A/N: And in this chapter (finally) we're introduced to a familiar face. Don't worry, more characters from the book/movie are coming! Captain Phoebus will be making an appearance soon, I think, but it wouldn't be a Notre Dame tale without our favorite gypsy king. For our king, I'm envisioning someone like Adrian Paul to play Clopin. For those who don't know, he played Duncan McLeod in the TV series Highlander. He's got an epic black ponytail and I always pictured the Romani king as having great hair. Also slight trigger warning, violence and rape ahead, so you can skip if it makes you uncomfortable.
Marcus had never quite seen a man more lost in a brothel than his current squire, Tristan. He would have laughed had he not truly felt sorry for the boy, but he figured by the end of the afternoon, the boy would be a champion and know his way. He snorted and rolled his eyes. "I take it by that stunned look on your face, you've never been with a woman, boy?" he asked, smirking at the shy smile his squire gave a passing brunette.
"No, m' lord, I'm afraid not," he mumbled, almost sounding ashamed. His eyes were darting back and forth in in many directions, as if he was not sure where he was allowed to look.
"Good," he grumbled, taking the lost squire over towards one of the women who he knew would take pity on the kid. "This is Jenna, she specializes in first timers like you, kid," he laughed, noticing at how the poor boy's eyes widened and he gaped open-mouthed like a fish at young Jenna. He knew the reason why.
The girl was a dead ringer for the young Barreau girl. Jenna looked at young Tristan's dazed expression and quirked her brow at Marcus, who threw the girl a charming expression.
"What's up with this one, Ser?" she asked quizzically. "He looks like he's never before seen a pair of ti—"
"Take good care of my squire, Jenna," he laughed jovially, interrupting the girl's statement. "Well, I'll just…leave you to it, then," he cackled. "Be outside when you're finished." He winked at his young squire and tossed a pouch full of coins on a nearby table and commanded the other girls to do what they could to reward the squire for his loyalty and several years of service.
Once outside the establishment, the middle-aged knight took a moment to just breathe. Only weeks ago, the air was warm and the streets were a deep summer green, the whispering rustling of the leaves only audible once the marketplace ended and the vendors went home. Now, the leaves were tinged with red and gold in mid-September, not yet deserting their lofty branches in the gusts that penetrated the fabric of his thick doublet. As the days waned, the nights closed in and the trees donned their vibrant hues, a cold chill creeping into the air. Not the bite of wintry blusters, not yet, anyways, but just a nip to let Marcus and everyone else in Paris know that a new season was hard at work.
No more are the trees their vibrant hues of spring and summer, but are now scarlets and gold. In just a few weeks, they will stand naked in the frozen air, bereft of their gaiety. He chuckled at thought of young Tristan finally becoming a man as he sauntered away from the brothel and the noise of the moans coming from inside; deliberately treading on the leaves to hear them crunch beneath his boots. Just ahead, a leaf tumbled from its weary branch, twisting and rocking through the air as it fell through the almost still afternoon air. He paused to listen for the sound it made as it joined its brethren on the ground, but it was lost in the drone of people as they made their way through the market.
Ser Marcus could see the distant towers of Notre Dame in the distance. He briefly pondered the idea of stopping by to pay the lady Madellaine a visit, see how she was settling in and to see if he could get a glimpse of Claude's boy, see if he was truly monstrous as the Judge made his adopted charge out to be.
The knight's gaze was drawn towards a hooded figure wandering through the crowds, expertly weaving their way through the massive crowd of people, trying their best not to draw attention to themselves and failing miserably. He could tell it was a woman by their stance and the way the person walked.
Marcus stifled a grin as he crept close enough to make out the details of her face beneath her hood. "Milady," he spoke up from behind, tapping her gently on the shoulder as to not startle her. The woman turned, lowering her hood, surprised, but her face relaxed when she saw who it was. "You're well, then?"
"Oh, Ser Marcus!" breathed the young Madellaine in a sigh of relief. Clearly, she had been expecting someone else. Marcus frowned slightly as he noticed how nervous the poor child looked. He recognized the brown robe she wore, a gift from Jehan on her name day last year. He thought it suited her.
"You were expecting someone else?" he teased gruffly, not waiting to envelope the woman of the Frollo estate in a gentle hug. "Come. Walk with me, dear, keep an old man company."
"What are you doing all the way out here, Ser Marcus?" she inquired quizzically, her eyebrows raised in suspicion.
The knight chuckled. "Oh, I'm merely…helping out a friend," he said at last, not wanting to divulge the vulgar details in front of her. She did not need to hear that kind of language. "And I could say the same to you, my dear," he challenged, noticing how shifty the woman was becoming. Her eyes were darting in complete disorder, and she was practically biting her lip off. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
"I see," she said, her lips pursed slightly, but she decided to comment no further and dropped the matter. Madellaine intertwined her arm with the knight's and walked. "How are Helen and Ingrid?" she questioned, giggling at his bemused expression.
