CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The early dawn was cold. Thin greying clouds that promised rain stretched across the endless sky and the frost that coated the dirt and brown, dying grass as December crept along at its petty pace was almost even worse, promising winter.
Callous weather, cruelly unfair, and the Romani people in Clopin Trouillefou's encampment had started to grow weary and agitated.
If the meat they hunted in the forest that bordered the edge of the city of Paris wasn't tough, they were lacking and chewy. Their fingers were almost bluish-black, and their lips were cracked and bleeding, tinged blue with the cold.
The camp that lived beneath the hills overlooking the Wolves Wood, as they called it, and so appropriately named, given it was where they hunted, grateful for any provisions it offered their kind—rabbits and foxes for their bottomless pits they dared to call stomachs. Though they had to be wary of one thing: wolves.
Along the line of tattered and worn tents perched above the frosted soil, a dark red ball went sailing and a small child's laughter tumbled along right with it, never straying too far behind. The little girl moved like her knees were just hinges, wobbling to and from before almost tripping over the hem of her tattered and worn dress, and as she scrambled in an attempt to right herself, she clapped like it was all part of the plan and rolled to her stomach to get up again. She was French and cute as hell. She ran after the ball with enthusiasm, which felt as though it lightened the drab. The hem of her brown dress and black ripped cloak scraped against the mud.
As other Romanis in their camp went about their duties, no one noticed the red ball enough to step aside to make way for it as it tumbled, and the girl watched in dismay as instead, it bounced against one of Monsieur Clopin's comrade's boots, which sent it scurrying inside a drafty looking tent that looked as though one good puff of wind would blow it over in the coming thunderstorm. The child saw her precious prize disappear instead of the tent and the girl, not much older than five, stood at the entrance of the tent flap with a nervous look of apprehension, fidgeting with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm.
No candles were lighted inside and none of the other men appeared to be inside the tent, so there was no one to locate her toy ball. The little girl looked to the side, left and right, in the hopes of asking a grown-up for help but all the other men, their backs were turned towards her and voices indistinct and murmuring something about 'guests' behind her back.
Her ears perked up at the mention of 'guests,' and had her eyes lighted up with intrigue. Guests?
What guests? The King had never brought 'guests' back to the camp before, not unless it was to hang them for treason and trespassing.
The child shuddered and scrunched her nose in disgust as she inhaled a sharp breath of cold fall air that pierced her lungs. Papa says I am a little warrior. And warriors don't fear the darkness, and it was this sole thought that gave her comfort as she stepped into the abyss.
At first, Celeste, (that was her name, Celeste) thought the darkness of inside the tent must have deceived her sight, or else her eyes were confused and dazzled by the pitch-blackness, wondering what on earth the King had set this tent up for if you couldn't even see when you were walking in it.
The child let out a tiny squeak as she took a half step forward and tripped over something that felt like a chair and stubbed her pinky toe in the process, and as she walked on, hobbling now on one foot, clutching her injured toe in the process, her gaze alighted on the shape of the bright red ball as her vision was now fully adjusted to the darkness, and the toy was resting in what she made out on top of a wooden bed.
As she approached, a towering shadow engulfed her tiny form and horror chilled her insides, rendering the blood that pumped through her veins like ice. A white hand appeared from the dark, its fingers spread wide like starfish as it took the ball in a shaking, light grip and offered it to her, no words exchanged.
The shadowy figure moved forward into the light, this He-Stranger who smelled of blood and man-flesh like he'd been viciously attacked by wolves. She briefly remembered the creature had been half-alive and raving, delirious and somewhat feverish from blood-loss from multiple stab wounds when Agathe had found him in the woods, and with the help of a man from their encampment, had brought him back here.
The creature, not much older than her father, in his mid-twenties, looked at her like a wolf would inspect its prey, at her light green eyes, tattered and worn brown dress, and light ash brown hair cut short in a shaggy pixie, at her cute little button nose, worn and tattered boots.
The child, Celeste, at five, was not necessarily a pretty little rose, and the creature blinked owlishly at the girl as she shakily stepped forward and took the ball as the man withdrew deeper into the mattress and the tent's corner.
Her dark brows furrowed into a frown as the child heard the He-Stranger's coughs, his grunts of pain, and shivering breaths as she heard him violently shake. Celeste was unmoved, and the disturbance did not stir her at all, until a sharp barking command erupted through the tent's entrance, shattering the silence.
