What Makes a Monster

by HeadIntheCloudsForever

Years after Claude Frollo's death, Jehan seeks revenge, & Madellaine Barreau is forced to claim sanctuary inside Notre Dame, where she meets the elusive bell ringer of Notre Dame, Quasimodo, and begins to develop feelings for him. Broken hearts have a way of finding each other when needed most. Loosely based off the Disney films. Darker tone, new characters. Rated T for teens.

35. The Ice of Notre Dame

Intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above, each flake swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carried it toward a group of wandering dogs, scouring the streets for scraps. Glittering snowflakes fell soundlessly, taking their time before they reached their destined places of rest, enveloping everything in a calm, silent coldness that was comforting in its own special way. He suppressed a shudder, crossing his arms and shrinking into his thick brown habit for warmth as much as he could. Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the far-off distance. Even his own breath seemed to die as soon as it left his mouth.

It was an eerie sort of tranquility, so instead of being soothed; the priest's senses became heightened. He felt like the prey even though no predator could be detected. The houses of the townspeople wrapped in the snow's cold embrace were covered in a massive white blanket. From the bell tower's balcony, the outside world raged a blizzard so strong that the familiar sight of Parish had almost become eradicated, consumed in a thick blanket of snow and ice. The snowflakes fell in an angry vortex and the air was practically still but was so thick it obstructed Darius's view and range of sight for miles. All he could do was watch and pray. He had come up here to check on Madellaine and his brother, but they had apparently wandered downstairs, so he would wait. She still wasn't sleeping well at night, and he wanted to know what he could do to help her. How fast time has flown, he mused, staring out into the blinding whiteness of the snowstorm. Has it really been a few years since I took my vows and swore to maintain a life of peace?

Years from now, Darius would describe his oath as a turning point in his life. It was the moment he truly felt at home. His was an oath he took with pride. Darius excelled in his role. So long had he wished for peace. As he stared out into the streets of Paris, the blizzard removed the illusions from his eyes. With his sight, he realized he was not alone. He was one of many in their vast world and the world before him was full of interesting things to see, to touch, to feel, to keep his mind anchored in the present, and from dwelling in the dark recesses of his mind for too long. But as the white flakes whirled around him, he felt more alone than ever in the moment, as alone as he would be in the bleakness of the heavens and cold, so cold. Darius reached out a hand to guide his way, but his hand was swallowed before he even walked a few inches. To save his eyes from the blinding white light, he narrowed them until they were almost forced shut, all the while the wind raged with no sign of ending, only reducing its ferocity long enough to gather the strength for another attack. All Darius's heart could do was beat warm blood around his veins in a faint hope that this raging storm would end soon, but he knew that the storm had only just begun. It had rolled in from the east earlier this morning, but the damage had only just started.

All his mind could do was plan the most logical path to warmth, safety for himself and his family, and to something more tangible than the light and bitter cold and snow. Distant shouting from below snapped Darius out of his musings and back to reality. He sighed. Whatever it was, it sounded serious.

The priest wasted no time in retreating from his brother's bell towers to see what the commotion this time was. He snorted and rolled his eyes. If he had to guess, Alice or Jeanne had finally reached their limit with his brother and poor Quasi had lashed out again. How he wished that were the case.

He was not prepared for the chaos breaking out before him when he reached the entryway by the large oak doors of the prayer.

Quasi had a young soldier—Frederic, Darius thought his name was—pinned against the wall, his face only inches from the man's and stifling a low growl in the back of his throat. His normally kind eyes had darkened, almost black in color the angrier he got. When he at last turned to face Darius, there was no trace of tears, not in his eyes or in track marks on his pale face, white with rage. His brown eyes were narrowed, rigid, and hard, cold, even. In that moment, Darius knew that he was already far away. Once more, everyone else save for his wife was the enemy. These swings from most loved to most hated would be the end of his brother one day, if Darius had to guess.

His states had no neutrality, only the polar extremes existed. Darius drew in a deep breath; the burning hard stare would last only as long as it took Quasi to think of the most brutally cutting thing, he could think of to tear Frederic down with. And after that, Darius and everyone else in the cathedral could kiss anything breakable goodbye, which just might be Frederic's nose.

The young soldier of the cathedral guard was handsome enough, Darius would give him that. He had short dark hair like Darius's own. Where his eyes were the green of fresh dew glinting in the sunlight off a leaf of green emerald. His lips were pale and thin and his nose slender and rounded. A prominent jaw curved gracefully around, and the strength of his neck showed in the twining cords of muscle that shaped his entire body, strong arms, bold thighs and calves, a firm chest and abdomen. The simple dark green tunic and black pants and boots he wore only emphasized his muscular, fit figure.

There was no other word for him. He was an Adonis. Quasi's eyes darted around briefly and his brown eyes met Darius's blue eyes before he turned back to Frederic, shouting and raging at him in his unbridled anger. Frederic had managed to blacken one of the bell ringer's eyes and there was a small cut above his right eyebrow. Whatever happened, they'd gotten into quite the brawl. The Archdeacon and Alice hovered nearby, fuming expressions on their faces. Darius glanced over at Madellaine and once was more than enough for him, to see his brother's wife in such a state of distress. She was screaming at her husband to stop this insanity, fresh tears cascading down her cheeks. Dark circles were prominent and the bags under her eyes pronounced. Alice and Madellaine's mother, Amelie, were doing her best to restrain her and hold her back, but they were losing. Madellaine wrenched her arm free and stepped in between her husband and Frederic, her eyes an inferno as she glared at her husband. The fighting wasn't good for her.

Darius had been about to step in and intervene, but he hung back and waited, curious. Frederic's shouts rung in the air, lingering and echoing.

"You never should have left her alone! You married her; you fool!" Frederic yelled. "Your actions have consequences, and now your wife is killing herself from lack of sleep, thanks to the demon spawn you're impregnated her with!"

"Stop this, both of you, please. It's not necessary!" Madellaine shouted, her voice echoing in the otherwise empty cathedral. "Love, stop this!" she pleaded desperately, cradling his head in her hands, stroking his hair the way she knew he liked, hoping it would be enough to calm him down from his anger. "Don't listen to him, he's just trying to get to you and make you angry—"

"I'm not going to let him do this to you anymore, Madellaine!" Quasi roared through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Frederic.

Madellaine turned around to say something to Frederic, only to have no time to react as his fist swung back and contacted her eye.

She let out a startled shout and staggered backward, clutching her watering eyes. "Damn it, Frederic, what the hell was that for? I was trying to help!"

He blanched and his face drained of color. "Oh shit, Madellaine, I'm so sorry, are you all right? I never meant to, I—I didn't mean to!" Frederic fell silent as he watched the bell ringer's face contort into a grimace.

A low growl emerged from the back of his throat and an inferno was beginning in his eyes. He grabbed Frederic by the scruff of his tunic and slammed him against the wall. "That's the last time you touch my wife, you bastard!" Quasi shouted, his face growing white as he struggled to contain his temper. He didn't want to lose himself in front of his wife. The stress and high tension weren't good for her, but by God, he was going to kill him.

"ENOUGH!" bellowed Darius, his intimidating German voice filling the empty corridors. "All of you stop this right now before you cause even more of a scene!" He glared darkly at Quasi and wrenched him off Frederic. "Frederic, get out of here. Go see Phoebus, tell him what happened here," he said coldly, his brilliant blue eyes becoming a glacier as they froze over as he glared at the young soldier groveling on the ground before him.

Madellaine sighed and turned her attention back to her husband, who glowered after Frederic as he backed away slowly from the three of them. "This isn't you," she managed to croak out, her voice cracking. "I told you on our wedding night, I won't let you do this to yourself. I'm not going to let you destroy yourself anymore. Frederic is not worth it, darling," she whispered.

"Oh, yes he is!" Quasi bellowed, still fighting against his wife's hold.

"What happened?" spoke up Darius harshly, unable to quell his curiosity any longer. He had to know. It was rare of his brother to get this angry. Whatever had happened, it must have been serious.

"I've had it up to here with him stalking my wife around every corner. He haunts her footsteps and lingers in the shadows, waiting to try to catch her alone whenever I'm not around! It stops now!" the bell ringer shouted, clenching his free hand into a fist hard enough that his nails dug into his palm beneath the brown fingerless gloves he wore to protect his hands from the bell's ropes and the harsh cold. "He tries to seduce my wife at every opportunity whenever I'm not around, and I'm sick of that bastard!"

"That's not true!" shouted Frederic, his face red from yelling.

Darius suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. God, he thought darkly. There's only one way to settle this. He turned to Madellaine, a pained look in his eyes. He didn't want to bring her into this, but there was no other way. If anyone knew what truly happened, it was her. The priest opened his mouth to speak but was saved the trouble by the sound of Phoebus's foosteps.

Madellaine and Darius both shot a glance at each other and breathed a sigh of relief. If anyone could put Frederic in his place, it was his captain.

Phoebus was tall and intimidating, his golden blond hair the color of the sun usually fell past his shoulders, although currently he had tied it up at the base of his head to keep it out of the way. His cheekbones were strong and chiseled, and the man suffered a prominent scar from an old knife wound on his right cheek, and his leg walked with a bit of a limp. As he walked, Madellaine couldn't help but notice her husband's face flush pink with shame as the captain walked, forever now with a slight limp as a result of a brawl between the captain and Notre Dame's bell ringer. He'd attacked Phoebus, thinking it had been him that had brutally raped Madellaine in the streets of Paris; not knowing at the time it had been Jehan. "What's the trouble here?" the captain bellowed, his intimidating voice filling the corridors. "Frederic, what the hell have you done now, boy? Get your ass over here right now!"

Frederic wilted and withered like a dying plant under his superior's stern, commanding gaze. Reluctantly, Quasi relinquished his hold on Frederic, dropping him to the ground with a harsh thud. Frederic shot a dark look up at the bell ringer, who returned his seething glare, but said nothing as his wife enveloped him in a tight hug. Quasi took notice of the briefest flashes of jealousy that crossed Frederic's eyes like lightning in a thunderstorm, but it fled as the captain of the cathedral guard wrenched Frederic to his feet.

Madellaine breathed a sigh of relief and rested her forehead against her husband's, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, wishing she could be a vessel for his anger, his hatred and absorb it.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly, her voice quiet.