"They're well," he confessed. "They miss you!"
Madellaine nodded her head slowly as she listened to the distinguished warrior's words. However, she could not help but shake the feeling as if something was amiss. She'd felt it ever since she snuck out of the cathedral early in the morning for some fresh air. She had not told Sister Alice or even Quasi where she had gone. No doubt, there would be hell to pay for what she had done when she returned. She could not help it. Though she loved the intricate, magnificent beauty of the cathedral, the wanderlust consumed her, burning her soul as if she was in the middle of a raging fire. Her reality, though it had recently gotten so much better, thanks to Quasi and the others in the cathedral, was now much harder with Lord Geoffroi dead, and Jehan hating her and his insatiable lust for his own sister.
Another reason that she had slipped out the doors was to protect Quasimodo from the worst of Jehan's wrath, and if it meant meeting her brother in secret, then so be it.
Madellaine still had not forgiven her brother for missing their father's funeral, or for kicking her out of the estate. The man had every right to as Geoffroi's son, but she also had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Jehan had something to do with the rumors that had reached her thanks to a late night visit from Roul that Lord Geoffroi's will had recently gone missing and they could not find it. Roul had supposedly enlisted the help of Sophia's cousin, Ingrid, to locate the missing document.
At that thought, Madellaine let out a cynical chuckle. If anyone could find it, it was Ingrid. The young hearth keep had a way of knowing information she ought not to.
Madellaine was raised in an environment of love and peace, thanks to Geoffroi and his wife, Elena, growing up, until his wife passed away when Madellaine was fifteen, and then it was only her and Geoffroi. She had been taught by Geoffroi to show grace and forgive, but when her mind turned to Jehan, none of it was there. He knew what he was doing when he forcefully evicted her. She suffered and he drank it like a fine wine, becoming intoxicated on his own power.
All she felt when she thought of Jehan was bitterness and as the days passed; her hatred grew until it pushed on the side of her that was serene, enveloping her in toxic darkness. She hoped she'd never have to see him again.
She had spent the better part of the early hours of the dawn taking in the streets of the city, getting to know her new home. However, she could not shake the feeling that she was being followed. Like…someone was watching her.
Madellaine hated this feeling; it felt like ice water in her veins, that there was no shaking it. She could not very well tell anyone about this feeling, though. Not without solid proof, that she was in fact, being stalked. Baseless accusations with no evidence wouldn't hold up well for her, and probably the only one who would believe her would be Quasi, and he so very rarely ventured out past the cathedral.
"My dear," Marcus spoke up at last, looking suddenly tense. "Something ails you. Do not bother lying to me; I see it in your eyes. What's troubling you, child?" he questioned, finding shade underneath an old willow tree by the river Seine and finding that appropriate. He patted the ground next to her, motioning her to join him. She obliged, cringing at the stiffness still in her shoulder.
Madellaine sighed, tucking back a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear and fidgeted with the skirts of her robe. "It's…Jehan, Marcus. I don't know what to do about my brother, and I'm at a loss."
"What of the man?" he asked cautiously, wondering if she would finally get to the important aspect, the reason for her shift in mood. "I know he isn't the kindest soul in the world," he muttered darkly. "Ever since Claude and Geoffroi's death, he's….changed," he admitted, surprised to hear himself confess it. "I've seen it."
"Marcus, he's a mess!" she cried, not sure where this sudden explosion of anger was coming from, as if she had stepped on a landmine. "He's barely held together by his drinking and whoring, he's—he's got a problem. The man is drinking himself to death, and he's been doing it ever since our brother's funeral. I hold out hope for my brother, but I'm no longer confident in my ability to help this man!" she sighed, running a hand through her blonde locks, not looking at Marcus, refusing to meet his sympathetic gaze. "A part of me wonders if there was perhaps a small part of Jehan that may have genuinely loved her, but why would he go to such cruel extremes if he did?"
"It wasn't love," answered Marcus harshly, hearing the bitterness seep into his baritone voice. "Love for that woman, Esmeralda, was not what he felt. It always was lust. Lust is nothing but a false love based on conquest. She would not kowtow to his demands, so he…took matters into his own hands, I'm afraid."
"Marcus, if you were there," she began, but hesitated. "I…"
"I know," he said somberly. "I could have stopped it had I not been away fighting the king's war, and I regret that I couldn't have saved that girl, but I can promise you, milady, I consider you a trusted friend, and a member of my own family. You're such a good friend to my Sophia and Ingrid, and for that, I would pay for less than that with my own life if it came to that."
