The injured soldier awoke after hours of trying to endure the throbbing pain in his feet. The pain had an unpleasant warmth to it, eating at his feet and spreading up to the pit of his stomach. There was nausea too, just enough to make him hold onto the table for support and breathe slow as he struggles to stand up.
As a soldier, Frederic often prided himself on ignoring physical pain and enduring regardless, but right now that just wasn't possible for him in the moment. This pain right now, it owned him, dominated his every thought, controlled his every action. The pain wasn't sharp like a knife; it burned his insides better than boiling water. Everything felt scalding, and move or not, he was in more pain now that he ever imagined possible. Frederic wasn't sure which pain was worse: his existence or his lack of phalanges. Madellaine had done an excellent job, though perhaps he should have sent her off to the find the communion wine by the time she got around to amputating the second toe. All in all, he'd lost three toes. Two on his left, one on the right. He knew Sister Jeanne had been lying when she'd mentioned they were running low on their wine stores. He'd seen her take a swig from a flask just this morning when she came to check on him. Frederic wouldn't be able to stand properly for a while, and his recuperation worried him. What of his duties as a soldier in the cathedral? His job couldn't wait, he was needed. I must protect her, he thought darkly.
Frederic tried to rise and immediately regretted it as a shooting, burning pain traveled up from the soles of his feet and into his leg, causing him to yelp in pain. Must save her from Quasi. The sound of the key jingling in the lock and the door being nearly kicked open caused him to jump, startled, as a disheveled Madellaine burst in, wildly looking around for the source of the noise. "What happened?" she cried urgently, her gaze finally resting on Frederic, and her shoulders relaxed a little. Her hair had been recently cut short by one of the sisters; tiny stray blonde hairs clung to her collarbones. Her hair brought attention to her brilliant gray eyes, currently narrowed and glaring at Frederic with apprehension and slight distrust. Her brown dress was stained crimson with his blood from last night; she hadn't bothered changing in the night.
Dark circles were prominent under her eyes, indicating her lack of sleep. She looked as bad as he felt on the inside, exhausted. A part of him felt guilty for waking her, as he realized with dawning horror that she'd slept outside all night in a chair outside his cloister cell, ready to be woken at the first sight of trouble. However, the more sadistic side of him felt like teasing her a bit despite the immense pain he was currently experiencing, thanks to her.
"I—I tried to stand to assess if I even could, and—and I wasn't aware you cared so much about me to sleep so close to me all night."
Madellaine crossed her arms and glared at him. "In your dreams. I slept outside all night to make sure you didn't need any help. My husband is still recovering from his sickness and I—I couldn't wake him, he needs his rest," she admitted sadly, turning away sharply. "So, I slept down here, near you."
Frederic stared at her, studying her movements, her expressions.
"You aren't sleeping at night, are you? Don't lie; I can see it underneath your eyes and in your eyes. You're exhausted."
Madellaine nodded, not bothering to deny it. "It's true. I—I suffer from night terrors," she confessed, not sure why she was telling this to the young soldier before her. "I wake up in the middle of the night screaming. It's been affecting my husband's sleep too, and I—I can't inflict that on him anymore. Not while he's recovering. I can't."
"It will get better," he reassured her, surprised at the change in his voice. His voice lowered and grew quiet, thoughtful even.
"I can only hope it will," Madellaine despaired, not looking at him. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. It isn't good for me, and it's not good for our baby," she murmured softly.
"I—I dreamed of you last night, milady," Frederic admitted, surprised to hear himself confess it. "It was—" he started to say, but Madellaine help up a hand, stopping from speaking further.
"Don't you say another word about it," she commanded harshly, her cheeks reddening as a light blush spread across her face. "Keep your—your delusions to yourself, Frederic. It will never happen. You don't want to fight me, Frederic, you've done that once before and lost, remember?" she teased, smirking and quirking her brow at her.
His breath came out in a quiver as he gingerly walked on his heels to the cluttered desk. Frederic collapsed with a grimace on a book-stacked chair as he began rewrapping his feet. "Here," she said suddenly, kneeling by Frederic's chair and with careful, delicate fingers began to expertly bind his bandages. "Let me do this, save your strength," she huffed.
"Our…fight, if you can even call it that was hardly a fight at all," he explained irritably as he studied Madellaine's reaction carefully. "Especially since Captain Phoebus interrupted our meeting, that bastard—" he growled darkly, remembering the interruption.
"Bastard?" she asked, startled, staring up at him in surprise. "Now there's a word I never thought I'd hear you say, especially not about your captain. He's your commander, show some respect."
Frederic scoffed and absentmindedly picked at his nails.
"There are many things you haven't heard me speak yet, milady, and some things I'd still like to hear from your lips," he teased.
Madellaine's blush deepened at his blatant flirting. She cocked her head to the side and leaned up closer. "Oh? Like what?" she challenged. This soldier was much too prudent to keep this up.
Or so she thought. A deep, sinister chuckle escaped his lips and he grinned infectiously. Damn you, Frederic, she thought and groaned.
"What would be the fun in telling you?" His voice was like a deep purr and she couldn't help but lean in closer, entranced by the change in his demeanor. Madellaine seemed to snap out of whatever she was thinking of in the moment and stormed out of the room, flustered and growing angry.
"Frederic, you're insane!" she shouted. "Finish up, so I can help you to the kitchens, you nasty, perverted cripple!" she bellowed.
Frederic could hear Madellaine's insults and rants from the next room over and for the first time in a long time, he felt more optimistic about their situation. Frederic would sure remedy her insults now that he knew she liked his voice in a certain octave.
"Seductive voice for a seductive woman," he mused to himself.
Archdeacon Mathias and Brother Giovanni and Darius had been in mid-conversation about their current housing situation when they all stopped, startled, as they strained to listen to the intimidating voice of Frederic's voice mingled with Madellaine's normally kind, quiet voice like a soft summer wind was now much angrier. The two were bickering.