"I should be asking you that," he snapped harshly. "Did he—?"

Madellaine shook her head slightly. "No, he didn't," she muttered darkly, shooting a dirty look over at Frederic.

"Move!" bellowed Phoebus, sensing the young soldier made no indication to move, shoving Frederic forward over to the large oak doors of the prayer, where Archdeacon Mathias and Jeanne stood waiting patiently, expressions of relief on both their faces now that the fighting was broken up.

Phoebus pulled Frederic aside into a corner and glared at the young soldier in front of him, looking embarrassed to be in a less than dignified position.

"Frederic, what the hell were you thinking?"

"He's not good for her, sir! It's high time she knew that!"

"That is not your place to decide, Frederic!" snarled Phoebus through gritted teeth. "Have you forgotten she's married? You don't want to cross our bell ringer, trust me, I've been down that path twice now, and I've no desire to revisit it ever again. You've seen what he's capable of," he growled, keeping his smile of satisfaction to himself as a light ignited in Frederic's eyes as the young soldier remembered the attack on the cathedral eight years ago.

Phoebus and Frederic shared a look of understanding. The call to arms was never something said, but instead, understood in their hearts. They were soldiers. Claude Frollo had all those years ago allowed Notre Dame herself to come under siege, all over a woman. From the ashes, the cathedral guards rose, and the tides turned. The longer the new ways were suppressed, the stronger the backlash from Paris would eventually be. Phoebus knew now as he looked at Frederic's desperate, handsome face contorted into a scowl, that it wasn't the end for Frederic, but the start of a battle he intended to win.

"Don't do it," he whispered, his voice a hiss. "If you know what's good for you, stay the hell away from her. For your own good, for God's sake!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at Frederic's bewildered expression. "She's married. Stay away from Madellaine Barreau if you value your limbs."

"I see the way she looks at me!" he protested, his eyes becoming wild and unhinged as he stared at Madellaine from his place in the corner. She briefly met his gaze and her face paled before turning back and whispering something inaudible to her husband. Whatever she said to him seemed to calm him, for the man's muscles relaxed and he enveloped her in a protective hug, resting his chin on top of her hair. Frederic felt the familiar twinge of jealousy spread through his stomach like the beginnings of a wildfire.

Phoebus snorted and scoffed at the soldier's desperation.

"And how exactly does she look at you?" the Sun God challenged. "Like she wants to carve out your liver and feed it to the stray dogs?" he smirked, enjoying the look Frederic was giving him.

Frederic grinned sheepishly. "Yes," he admitted, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I—I want to make babies with her. Think of them, beautiful children, strapping young lads and beautiful girls. Our family would be perfect. I can give her a much better life than that—that monster can," he snarled angrily.

Phoebus let out a bitter laugh. "Frederic, I'm warning you right now. Stay away from her, or I promise you, you'll regret it. Don't."

The young soldier said nothing more and fell silent, watching the three of them converse in low tones. Soon, Frederic thought, as he watched Madellaine. I promise you; you'll see what my love for you is.

Darius approached Notre Dame's bell ringer and Madellaine and winced when Quasi turned his face to look at the priest. The man was lucky Frederic hadn't inflicted any more damage than he did. The cut above his eyebrow looked like it stung, and his eye was purpling already, the skin underneath his eye bruising and yellow. "Easy," Darius said quietly. "You're okay. Frederic won't be coming near either one of you again. Phoebus and I will make sure of it. Did he hurt you anywhere else? Is it just your face? Let me help."

He slung his brother's arm around his shoulder, supporting him as they followed Jeanne's frantic footsteps to the kitchens. "Why were you and Frederic arguing? Why did he provoke you?"

The bell ringer let out a bitter laugh. "I exist, that's why. And I married the woman he wants, that's motive enough for him to hate me, Dari," he growled.

"What were you both doing down here?" Darius asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. "I came up to your tower to check on you both, but neither of you were up there, so I…"

Quasi shot him a look of bewilderment. "You've truly forgotten? We were supposed to meet at the entrance to start clearing out the entrance so people can get in the doors. We're snowed in unless we can take care of it. The storm is only going to get worse. It's up to those of us here in the church to help. We're all they have now."

Damn it. Darius had indeed forgotten. How could I have forgotten? His heart sank to the pit of his stomach as he realized the cathedral would be the only source of refuge for those that could manage to make it inside, and half the city was trapped in their homes as the snowstorm thickened, making traveling conditions extremely hazardous. Being out in this weather was ill advised. "Who all is here?" he asked softly, hoping his voice didn't betray him and reveal the worst of his panicked state at having forgotten.

"Me, you, the Archdeacon, Brother Giovanni, Alice, Jeanne, Lena's mother, Clopin, Phoebus, and Frederic, of course. It's not much, but we'll have to do," the bell ringer responded, raising an eyebrow in Darius's direction as they reached the kitchens. The hatred in Quasi's voice was evident at the mention of both Phoebus and Frederic's names.

"By God, boy, what happened?" Alice demanded, forcing Quasi into a chair with more force than he'd thought possible of her, causing him to wince as he rubbed the gash on his forehead. With gentle fingers, she delicately touched the wound above his eyebrow, resulting in their bell ringer letting out a startled shout of pain.

"ALICE!" he roared, unable to help it. "Let go of me, don't touch it!"

Alice let out a huff of frustration as she pulled back her silver hair that fell to her shoulders in soft layers, framing her thin, oval face and high cheekbones. She expertly and quickly pulled her hair up into a loose bun, ignoring a few tendrils that escaped. Her blue eyes were glinting dangerously as she glared at the young man sitting before her that she considered almost like a son to her and Jeanne. "Just look at you, a right mess, you are! Jeanne and I can't leave you two alone for two seconds and look what happens to both of you!" she exclaimed, her eyes darting up briefly to fall on Madellaine's blackening eye. "Both of you, tell me what happened!"

"Frederic and Quasimodo got into a fight. Again," offered Darius darkly.

She rolled her eyes. "Be honest with me, boy. Have you ever actually…won a fight?"

Quasi glowered. "Okay, that was one time," he protested vehemently.

"Twice, actually. Phoebus. Year prior," chimed up Jeanne.

He flushed, growing embarrassed. "That—that doesn't count!"

"Why wouldn't it count?" challenged Sister Alice, folding her arms across her chest. "Because it looks like he beat the shit out of you, dear boy." Alice opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted as Quasi let out another yell of pain and shrunk back into his chair as far as he could, flinching away from Alice's touch.

"Don't touch it, Al, it hurts! You're not helping me here!" he shouted.

Alice stomped her foot in a moment of frustration. She'd always had a temper. Not as bad as Jeanne's, but between the two of them, they kept the church well entertained. Their colorful language filled the church's halls, much to Darius's amusement. He never bothered to pardon them for it. Darius knew they didn't care about it.

Madellaine laid a reassuring hand on Alice's shoulder, shaking her head no.

"Let me," she whispered, barely moving her lips. Alice nodded, stepping aside for Madellaine. Madellaine's calm demeanor changed and she became slightly tense as she glared at her husband. She wrung out a hot rag and gently touched it to his forehead, ignoring the flinch he gave. "If you'd hold still, this wouldn't hurt as much! It has to be treated, love, no way around it," she said.

"Madellaine, I—I don't…" he started, but he looked pained and didn't finish.

"I have to treat it, which means I have to touch it," Madellaine said quietly, hoping her voice was enough of a comfort to his agitated state. "It's going to hurt, and I apologize, but there's no other way, my love. Please. Let me help you, Quasimodo. There's no way around it, if I don't treat it, it will become infected. So, we can do this the easy way, where you cooperate with Alice and I, or we can do it the hard way and I can have Darius hold you down for it," she pleaded, glancing over at Darius, trying her best to apologize with her eyes for possibly having to bring him into all this mess that Frederic had unceremoniously started. She hadn't anticipated he would corner her as he had. "Either way, we need to have a look at it, so which one is it going to be?"

Darius nodded at his brother's wife, silently agreeing to help if need be. Darius shot his brother a dark look, and he deflated under the priest's stern gaze and lost the resolve to argue with Alice.

"Just do it," he muttered darkly, glowering at Alice. Quasi flinched only once as Alice set to work mending the bleeding gash above his eyebrow. He would have that scar forever, and all Alice could do was clean up the blood and put her own salve mixture on it and hope it would close up on its own with time. He wrenched away from her when she attempted to apply a bandage on his hand. His knuckles were bleeding from hitting Frederic repeatedly. Alice huffed in frustration a couple of times as she worked.

"Look at me, Quasimodo," she instructed harshly.

"Hell no, I don't want to die!" he shouted, his tone harsh, but a light ignited in his mischievous brown eyes as the last of his temper evaporated. Darius and Madellaine laughed, unable to help it.

"Done," Alice said at last when she'd finished. The bell ringer stood up from his chair so fast to flee from Alice that he knocked over the chair and didn't bother to set it upright. "You're welcome!" she hollered after him, annoyed at his rudeness for not bothering to say thank you, his footsteps echoing in the corridors. She sighed and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "What are we going to do with him?" Alice growled. "I swear…"

Madellaine gratefully took Alice's hands in hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Alice. For everything. You're a godsend to us both, but especially to him, I can see it in his eyes."

Alice looked momentarily startled, but quickly recovered and brushed away her comments with a wave of her hand. "Thank you, but I should be the one thanking you. Quasimodo can be a handful at times, as I'm sure you've found out by now, given you married him," she added, a teasing tone to her voice returning as she winked at the bell ringer's wife. "But I do believe that having you here helped. He's never tolerated human company very well, but he loves you, both of you," she said, eyeing Darius and giving him a brief nod, "He trusts you, and he's come such a long way in the past year because of both of you."

Madellaine sighed, a light dulling in her eyes. "He's told me only a little of his past life, prior to meeting me," she confessed. "I know everyone has a right to their secrets, but…I can't help but feel like there's more to it than that. Things he's not told me. I don't want to pry it out of him, but I don't…"

"But you still want to know more so you can help him," finished Alice, nodding. She wearily collapsed into a chair and closed her eyes. "His father was a monster. I'm sure he's told you how he got his scar?" she asked, her voice seething with anger as her memories resurfaced and a dark expression overtaking her beautiful features. She didn't want to talk about it, but Madellaine deserved to know the truth if she was to help her husband. "He allowed his lust and hatred to consume him, and in the end, it was his undoing."