Madellaine was touched at the remark, and opened her mouth to speak, but didn't get a chance to as the sound of crunching leaves interrupted whatever she had been about to say, and she was pleasantly surprised to see Tristan stumble towards them, looking happier than the last time she'd seen him, at least until he noticed her sitting there with Marcus, and his smile faltered.
"M—Milady," he muttered, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "I—I did not expect to find you here, forgive me, I just…"
"Ah!" teased Marcus, clapping the young squire on the shoulder as he sat down on the ground against them. "The return of the conquering hero! If I didn't know any better, I would say you have a little jaunt in your step, boy. I take it Jenna and the girls took care of that itch," he teased, his gaze flitting back and forth between young Tristan's flushed face and Madellaine's, who had bit her knuckles in an attempt to keep from laughing. "You were gone a long time, Tristan. I trust you got your money's worth. Or should I say, my money's worth," he joked, and was stunned when Tristan threw the pouch of coins back at him untouched.
"Sir," Tristan began to say, wearily glancing back between Madellaine, who was looking confused at the squire's sudden shift in attitude. One minute he had a bold swagger about him, the next, he was nervous and almost clammy at seeing her again.
"It was a gift, Tristan!" Marcus exclaimed warily. "This is more than I give you in a year!" he protested, begrudgingly pocketing the pouch and raising his thick brows at his young squire.
"He's a squire, you don't pay him," Madellaine reminded the knight gently, her gray eyes twinkling as she fought back her laughter. This was turning out to be quite the morning.
"Oh," he said, looking nonplussed. 'Then it's much more than I give you in a year! What gives, boy?" he demanded.
He shifted from his spot on the ground and smoothed out his thick green tunic. Tristan's cheeks were high and flushed with color, his dark hair disheveled, and his blue eyes seemingly nervous. "They—they wouldn't take it, m 'lord," he mumbled, rendering the knight speechless. "The—the girls refused."
Even Madellaine was impressed. "Perhaps they're trying to curry some favor with Jehan's most distinguished member of his guard?" she suggested, not certain what their reasons had been.
Marcus shot the young woman a bewildered look. "Have you ever known a whore to turn down gold?" he asked, stupefied. "The girls are always happy enough to take it whenever my men give it to them," he said, glancing down at the ground and staring at his boots. When he looked up at his squire again, there was a surge of determination in his face. "What did you say to them?"
"N—nothing, sire," he said, looking sheepish and suddenly shy.
"Well, what did you do to them?" he prodded further, causing the young squire to squirm uncomfortably from his spot underneath the tree.
"Lots of things," he confessed, not sure he could divulge the gritty details in front of the head of the Frollo estate. He caught Madellaine's eye and blushed, immediately looking away.
Madellaine bit her lip playfully; unable to resist teasing Marcus's squire a little. She liked the man well enough; he was a kind man with a good heart. "And I take it the girls seemed to like it?"
His face paled. "Yes, milady," he mumbled, not daring to meet her teasing gaze. "Very much so," he added, as an afterthought.
"Of course they seemed to like it," muttered Marcus darkly, still looking thoroughly confused. "They're paid to seem to like it."
"But they weren't paid!" pointed out Madellaine, unable to keep it in any longer and burst out laughing, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "The—the women, they…" she trailed off.
Marcus just stared. "What are you saying that these women enjoyed the boy over here so much they gave him the time for free?" he asked incredulously, as if he had never heard of such a thing.
"Yes!" she giggled; glad the knight had finally caught onto it. Her gaze drifted to Tristan, whose face was as red as a tomato, but he nodded, confirming her suspicions. "Glad you had a good time."
Tristan could only give a curt not, his smile faltering as he looked at Madellaine. He noticed the blonde's gaze drift to his limp hand and how the fire in her eyes had dulled to a dim ember as her gaze rested on his injured hand sadly. "It's okay, milady. You need not pity me," he mumbled darkly, his expression turning solemn. "It's been this way since I was sixteen. Horse accident," he chuckled, though there was no escaping the bitterness in his voice as his gaze drifted to Marcus, where the young squire surprisingly fixed the knight with a cold stare that sent a shiver down her spine. "But there's no point in dwelling on it," he said, sighing. "What's done is done, milady."
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, not sure what words of comfort she could offer. "Was it hard for you, growing up as a squire with that?" she asked, before cringing and mentally slapping herself for overstepping her boundaries. How could she ask that of him? She hardly knew the man, and yet, she liked him.
Tristan offered her a charming smile that was contagious. "Not as hard as you might think," he joked, but there was something in his voice that knew their conversation was far from over.