"If you lean into me any harder, we're both going to fall!"
"You didn't seem to mind being so close to me when you wanted to know about my…delusions!" Frederic protested.
"You insufferable idiot! I did mind, I do! I ALWAYS MIND!"
"Oh, I beg to differ! OW, SHIT, STOP, STOP, WAIT!"
"Are you all right?" Madellaine was saying, suddenly quiet and tense.
The pair entered through the small doorway, met with the inquisitive gazes of Darius and Giovanni and Mathias. Madellaine met Darius's gaze and her face paled in shock. Darius's gaze dropped to Frederic's blood-soaked bandages on his feet, and the garish red stains on Madellaine's dress spattered throughout as he recognized what had happened to their soldier. The bell ringer's wife was casually supporting the young soldier against her for balance, one of his arms draped over her shoulder. It was a very peculiar scene, given the two hated each other, that Madellaine would so selflessly offer her help and time for Frederic, but Darius knew that was simply her character, who she was. Darius knew that as he looked at Madellaine and their eyes locked, that she was an angel, sent to them from Heaven to walk the earth, helping those in need, such as Frederic, regardless if the man deserved her help or not. To Darius, an angel was one who loved, one who did their best to help others in need, someone who worked to do what was right even when there was nothing in it for themselves. But angels still looked after themselves; they could feel such exquisite, emotional pain and loneliness, despite it being such a torture to them. They could still love in any way they wished or needed; everyone was entitled to those rights. Darius, as he looked at Madellaine, knew what love was, and what the light was now trying to show him, what he already carried an instinct for. His brother's wife was a godsend to them all.
Frederic's face grew ashen as what little color was left in his face drained as he realized the situation before them did not look good.
Madellaine felt him stiffen and gently nudged him to take a seat. The soldier reddened and winced as he gingerly lowered himself down, tightly gripping the table until his knuckles turned white with the effort. She immediately noticed a change in his demeanor as he turned to face the eyes of the Archdeacon and Father Darius. One hard look and the two immediately looked away. Satisfied, Frederic took a spoonful of porridge as Madellaine noticed just how much power he held. In the softest voice he ever produced, his tone was terse as she heard him whisper into his ear.
"You should have changed your dress, my dear."
Frederic had a point, but she didn't want him to take it.
"And you should have stayed in your cell!" Madellaine retorted. Madellaine ate tersely, often glancing up to meet a pair of curious eyes as passerby stared in awe and shock at the idea of seeing the bell ringer's wife seated next to the young soldier of the cathedral guard. She found herself trying to meet Frederic's gaze for acknowledgement that he too, found this highly uncomfortable. He barely even glanced over at her, choosing instead to focus on eating, and that was being generous. Madellaine wasn't sure why she was so keen on avoiding her while they ate. The man had practically been up her skirt tails since he encountered her on her first night in Notre Dame, always stalking her around every corner, watching her. But now that he was under the direct watch of Darius and Mathias, he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else but near her. Madellaine sighed, stirring her lumpy porridge absentmindedly. Jeanne, after all I did for you last night, putting up with Frederic and cutting off his toes, this is the best you can do? Madellaine thought, disgusted at the porridge before her. She was saved the trouble of taking another bite as her stomach lurched and a wave of nausea overcame her entire body, adding to her already sleep-deprived misery. "Excuse me," she muttered darkly, a hand over her mouth, standing up so fast she overturned her chair in her haste to flee. She didn't stop until she reached the kitchens, barely making it to a basin. Her stomach contracted so violently, and her stomach emptied until there was nothing left for her to bring up. Well, that was a waste of a meal, she thought darkly, her knuckles white and shaking. Her stomach felt sore from the stomach acid that was layering it and her mouth tasted of bile. Madellaine's entire body ached and she felt weak. She sank to her knees and slumped against the cold stone wall, enjoying the coolness of the harsh stones against her warm skin. No one's coming, she thought, slightly dismayed. The thick scent of bile filled her nostrils and her stomach dry-heaved again as she surveyed her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her face was ill, drawn and taut. God, she prayed, closing her eyes and steeling her nerves. Give me strength enough for my husband and myself. Let our baby be all right. Please. Allow me to sleep, and soon. I don't know if I can take much more of this.
"God's not listening to your prayers," sneered Jehan wickedly from beside her, kneeling next to her, his hand outstretched to help her up.
"Go away," she pleaded, burying her face in her hands, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "Not now, Jehan!" Madellaine shouted angrily.
Not wanting to linger here or head back to the kitchens towards the congregation of curious onlookers, no doubt gossiping about her and the injured soldier, she wandered the halls aimlessly until she came across the windowsill of the stained-glass image depicting the Annunciation. Desperate for the sunlight to caress her skin, she climbed up and stop on top of the ledge, basking in what little warmth the sun's rays dared to let stream in through the thick stained glass. God, she prayed, closing her eyes, feeling the warmth caress her skin. Give me strength enough for both my husband and I. Keep our baby safe. Allow me to sleep, and soon. I don't know if I can take much more of this, Father. I need to rest. Please… The sound of someone gently clearing their throat interrupted her prayer, causing her eyes to dart open. She startled, struggling to see through the haze that was her vision, slightly blurry and distorted from her growing lack of sleep. Great, she thought darkly, upon seeing who it was. Just what I need right now. Still, she forced herself to be pleasant. "Frederic," she snapped.
"Milady," he answered courteously, no previous hints of his hostile nature evident. All she could detect in his tone now was genuine worry and concern. "What are you doing up there? I came to check on you, and—" he started to say, but to his annoyance, the fair-skinned blonde held up a hand, stopping it.