Madellaine nodded. "I—I met him once," he confessed. "His father—Lord Geoffroi—was my suzerain. I met Claude a few times. He didn't strike me as a bad man, just…misguided, perhaps."

Poor Alice had such a look of shock on her face, if this were any other time; Madellaine and Darius would have laughed at her. "Hate, my dear, is the devil's path," Alice began tiredly, her blue eyes sparking with something like animosity as she recalled Frollo. "We shall leave its ash strewn surface without a single footprint. Always the temptation to walk, it's a plethora of logical and compelling reasons, ones that boost the ego and frame false heroes. There is no prize worth the corruption of your soul. Hate brings only pain with it and the cycles of destruction upon us all, as Frollo almost brought upon the destruction of Paris as he burned down the whole damn city to find that poor gypsy girl. That boy saved her life and the man punished him for it. His own father gave him that scar for the crime of caring too much about another person," she spat darkly, her tone disgusted. "In my opinion, you two, the world is well rid of Frollo and their entire lineage. You ask me, our boy did us all a solid favor by killing him." Alice groaned at the stiffness in her joints as she rose from her chair. She was staring at Madellaine in a way that she didn't know what to make of. "I know very little about you, my dear, and you've been with us now several months. There's hope for you, yet. Jeanne and I will learn the truth from you soon. What's your story, my child?" she asked, curiosity alight in her eyes.

"My story isn't important," Madellaine said suddenly, feeling her body stiffen and become tense. She was not willing to discuss Lord Geoffroi and Jehan; the wound was still too great, festering deep in her heart. Perhaps one day, she would tell it, but not today.

"Come now, dear, you're not a blank slate! Tell me the truth."

"I—this isn't the right moment for me to discuss it!" Madellaine protested wildly, not wanting to discuss her past with Alice. She couldn't. Her old life was behind her, and good riddance to all the bad memories it carried.

"Oh, but my story deserves to be told!" snapped Jehan from behind Madellaine as he materialized behind her, eliciting a scream from the young woman. Oh, God, she thought, despairing, weaving her fingers in between her knuckles, squirming where she stood uncomfortably. Not now. Go away. She cringed and tried not to showcase her surprise. "Go on, lovely," he crooned, coming up behind Madellaine and snaking his hands around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Why don't you tell them the truth of what you did?" he suggested silkily. "I'm sure they'd love to hear how this happened."

"Jehan," she hissed, keeping her voice low, but Darius and Alice both raised an eyebrow in her direction, confused at her outburst.

"Oh, don't think you can get rid of me so easily, my love!"

"GO AWAY!" she shouted, balling her hands into fists. She paled in shock as Darius and Alice stared at her, confusion etched on their faces. "Get out of here, Jehan! I don't need you now, and I didn't need you back then! GO!"

"I don't think so, my lovely. Go on," he hissed through clenched teeth, chuckling darkly at her outraged expression. "Why don't you tell those two you're hallucinating, I'm sure that'll go over well…"

"Madellaine," Darius spoke up softly, rather hesitantly, his right hand outstretched. He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase what was on his mind. "Are you all right? What's going on, love? Talk to us. Let us help you!"

"Yes," Jehan smirked. "Talk to them, tell them I'm keeping you company these days, lovely. Tell them I'm a part of you now."

"I—I'm fine, Darius, I apologize for my—my outburst," she stammered, her eyes darting wildly around the room, looking for a way out. "I—I thought I saw something. If you'll excuse me both, I—I should go check on Quasi, see how he's doing, he fled from the kitchens rather abruptly. I'm worried about him." With that, she fled, her brown linen dress billowing behind her, her delicate footsteps barely making any sound as she fled the kitchens, leaving on Darius and Alice.

"Well, that was special," muttered Alice darkly, shaking her head slightly as she gathered her hair and fixed her bun. "She's still not sleeping much, is she? The bags under her eyes are growing darker with each day that passes. I've tried everything I know, yet, nothing seems to help. I don't know what to do. The poor dear."

Darius shook his head. "No. She's getting worse. I—we don't know what to do to help her. It's killing my brother."

Alice nodded, falling silent. After a moment, she sighed and absentmindedly picked at a loose thread on her brown robe. "Come, we'd better go. Mathias will have our heads if we're late. We were supposed to meet at the front ten minutes ago, and the last thing we need right now is a scolding from him," she laughed.

Darius rolled his eyes and snorted, offering Alice his arm. By the time the two of them made it to the cathedral's front entrance, Quasi and Madellaine were conversing in low tones in a corner. Frederic lingered, but maintained his distance, occasionally, earning a stern glare from Captain Phoebus. Madellaine's mother, Amelie was talking with Jeanne and Clopin, and the Archdeacon cleared his throat as he noticed the arrival of Darius and Alice.

Darius fell into place by Brother Giovanni, meeting the Sicilian's eyes and grinning. The other monk was in his mid-forties, older than Darius, and a kind man. Giovanni possessed a thick tuft of cropped black hair flecked with sprinklings of the beginnings of gray hair. He had kind green eyes and deep lines on his face and grooves near his mouth from the hardships of his life. Giovanni's green eyes were like a clear lake in a dark forest.

If you looked closer at that lake, you could see a round shallow crevice filled with completely transparent water. The water didn't tug or ripple in the closed off space, though there was reason enough already to. A greying beard shaved close to his face climbed up his face like last year's raggedy vines after a severe winter. His beard clung to his face in clumps like moss on a dry rock. Thin wisps of hair straggled up his sunken cheeks like etiolated vines desperately seeking daylight. Skimpy looking beard. Barely more than stubble, yet, it suited Giovanni's thin face. As Darius looked at Giovanni, a wave of sadness crept over him. Giovanni's parents had been tragically killed in the same fire that Frollo had set and almost burned down the city. He'd lost his son to a war a few months later. He'd retreated to Notre Dame, much like Darius had, hoping to find his own measure of peace from a harsh past. Darius liked Giovanni and found him a suitable partner for their chess matches once a week whenever his brother wasn't available. Darius turned his attention to Madellaine, who was in the middle of a conversation with Archdeacon Mathias in quiet tones.

"…Well, my dear, you really have no choice but to stay as the entire church has been snowed in, there's not a chance of you going out in this weather, medicines or not. I was thinking of getting together enough of our clerics to help prepare food for a supper later tonight in the kitchens at eight thirty, given the sudden arrival of this storm. Quite sudden, and most unfortunate. As far as I know, all of Paris is stuck in this situation. If you can't get out, I doubt the midwife can. Sophia is going to have wait. There are souls stuck out there that cannot get inside our walls for shelter from this bitter cold," he was saying. His voice trailed off, concerned, as he looked into the young woman's eyes before him. "I won't allow you to risk your life by going out, child."

"No, no, Your Grace, please," she pleaded, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. "I—I need to go get help right now, or—or I don't know what's going to…"

Archdeacon Mathias sighed, rubbing his temples. "No. I'm afraid my answer is final, my child. I cannot have you acting rashly, and risking your life for medicines by going out in that storm while you are pregnant is a risk I will not allow you to take, my dear." The task of clearing the doors before them would be a daunting task, but it must be done.

He would need all the help he could get.

Quasi came up behind her and quietly laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's going to be okay," he whispered soothingly into her ear. "We'll get you help, love, I promise. Trust him. He's right. We can go after the storm ends."

The Archdeacon nodded curtly before turning to Darius and lowering his voice. "Brother Giovanni and I need your help, Darius," he said in hushed tones, not yet wanting to announce his plans to the rest of the crowd before them. "I believe it would be best if our bell ringer were to assist us down the nearest window so we can access the outside. This storm is horrendous, like something of the Exodus! If we don't do something soon, we'll be stuck in here for God knows how long, not to mention the poor souls outside who are seeking refuge here but can't because they can't even enter our doors. We need to clear the entrance, and soon, or else we'll freeze to death…"

"What would you have us do?" Darius asked, his eyes flitting between Archdeacon Mathias and Madellaine and his brother, who had taken to conversing in low tones with Madellaine's mother and Alice and Jeanne.

Occasionally, Madellaine would catch his eye and smile at him in a way that still sent his heart rattling against its cage. Whenever he looked at her like that, he felt as though he was looking at Hanna. The love he was not sure if he would ever quite get over. He'd not dared to love another, not since Hanna, and now it was too late, much to his chagrin, though he was grateful he did have Sophia in his life, at least. Madellaine always belonged to his brother, right from the start. What are they talking about? Darius mused, smirking. If he knew Alice and Jeanne, those two were probably subjecting the poor girl's mother to the worst of their vulgarity. Don't you two torment her.

"…I will assist with the side entrance and as for you, I think it would be best if you go with Giovanni and Quasi to take care of the front. And as for the women, perhaps the girls can begin to prepare the rooms for the tired souls outside as well as assist in preparing a dinner for everyone when that's finished. I won't have the women outside in this godforsaken storm."

Darius nodded, turning his attention back to Archdeacon Mathias; embarrassed at letting his mind wander and hoping the man didn't catch onto it. "It's a good plan, Your Grace."

The Archdeacon dipped his head in acknowledgement and turned to the rest of the crowd, who had fallen silent in waiting.

"Now that you're all here," he announced, his deep baritone voice reassuring and flowing through the room like a soft wind, "I'd like to go over our plan to clear the snow from the cathedral's entrance. We can't allow Notre Dame to become more snowed in than she already is. There are too many poor souls out there than need our assistance. The blonde lass's mother, I—I forget your name, but you'll oversee lighting our halls as best as possible. The chandeliers have pulleys, Alice can show you where. When you are done, prepare the cloisters, our extra supplies are found near the kitchens, where after that, you'll help Jeanne and the other blonde woman in the kitchens preparing a dinner for everyone if they need help. Any questions please don't hesitate to ask," he added, turning to Madellaine, a dazed and confused look on his face. Madellaine suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.

Amelie nodded grimly, grateful at not having to work outside in the bitter cold. She noticed her daughter shoot the bell ringer a worried look with her eyes, silently pleading for him to be careful. He returned her gaze and told her silently without saying a word that he would be. Amelie suppressed a shudder as a cold chill quickly traveled down her spine as she quickly sauntered alongside Alice and Jeanne as they brushed past the rest of the group to the ends of the hallway. Amelie could feel Clopin's piercing gaze on the back of her head. She turned and stared at him, confused.