But Madellaine did not have time to dwell on it, as Ser Marcus rose to his feet, groaning at the stiffness in his joints and bade his squire follow him. "Milady," murmured Tristan, a light blush speckling across his cheeks as he offered her his hand to help her up. She hesitated, but eventually accepted his hand. It did not escape her attention that the young squire held onto her hand longer than she would have liked, but she liked the man well enough and thought him harmless, so she let it go.
"I hope we see you again soon," Marcus said solemnly, taking the time to embrace the blonde in a tight hug and bringing his lips to her cheek for a swift kiss. "Helen misses you. She says the new girls can't cook half as well as you can," he joked.
She managed a small half-smile and bid them farewell with a wave of her hand. "I hope to visit soon," she promised, but couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach as she realized that would probably never be a possibility for her again. Not as long as Jehan lived in the estate and ruled it.
Marcus's grin slowly faded and his expression turned serious again. "Milady, I know that it might not be my place to say such things, so you will forgive an old man for overstepping his boundaries and speaking his mind, even if it is just the once, but I do not believe that Jehan is the rightful heir to Geoffroi's estate. As far as I'm concerned, you are our rightful ruler, milady. I wish it were you and his grandson in his stead instead. I have served the Frollo family for the last thirty years," he said somberly, his kind eyes clouding over as he thought of Jehan. "But now…if Jehan remains allowed to rule, I don't know how much longer I'll last. It might be safer if I were to take my family and go. But I'll stay as long as I can to ensure that I live at least to see you inherit the estate. If you were to take over, you would have my sword at your side for the rest of my life. I swear it."
The knight's words touched her heart, and she nodded shyly. "I'll do what I can," she swore. "What little good it will do," she muttered darkly; pulling the hood up over her brown linen traveling robe and turning to disappear back into the throng of her marketplace. She sighed as the cathedral's bells began to ring. It wasn't afternoon Mass, yet, so she had no doubt in her mind now. She could stall no longer. Quasimodo had finally discovered her disappearance, as it was well past the hour during which she had said she would return back to the church. No doubt he had grown worried and had noticed she was missing.
If she was going to meet Jehan, she had to do it fast.
She made her goodbyes and seemed to melt into the crowd of people. As Marcus Damas watched the young blonde leave, he was hit with the unshakable feeling that before the year was out, something was going to happen. Something big, but what it was, he couldn't say, nor did he even want to guess what it was.
The trees became veiled in the heavy mist, their trunks a somber brown with sable cracks that gnarled the bark. As Clopin's eye passed over the edge of the woodland bordering the marketplace, the trees became silhouettes against the blanket of white, as if it were only day where he stood, as if he were engulfed by twilight. The marketplace, mused the gypsy king, what you can buy here, and what you can sell here!
Every morning, Clopin would drink in the colors, the aromas, and the very atmosphere of the marketplace like an elixir, a tonic that soothed his nerves. He thrived on interacting with the vendors, each one friendly. They knew him by name and often kept something back from their stall that they knew he would buy, and he always did. This fog is making it impossible to see, he thought darkly as he weaved through the stalls. Perhaps it was because of the weather that the market was eerily deserted this morning. Only a few vendors were out in the king of thieves and vagabonds hadn't slept in hours. Despite his exhaustion, he was alert and attentive to his task at hand. He'd received an urgent message from Darius to come immediately, and Clopin, grateful to pay off his debt to the priest after all these years, had agreed to the job without hesitation. Darius couldn't tell me much, he mused. Only that two caretakers of Notre Dame herself are in danger.
Clopin had a feeling he knew at least one of them. What has Notre Dame's bell ringer gotten himself into now? Clopin wondered, chuckling to himself as he absentmindedly fingered a necklace, pretending to be interested, but his attention was drawn to a cloaked figure.
Darius refused to give him any details, but Clopin didn't need them. He could see it in the priest's eyes. There's a girl involved in all of this, I know it.
Clopin liked Father Darius and owed the priest a debt after the man saved his life several years ago. He'd gambled and got in deep with the wrong crowd one too many times. The crowd he'd taken to could get a little rough around the edges. The gypsy king had fully expected a brawl to break out at the tavern that night, but Darius had intervened. The priest kept his voice low, so Clopin couldn't hear whatever the man said to the brutes that threatened to kill him and dump his body in the Seine.
Whatever he'd said had been enough to get the crowd to back off and leave Paris that night. Clopin kept a close eye on the priest after that, always watching for an opportunity to pay the priest back. Clopin let out a sigh and pulled his long black hair back into a low ponytail. "Call it 'Clopin Intuition' if you will, but I don't think I'm going to find out anything," he muttered, talking to himself, although his attention was still drawn to the cloaked beauty wandering aimlessly through the streets of the deserted marketplace. He briefly caught sight of his reflection in a puddle and he sighed. What's happened to me over the years?
