to this bell ringer's age. Late twenties, early thirties, perhaps. Agile.
"Perhaps. But this is important," Jehan replied slowly as he leaned across the table, winding his right hand into a fist. "There is no obstacle that is too great to stop me getting what I want," he whisper- hissed through gritted teeth, careful to keep his voice low, lest a place like this have ears within its walls.
The hooded man made a scoffing noise, continuing to chew on the end of his pipe, blowing a waft of smoke in Jehan's face, much to his annoyance, silently regarding the esteemed young lord in silence for a moment. A moment too long that made Jehan begin to grow quite uncomfortable, and not much riled him. He prided himself on being a man of cool logic and feigned detachment, but sitting now in front of this man, well...
It unnerved him. "I can agree to that," the stranger murmured at last, a dark cynical chuckle escaping his lips. He sounded relaxed, his easy-going manner a stark contrast to Jehan's tense form that caused the young Frollo man to suddenly begin to feel nervous.
"I am…surprised that you agreed to meet me here," he confessed, twiddling his thumbs, muttering a half-hearted thanks to Ingrid as she brought over a fresh platter of food.
"Not as much as I was to receive your summons, sire," retorted the hooded stranger swiftly, lifting his tankard to his lips and drinking heavily. "Believe me. You never once have asked for my help unless the job was out of your control."
Jehan frowned, quirking a thick brow the other man's direction and let out a huff of frustration. "Yes, well, I have a bit of a problem and I thought of you. Be honored that I did."
The stranger chuckled. "Love men and their problems, especially when a young woman involved, which, judging by that offset look in your eyes, I can tell that there is. Who is she?" he asked, his tone taking on a new level of intrigue now.
"My sister," Jehan confessed, and it did not escape him that the briefest flickers of awe and disgust passed through the man's brilliant orbs. "Don't say it," he snarled angrily. "I—"
"My stomach remains quite strong. The only thing that might turn it are details of your…nighttime nocturnal activities involving you and your…sister," the stranger mocked cruelly. "Perhaps Paris has a high tolerance for unnatural behavior. But…brothers and sisters? That's a stain that is very difficult to wash out. It must be quite troublesome for you, Maître Frollo."
The cloaked man let out a heavy sigh, intertwining his fingers together, the ruby and emerald of his rings gleaming in the light. "The scheme that you devised, Jehan, did not exactly go according to your plan, did it not? They were still allowed—"
"That is where you and I must agree to disagree," growled Jehan as the old bartender placed another tankard of ale on the unstable table before shuffling away. "Thanks," he grumbled. "It did not fail. Yes, it didn't go quite as well as I'd hoped, the girl seems to be…stalling in terms of what I asked of her, but I regret that the girl has made her choice. I could have helped her, and she must love me, as I love her, or else no one will have her," he growled, clutching his tankard hard enough to shatter the glass. "I have…perhaps against my better judgement, allowed my sister and my brother's son to think that they are destined to be together, to marry each other, although I think I've done my part and implanting fear into my dear sister's mind, doubt in her head at the boy's ability to be a good husband and future father to any bastard demonic children the two of them might sire together," Jehan hissed, practically feeling the anger and venom drip from his words.
The stranger stiffened and became tense at the judge's words, lifting his hand nonchalantly to stop Jehan's little monologue.
"Stop." Were this anyone else, such a gesture would have earned the man a swift upper punch to his jawline, but not him.
Jehan reluctantly fell silent and waited for the man to speak.
"Speaking of want, I'm listening to you, but in this new deal of ours, I get what, exactly?" the hooded man interrupted, leaning forwards so his face was finally cast in the candlelight flickering on their table as he lowered the hood of his cloak.
Jehan had not been wrong in his assumption that his contact was a handsome young man. Younger than Jehan, agile, and lean, but with plenty of muscles underneath his simple tunic.
The man across from Jehan was handsome enough, he supposed, with strong features and amazingly cold eyes devoid of any warmth or love. Clearly, the man had had a tough life.