The gypsy king did not have a chance to react as he felt her lingering gaze. Damn it. She'd caught him staring, but he never had been able to help it. With her blonde hair the color of corn silk pulled back into an intricate French braid and her delicate facial features and prominent collarbones, Amelie had always had the uncanny ability to take his breath away. Right now was no exception. Clopin opened his mouth to caution Amelie to be careful, but his name was being called. He turned, grateful for the distraction so he wouldn't have to dwell on it. Madellaine's mother had an interesting gleam in her eyes he didn't know what to make of. What if she knows?

Clopin fell into place next to Quasi, who was fuming silently still in his anger. The bell ringer's gaze landed on Frederic, who noticed him staring and quickly averted his gaze, clearly uncomfortable.

Quasi felt the familiar rising of a hot anger in the pit of his stomach. Frederic, stay the hell away from my wife. If you touch her again, I swear to God as my witness, I'm going to kill you, no matter what happens to me. Hatred burned in his heart so deep that it was ingrained in the tissue. Red. Everything was turning red. His vision blurred as a flame curled in the pit of his stomach. His brain went on overdrive as it picked over every unpleasant memory he'd ever associated with Frederic or Phoebus. The memories weighed down on him, but instead of breaking even more, his heart turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as his mind took complete control. The flames in his stomach rose up to his chest and crawled through his veins, taking over the rest of his body. Waves of fury rolled off him as the blood rose to his cheeks. Too long have you haunted my wife's footsteps; you snake. You touch her or go near her again, and you'll be sorry. Here, this precise moment, this exact second, memories that would haunt him forever were formed. Quasi had seen and done things that made him sick to think of, they would follow him for the rest of his life and would only bring him pain. There would be no escape from these memories, it wasn't an illness that could be seen or cured, and the pain was to be his punishment for all he had done.

The term anger barely touched the tip of the surface. The need for revenge on Frederic for cornering his wife and trying to kiss her was like a rat gnawing at his soul, relentless, unceasing. It was like an abscess on the skin of his soul that could only be cured by the cruel steel point of revenge. Festering like a septic wound, and the only effective remedy for this was cold, hard revenge. Savage. Spiteful. Unforgiving. He would bear a grudge until he died or took revenge, whichever came first. Settling old scores. Brutal. Callous. Satisfying. Empty, pointless. Mean-spirited. All these thoughts appealed to his twisted and dark sense of humor. He was grateful when Darius spoke to him, startling him out of his anger that had been sure to erupt at any given moment.

"Quasi, I'm ready when you are," Darius said quietly, offering a kind smile that the bell ringer couldn't help but return.

"In a minute," he spoke up harshly, his voice gruffer than he meant it to sound, though his mood still had not improved, and having Frederic in such close proximity wasn't helping matters in that regard, either. He turned to his wife and as he looked at her, his expression softened. Quasi gently reached up a hand and brushed a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear.

She smiled, her eyes twinkling sadly as she reached up her hand and held his hand as it rested on her cheek. Madellaine sank into his embrace, loving the closeness, feeling every crevasse of his body.

"Be safe," she whispered, her smile faltering suddenly.

"Always," he promised, pulling her close for a gentle kiss. He placed a protective hand over her flat stomach and smiled softly.

"I love you," she whispered, her voice wavering slightly.

He was surprised at the pain in her eyes. "I love you too. I promise, love, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be fine, this storm, it's nothing. A minor inconvenience is all that this is," he joked. "It's you I worry for," he said solemnly, his tone turning serious again. "You aren't sleeping. I want you to take it easy today, love. No exhausting yourself. If you feel tired, rest. And if Frederic tries to give you any more trouble, come get me, love."

Madellaine nodded, pulling him tight for another quick peck on the cheek before reluctantly relinquishing her hold on her husband. She glanced back at him one more time as she allowed Alice and Jeanne to lead her away and begin the daunting task of lighting the hallways. There was so much to be accounted for, and never enough time.

There's never enough time, is there? Madellaine thought darkly.

He smiled as he watched the women turn the corner. Turning to Darius and Giovanni and Frederic, he motioned with a wave of his arm for them to follow him. "We're going to have to get outside a different way," he called out, surprised at how loud he was able to project his voice. He was normally very quiet, but not today. "Since we're snowed in, we can't obviously use the doors, so I'll—I'll have to take you to the church steps entrance by way of the rose window balcony. I'll be taking you all down myself."

Darius was stunned when they finally reached the top of his brother's bell tower's balcony. His heart lurched as he glanced down over the railing and finally had a good enough view to assess the damage the storm had impended upon their great city. The front door entrance would prove to be the most troublesome, he could tell just by looking at the snow, the way it had packed against the door, covering it up midway. The priest sighed as he looked out into the storm. The blizzard had finally calmed enough to where it had stopped snowing, but the wind remained strong and violent.

Darius peered over the balcony's railing and grabbed a mattock to chisel at the ice if he needed to, and he had a sinking feeling he was going to have to. He turned to his brother and nodded. "I'll go down first and get started."

The Archdeacon nodded wearily, having followed them up the bell tower to assess the damage firsthand for himself. "Yes, and please remember that if you begin to feel warm, shed your layers immediately and come inside, no excuses. Perspiring is the absolute worst thing you can do in this weather. I won't have any lives lost tonight, all of you are far too important to Notre Dame and to Paris." The head of the church gave a grim, curt little nod.

Darius nodded, looking to Quasi for confirmation as he strode to his brother quickly. He coughed to clear his throat and mask his nervousness and couldn't help but feel a slight apprehension at putting his life in the bell ringer's hands. His brother was still irritated with him for their fight from the other night, he could tell. "Well, I guess it's up to you to get us down there, kid. Don't drop me," was all he requested, a teasing sheen in his brilliant blue eyes. The bell ringer smirked and hauled Darius over his shoulder, catching Darius completely by surprise. Before he could respond, Quasi plummeted ten feet below to their certain deaths, eliciting a terrified scream from the priest, who hadn't anticipated the drop. He dug his nails into his brother's back, aware he was probably hurting him, but he couldn't help it.

Darius opened his eyes in shock, and he was falling. His perception of time distorted, everything slowed down until there was nothing, only him and the gray skies above, the sky that seemed to swallow him whole. Everything was a blur, a blur that swirled out of existence. Quasi had stopped for a moment to plan his next move, clinging onto an icy ledge, shifting his feet expertly as he moved slowly and cautiously against one of the buttresses that had frozen over, coated in a thick sheet of ice and snow.

How they weren't dead yet was astonishing to Darius.

"Darius!" the bell ringer called out, his voice sounding amused.

"WHAT?" Darius snapped, irritated and badly shaken.

"It's best not to look down it helps," he laughed, smirking.

"DO YOU THINK YOU COULD HAVE WARNED ME BEFORE YOU FLUNG US OFF THE EDGE?" Darius shouted, beside himself with panic, clenching his eyes shut as Quasi dropped them another ten feet, laughing at Darius's outburst. If it weren't for the various towers and buttresses and icy ledges, they would have fallen to their deaths. After what felt like an eternity of more falling and feeling like his heart was wrenching up into his throat from the fear of thinking they were going die, Darius heard his brother's soothing voice call out to him. He would have to tell Alice and Jeanne about this later. Knowing those two, they'd probably die laughing.

"We made it," Quasi announced, his quiet voice barely audible over the howling winds. "I have to go fetch Giovanni and Frederic and give Mathias an update. I'll try to get you help as soon as possible," he promised, the glint in his mischievous brown eyes still twinkling as he gave Darius a once-over, assessing his shocked state. The bell ringer smirked, and Darius could only watch in awe as his younger brother began to scale the height of the cathedral to the rose window balcony, his flaming shock of red hair vibrant and noticeable against the blinding white of the blizzard. His brother was incredibly strong and agile. How he managed it without dying or even so much as a scratch was far beyond Darius's understanding. Trying to set his frazzled mind at ease, he began chipping away at the snow at the door as best he could. It was long before he heard the piercing shouts of Brother Giovanni as he very clumsily dropped face first in the thick blanket of snow as Quasi released him. Notre Dame's bell ringer laughed as he went back up to do the same for Frederic and Phoebus, his laughter contagious.

"GESU CHRISTO!" Giovanni screeched as he sat up blearily, spitting out a mouthful of snow and his face reddened as he spotted a bemused Darius smirking at him. "Wipe that smirk off your face, Darius! At least I didn't scream all the way down like you!" Brother Giovanni retorted hotly in a huff.

Darius rolled his eyes and laughed. Going down that way hadn't been his idea, after all. The two worked in silence for a while. Every so often, Giovanni or Darius would attempt to make small talk, but the wind and cold temperatures were especially brutal, so they chose to save their strength. At one point, the bell ringer came back, having updated Mathias on the situation and checking on the women. The priest could not help but notice the seething hatred in his brother's eyes every time Frederic or Phoebus came into his eyesight. Glancing at Frederic, Darius rolled his eyes. The young soldier was certainly handsome enough, he would give him that, but Darius thought their bell ringer was much better looking.

He's certainly less crude than Frederic, he thought and smirked.

Darius was jolted out of his thoughts as a loud shout startled him back to reality and the task at hand before him. Frederic was coughing and raging like a madman. Darius laughed as he realized what had happened. The soldier had been pelted with an ice ball. He knew just by looking at Quasi's face that he'd done it. His brother was maintaining his innocence, his back leaning against the front doors for support, his arms crossed, and his handsome face contorted into a satisfied smirk as the young soldier shouted insults and threats. Quasi bit his lip and waited.

"WHAT THE HELL? This is bullshit!" Frederic roared.

"Just let it go!" Giovanni called out, his tone amused and fighting back his laughter. He exchanged a glance with Darius, who bit his tongue to keep from retorting. The boy did not frighten them.

"Who threw it?" Frederic demanded, his face red from shouting and from the cold. "Answer me right now, or I swear to God, there will be hell to pay!"

Darius met Quasi's eyes and his face paled in shock. I know. Darius raised a finger to his lips, signaling he would keep his secret and to be quiet. The bell ringer's shoulders relaxed.

"Give it a rest, Frederic," called out Darius, his tone cautious but commanding. "Let it go," he replied, hoping his voice was calm.