While the last eight years had generally been kind to him, he couldn't help but notice the streaks of gray hair beginning in his long black hair, his pride. There were a few more lines in his face than he would have liked and deep groves near his mouth. Losing Esmeralda had been hard on all of them, but especially him. She's my cousin.
Was your cousin, his inner voice corrected. She's been dead eight years now. You need to accept it and move on with your life. She's gone, and nothing will bring her back. Clopin couldn't help but wonder what his life would have been like were he not a Romani destined to roam. Would I have settled down with a wife and children, with a house somewhere in this great city, or would I have been content to roam these lands, forever alone? Your heart's always belonged to her, and you know it, Clopin. Say it.
"No, Amelie was never mine, and she never will be," he snapped, waving away his inner thoughts with a brush of his hand as he focused on the cloaked woman in front of him. Though her face was concealed, she was drawing an unusual amount of attention to herself among the vendors, despite her attempts to remain inconspicuous. Her face was shrouded in mystery and intrigued, thanks to the hood of her robe, but he could tell just by looking at her robe that she was someone of nobility. A wanderer in exile, perhaps, or an ambassador. This one's someone of great importance, he mused, inching closer to get a better look at her face. Who is she?
The fair-skinned mysterious young woman was simply going about her business, talking in hushed whispers with some man, whoever he was, the man had a firm grip on her arm, showing no signs of relinquishing his hold on her. Clopin couldn't help but notice the jealous looks the women were giving the mysterious woman, remarking on her beauty in hateful whispers, envious of her pale skin untouched by the sun. Clopin finally got close enough to make out a few details of her face underneath her hood, and it was only she lowered the hood of her robe that he got a clear look. This girl's beauty is impressive, he thought, amused. Hers might even surpass Esmeralda's, he thought, and immediately regretted that thought. Forgive me, Esmeralda, you know I didn't mean. I'm sorry. But just look at her!
The blonde woman turned to catch Clopin's eye and he froze, startled, caught completely off guard. "Amelie?" he breathed, hardly daring to believe it. "It cannot be," Clopin whispered. He knew as he looked at the young blonde that this must be the one, the girl who'd been the subject of many whispers through the streets for her radiant beauty and kind personality. She could have chosen any man she wanted, and yet rumor had it she was last seen at the Seine with Notre Dame's bell ringer. Well, well, well, looks like our bell ringer is finally getting with the times and satisfying his urges, at last, he thought wickedly, making a mental note to ask Alice later. It had been a while since he'd paid the nuns at Notre Dame a visit. Making a mental note to visit the cousins soon and catch up on the gossip in the cathedral, he approached the woman, tapping her on the shoulder. Clopin recognized her eyes. Gray eyes the color of the sky right before a great storm on the water, a maelstrom.
"Amelie, is it really you? It's not possible, you've been gone," he whispered, unaware he'd spoken out loud.
The young woman startled, but the man clutching her arm scowled at him. "What do you want?" he growled darkly.
"You knew my real mother?" the blonde asked incredulously. "But...how?"
Clopin drew himself up to his full height and glared at the man standing in front of him. The man was handsome enough, tall, intimidating, a muscular build, strong, chiseled features and a thick head of dark hair, but none of it mattered when the man's tone was so cold and harsh. "A word with the lady, if I may," he responded cordially, doing his best to ensure his voice remained calm, although there was no mistaking the fear in the blonde's eyes. "Alone," he emphasized. "I'm afraid it's urgent. Surely she can spare a moment?"
"Any business you have with her can be said in front of me," he snarled, not falling for the Romani's tricks one bit.
Damn, he thought, cursing under his breath. Now what? Better think of something fast or you'll miss out.
The handsome dark-haired stranger sensed Clopin's hesitation and scoffed. "Stick to what you know, peasant."
He turned away, jerking the young blonde forward, disappearing with the young woman into the fog, vanishing without so much as a trace. "Son of a bitch," snarled Clopin through gritted teeth. "Now what do I do?" A flash of yellow caught his eye and he grinned. "Zephyr," he breathed, relieved. Just the boy I need!
The gypsy king knelt and whispered in the boy's ear. The captain of the cathedral guard's son nodded and scampered off after the pair of them into the fog without hesitation. As much as it pained him to send the boy to do this, he knew the child would have better luck observing.
God help you, Zephyr, he thought, unable to ignore the guilty pang in his stomach as he wrestled with the feeling that the young blonde woman, Amelie's daughter or not, was in trouble, and Clopin couldn't save her. God help you too, milady, he thought darkly...