"What can I do for you, Frederic?" she asked, letting out a weary sigh and rubbing her temples, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as though she were getting a splitting headache. "Do you need help walking back to the cloisters?" she asked, not caring if it embarrassed him.
Frederic blushed, and for just a moment, the briefest flashes of anger crossed his green orbs. But he shook aside his bitterness, allowing himself to sit as he rested his back against one of the stone pillars near the window ledge.
"What are you doing up there?" he asked, deflecting her question.
Sighing, she turned her head back towards the window, pulling her knees close and wrapping her arms around them, resting her head on her knees.
"Well, we're trapped in here for the time being. I can't go outside, so this is the next best alternative, I guess." Quietly, she descended from her perch, not wanting to leave the warmth of the windowsill, but she recognized her time alone was up. Perhaps later, if the weather permitted, she could go walking.
Gracefully, Madellaine hopped down in front of the soldier, bearing her soft, inquisitive gray pools into his piercing forest floor green eyes. Frederic noticed her face was looking thinner and her eyes were much smaller than he previously remembered. The rims of her eyes were red from crying. Gently, he took her chin in his hands and furrowed his brows. "You look troubled."
Madellaine frowned. "Let go of me, don't even touch me," she snapped, wrenching away from his touch. She crossed her arms and glowered at Frederic de Marten, repressing the urge to roll her eyes at the soldier's stupefied expression. "I thought you got a kick out of seeing me miserable, Frederic, or was I just imagining that?"
"Would you just answer me?" the soldier growled, leering at her, and regretting it as the young woman who had admittedly saved his life backed away from him, clutching herself for warmth despite the warmth of her green velvet dress. She shivered, wrapping the cape she wore over her dress around herself tighter for as much warmth as she could, but it still was not enough.
Madellaine bit her lip, hesitating, seemingly at war with herself, trying to decide if she could trust this man. At last, something within her gave way and she relented.
"I don't know if my husband is going to make it," she admitted, brushing away her tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes with a flick of her finger. "I…" Madellaine's voice grew hoarse as her voice cracked and her thought process faltered, unable to finish the thought that she did not want to speak out loud, for fear that if she did, then it might come true. She buried her face in her hands, absolutely humiliated. She cried, mentally punching herself for showing so much weakness to a soldier, of all people. Madellaine rubbed her arm over her face, trying in vain to dry her tears. Wordlessly, without waiting to ask her for permission, Frederic held the young woman to his chest, almost as if by instinct, he felt her weep, her body pressed against his. He smirked, briefly wondering what her husband would think if he could see this with his own eyes for himself. He'd hate him, surely.
"Your…husband will be just fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut, stroking her hair and just relishing the moment. He won't. He'll die, and then you'll be mine! Frederic reached up and tucked her hair back behind her ear and shot her what he hoped was a mostly affectionate smile.
Madellaine took a faltering step backward, uneasy at the sudden close contact. Changing the subject, she inspected the skin underneath her nails with a feigned interest in the non-existent dirt that didn't reside there. "How are you feeling this morning, Frederic? Do you need any help at all?" she asked in what she hoped was a casual tone. She sniffed once and brushed away the last of her tears with an irritated flick of her finger. "I can help…"
Frederic scowled. "No, thank you," he responded stiffly, feeling his body stiffen and harden at the suggestion. "Have you…" the soldier hesitated but asked the question that was burning on the tip of his tongue anyways. "Have you been crying up here all morning, milady? Enough is enough, wouldn't you say?" he asked, doing his best to ensure his tone remained neutral.
Madellaine looked up from her nonchalant nail preening with furrowed eyes and glowered at him. "No, not the whole morning but enough. Please do not mock me," she snapped, shoving him away slightly as he advanced upon her. "Think of me whatever you will, but I value my marriage with Quasi."
Frederic huffed, feeling his irritation with Notre Dame's bell ringer consume yet, yet again, only this time in waves. Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting, whenever thoughts of the young blonde woman who currently held his heart and that demon from the depths of hell filled his mind, his fury sweeping off him like ferocious waves. His wrath consumed him, engulfing the soldier's moralities and destroying his boundaries of loyalties. "Do not talk to me as if I'm some ignorant peasant," he spat, disgusted, fixing the beautiful fair blonde with a cold, hard stare. "I've known Notre Dame's bell ringer for the better part of the last nine years. I've done nothing but protect him in all my time I've been stationed here."
Madellaine stared at Frederic, a look of incredulity in her gray eyes. She looked as though the young soldier had slapped her. "Protect him?" she shouted, balling her delicate hands into fists and clenched and unclenched them at her sides, as though she wasn't sure what to do with them. "Is that what you called it at the Feast of Fools when you tortured him?" she accused.
"I…" Frederic's voice faltered. "How did you find out about that?"
Noticing Frederic's stunned expression, her delicate brow furrowed into a frown and Madellaine took that as her sign to continue. "Oh, yes. Darius and Sister Alice told me everything about what happened to my husband that day," she snapped. "They told me you were there at the front of the crowd. You were one of the soldiers that tried to strangle him to death," she hissed, disgusted, glaring at Frederic until her eyes were narrow slits and her eyebrows shot so high up onto her forehead they almost disappeared into her hair. The look of hatred in her eyes was almost too much for him to bear.
"He does not belong in our society!" Frederic shouted, beside himself with rage. He wasn't sure where this outburst was coming from, but it was too late to stop himself. "I did it because he needed to be taught a lesson! The people of Paris will never accept him for who he is, because of what he is. And now, he's done the same thing to you, Barreau. He's branded you, made you an outcast, and it makes me sick, what he's doing to you! You're—you're starting to think like him, to talk like him, and I cannot stomach it anymore!"
Frederic breathed through his nose, silently pleading to God to control himself whenever he was around her. He needed her trust and acceptance.
Now is not the time for you to see red, his voice advised. Keep it together.