"Shut the hell up, Father Darius, this doesn't concern you!" Frederic roared. "I'm going to teach the sword swallower who threw the ice ball at me a fucking lesson!" he snarled, bunching up a pile of ice into a hard, packed ball.

If he found out it was Quasi who had started it, they'd have a problem. If he threw it, the sheer impact of the force could cause the bell ringer's neck to whiplash, possibly even break if Frederic threw it with enough brute force, and given he was a member of their cathedral guard, Darius didn't doubt the young man's strength for an instant. The priest didn't give him a chance. Picking up a snowball of his own, he violently pelted it at the young soldier before Frederic could throw his own, enjoying it immensely as the snowball hit Frederic in the face, covering him in a thick blanket of fresh snow.

"Frederic, stop this right now!" ordered Phoebus. "Let it go!"

"HELL NO!" he roared. "I'm going to find out who threw it, captain!"

"Just…try to have fun with it," Darius shouted, amused and fighting back a smile. "It's not often we can all talk like this, is it?"

"Have some fun?" scoffed Frederic, staring at the priest as though he could not believe his eyes. "Oh, I'll have some fun! I'm going to have some fun right now by pelting the bastard who threw the ice ball at me with one of my own! I've been to war on four continents, I've been to Italy, and I've caught a stray in my day. Don't you try to stop me, Father, I'm reaching my limit!"

"Will you just drop it?" pleaded Giovanni, not wanting conflict.

"Oh no, no, it's too far now! I'm past the point of no return and whoever threw it just stepped on a nonnegotiable big fucking line!"

"Throw it at me, then!" Darius bellowed. "I threw it!" he called out, doing his best to ignore the stunned look his brother was giving him. He wasn't going to let Quasi take the fall for this. Darius glared at Frederic, and the younger man seemed to deflate under the priest's stern gaze and quieted almost immediately. Darius noticed their bell ringer was a bit red in the face and beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead. He reluctantly removed his thick brown tunic to alleviate the moisture, allowing Darius to catch a glimpse of his slender, muscular form that was normally hidden underneath his shirt. His abs were well-defined, and he couldn't help but notice the man's Adonis muscle was prominent and stood out. Darius had always known Quasi's job as the cathedral's bell ringer was physically demanding and rough work, but even he was surprised at how fit the younger man was. If Madellaine had been there, she would have no doubt jokingly remarked on it, but as his wife, she could make such remarks.

At the thought of Madellaine and his brother together, he felt the familiar twinge of jealousy begin to flame deep within the pit of his stomach and work his way into his heart. He quickly brushed away his dark thoughts. He could not have her, not in the way he wanted. He was past that point; it was too late for him. As his mind wandered to thoughts of his brother's wife, he hoped she was faring better in her duties than the men were…

---

Madellaine tucked back a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ear in irritation. She and her mother had spent the last hour going around the great Lady of Peace with candles, lighting what candelabras they could and working the chandeliers. The cathedral was still dim and drafty, but at least it provided light and the slightest bit of warmth. What good it's doing now.

Madellaine tried hard to stop the incessant chattering of her teeth, but she was freezing. The long close-fitting sleeves of her brown dress kept her warm, but it wasn't enough. "Are you all right, Lena?" called out Amelie suspiciously, eyeing her wearily. "You look a little put off. Do you need to take a break?" she asked, rolling up the sleeves of her robes and collapsing into a nearby chair for a rest. "Come, you should sit. We could use a break anyways; we've been at this for an hour. My joints can't take much more of this. Sit down before you pass out and your husband has my head," she commanded, her tone playful and her eyes sparkling.

Madellaine stared at her mother in wonder and affection. What did I do all these years without you in my life? Madellaine thought and smiled shyly at her mother, who returned the simple gesture with a genuine smile of her own. Amelie's blonde hair streaked with the beginnings of white was done up in an intricate French braid. She was slender and petite at age fifty.

Amelie had a delicate, thin, oval face and high cheekbones. Graceful brows framed her face and her gray eyes twinkled with a permanent, mischievous glint. Rumors of her distinguished beauty had flown throughout the streets of Paris, and she'd learned from Geoffroi once that he had intended to propose to Amelie, but she'd already accepted Lucien's hand by the time he had asked for her hand in marriage. Madellaine suppressed a shudder, feeling grateful her mother hadn't accepted Geoffroi's proposal. If she had, there was a strong chance she and Jehan would have been related by blood.

"I still would have found you attractive, lovely, sister or not," sneered Jehan, a hallucination of her own mind. Damn it, she thought and growled. She irritably waved Jehan away with a brush of her hand; ignoring the confused look her mother was giving her. "You were always the one I loved the most."

"Go away, Jehan," she whisper-hissed through clenched teeth, careful to keep her voice low so her mother wouldn't hear her.

Madellaine guessed as she looked at Amelie that she had quite the stories to tell of the men whose hearts she'd conquered. She loved them both and thought of the cousins as mother figures in her life when she'd had none in her life up to the point her own mother had returned. They were practically her mothers. As good as they came.

"Oh, I was just thinking about beauty," she muttered, feeling her cheeks redden as she avoided her mother's piercing gaze, who raised an eyebrow in her direction but didn't comment. Madellaine found her mother attractive, even more so as she aged, and if truth be told, it was a little intimidating for her. "I—this may sound strange, but there are so many ways to be beautiful, but I always find myself looking in a mirror to find it," Madellaine said, feeling herself blush in embarrassment. She brushed her hands on the skirts of her brown dress and picked at a string that was coming loose on one of her sleeves. Her floor length dress was simple and neat, made of linen, with a wide scoop neck that brought attention to her prominent collarbones and her neck, with long, close fitting long sleeves that kept her warm in the winter months. The skirts flowed and breathed with her movements, with a slight train in the back. "I'd always hoped I would have more to offer than beauty."

"You do. Where are you going with this?" Amelie asked gently.

"To be honest, I think you're a very attractive woman, Mother, and I can imagine you still turn a few heads in the street when you pass by people in the marketplace, and I'm sure you have stories to tell, but you're also a little…intimidating. I don't know why I'm talking so much and babbling like an idiot, but I feel like I compare myself to others so often I can't see what I have to offer, and as I thought, I started doing the same thing with you just now. Have you ever done that?" Madellaine asked desperately, feeling her face grow hot. Her mother stared at her; her mouth slightly agape in shock.

"I—I'm flattered that you think so highly of me," she began hesitantly. "But what you're doing to yourself is not healthy, Madellaine. It's rather sad, isn't it? We always want to be what we aren't just because everyone else thinks that a 'look' is better than another. We end up missing our good traits and features until we're old and shriveled. One day, even I'll be old, there's no way around that. Don't be so quick to feel like your musings and your thoughts aren't important. Trust me, Lena, life goes by too fast, and then one day, it's just…over. We move on from this world and into the next."

Madellaine smiled and laughed quietly, blowing a stray strand of blonde hair out of her eyes. "Thank you," she muttered sheepishly.

"You're welcome, love. Don't hesitate to come to me anytime."

"It's nice knowing I'm not alone," Madellaine admitted.

The two fell silent, and the silence caressed Madellaine's skin like that of a cool summer breeze, smoothing her soul, taking away her jagged edges. It had been one hell of a morning. She hadn't anticipated Frederic would sneak up behind her and try to corner her, let alone a brawl to break out between her husband and Frederic, and then of course there was Jehan, a fragment of her own mind, who was currently perched cross-legged on the floor next to her, every so often he would glance up at her and throw a cruel grin her way. The silence of the empty pew made her blood as cold as the winter air that crept through an open crevice in one of the windows. Bereft of any leaves outside, the leaves hung limp until they fell of their own accord, there was no whispering or rustling. Nature herself was conspiring to keep Madellaine in the dark, not daring to whisper to her the reassurance she so desperately craved. The sound of hurried footsteps and the large oak doors of the prayer squeaking open brought her heart racing against its cage.

Silence gnawed at her insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid their conversation had become. The silence was eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong. Silence clung to them like a poisonous cloud that at any moment could choke the life from them. Silence seeped into their every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing them from either speech or movement.

It was at that moment that a loud racket burst through the hall and the two of them could only look at each other in confusion before rushing to see what the commotion was. To their astonishment, the large doors of the entrance burst open. The two women exchanged an impressed smile and grinned. Amelie and Madellaine's smiles disappeared, however, as soon as they saw the bell ringer's complexion to know something was terribly wrong. He was shivering and shaking madly as Darius quickly chauffeured him to an empty pew. He was lucky to be alive. "Oh my God," moaned Madellaine, rushing to support her husband as he collapsed into the pew. "Darius, what happened?"

Amelie followed close behind, craning her neck to see what the damage was. The fact that her daughter's husband was shirtless allowed Amelie to see each twitch to his body, which to her surprise was taut and muscular, given that he normally hid beneath a thick tunic, not wanting to draw attention to himself. She noticed appreciatively how well defined his muscles were. Madellaine desperately shot a pleading look to Darius.

"You there, the blonde lass," Brother Giovanni spoke up, his eyes falling on Madellaine, his Sicilian accent thick and urgent. "Attend to the boy, go and fetch warm water and blankets from Alice and Jeanne, bring as many as you can. His life depends on it."

Madellaine nodded curtly and almost tripped in her haste to retreat to the kitchens. The situation did not look good at all. She rushed down one of the stark, dimly lit hallways to the small kitchen where Jeanne was amid preparing a small dinner. She looked up as Madellaine burst into the kitchen, continuing to dice leeks and salted beef for a makeshift stew into small cubes. The noise had startled Jeanne, who eyed Madellaine apprehensively as she heaved, trying to catch her breath. She failed miserably as she managed to rasp out, "My husband—very sick, they're back! Get a bucket of hot water—blankets—quickly, they're back! They…managed to clear the front doors!"

Jeanne clasped a hand over her mouth and scrambled getting the requested items. It was a relief she hadn't started dinner yet as she was able to scoop hot water out of the cauldron as the two of them rushed back to the prayer hall, where a small crowd had gathered around the convulsing bell ringer. "Move, girl!" bellowed Jeanne angrily.

Madellaine jumped back before daring to look at her husband, his lips an unnatural blue. "Oh, God," she moaned, despairing.