The mist had grown thick and dense as the morning passed, bringing with a damp chill. Not something you want to be caught alone in, thought Jehan wickedly. He clamped his hand over Madellaine's hand, stifling her startled shout and dragged her into a deserted alleyway, away from any prying eyes that might be following them. The last thing he needed was an interruption. He wanted to talk to his girl alone. Jehan ran his hand through her hair and down her neck and over her collarbones, his loins aching at her pristine skin, untouched by the sun, a blank canvas. The thought of future bruises to impart on her made him burn. He'd hoped she would willingly go to him, but his desire was reaching his limit. No matter. He'd take what he wanted.
"Hush," he crooned soothingly while she continued to fight him. "I told you coming to me would be worth it, pet."
"Why?" she managed, her voice seething with hatred.
"Don't make a sound, lovely, or you'll regret it," he warned, leaning in from behind her and buried his face in her hair, trailing gentle kisses down her neck. "You know what you do to me," Jehan growled through gritted teeth.
She struggled against him, her hand accidentally grazing against his growing hardness and he covered her mouth with a passionate kiss. Madellaine spat in his face when he broke apart, defiant and furious. She kicked him, but it was to no avail. Hot blinding rage filled Jehan's vision and there was a horrible ringing that echoed in his eardrums. Momentarily aware of what he was doing, Jehan grabbed Madellaine's arm and shoved her against the wall of the deserted home, now long abandoned for decades. "I will never marry you, Jehan!" she shouted, letting out a startled scream as he wrestled her to the ground, her head hitting the cobblestone street harder than he intended. "GET OFF OF ME! YOU'RE SICK, JEHAN!" Madellaine bellowed, but it fell on deaf ears.
"Who are you going to marry, hmm, if not me?" he challenged, feeling his voice go dangerously soft and quiet. Jehan reached up a gentle hand brushed back a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. "You're mine," he growled. "You're not going anywhere, and you belong to me, pet," he threatened, shifting so he was practically crushing her under his body weight. Jehan leaned down and kissed her, his kiss rough and demanding. "I warned you, didn't I," he snarled, his voice low. She momentarily stopped struggling against him to stare up at him, her eyes wide in fear. "You've not done as I asked of you, now you pay the price."
"Jehan, please," she begged, hating herself as her tears came, but it was no use. "Don't do this to me, please…"
Jehan unsheathed his knife and watched, noticing the catch in her breath as the blonde fell silent. He intentionally slowed his movement as he brought the dagger to her neck, relishing the fear in her eyes. He held her head in his hand and placed a small gash on her right cheek, her cries of pain bringing fire to his groin. Blood formed instantly and pooled over his fingers as he cradled her head in his hand, kissing her roughly. He moaned when the taste of her blood hit his tongue.
Madellaine was unsettled by all of this, what kind of man would do this to someone he claims to love? The sting of the fresh cut soothed with his movements. Jehan withdrew and pulled her in for a kiss, slow and deep, the surprising gentleness catching her completely off guard.
"Hush now," he soothed. "You still have a chance to make things right, my love," he murmured. "The…reminder I gave you will heal," he reassured her, enjoying it immensely as her energy drained from her the longer she fought against him. He ran a hand underneath her skirts, feeling her smooth, lean legs and shivering.
"Do whatever you're going to do, Jehan!" she snarled through clenched teeth, hating him. "Go to hell!"
He decided he liked this change in Madellaine. She was feisty, willing to fight back against him for once. There was a fire deep within her, burning hot and bright in her soul. Jehan grabbed hold of her bandaged hand, squeezing it hard. Blood soaked through the bandages and the blonde bit her tongue to keep from screaming.
I won't give him the satisfaction, she thought angrily.
Jehan liked it when she hurt. It was better that way. In one last act of defiance, she leaned up and bit his hand hard enough that she drew blood when he reached up to caress her cheek. Jehan shouted obscenities at her as he wrestled her onto her back, ignoring her threats. Grinning wickedly, he allowed his lust for her to overtake him completely, ignoring everything else but her. Jehan didn't want her imagining she had any measure of control over him at this point in their game. His hand wandered beneath her skirts, running his hand over her legs, occasionally brushing his fingers between her legs, not yet entering her, wanting to savor the pleasure of finally entering her at last. I should have taken you for myself years ago, sister, he thought, and growled. "Say it," he urged, his eyes blazing. "You know what to say, lovely."
"NO!" she hollered, spitting in his face. "I won't!"
"Say it," he repeated, his anger reaching toxic levels, reaching up to cup her chin in his hand. "If you don't, I kill your new lover," he spat, disgusted. "If you even look at me in such a manner that displeases me, he dies. Say it."
Madellaine glowered at him, wincing at the pain in her shoulder as one of the stones dug into her skin. I wish I'd asked Darius or Quasi to come with me.