Madellaine glared at Frederic, folding her arms across her chest and stomped her foot in agitation, a release of frustration. "Why did you not help him? I thought it was the sworn duty of soldiers to follow orders. Captain Phoebus stopped the cruelty, but you were one of the few who did not."
"I did not help him down from the pillory because he needed to learn a lesson. The people jeered at him, taunted him, all because of what he is. The man's a demon from the very bowels of Hell itself, and you stand here in front of me and have the audacity to tell me you're happy you married him?" he bellowed, feeling his face pale and drain of what little color was left. "He's better off up in his bell towers, away from it all, shielded away from the cruel ways of the world. If he stays up there, then I can protect this place's peace."
Madellaine sneered. "What peace?" she challenged hotly, her hands on her hips. "Peace for nonexistent redemption? You're despicable, Frederic de Marten! Your kind, you soldiers always slaughter and don't bother asking questions first, oh no, it's always endless murdering with no regard for innocent lives that you're taking, the families that you ruin every single day!"
"WE DON'T SLAUGHTER!" Frederic's teeth clenched as he approached the young woman rather dangerously. He tried to calm his temper as the red flush began to slowly disappear from his face. The soldier cursed himself as he watched the briefest flickers of fear pass through Madellaine's gray eyes.
She stood there, wide-eyed, taking a few faltering steps back, waiting for him to speak and further erupt into a ran. But when he didn't, she let out a shaky sigh. "Frederic, you cannot punish my husband for wanting something that everyone else takes for granted daily. He only wants a normal life. A partner, a family of our own soon in a few more months, a home," she added, with just the faintest note of pride in her voice. It did not escape Frederic's attention that her right hand had drifted towards her left, where she tenderly fidgeted with the plain gold wedding band she wore proudly. A habit of hers, he noticed. He fought back the bile creeping his way up into his throat and swallowed hard, hoping the young woman did not sense his nervousness.
Madellaine took that as her sign to continue when he did not respond.
"Why should Quasi not be allowed to have what we all want? Why is he any different?" she challenged, her hands on her hips. "Tell me. Why, Frederic?"
"I…" His voice cracked and Frederic found himself unable to formulate a proper response. Perhaps he could have if he weren't so enraptured by her.
When Frederic did not respond to her question, Madellaine sneered and began to walk away, back towards the bell tower stairwell. "I knew it," she sighed, though she did not sound angry with the soldier, but rather, defeated. "Find your own way back, de Marten. I'm not your—your personal nurse!"
Her piece said, she turned her back on him and walked away, leaving him yet again slightly aroused at the sudden feistiness in her changed behavior when she was around him. Frederic hobbled back to his cell with great difficulty, slamming the door in sheer frustration. Without her, I'm nothing.
Frederic was fuming, alone in his anger that threatened to spill over like an erupting volcano. He had let so much slip. This was not like him at all. He liked this one, this girl who had bewitched him so, and she didn't even have to try. He wasn't going to give up on Madellaine Renee Barreau that easily.
He had never had someone watch him completely lose all sight of himself and break down like that. The young soldier always prided himself on hiding his emotions well. Frederic growled in frustration. He glanced around, his eyes a bit red as he saw some of the graffiti outlined by other parishioners.
"Goddamned blizzard," he grumbled darkly under his breath. He wished that the Lord would just end his torment already and be done with it.
The water that had run so freely in the failing light of dusk was now trapped in icy form, beautiful under the glare of the moonlight, but as solid as the frozen ground under Madellaine's boot. Unbeknownst to the young woman, Frederic watched the night weather and scrutinized the River Seine with a careful, suspicious eye. He had sworn an oath to protect the cathedral and her parishioners, and he was not about to leave his love out here unattended and alone. No one feature made Frederic quite so handsome, but the soldier's eyes came close enough. Parisians often spoke of the color of eyes, as if that were of any importance as if that were of any importance, yet his would be beautiful in any shade. From them came an honesty, an intensity and a gentleness that the other soldiers in Phoebus's ranks. Perhaps this was what was meant by being a gentleman, not one of weakness or trite politeness, but one of a good spirit and noble ways. What Frederic was, what was beautiful about him, came from deep within. As each year passes, and he continued to age, the lines deepened upon his still taut and smooth face, and he was more handsome still, as if his very soul shined through his skin, and his gentle, white, brilliant smile. Frederic de Marten was fitter looking than most of the villagers in the story ever expected. His face told of a lean body beneath his wintry garb, and his expression was often serious but not unkind, especially not to Madellaine Renee Barreau. Frederic shivered as a gust of cold wind blew through the air and tousled his dark locks. He wrenched his glove off of his left hand and reached out to touch, recoiling as soon as he made contact. He let out a hiss of pain and jerked his hand back. It was not just ice. No, this was unnaturally cold. The kind of coldness that left him unable to warm up without retreating into the safety of his home or of the cathedral. While the snow was pleasant to look upon at first, it would simply be whiter falling from the dark gray skies. After what felt like hours of waiting, the fair Madellaine arrived, clad in a beautiful dark green dress and a dark blue cape. She had not yet noticed that he had followed her out here.
Frederic liked to see the woman's gray eyes light up at the sight of the snow falling. The soldier sighed, thinking that it was not fair that the young woman's hard life was not her fault, but rather, the fault of the Frollo family.
Almost as if she could sense him looking, Madellaine Barreau glanced up from admiring a beautiful red cardinal and waved. The young woman's once fiery eyes seemed doused in ice water, unnervingly making the gray paler.