The sound of Frederic's distraught voice pulled her away from her husband's grim image. "I—I told the fool stop, but he wouldn't l—listen," he shivered, his teeth chattering. "He—he took off his shirt to alleviate the m—moisture but was determined to help and clear the passage before it got worse. B—bloody imbecile, it'll cost him his life." Madellaine and Amelie glared at the young soldier, however noting how difficult it was for Frederic to speak let alone stand up. He kept teetering uncertainly before collapsing into a nearby chair as Darius and Giovanni lifted the bell ringer and draped his arms around their own and took him to the bell tower.

"I'll come back and check on Frederic," Madellaine promised urgently, rushing up the steps after them. "Mother, will you look after him until then?" she asked, pausing to glance back at her mother.

Amelie blinked, stunned. "I—yes of course, but I don't understand. You and this soldier," she said coldly, gesturing towards Frederic's semi-conscious form. "He lusts after you, and you're a married woman. You're still willing to help him even though he's shown you what kind of a person he is?" she asked incredulously.

Madellaine hesitated, caught between wanting to answer and wanting to go help her husband. He needs me, she thought. Finally, she found her voice. "Frederic might not be the most likable man in Paris," she admitted, "but even he needs to be shown kindness. You should treat others as you'd wish them to treat you." Having said her piece, she fled up the bell tower steps. Madellaine helped where she could, following close behind Darius and Giovanni and Alice as they helped support him and carried him to their bedroom, gently laying him down on their cot, but between the frustrated sighs of Alice and Giovanni, she quickly realized she was getting in the way.

"Come, love," Darius murmured quietly, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You don't need to be here for this, you should go back downstairs—"

"I'm not leaving him," she snapped, a harsh bite to her voice.

Giovanni and Alice placed hot towels all throughout his skin, gently rubbing them, hoping to get blood flowing once again to his ice-cold flesh. Quasi continued to shake violently, but with the amount of blankets Alice wrapped around him, he seemed to regain some consciousness.

"W—where's my wife?" he barely whispered.

Madellaine blinked back briny tears and swallowed hard. "Shh," she whispered soothingly, reaching up a hand and gently caressed her hand through his red hair. God, he's so cold. "I'm here, my love, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be just fine, I swear," she promised.

"Our baby?" her husband asked, blearily trying to focus his eyes on his wife's gaze. "How's—our—baby?" he shivered, trembling.

"Just close your eyes now and rest. Don't worry about me. Our baby is fine. I'm safe. You're safe, you're going to be just fine," she choked, angrily brushing away her tears. She hated feeling vulnerable like this. "I'm going to take care of you," she cried. Madellaine couldn't tell if he understood or not in his delirium, but after a moment, his brown eyes drifted shut. Little by little, Darius and Giovanni silently trickled out of the bell tower, leaving Madellaine alone with her shivering husband, feeling severely out of place and utterly helpless. The dread crept over her like an icy chill, numbing her mind.

In her frozen state, her mind only offered her one thought.

He's sick. What if he doesn't make it? What if he dies from this?

There was no avoiding it. Unease blossomed from within her like a blooming flower of spring, spreading in her thoughts like a disease. Jehan noticed her discomfort and laughed cruelly.

"He won't make it," he mocked wickedly, a sneer on his lips.

"Shut up," Madellaine snarled through clenched teeth.

"Your husband's going to die because of his carelessness. If you would have married me, you wouldn't be in this situation," he accused. "You and I, we'd live back at home, in the warmth and comfort of Geoffroi's home, with a fire roaring in the hearth. Not here," he spat, disgusted, pulling the hood of his cloak tighter around him for warmth, a cold chill traveling down his spine. "If he dies, you and your baby will be left alone, widowed and fatherless."

"Jehan, go to hell! I don't need you right now! I never needed you, damn it! I didn't need you then and I don't need you now!" she shouted, wincing as her husband stirred uneasily in his sleep. Damn, she thought darkly. I can't wake him. He needs to sleep. I'll check on you in a bit, she promised to him silently, leaning down and pressing her lips to his forehead. His skin was frigid, leaving her lips tingling. "Leave me alone and never come back."

Jehan smirked and laughed. "You can't get rid of me that easily, my pet. I'll leave you alone for now, but I'll be back, I guarantee it." He vanished just as quickly as he had arrived, leaving Madellaine alone and to the point of a nervous breakdown. She slowly tiptoed out of their bedroom, promising to come back in a half hour and check up on his progress. The last thing her husband needed after such a rough morning was to endure the chills alone.

---

Back in the prayer hall, Madellaine finally found it within herself to approach the pompous bastard as with each passing moment, it seemed Frederic de Marten would likely collapse on himself. She let out a huff of frustration as she approached Frederic. "I highly doubt you're going to be fine, Frederic. You've been swaying the entire time since you've come inside." Forest green eyes met smoke and ashes billowing in the wind as Frederic suddenly reached out towards Madellaine's shoulder. He shivered, both from the cold and from the contact of his icy hand on her warm flesh as his hand accidentally grazed the area near her left collarbone. To him, she felt even more tantalizing knowing how incredibly warm she felt, the heat that her body radiated, in comparison to how waterlogged and frigid he felt.

Madellaine eyed him wearily as she helped to give the young man some stability by wrapping an arm around his waist, and the other grasping his arm around her shoulder as she attempted to escort him back to an available cloister. With barely a step taken, Frederic de Marten stumbled, his eyes widening in realization as his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. "Madellaine…I can't feel my feet."

Madellaine felt her eyes grow wide and round at his admission. Oh no, she dismayed. You've probably got the frost. Damn it! Relying on what little strength she had left, most of it going towards helping her husband to heal and regain his strength, she somehow found it within herself to use all of her power to guide Frederic back to his cell, where he had taken up refuge in an empty cloister, claiming sanctuary from the bitter cold and the harsh winds.

She let out a tiny groan as she settled him onto his cot and began to remove his tunic, which was drenched with melted snow, the water pooling in a small puddle at their feet. In any other circumstance, Frederic would have happily allowed her to do as she pleased, but in the moment, in his current state and lack of any mental preparedness, he managed to grab her delicate wrist tightly.

"What d—do you think…you're doing?" he seethed.

Perspiration lay cool on her skin as beads of sweat began to form on her forehead. Madellaine shivered once and fought back a tremor.

"I'm helping you, that's what I'm doing," she snapped irritably.

"But I—" Frederic started to interrupt but lacked the strength.

"If you don't get rid of your clothes, it's only going to get worse! I've seen this before when I lived in the Frollo estate, a long time ago. You and I can work out our differences later, Frederic, but right now I really need you to cooperate," she growled through gritted teeth. Madellaine's eyes searched his until he finally met her gaze, giving her a cut nod. "Thank you," she murmured quietly. Madellaine without a word peeled off his tunic, not having time to marvel at his lithe muscles, but rather gaping at the hundreds of scars that littered his chest, scattered all throughout his body.

Frederic instantly looked away, furrowing his brows in humiliation. The absolute audacity of this woman, he thought. "If I recall, 'helping' doesn't typical involve staring, you—you insolent wen—girl!" he bellowed, his face growing red from shame. The bite in his voice released Madellaine from her reverie as she grabbed a blanket and dried him as best she could before wrapping him in a large woolen blanket. She wordlessly removed his leather boots, which were soggy and destroyed from the snow. Frederic de Marten sighed. "Just t—toss them in the bin, they're unsa—unsalvageable," he groaned wearily.

Madellaine, however, was far more concerned over the swelling and unnatural reddish hue to Frederic's feet. He looked down and grimaced, wincing at the numbness in his toes.

"You're a fool to refuse my help, Frederic de Marten of the cathedral guard," she mocked. "It's a wonder you managed to walk through the door in the first place," Madellaine snapped. "But you're lucky," she quipped.

"And why is that?" he challenged, quirking his brow at her.

"Because I'm going to help you," she shot back. Gingerly, she placed his feet in a bucket of hot water and tenderly began to massage them, her fingers nimble and swift as she attempted to get the blood flow moving to his feet again. If I can't, well, I don't know what will happen, she thought fearfully as she glanced up at him.

Frederic glowered at her, but he couldn't sense any treachery in the action, just genuine concern for him mixed with kindness. He had since warmed up considerably, and his shivering had mostly subsided. Watching her work and pour her heart and soul into helping him, he sighed. "Thank you…Madellaine. Truly. I mean it."

Madellaine, not expecting the admission of gratitude, looked up, startled, and met his eyes as they locked onto hers. Her breath hitched at the intensity and the almost softness in his gaze those green eyes of his produced. She smiled briefly before flitting her gaze back to his feet, choosing to concentrate on her work instead of on the handsome soldier she was helping. "Do you feel anything?"

His gaze faltered. God, I could look at you all day, he thought. "No," he groaned. "But I—I can't have you tiring yourself. You have your husband to look out for, after all. You should go to him."

Madellaine snorted and chuckled quietly. "I guess so. I—I found you these to wear. I apologize they aren't to your liking, but it's the best I can do for now," she apologized, presenting him with a neatly folded brown monk's habit. "It's Darius's, so it'll be a bit big on you."

Frederic rolled his eyes as he slid the habit over his head, shrinking into its warmth as best he could. Oh, that's better. "Anything is better than my ruined clothes. The price I pay for being an idiot."

The bell ringer's wife laughed out loud, her laughter a delightful, pleasant, tinkling laugh that roused him, causing Frederic to hug the blanket closer to his body. God don't let her see, he thought and suppressed a moan. She stood and lingered in the doorway, a hand on the doorframe to steady herself. Madellaine paused, looking back at Frederic. There was an interesting gleam in her eyes, and, if Frederic wasn't mistaken, the possible beginnings of friendship, maybe even something more in her hauntingly beautiful gray eyes. "For once, you've truly surprised me," she admitted thoughtfully, her voice quiet and reassuring. "I'll be back later for supper, can't have you starving and dying on us. Will that be all right?" Madellaine asked him inquisitively.

Her gray eyes pierced his heart as she looked at him inquisitively. "Are you sure your husband won't mind?" Frederic spat bitterly, unable to hide the note of unmistakable jealousy in his voice. "He doesn't seem to like me very much, as you saw earlier." The soldier stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

She shook her head sadly. "No, I'm afraid my husband is still asleep. I—I should go check on him now, but I promise to come back." Madellaine hesitated. "You and I…we might have gotten off on the wrong foot, but I don't believe you're a bad person, Frederic," she said quietly. "Misguided, perhaps, and going about trying to earn my friendship in the wrong way, but I have hope for you." Her laughter lingered in Frederic's cloister long after she departed, once again leaving the young soldier speechless…and aroused.