If she had, she wouldn't be here with Jehan. Someone, please help me, she pleaded, but no one was coming. As she stared up at Jehan, her eyes wide and fearful, she knew she had to do this to stay alive. Madellaine fought back her tears and swallowed hard. "Please," she croaked, her voice cracking. "Jehan, don't do this to me, I'm begging you. If you truly love me, let me go. There must be some good still inside you. Please."
"Please what?" he teased, reaching up a gentle hand to wipe away the blood from the cut on her cheek. "You know what to say, my love. Say it," he commanded coldly.
Madellaine glared at him, her eyes going numb with dull acceptance. "Please take me," she hissed angrily, knowing his body demanded hers, and if she didn't let him do this, he'd kill her and still, Jehan would go after Quasi. I can't let you get hurt, she thought, tears welling in her eyes. If this is the only way to keep you alive, so be it.
"A polite whore," Jehan remarked, the sound of her delicate begging going straight to his member. He withdrew his hand from between her legs abruptly and she groaned at the loss of his touch but watched in horror as he drew his fingers into his mouth, his eyes shut, as he tasted her. "Almost as sweet as you," he half-whispered, and Madellaine shivered at the look he gave her, his look lacking any warmth or kindness, nothing but darkness and lust for her. Absolute power and control. Jehan guided himself to her entrance, entering in one sharp thrust, and she was warm, so warm. Just like I always imagined her to be, he thought. Her walls were impossibly tight, and she cried out only once, biting her tongue to keep from screaming.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Madellaine glared up at Jehan and inexplicably began to laugh. Jehan paused, surprised by her cruel laughter. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed through clenched teeth, thrusting into her hard enough that she flinched, but still, she continued laughing at him.
When she opened her eyes to look at him, the look in her eyes was…amused. How dare she find this funny? "Thanks to you, I'm no longer a maiden," she laughed, squirming under his body. "Quasi was going to be my first," she taunted, a small part of her enjoying the way he jerked at that name, as if in pain. She laughed wickedly, seeing how uncomfortable that made her. "Oh, yes. The man that murdered your brother was going to be my first lover, but you, you've taken that from me!"
"I love you! Did you not hear me?" Jehan growled, pulling her up for a passionate kiss. She wrenched away, an interesting gleam in her gray eyes. "I told you, wench," he snarled. "No other woman save for you has tempted me the way you do. How could you not have heard me?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," she mocked, "I didn't know I was supposed to engage in a conversation with my employer. I'm just a poor servant," she hissed. "Forgive me," she teased. "I was so preoccupied with thoughts of Quasi, I hadn't been paying any attention to you, could you repeat that, Jehan?" she joked, laughing at his rage. "Master."
Jehan groaned at her tightness, thrusting into her violently, fisting a hand into her blonde hair. "Does it hurt?" he demanded angrily.
"Yes," she answered, her voice reluctantly pained.
His eyes were burning at this, rage and desire for her building together, consuming Jehan in waves. "Shut the hell up! Be quiet!" he ordered, not sure where her sudden feistiness was coming from. It's unlike her, he thought.
I have the upper hand here, despite what he's doing to me, Madellaine thought wildly. I have power. Power to make Jehan hurt, to make him suffer, to make him see what he's done to me is evil. "Quasi would have given me pleasure, instead of disgusting me the way you do," she shouted, her words hitting their mark. Madellaine could see it in his eyes. "He would have loved me, he would have been gentle to me, he would have made me feel loved, but you...you're nothing. You're evil, you don't love me! How could you? Look what you're doing to me! This isn't love, Jehan, this is lust. Your love for me is nothing but a conquest!"
"SHUT UP!" he roared, but it only fueled her fire.
Madellaine laughed, holding no more shame in her veins. All that remained was a hot burning hatred boiling her bloodstream, loathing for Jehan, desire to make him pay for what he did to her, what he took from her.
"We'll see how much disgust I can make you feel," he warned, withdrawing almost fully before violently thrusting into her again, savoring the pleasure of ripping her open. "Your new lover can't satisfy you as I can. Face it, lovely, I've ruined you for anyone else." The forcefulness of his movements caused her to cry out, willing her body to relax while Jehan continued his movements, studying every flicker of pain that painted her beautiful features until gradually her body stretched to accommodate him. He sighed, feeling her change.
Madellaine glared at him, moving to bury her face in the crook of his neck to avoid looking at him a second longer than she had to. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry and beg for him to stop, even though what he was doing to her burned, an intense fire she'd never felt before in her life and she wanted it to blonde clenched her teeth shut and ground her teeth so tight from the effort to keep from screaming, but he tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her back.
"No," he growled. "I want to see you. Look at me." When she wouldn't, he felt his temper swell. "LOOK AT ME!" he shouted, beside himself.