It was like she had drifted into a shell, so touch to reach. The soldier resented the fact that the woman had grown up into such a hard life. Thanks to Sisters Alice, Jeanne, and Maria, the gossip hounds of Notre Dame, they had revealed to Frederic (and to anyone else who would listen) that Jehan was a bit of a fan of his red wines and drank to escape the pain of losing the only man he had ever considered family: his own brother. It was how Madellaine got her self-induced scars. But what hurt the young woman the most, he believed, was the insecurity. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to abuse could ever experience. The mental scars were a tapering factor in the serenity of Madellaine Barreau's domestic noble life when she'd lived with the Frollo's. They caused agony that could only be seen on the inside. The pain that only Frederic seemed to care to notice, because, well.
No one else, except for perhaps the young woman's husband, cared. The stories and troubling accusations that Madellaine told the nuns whenever they thought to ask only grew worse as more time passed, the more they learned.
There were nights, she would claim, when she'd been living with Jehan, that he would shout at her, and she would be forced to lay there and take it.
"Mind the ice!" Frederic called out harshly over the fierce winds as he watched the young blonde tread lightly across the frozen surface of the River Seine towards the spot where Madellaine had noticed a flock of cardinals.
Frederic stopped. The River Seine was strange. The ice wasn't flat like it should be, but rather it was broken. "More like the bark of a tree," the soldier mused. In the cracks, the water was discolored, more like glacial melt water in its brilliant blue. He crouched down to detect the aroma, it was like nothing he'd ever smelt before, not bitter not sweet, not like pollution. Taking a stick, he poked at the ice and it was as solid as it looked. Frederic dipped the stick into the water, and it moved in just the way it should, only slower. The ripples radiated out as the young man expected, but almost as if in slow motion. He took his eyes off the water and stood up, listening and watching. All was quiet tonight on the Seine. Too quiet, he thought darkly. Hardly even a breeze in the trees. Frederic chuckled turned to say something to the woman of his affections when he heard a splash. Whirling around, his blood quite literally went cold at what he saw. A cracked piece of ice in the middle of the pond, and a hole just the size of a young woman in her twenties. "Oh, damn it all!"
Not caring if he too fell in the Seine, Frederic bolted towards the point of the origin for the accident. For Madellaine, she had only cared about what was above her, trying to see what she could, admiring the beautiful cardinals.
The colors of the Seine around her swirled and clouded her vision, leaving nothing but white spots. She let out a startled cry as she realized nothing was happening as her foot had faltered, and she'd slipped on the thick ice. The ice broke beneath her boots: cold water, no breath, no pain whatsoever.
The evening winter's moonlight that was only seconds ago so strong was now a blur. Her arms flailed against the icy water that stole heat from every part of her skin. Her head hit the ice. Bubbles brushed her cheek. One hand found the gap, shooting into the wintry air, hoping Frederic or Darius would see it. Madellaine a little before asking her body for one final push for the light. Darkness and icy coldness enveloped her completely. The water closed in around her, filling the young woman with a sense of panic and deep dread.
She held her breath as long as she could, too long, in fact. Red and black splotches danced in front of her and she could not remember if her eyes were open or closed. The coldness she had felt upon entering the water was completely gone. A desperate hot wave had come over her, warming even her frosted toes in her now drenched, icy, and probably ruined, brown boots.
Her heat was beating rapidly in panic. The urgency for air was more apparent than ever. There were not red blotches in her field of vision anymore. It was all black, nothing but darkness. He opened her mouth, gasping for air, and then nothing. Poor Madellaine moved her arms like she was climbing rocks, but it was only ice water around—water that washed around her body, preventing access to precious air. After only a few seconds of being completely submerged, her brain was in full panic mode, there were no coordinated movements, just clawing through the thick liquid that threatened to invade her lungs. From her lips came an explosion of air bubbles, moving away from her at a peculiar angle. Madellaine almost realized she wasn't facing upwards, that she was struggling perpendicular to the surface, that she could, if she strained to listen, almost faintly hear Frederic and Darius's shouts above. Already, her thoughts were groggy.
Her limbs slowed, stopped, and she began floating in the ice water of the lake like a limp child's rag doll. That was when he saw him. Jehan, swimming upward from beneath the icy depths of the River Seine to pull her down with him, to drown her in this icy, watery grave. But she knew it was only a vision, one that her mind had created to ease the painful death of drowning so horribly and unexpected like this, but it seemed so…so real. Even if she was to die unceremoniously like this, she knew Jehan was no angel of death. She briefly wondered if Jehan was tasked with lighting the way to the dimension the departing soul would be bound to for their next life. He swam toward her.
But then Jehan seemed to pause, eyeing Madellaine completely submerged in the water much like a curious dog would look at something it was not sure if it could trust or not, and if it was deciding whether she was safe to eat. A brilliant shade of brown met her own, though her vision was fading and fast, and a wrist—was it Frederic's or Darius's?—grabbed onto her wrist, and slowly, Madellaine was towed up towards the night life above, back to her real life, to where Quasi waited for her back home in the warmth of their tower. Her body shook so violently on the ice as she was pulled out of the icy water that she could not form a coherent thought due to the incessant chattering of her teeth and how soaked through to the bone that Madellaine was. Her stomach contracted so violently, she didn't even care who it was that had saved her and was watching her suffering as she retched up the water that had only moments ago filled her lungs and threatened to drown her. Her lungs drank in the freezing air in noisy rasps and again, the hands came, urgent voices—did the voice belong to Frederic? Her husband? Or was it Darius? She did not know. Instructions. Someone, probably Frederic, was telling Madellaine to stay awake, not to go to sleep as the young soldier hurried wrapped his cloak around the young woman's violent, convulsing form.
The soldier was talking to her, asking her what the hell had happened. "S—slipped," she mumbled, casting her eyes downward, not wanting to meet Frederic's gaze. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that she owed him her life. Frederic said not a word at first, wrapping the young woman in a warm swaddle of blankets and then embraced her into a tight embrace, a hug. Madellaine, at first startled and shocked by the sudden gesture, quickly returned the gesture, not sure what else to do in the moment. Frederic wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, gently rubbing her back in small circles. Despite the heaviness and the icy feeling in the pit of her stomach, it fluttered a little at the selfless act Frederic had just performed. Despite their differences, the man had saved her life. For that, she owed him.