On the other side of the church, back in their tower, Madellaine prepared herself to enter their bedroom. She could hear low voices. She raised her knuckles and gingerly knocked, before berating herself that her husband was still probably unconscious. A cheerful "Come in!" came from the other side.

Madellaine drew back the curtain that led to their bedroom, only to find Brother Giovanni expertly rubbing Quasi's arms and replacing the hot water for his towels. A tinge of color graced her husband's face, but nothing too drastic from his shivering state. The monk suddenly turned his attention to the blonde. "Ah!" he said, his Sicilian accent think and pleasant. "You must be this boy's wife. I don't believe I've had the pleasure yet of meeting you," he grinned, revealing a brilliant smile. "Quasi does have a way with women. A very strange way indeed. I wasn't aware he liked blondes. He's always struck me as the type to prefer brunettes, at least that's how it was in the past..."

Madellaine felt her face pale in shock. She looked baffled.

He must be talking about Esmeralda, she thought, bewildered as she stared at the monk, who was fighting back a smile, waiting for her to speak and say something to him. God help me, she begged.

"Wh—what? I—yes, I am his wife, but I—I…oh, forget it."

A pink blush graced her delicate face embarrassedly.

Brother Giovanni chuckled. "Don't you worry, lass, I got the gist of your rambling. Now, were you sent here by Alice? Perhaps you can be of use to me?" he asked quizzically, studying her features.

Madellaine nodded quickly. Anything she could do to help her husband, she would. "Yes, of course," she whispered feverishly.

"Excellent. He's in good hands with a wife like you," Giovanni admired, his gaze briefly wandering the length of her body appreciatively. "I am almost finished, but it seems to me as though he's stabilized. If you could be so kind as to place a hot towel over his eyes and check on him in about an hour or so, I think he should soon recover. He's cold to the touch, but the more warmth we can provide, the better his chances. I noticed your lyre in the corner over there too," he admitted, jerking his head to the chair in the corner of their bedroom where she sat sometimes to play for him. Quasi enjoyed listening to her music, he often told her that he found it soothing to his soul. "Anyways, if you could play for him, that should help his recovery speed up, I should think. I'm heading to the kitchens. Steer clear of Frederic de Marten, although he can barely walk, which may be easier than anticipated if that's the case." Brother Giovanni let out a dark little chuckle and excused himself.

Her second warning to stay away from Frederic. He must really be something else, she mused to herself. Giovanni soon left, leaving Madellaine alone with her husband once more. She adjusted the pillows behind him. Looking at his face, she noticed his lips were no longer blue, so that was a minor improvement. Startled, Madellaine let out a startled cry, a hand over her heart, as his eyes fluttered open. His teeth chattering incessantly, he blearily focused his vision a few feet from himself and struggled to sit up.

Groaning, he touched a hand to his head. His head was pounding, throbbing to the touch. The beating he had taken from Frederic would last several days as he healed, he guessed. He'd hoped Alice would be there when he awoke and quickly realized it was Madellaine. He felt guilty as she looked at him expectantly. "Madellaine!" he exclaimed weakly, forcing a smile onto his lips. He was truly delighted to see her, but everything ached. "When—when did you get here?" he managed to croak out, his voice raspy and weakened. "How long have you been sitting with me?"

Madellaine perked up. "Not long ago, how are you feeling?"

"Weak, but better…Thank you, darling," he whispered.

She smiled and stood from her chair, coming over to lay next to him on the bed, enveloping him in a warm embrace, hoping just being near him and the closeness of her body against his would be enough to start getting his blood flowing to his ice cold flesh. "Don't thank me, Quasi, thank Alice and Jeanne, a—and Brother Giovanni, he's a little strange." Madellaine leaned in next to him and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Do you like blondes?" she whispered, a teasing sheen in her brilliant gray eyes. Meeting a confused stare, she paled slightly and recoiled. "I—I shouldn't have said anything! It—it's been such a long day, a—and Brother Giovanni, he—he said that…" She silently cursed herself and turned away sharply.

Quasi stared at her, dumbfounded. "Uh, w—well it certainly has, though I don't think anyone has ever asked me that before. But you should already know the answer, my love. You are, after all, a blonde," he teased, reaching a hand to caress her cheek and run his fingers through her cropped blonde strands. "And I married you." He quirked his brow at his wife, managing a weary laugh. The bags underneath his eyes and his skin was incredibly pale. He met her gaze and smiled, his expression softening and becoming tender. "You didn't have to stay with me," he said quietly. "But I appreciate it, my love. It was good of you to come. Very much. That was very kind of you, but you need to be off your feet, resting."

Madellaine stared; shocked that he would say such a thing to her.

"Good of me?" she asked incredulously. "Of course, I stay with you. I'm your wife, Quasi, that's what I'm here for. I'm here for you in the good times and the bad. You have a shit memory, my love. I am yours and you are mine. I love you. Besides, many people now will be able to find refuge from this blizzard thanks to your hard work," she offered, ignoring the blush speckling across her husband's cheeks. She sat up straighter and propped herself against one of the spare pillows, collapsing against the pillow for a moment to allow herself a moment to close her eyes and rest.

His eyes misted with tears at her words of love for him and he turned away so she wouldn't see. "I did what needed to be done!" he protested, reaching up and giving his wife a gentle kiss on the cheek. "It needed doing." Exhausted, he rested his head in her lap, closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of her fingers running through his thick tuft of red hair, suppressing a shudder. "I had to go, I couldn't just—"

"My husband, the modest man," she teased, ruffling his shock of red hair that sent a pleasant tremor down his spine that had nothing to do with how cold he felt now. "You should give yourself a bit more credit, my love. Not that I'm telling you what to do or anything, and I—oh my God, I completely forgot!" She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand, berating herself. "How could I have forgotten, I—I should go fetch Alice, are—are you hungry?"

Quasi chuckled and smiled warmly. "A little. Thank you, Lena."

"Don't mention it!" She pressed her lips to his for a passionate kiss and pulled away reluctantly. "I'll be back soon," she promised.

Notre Dame's bell ringer was perplexed at his wife's unusual nervous demeanor, but not enough to dwell on it. His entire body ached, and he was still feeling miserable, if he was telling the truth to himself. His wife's mannerisms she was currently exhibiting were reminding him of himself whenever he'd been around Frollo on one of his bad days, which were more often than naught until his passing. Left alone to his musings, he found his mind wandering to Darius, how his brother had helped him by keeping the secret from Frederic that he had been the one to throw the ice ball at the young soldier. Yet one more debt that he owed his brother, never able to repay him for his kindness and selfless acts. Quasi drifted into consciousness and then back out. The tower around him was a blur, and random images seemed to float aimlessly around in the pool of his thoughts. A claw mark digging into his shoulder momentarily brought him back to the outside world, telling him Victor was pawing at his shoulder, trying to keep him awake. He could feel the gargoyle trying to look at him, staring him dead in the eye, but the bell ringer couldn't keep focus. Confusion blossomed in his heart and he knew sooner or later he would need to wake up and stare reality in the face.

He would deal with Frederic harassing Madellaine later. But for now, he was content to lay down his heavy head, drowsy with the urge to sleep, and retreated back into the wallowing darkness, diving for it to escape the ebb and flows of the fatigue and pains that ached throughout his entire body, especially in his arms and legs. He smiled sadly and wrapped the thick wool blanket tighter around himself and mulled over the situation with Madellaine.

Quasi didn't know what to do for his wife to help her sleep at night. She was hallucinating more often these days, talking to an unseen figure. She tried to be discreet about it, but lately she was prone to an outburst or two of her own, shouting at someone. The shoreline had become a figment, as if it evaporated in heat. Notre Dame's bell ringer wondered if the world was but one ocean, the waves moving freely, gathering peace. Perhaps that's what happens when you are adrift, like he was now. Quasi didn't know how he could help his wife, and he suffered even more for his helplessness. You fear that the perfect circle of blue is all that exists. It felt as if the wind came to bring some sensation of touch, a soft hello from nature. And he has learned, in this—this desert of company that it was better to let his mind be as empty as that horizon than it was to suffer loss of hope and the tide of emotions it brought with it. He couldn't take it if anything happened to her.

Without her, he was incomplete, she was his, and he was hers for as long as they lived, and even into the next life, and what was happening to her, he wasn't sure he could protect her from herself and this was killing him.

Frederic de Marten lay bundled, unmoving until the last vestiges of the sunset faded, left alone with his thoughts over Madellaine, the temptress, the witch. Only a witch would marry a monster. He sighed heavily and hesitantly mulled over his actions and more importantly, his reactions. He grimaced as his breath exhaled into a soft vapor in the frigid cloister. Being alone with his thoughts was incredibly self-destructive as his guilt crept in slowly at a petty pace and he leaned his head back against the cold stone wall.