"The…incident you created worked out quite well for me. When I first reached out to you, I thought you were positively insane, but now, having seen the consequences for myself, I must admit, I am rather satisfied with your brother's boy's demise. No one will want him now. Paris still reviles him so."
"I hope you are not too satisfied," Jehan replied in dissatisfaction as he took a long swig from his tankard, the alcohol burning his throat as it went down. "It's far from over."
The man's eyes were frozen, cold, cunning, and completely unforgiving. Stubble graced his chin, suggesting to Jehan that he had not shaved in a few days, and his hair was cropped close to his head, thick and lustrous. "I heard that you had not managed to make the girl complete her task of seducing the boy. Which was why I was surprised to receive your message."
"Yes, well, things are difficult with my sister," Jehan snarled as he glowered at the young man across the way. "I've called you here because you are the best all of Europe has ever seen. I need your help in convincing her to come to me. Please."
It was the use of the word please that caught his attentions. Never one to offer such courtesies, Jehan Frollo was used to making demands and with a snap of his fingers, getting his way. So, for him to show proper edict gave him pause as he mulled over the older man's request. He regarded Jehan in silence for several long excruciating minutes before clasping his hands together and resting his chin atop his hands. "If I can get to the boy, he's as good as dead. Holy Ground or not, those rules do not apply to me," he added, a note of boastful pride in his voice. "I make my own rules. The boy's head is yours."
"What of my brother's boy?" demanded Jehan hotly, gripping his tankard enough and slamming it down on the table with such force that it caused the wood to splinter and crack. "They are becoming quite attached, it would seem. I paid my dearly beloved little sister a visit tonight, and I did not like the look she had in her eyes regarding her feelings towards that…thing," he spat, the word settling on his tongue as if it were poison. "I know you to be the best, so I do not think he will be too much of a problem for you. When my brother found the boy on the steps of Notre Dame, he told me he had wanted nothing more than to take the boy into the sea and let the waves carry him away forever, releasing him of his wickedness. However, out of the goodness of his heart, my brother kept him, raised him as his own, effectively making the boy a Frollo." Just that thought alone was enough to make his blood boil. "My brother's son seems to be an ill-made, spiteful creature full of envy, hatred, lust, and low cunning. Men's laws give the boy right to bear our family name, and since I cannot prove that he is not mine nor my brother's, Claude kept him. Moreover, God Himself, to teach Claude humility, had condemned my brother to watch over the boy as he grew up. But neither God nor men will ever compel me to let that monster breed and to taint our family's legacy with my sister."
The hired hand on the other side of the table stared at Jehan coldly, his calculating mind working quickly to put the pieces of his plan together. Jehan Frollo had hired him some time ago.
He maintained a cold detachment to his targets. Mostly, he preferred not to think of them, but when he did, it was as if they were already dead—walking cows waiting to be dispatched to the butchers' tables. He thought of them as meeting their destiny, and he was merely the conduit. Everyone must die sometime, and he considered it a good way to go. No illness, no drawn-out tearful goodbyes full of heartache and pain. They were just happy and oblivious one second, gone the next.
Simple. Convenient. Painless.
The way he liked it.
Jehan, sensing the assassin's mind going into overdrive, continued, lest the man need further motivation to carry it out.
"You do this for me, take care of my…problem, and the girl is all yours," he managed, somehow considering it a miracle he was able to keep his rage from manifesting. A bold-faced lie, Madellaine belonged to only him, but if this lie provoked the man across the table into helping him avenge his brother, then so be it. "Do with the girl whatever you like. Marry her, impregnate her with your offspring, kill her for all I care, just get her out of my sight and out of my life for good. I have no use for my sister anymore. The girl is nothing but a constant
nagging thorn in my side, daring to tell me how to run my life." The bitterness in Jehan's tone was unmistakable.
The assassin nodded his silent agreement. The girl was only a queen because he was her king. She was only his lioness because he was the lion. He could only be himself, his true self, around her, and that she brought that out in him, was a miracle. The two of them were soul mates, pure and simple, two halves that complete one another, perfectly compliment, yet unique. She tamed the beast within in him, and for that—that thing to take her away from him—was unacceptable. Nevertheless, she would see reason. He would make her see it; he would see to it.