She sunk into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. His touch made the air a little warmer somehow, and she was grateful.
"What happened, Madellaine?" Frederic demanded hotly, his voice hard and rigid, his facial muscles tense, and his left eye began twitching randomly.
"S—slipped," she repeated hoarsely. Suddenly, her throat hurt. "You…saved…me," she whispered through the continued incessant chattering of her teeth. Madellaine bit her lip to keep from biting her tongue off and fell silent as the young soldier grasped her by her elbow and wrenched her to her feet, draping an arm over her shoulder and supported most of her weight.
"What were you thinking?" he snarled, his brows furrowing in a concern state as he scowled, regarding the young woman as he, upon seeing that she could no longer walk as her frozen state had thrown off her equilibrium, he gingerly lifted her in his arms and began to carry her bridal style back to the safety and warmth of the cathedral. "Didn't I tell you to mind the ice, girl?"
If Frederic was being honest with himself, he did not like how the young woman in his arms looked. Her lips were tinged blue, her face stark white. Dark circles had begun to form underneath her eyes as the cold wind moved in to meet the warmth of the young blonde's blood, as well as Frederic's, their only defense against such ice and chill aside from their clothes, though Madellaine's were currently soaked through to the bone and would do her no good. If he did not get her back to Notre Dame soon, she would freeze. Both Madellaine and Frederic felt the cold wash over their skin, again and again, only to be met by the beating of their hearts, again and again.
The truth was, as hard as it was, given the soldier was now supporting her weight, if Frederic kept moving and doing what he could to keep the bell ringer's wife safe and warm, then they might both make it out of this alive. They would win this battle. The ones who stopped were the ones who froze to death. There was a shriek from the trees that startled poor Madellaine, whose nerves were already frayed from her near-death experience of drowning. Frederic noticed and gave her shoulder a tender, encouraging squeeze. "Don't look at it," he advised. "It's just a branch twisting under the weight of all this ice," he grumbled darkly, keeping his eyes cast warily to the trees, but then his attention was drawn back towards the woman in his arms. But Madellaine could not help but be drawn to it. Something about the snowy path back to the cathedral rendered her speechless and unable to look away from its almost blindingly white hue. It was so…so…well…white. Staring at it was like staring at nothing, and to stare at it, she imagined herself engulfed in the vast loneliness that was this frigid storm. Oh, why had she ventured out? Had it been to escape Frederic? To clear her head. Why? Now, look!
"Q—Quasi's g—going to…kill me," she whispered, still struggling to reign in control of the chatting of her teeth. She glanced down at her dress and cloak, both of which as well as her boots were soaked through to the bone, frozen.
Under a pitch-black sky, the colors of the world became dull and muted, and yet…there was something about the pathway back to Notre Dame that rendered it beautiful, at least in Madellaine's eyes, it did. The path sparkled and crunched, like sugar underfoot, and the coldness of the woods brought the young blonde into life right now, into this beautiful, chilling moment of life. The trees showed their lofty arms once more, a smile playing upon Madellaine's freezing lips, which were now still tinged a slight blue color.
A fact that troubled Frederic de Marten greatly. "Come on," he urged, shifting her against his chest closer for warmth, finally reaching the top steps of Notre Dame, where, he was not at all surprised to see him waiting for her.
"My God," Quasi moaned, having eyes only for his wife, rushing down the steps halfway to meet Frederic, not even waiting to lift her from his arms.
"She fell in the Seine," Frederic sighed, feeling his muscles tense, fully preparing for another one of the bell ringer's outbursts. The man's red hair was disheveled. He was looking livid, but as he looked at his wife, his rage seemed to dissipate. Quasi glanced towards Frederic, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His brown eyes narrowed, but what he said next surprised the man.
"Thank you," he said at last, though he seemed to say it with great difficulty.
Too stunned to respond to the expression of gratitude, Frederic could only nod, trailing close behind as the bell ringer wasted no time in heading inside.
Quasi did not speak too much to Frederic or his wife as he ushered her upstairs to their tower's loft, bidding Madellaine sit on a pile of cushions, gathering any extra blankets he could find and working quickly to light a fire.
He seemed to have momentarily forgotten the soldier was in their tower, for which Frederic was extremely grateful for. The last thing he wanted was another beating. The fireplace was their tiny sun for the night, casting long shadows over their tower. The flames curled and swayed, flicking this way and that, crackling as they burned the dry wood. "Yeah, yeah, that's good," whispered Madellaine as her husband and Frederic both returned with two extra blankets, draping them around her shoulders. She shivered still, but color was slowly returning to her cheeks and her lips were no longer blue, so that was something, at least. Darius had come to check on the commotion and had been appalled to find his brother's wife in such a state so close to death. He sat next to Madellaine and rubbed her back, pulling her close and helping Quasi tend to the fire. "What happened? She's so cold," he exclaimed, taking one of her frigid hands in his and rubbing it, trying what he could to rub warmth and get some blood flowing again to her ice-cold flesh.
"S—slipped," she barely whispered through her chattering teeth. "Darius…"
"You fell in the Seine, didn't you?" he asked, blue eyes wide and round.
Teeth still chattering, Madellaine nodded. It felt so good to feel the fire's warmth at last, even if it was only coming from one direction. She watched, hypnotized, holding out her hands to get just a little more of its gentle heat, loving it as the fire filled her with warmth. The wood fire, blazing lazily sent its warmth and light out into her and Quasi's dimly lit, slightly drafty tower loft, but it did nothing to warm the ice-cold look Quasi was giving his wife.