Please. Tell her—tell her to stay, his inner voice is telling him. I feel like the distance between Madellaine and I pulls my soul out of my ribs, rendering me breathless, sinks me into subconscious. It—it feels like I'm drowning in a freezing lake every time I lay eyes on her, but I—I don't care. I love you, Madellaine, and I'm going to make sure you know it, you—you witch, temptress. I'm certain all of this is a—a hallucination of sorts. She didn't come into your cloister earlier and help you out of your clothes. It's all in your head. It must be. She must be an angel, or—or the devil. Her beauty isn't human; hers is a curse, driving men to their wildest, carnal urges. Her soft, creamy skin, how the lightness of her touch is enough to drive a man insane. Every touch of hers sends my mind reeling. Tell her that her eyes are my space. It's the world where I can visualize myself in. Her laughs are the secret behind my eternity of happiness, this foreign feeling I've not had in a long time since before the wars, and if she goes away, if she continues to stay married to that demon from Hell, all of this, what I feel, will be hindered and I'll be nothing but a lifeless body. I'm the dead whose heart has been broken. I need that heart and that shoulder where I can put my head on and reassure myself that the world is my possession—that heart, the one I hear beat, the voice of love in every second of every day. Will a day come where I'll know the end of this, the end of this—this vortex, this flooding, this deeply buried love, its blaze, its anguished cries, it's tortuous screams, its breakdown, its death, its tears, its time, its absence, its pain, the grip it has on my heart. Her grip on my heart. Because of my watchfulness, my impatience, my memories of its person, its time, its place, and its epoch…will there come a day when all of this will end? A ragged sigh escaped his lips and as he gazed into the water that he'd been soaking his feet in, his toes were no longer an angry red, but blistering and much darker than he recalled. It felt like hours had passed since the bell ringer's wife attempted to go out of her way to help him and try at conversation despite his attempt to corner her and kiss her earlier this morning. He couldn't help it. The fair blonde was a mystery to him, and the treacherous ways he had viewed her were a bit moot, to put it lightly. Removing his feet from the basin of water, he dried them as best as he could, slipped on the brown monk habit that itched and scratched at his skin and stared up at the dark ceiling of the cloister cell. Frederic's feet were a mixture of numbness and nerve pain where his foot awakened from the dreadful cold, an intense burning sensation of pins and needles pricking at the nerves and veins in his feet. He recalled her glittering gray eyes like smoke and heat, like the brilliant shard of the steel of his own sword, and how they seemed to change with her mood—a shining brilliant sheen whenever she was happy, and darker, almost black in color whenever she grew angry, and when she was sad and tears formed at the corners of her eyes, her irises turned a dull gray in color, like that of the last ashes on a dimming fire. Frederic stifled a low growl and turned to face the wall roughly, his arms folded across his chest as he shivered, struggling to get warm. Knowing he was the cause to most of the poor girl's misfortune did not sit well with Frederic.

But her husband was worse. Far worse. Oh yes, he is, his voice snarled bitterly. You know it, and there's still time to save her.

Having Madellaine so close to him was a wonderful feeling, forbidden though she was, but since when was he a good soldier?

He'd never been able to follow orders well.

The new aspects of the petite blonde he never knew slowly emerged before him as he grew to learn more about her simply by watching her. And yet, he hated himself for being so weak and unable to control himself whenever he was in her presence. Before Frederic could continue wallowing in his self-pity, a soft rap on the door interrupted his thoughts. He felt guilty, not realizing how much time had passed until he saw the light of the moon shining through the great glass window, casting an ethereal glow on Madellaine as she gingerly stepped in with a heavily laden tray.

"Frederic?" the young woman asked timidly. "Are you hungry? Jeanne and Alice made strew, I—I thought you might be hungry."

His breath caught in his throat. The way she said his name so casually still baffled him, and he didn't have the energy or the heart to comment on that fact. "Anything sounds appetizing after what transpired out there," he growled bitterly. "Mathias is an old fool. We should have—we should have waited! Has anyone even entered? I highly doubt that," he snapped, hatred in his voice seething. Madellaine set the tray down next to Frederic, taking care to light a few of the candles scattered throughout the room and took a seat next to him, apprehensive at being so close, but he could see it in her eyes.

This beauty was willing to give him a second chance at her trust. There are no other women like this one, he thought sadly. "A few. Phoebus—I—I mean the captain came looking for you, but I told him you were recovering and couldn't be disturbed. He gave me this, I think it's a death count by the looks of it," she said, reading the paper and shuddering as a tremor went down her spine. Madellaine waited for him to fly into a rant of some sort.

Frederic sighed and took the scroll from her hand; numbly aware he was crumpling it into a ball and tossed it into the corner.

It took a moment for him to compose himself.

"Thank you," he said at last, his voice reluctantly pained. "For sending him away. Perhaps I—I misjudged you. I hope that you will forgive me for my behavior from earlier," he apologized.

Madellaine scrunched her nose and made a face, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. "You think?" she asked sarcastically, her brow furrowed as she glared at him, but they slowly relaxed as Frederic grabbed her hands in his and held them gently.

"I…I have never judged you fairly, nor have I treated you well during your time you've lived here in Notre Dame, and despite the things I have said to you and done to you, you still sit here and tend to me." His eyes bore into Madellaine's as her eyes widened in shock.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them contemplatively, pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts.

"No, you haven't." His sudden confession unnerved her greatly.

"I—I apologize for my behavior towards you, milady. It was uncouth of me to behave in such a despicable manner towards you, and I—I can only beg your forgiveness and hope you can one day find it in your heart to someday call me a friend to you."

Madellaine stared, stunned into silence. Slowly, she nodded. "I'd like that," she admitted after a long pause.

Frederic grinned sheepishly and took the opportunity to poke at clumps of the stew with his fork. Clumps of it stuck to the utensil. "Gross," he muttered darkly. "What is this shit?" he growled darkly. "I can't even—what is this?" he cried, his green eyes twinkling brilliantly as he looked at the bell ringer's wife.

She rolled her eyes. "I haven't poisoned it if that's what you're after, Frederic. Just eat the stew, you need to keep your strength up."

A deep laugh escaped Frederic uncharacteristically, and Madellaine jumped back slightly, startled at the unfamiliar outburst.

She'd never heard him laugh before, not once.

"What I'm trying to tell you, is that I think you—"

"Madellaine!" bellowed Jeanne's voice from outside the corridor, irate. "Have you checked the soldier for his injuries? Come, girl, you haven't all day, you know. Your husband passed out again, he'll need you alert."

The harsh bark of Jeanne's voice broke Madellaine out of her reverie and she watched, deflated, as Frederic's trademark scowl returned. He shot a dark glance up at the nun. Frederic internally vowed to spite her for ruining their intimate moment as he quickly snatched his hands away. Frederic audibly grumbled to himself. "No, Sister," Madellaine murmured. "Excuse me." She wordlessly lifted the blanket by his feet to see a few of his toes had blackened. "Oh, God," she groaned, a tiny moan escaping her lips. "Oh, no, this is bad!"

"That's what I thought," snapped Jeanne irritably.

"He has the black frost, Jeanne," hissed Madellaine through clenched teeth, leaning in to whisper it into Jeanne's ear.

"Well, it does the body no good to keep dead appendages, now does, it, young Frederic de Marten?" Jeanne huffed. "We'll have to-"

"Cut them off," finished Madellaine darkly. Her face paled and turned an interesting shade of green. She fought back her nausea.

"Obviously," Frederic sneered. The Sister rolled her eyes and the young blonde's face drained of color. She looked sick.

"Yes, well, I'll bring some shears," Jeanne said. "Can you handle this, Madellaine? Normally, I wouldn't ask you to do this, but I—"

Madellaine looked startled. "Me?" she gasped, gaping at Jeanne.

"Yes, dear, who else would do it?" Jeanne snapped.

"But I—I've only ever stitched wounds; I don't think I can!"

"Alice and your mother are both busy tending to your husband. Giovanni and Darius are helping aid the stragglers that managed to get in, the others are clearing out the dead bodies of the poor souls that froze to death outside trying to get inside our doors. Please do this for me," Jeanne urged desperately. "You don't want the rot to set in. He can't feel them. Just don't cut too far down and stitch them up afterwards. That's it. Give him some milk of the poppy for the pain."

Madellaine blushed angrily as she felt her stomach lurch. "Fine."

"That's more like it, child. That's the spirit. You have a fiery spirit, my dear, it'll take more than a few blackened appendages to turn your stomach, girl. Besides, this is a good distraction for you."

"How's my husband?" Madellaine demanded suddenly.

"He's passed out again," she sighed. "He's going to be fine, though. The boy just needs to rest, and you need to make sure he does. Don't let him get up out of bed too soon, I know he'll protest."

"Not to me, he won't," Madellaine growled darkly.

Jeanne nodded, her slender hourglass form retreating only to shortly return with a basket of cutting shears, needles, thread, and a small pot of boiled wine. "Shouldn't we have more wine, so he won't be able to feel it? He ought to be drunk for this," Madellaine said quietly.

Jeanne glanced over at Frederic and sneered. "He'll fare. We're running low and need to conserve what we can."

Madellaine rolled her eyes and shot Jeanne a dark look.

That's bullshit, Sister. You and I both know your wine stores are well stocked to past capacity. That's not the real reason. You hate Frederic for what's he done to Quasimodo, and to me. That's why you told me no. God save you, Frederic. This is going to hurt, no way around it. I'm so sorry. But I must. Madellaine grumbled as she ushered the nun away and closed the door, leaning against the door for support. She closed her eyes and steeled herself, willing her nausea to calm down. Oh, God. Once, she thought as she stared at Frederic, she'd dreamed of slowly cutting away his fingers and limbs from all the trouble he'd caused her and her husband, but she could never bring herself to truly hate the man enough to enjoy the daydream. He hadn't changed that much in the months she grew to know Frederic, but she could see in his demeanor that this time, it was different.

Perhaps this time, he was truly trying to change and be a better person…or at least be more tolerable. Maybe, even likable. Sitting on a small stool, she unsurely glanced up to meet Frederic's green eyes, a visible grimace plastered onto his gaunt face as she held a foot between her legs. As she picked up the pair of shears, she hesitated, afraid to take the first step in getting it done.

Lord give me strength, she prayed, closing her eyes. Don't let this be like that instant with Claude's kitchen wench. Please, God, let me do this.

"I'm sure you won't find it that difficult, Madellaine."

Madellaine managed a lame smirk as she let out a deep breath, disgusted with herself in what she was about to do to save him.

Frederic turned his head away sharply.

"Please, just make it quick so I can get on—JESUS CHRIST!"

Madellaine winced as he yelled at her. The tip was the only frostbitten area affected, and somehow, she'd managed to cut the whole appendage off. When she glanced up, angry tears ran down his face as he glared at her, blood pouring down in a thick, garish red in the spot where his toe once had been. In a shaking breath, he rasped, "For the love of God, just hurry the hell up and do it! WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?"

"If you'd hold still, it won't hurt as much!" she shouted. "And I'm sorry, but they—they have to come off, there's no other way!" Madellaine trembled beneath Frederic as she disinfected the area with the boiling wine. Part of her was astonished he hadn't tried to hit her. Instead of taking his anger out on her, he balled his hands into fists until his nails dug into his palms, piercing the skin until it bled, the tips of his fingers going white from the pressure of trying to remain composed despite the immense pain he was feeling. His dismembered toe fell to the floor and she turned away and gagged, holding a hand over her mouth.

"That's disgusting," she cried. She was in for a long night.