He would kill this boy, this bell ringer, take the girl, and flee.
"I would never hurt the girl. You know that, Maître Frollo."
"I can see that," growled Jehan lowly. "I've seen your work."
The killer sharply lifted his chiseled face upwards, glaring at the young lord, his cold, unfeeling eyes narrowing. "Let me give you a little piece of advice, milord. You really don't want to upset me right now," he hissed, his body starting to tremble.
Jehan bit his tongue and repressed the urge to roll his eyes as he watched the much younger man sitting across the table struggle against something and fight against it, losing horrifically to whatever inner demons he was fighting within.
"What's the matter with you?" Jehan asked, frowning.
"You have no idea what your sister really wants. We—we have to be together," snarled the younger man, swallowing hard the lump that was currently forming in his throat. "The…if she's not around, the only way I can control myself is if I kill someone," he growled, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, desperately trying to control his baser instincts.
Jehan kept his surprise to himself as the man's eyes almost seemed to darken in color, almost black, he was growing so upset. Then the man blinked, and just as soon as the horrifying change had come, it was gone. "Do you really think a highborn woman of class such as my sister could ever really love you? What are you even? Whatever you are, you're not…human!"
The stranger ignored the man's questions and downed the last of his tankard. "She has to," he began, the first signs of desperation creeping into his voice. "If she doesn't, well…I don't even want to think of what would happen to me. The people that would get hurt if I couldn't…control myself."
Jehan Frollo sighed, wanting to get this little farce over with.
"Very well," he said, heaving a heavy sigh, keeping his voice low as he noticed the cute little hearth keep from earlier had curiously glanced his way a couple of times, wiping down an empty tankard with a white rag that was by the minute growing more blacker with filth as each second passed. "Keep in mind, you do anything to jeopardize what we have worked for, I will admit no connection to you whatsoever in the event you are caught. If you are caught and taken to the Bastille, then fine."
"I never have been," the stranger boasted pridefully.
"It would backfire everything we have worked for up to this point," continued Jehan, as though he had not been so rudely interrupted. "No. I think it is best for me to pay my dear sister a visit to the marketplace tomorrow, if she has heeded my advice." He stifled his shout of rage as visions of her face swam into his view, refusing to part from his thoughts.
How angry she had looked at him when he saw her last…
"And then?" prodded the assassin, his voice hopeful.
"The boy is your next target, and then she is yours."
"How could the girl even take an interest in that demon spawn freak is beyond me," the man muttered, sounding both disgusted and thoughtful at the same time, tapping his chin. "At least I can say that I would take care of Madellaine. What would he do? You and I both know the boy is the spitting image of whoever his parents were, and his parents were nothing more than filthy gypsies, murderers, the worst types. You won't be finding my wife at the bottom of the stairs like a dead carcass—"
"As I have told you time and time before, you and I both really know what truly happened. Mark my words; he will turn out just like his real father. The boy is nothing more than a demon from the depths of hell, a cold-blooded monster."
Jehan almost said, "Like you," but managed to refrain from saying it, thank God. It would not do to make a scene here.
The contracted killer stood so fast from the table, he almost overturned it. He looked livid, but after a few more minutes of violently struggling against something, he calmed down a bit. "Until we meet again," he said at least, cordially. "Oh, and perhaps next time, we'll meet somewhere more refined."
And with that, the man departed, leaving a rather disgruntled Jehan in the decrepit tavern to mull over the future and what their next steps should be. He did not give a damn, as long as the deed was done, what he should have done so many years ago. He should have killed the boy when he had the chance. Now his nephew could marry, and—dare he think it, breed. No. He could not allow that to happen. It was not in God's plan for the boy, nor for Jehan to allow it to occur. He would put an end to things before that. And the girl. If Madellaine did not agree to marry him, to go with him of her own volition, then she was as good as dead.
Her days were numbered.