Frederic, in a bold move, decided to intervene before things could escalate.
"It was my fault," he began, but the bell ringer held up a hand, ignoring him, seemingly only having eyes for his wife. He also chose to ignore the dark warning look Darius shot him, who had noticed the growing danger in his brother's eyes and shot out an arm in front of Madellaine to protect her.
When Quasi found his voice, his tone was clipped and hard. Angry.
"What were you thinking?" her husband growled lowly, balling his hands into fists, clenching and unclenching them as he struggled to bite back the worst of his temper. Letting out a haggard sigh, he collapsed onto the cushion next to his wife and draped yet another blanket tighter around her shoulders.
Madellaine could see it in her husband's brown eyes, the anger from them showed the scared man within, the man who, at a young age, was taught to obey, and was starved of the love he craved from a lack of parental figures in his life, though he was admittedly doing much better these days now that he had her in his life, she could see her husband's pain beneath his eyes and his soul drowning in the hard person he had been forced to adopt to survive Claude Frollo as the only father figure in his lonely existence. "I…I'm sorry, Quasi. I—I should have told you where I was going," she mumbled, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper as she tried her hardest to avoid her husband's piercing dark stare that threatened to burn a hole in the back of her skull. Quasi, though she hated to admit it, at times had a talent for making her feel uneasy whenever he was upset over something. Madellaine had always hated that ability, like he possessed the means to see past her eyes and could bore deep to the very depths of her soul and shook her to her core.
Quasi swallowed his anger when it was merely a fire-seed and forgot to drink something cold, so it grew within the pits of his stomach until it came out as hot as any dragon had ever flamed, just like in the stories, on the person he loved and cared for the most. His wife. Madellaine wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and swallowed the lump forming in her throat as she visibly winced and cringed away from her husband's burning rage. It seemed to hiss through his body like a deadly poison, demanding a release.
Still, Madellaine forced out yet another apology if she thought it might diffuse the worst of the tension in their tower loft. If tension were a color, the air would have been scarlet as Quasi pulled up another chair and dragged it noisily across the wooden floorboard, gingerly helping her to sit up in the chair. "I—I know I should have told you where I was going, and it was after curfew and it goes against what you and I talked about, but I couldn't just—"
"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE RULES!" Quasi bellowed, the last vestiges of his patience with his wife finally breaking. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward, the tip of his nose practically touching hers as she shrank back in her chair as far as she could go. "You—you almost died tonight, Lena, because you did not listen to me!"
He felt his face flush hot with anger and shame. Were it not for his carelessness and had he minded his surroundings a little bit better, he would have noticed Madellaine's absence at dinner in the kitchens with Alice tonight. "Don't talk to her like that!" snapped Frederic harshly, coming to sit by her other side. "It wasn't her fault. She wasn't minding where she stepped, and she slipped and fell. It was an accident," he emphasized angrily.
Quasi turned his wrath on Frederic. "You. You were stalking her again, weren't you?" he accused, his dark eyes narrowing as he glowered at Frederic. He snorted at the incredulous look in the young soldier's eyes. "Don't think I don't pay attention. I know more about this situation than you think."
He couldn't help but read in between the lines of Frederic's comment and felt the all too familiar deep burning feeling warred angrily within his chest and up into his throat. He needed to know the truth. And he needed to know it now, before anything else happened. "Before we go any further," he warned, his tone clipped and sharp, his grip still clutching onto Frederic's tunic. "I have to know the truth. What happened out there? You followed her! Why?" he demanded harshly. "And don't even think about lying to me."
Frederic's own features hardened and settled into a very serious expression. "I know what you are going to ask, Quasi. There's no need for this, my friend. You have nothing to fear from me. I swear it."
He continued to keep the man under his piercing gaze, never letting on that he was going to let this go. "Somehow, I don't believe you."
The dark-haired Frenchman sighed, hanging his head for a moment, then looked up to meet the younger bell ringer's harsh scrutiny head on. "There is nothing whatsoever between us, Quasi. What Madellaine and I have is purely friendship, nothing more, nothing less. She is like a younger sister to me."
Quasi narrowed his eyes at him in both disbelief and anger. In truth, he did not believe a word that the soldier was telling him. He needed the entire truth. Madellaine had told him that there was nothing on her side of the agreement, but it was him that concerned the bell ringer. What were this man's true intentions towards his heaven's light, his wife? "She's taken."
"Yes, you've made that perfectly clear," snapped Frederic sarcastically.
"I want the truth, Frederic!" he growled threateningly, leaning into the captain's face and never once breaking eye contact with the man. "Are your intentions towards her noble or not? Or have you just been using her this whole time for your advantage?" he bellowed, fully angered now.
The handsome soldier looked absolutely appalled by his words and suddenly, he was the one leaning in towards him. "How dare you claim that I have nothing but honest intentions? Who the hell do you think—?"
"And what is that?" He was fully shouting now, his breathing heavy and his emotions ranging from fear to pure onslaught. He was fuming.
Frederic pulled away from him then, shaking his head in a sad fashion. "I would have thought it obvious, Quasi. Or have you not the faintest idea of what goes on in that girl's head?" he demanded, gesturing towards the bell ringer's wife with a jerk of his thumb as he glowered at him. "Clearly not!"
"What are you talking about?" His volume dropped to an almost inaudible level, but anger and confusion plain as day lingered in his voice.
Frederic de Marten glared at the bell ringer in an equally anger fashion. "It's not my place to say! The answer to your question is right here!" he shouted, pointing a slightly trembling finger towards Madellaine, whose face paled.
It occurred to Frederic just how much rudeness one must be forced to endure when the other man was taller than you by a couple of inches and had the ability to break every bone in your body in a mere matter of seconds.