Reluctantly, Madellaine looked. She had such a look of revulsion in her eyes; he knew she was imagining hundreds of ways to kill him. His coarse tongue licked at her skin, Jehan's fingers curled in her time she closed her eyes, he bashed her head in against the cobblestone street, demanding she open them. I don't want to, she thought, letting out a tiny groan as she felt something wet trickle down her neck. The coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils. That's mine, she thought, slightly panicked, clenching her eyes shut and praying he'd finish soon. Anything, rather than watch his face light up with power and lust. Jehan became angry, his force less controlled until finally blood ran from the back of her head and onto the rain-soaked ground and she felt herself losing consciousness. She was awake, but only just.
I wish he'd just kill me, she thought, anguished. Let me die and bleed out here, it'll be good for me. Anything but this. Quasi doesn't deserve me in his life if I'm just going to get him killed for the crime of loving him. Madellaine let out a sharp cry as he quickened his pace, her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. I should have brought my knife. If I had, you'd be dead now.
"Hell," he cursed through gritted teeth, wrapping his hands around her throat and beginning to increase his pressure, hard enough to cut off her airflow, his pace faltering as he released within her. Jehan captured her lips and kissed her roughly, imagining draining the very life force out of her. His reverie was broken as she abruptly pulled away from his demanding kiss, trying to get what little air she could. Jehan maintained his position, riding out the aftershock of his release in half-thrusts, but she dug her nails into his shoulders hard enough that she drew blood.
Jehan slowed to a stop, releasing her at last, wrenching himself off of her, but not before holding her wrathful defiant glare for several minutes. Madellaine gasped and coughed for air that wasn't there, glaring at him as she held a hand to her throat. She's bruising already, he thought, admiring his work. But that's what the witch does to me; I can't control myself whenever I'm around her. She ignites my baser desires.
Madellaine continued to cough for air, color slowly returning to her face. "I hate you," she whispered, trembling as she forced herself to kneel to her knees. Her face had gone white with shock as Madellaine struggled to accept what just happened to her. How I wish I could commit this to my memory forever, he mused, smirking. You'll make a wonderful wife to me, my love.
"I don't care," he retorted coldly. "I'm a part of you now, pet, forever. You and I should have joined a long time ago. You'll always remember this, won't you? I know I will," he crooned, a truly evil smile on his lips. "You're my favorite."
"Go away, Jehan! I never want to see you again! I will never marry you!" she shouted, erupting into a coughing fit as she still struggled to get what air she could.
Jehan laughed. "I just showed you what happens when you cross me," he snarled, bringing his face in close to hers. He grabbed her arm and wrenched her to her feet. "Are you going to do as I ask now, hmm? Say no, and you'll very much regret it," he warned.
"No," she hissed and spat at his feet.
Jehan clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. "You don't do this, and I'm killing your friend. There's no going quick for this kid. He killed my brother. I'm going to gut him like the animal he is, and I'm going to make you watch as I take his head, and then you're mine," he growled. "I can give you so much more than he can."
"JEHAN, GO AWAY!" she roared. "I'M DONE!"
"If you want him alive, you'll do as I say. Your name-day party is coming up, my darling. You'll invite him. I expect to see you both there. If you're not, well, you know what happens. Do I really need to say it? Don't make me hunt you down, lovely. Here," he said suddenly, handing her a neatly folded bundle of red fabric. "I had this especially created for you, so you'll be ravishing when you break his fucking heart before I kill the son of a bitch."
When she didn't offer her thanks, Jehan raised his hand threateningly. Madellaine winced, lowering her head and mumbling her gratitude only half-heartedly. "The next time my hand flies, Madellaine, I won't be so forgiving. One week, beloved, and soon this will all be over. You will love me, as I love you, and you will provide me with an heir. You'll see." Recognizing he had broken her spirit, he laughed and left her alone in the deserted streets of Paris to fend for herself. "Find your own way back," he shouted.
Madellaine nodded, feeling her tears well in her eyes, unable to stop them. She remained rooted, frozen to her spot in the alleyway long after Jehan had left her alone. She shakily tried to take a few steps forward and collapsed, too weak to walk. Madellaine flinched as she touched a hand gingerly to the back of her head. Her fingers came away bloody. She glanced down, assessing her robe and her condition. Other than the back of her head, the cut on her cheek, and her wounded pride, there was no other sign that she'd been attacked.
I'm not going to be able to hide this from anyone back at Notre Dame. They'll ask me questions. I—I can't tell them what happened, that I was raped. I've seen Quasi's temper, there's no telling what he'll do if he ever finds out about this, but I can't hide what's happened. God forgive me for what I've done, what I am. She lifted her head to the heavens and cried. God help me. But as usual, her prayers were meant with silence. No one was coming to save her. She was on her own.