A chill ran through Madellaine's blood as she heard her husband's yell of anguish. A quick glance off the side told her that even Darius couldn't help her out of this one. It would be up to her. It made her shudder as a freezing cold wind of winter would wake someone. Her blood ran cold and a bead of sweat dripped down her face. She sat there on the cushion, swaddled in at least three different blankets, not knowing what to do and too scared to even think of another apology to come to her mind. She was at a loss for words.
Quasi regarded the frozen state of his wife for a moment, before leaning back against his chair and closing his eyes tiredly. The bags underneath his eyes were still prominent and he still appeared very pale. It became clear to them all that he was well on the way to recovery but not out of the woods yet.
The sigh that escaped the bell ringer's lips was slow, as if his brain needed that time to process what had, yet again, almost happened to his wife this eve.
His eyes remained fixed on the roaring fire, as though he could not hear Madellaine's feeble attempt to apologize yet again for her foolishness, or her exhausted tone. Quasi let out another weary sigh, this one more of a signal to his wife, and to Darius and Frederic, too, he supposed. Not one of anger or his resolve leaving, but of the level that his tension had reached, thanks to her.
He was, in this moment, more like an old kettle, still full even when some of the steam had already forced its way out. Letting out a groan, he wearily rubbed his temples with his fingers, every so often sparing Madellaine a furtive glance out of the corner of his eyes, watching her, interested.
She was terrified. "I…I'm sorry," he apologized, sounding pained. "I just…it scared me this evening, what almost happened to you, sweetheart," he said reluctantly. "You weren't at dinner, so I waited outside for you. Had I known you wanted to go for a walk, I could have gone with you!" he exclaimed angrily. He irritably brushed away something Darius said under his breath.
Sensing the two needed to be alone to hash this out, Darius grabbed Frederic by his arm and shoved him forward slightly towards the stairwell.
"F—Frederic," Madellaine stammered, her gray eyes suddenly lighting up with a ferocious intensity that Quasi was not sure to make of in his wife. "He—he saved me, Quasi. I don't know how or why b—but he did. I owe him."
Quasi said nothing in response. He merely furrowed his brows into a thoughtful frown, lost in his wife's words. She seems to trust him, but I can't.
His wife was resilient, he would give her that. She seemed to hold out hope for the de Marten man, that he could change. Quasi highly doubted it, but who was he to deny his wife of that hope that perhaps someday, he might?
"Did he?" he asked, careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible. Not giving her a chance to respond, Quasi sighed and fetched his wife a bowl of soup in a chipped wooden bowl. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now. Madellaine's gray eyes grew wide and round at the sight of the bread loaf he brought over for the two of them to accompany their steaming bowls of soup. It was a hearty-looking loaf with nuts and raisins, probably from the baker's a village or two over, for he knew old Pascal could not make such a delicacy in his old age. Such a treat cost more than Quasi could spend on grain rations in a week. Just its aroma should have been enough to transport Madellaine back to a time of happier memories, before Jehan plaguing her days and nights, before Frederic stalking and hounding her every move.
"I—I d—don't believe him to be so cold," Madellaine chattered, taking a bite of hot soup and wincing as the practically scalding bite scorched her tongue.
"Careful," he muttered sardonically. "It's hot." Were this any other circumstance, he would have been gentler towards his wife, but he was still angry with her. She had disappeared and had, as a result, not only risked her own life and almost drowned, but had risked the life of their unborn baby.
Madellaine frowned as she shoveled another bite of broth into her mouth, ripping off a chunk of bread from the loaf with her teeth. "Quasi?"
Her husband merely grunted in response, still clearly annoyed with her.
"You can yell at me," she whispered timidly. "Scream if you want. But…"
"Talk to me," he finished, already knowing what she was going to say. "Are you all right? Is our baby all right?" Quasi asked, his hand instinctively and protectively drifting towards her flat stomach. "I…you know why I'm mad?"
"Yes," she whispered, nodding. Another cold chill traveled down her spine and she wrapped the thick woolen blanket around herself tighter for warmth.
Madellaine glanced up from her bowl of soup and studied her husband's face, what little of it she could see in the dimly lit tower loft. The candle on the carving table nearby flickered, thought that was slowly dwindling down to an ember. Madellaine could not see the laughter in his eyes or a smile twitching at his lips. Instead, for just a moment, he appeared almost skeletal, deranged. His eye sockets lay as empty pools of water, the weak yellow and orange glow from the light only illuminating enough to make him spookier than the darkness alone could ever be. "I'm sorry, darling. Next time I go, you go too," she promised, clutching his hand in hers, settling it on her stomach. "We're a family, all of us," she whispered. "I know that."
Madellaine fought hard to stay awake as her husband pulled her close, gingerly rubbing her shoulder and trying what he could to warm her body.
The taxing events of her little slip into the River Seine soon caught up with her as her husband's soft, tenor-like, bell toned voice grew fainter as their conversation came to an end. She felt this strange blackness come over her.
Like a blanket, but not a blanket of warmth, but a blanket of coldness making her shiver. Her fingertips still tingled, though whether it was from the icy frigidness of the river or from where Jehan had touched her in the water and had tried to drag her down to her watery grave below, she didn't know.
But somehow, it was making her eyes feel heavier and heavier. Madellaine finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep at last, nestled against Quasi's chest. Quasi watched his wife cocoon herself in the thick of the three woolen blankets he'd wrapped her in, nestled by the fire, content to sleep against him. As he watched her sleep soundly, her chest rising and falling to her own rhythm, the man was suddenly hit with a feeling of great unease for Lena. Dread crept down his spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. He felt her feet on his ski, descending until he was almost frozen to his chair. His stomach was full of lead, his mind worryingly empty, save for one thought. He could not shake the feeling that Madellaine was in danger. But from what, he did not know.
The fear he felt for his wife and their baby was making him calm, and that was what scared the bell ringer the most.