"Celeste!" The stocky build of one of the King's comrades and one of Clopin's friends entered, darkening the space even further and his strong, pale hand caught the girl round the shoulder and snatched the red ball out of her hands. "What in the devil's name are you doing here? You're alone and you came out of my sight. Your father would beat you if you were a boy, you know. Go on back outside now. You don't need to be in here, sweet princess. This place is not for the likes of a little girl…"
The little girl obliged half-hearted, daring to peek one last glance over her shoulder as the guard led the little girl back out into the cold winter. "B—but I haven't said my thank you!" she protested, running her tongue the wall of her teeth along the top row and winced as she felt her incredibly sharp incisors.
The guard turned a deaf ear to the five-year-old's protest to her dismay.
"Go on. Be sure to stay where I can see you. I will tell of your thanks. Don't make me say it again." The man urged, resisting his urge to growl in frustration at the thought of such a sweet and gentle soul sharing the same space as their King's newest captive. It was his turn to watch over the wretched creature.
At the shrunken shell of a man nursing wounds the rest of the clan he was unsure to survive, at least not without any of their aid, though Clopin had expressly forbidden it until he and this He-Stranger had shared in a dialogue. The guard glanced at the pair of manacles locked onto his pale wrists, his knuckles cracked and bleeding at the edges when they'd first brought him here.
He'd snarled and growled as savagely as the rest of the prisoners when they'd revived him, screaming and hollering at the top of his lungs, demanding an audience with the King, that he needed to see his pregnant wife, and for a moment, the guard thought for sure this new man was one of their own, he bore the scars, the shadow of the Beast across his somewhat misshapen features, his heightened senses were as Jean's (that was the guard's name, Jean), but he smelt wrong.
Acted wrong. Talked wrong. He bore the unmistakable signs of trying to live among the rest of the Parisians, stupid, simple-minded smallfolk that they all were, and this immediately made the others incredibly wary and distrustful. They need not chain him like this. We're in the middle of the Wolves Wood, he can't escape. What the hell do we need chains for? Jean thought though The King insisted on it, and the man's wand kept away in his possession for safekeeping, in case he tried anything.
Jean felt his nostrils flared as he smelled the stench of drying blood on the He-Stranger, and his ears perked up at the Stranger's raspy breaths as he coughed, and Jean, in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence, let out a sigh and pinched at the front of his temples with his large thumb and forefinger.
"You'll have to forgive the little girl, monsieur, for her actions. She's come a long way without any sort of companion. We don't have many children in our encampments. She's one of the first…" With a cold-hearted King and a black shadowy demon, is what Jean wanted to say, and he felt his lips curl upward into an animalistic snarl as he thought of some of the more rough-around-the-edges people their King dealt with on a daily basis. The Judge's soldiers, for one thing.
"Surely, she isn't just a little girl," came the Stranger's voice, something between a hushed whisper and a murmur, but far too faint and incredibly weak all the same. If winter were a voice, Jean thought, it would be this He-Stranger's. Sad. "She's only five years old. Is she a…" His voice cracked and trailed off, and Jean flinched as he heard the shirking of chains as the Man gestured with his hands.
"No." He felt his pupils dilate as he got the gist of what their King's newest prisoner was asking after. "Her mother's not like that. She would never." His voice was cold, and taut. He refused to discuss their own in the presence of a Stranger.
There was a beat. A pause. And then— "And the father? What is her father?" the prisoner asked.
"A carpenter," Jean answered curtly, the edges of his voice clipped and hardened and he swore he heard his conscience within him let out a warning growl from the back of his throat as visions of his precious wife Sophia danced in his mind.
Jean heard the prisoner give out an audible gasp of surprise, barely audible, and the rattling of his chains. It seemed to take an eternity for the Stranger to find his voice, and when he did speak, it seemed much rougher, more subdued. "Mmm. But you have not answered my question, Jean," the Stranger snarled meanly. "When can I see him?"
The question escaped the Stranger's voice as a low growl and Jean squinted his dark brown eyes at the drop of hurt and hatred lacing throughout their latest captive's tone. Surely, this monster had deeper wounds that went beneath the surface of whatever he was suffering from at the present.
The guard heard the man's chains rattle again as the creature stepped forward into the light, and Jean felt himself give a start and let out a sharp hiss as he got his first good, true look at the He-Stranger which had captured the King's interest so much as to bring him back to their encampments, along with two others and keep them hostage, both human, though he insisted this one be kept in a separate tent.
The boy was handsome, enough, he supposed, with a strong face and chiseled jawline, good cheekbones, and would have been quite the looker if not for a rather unsightly contusion over his left browbone, but the man's cobalt blue eyes, currently red-rimmed at the irises, cracked, darkened circles from lack of sleep and the scope of his injuries,
Clearly, the King perceived this one to be a much bigger threat to keep him isolated as such, and Jean let a snarl escape his lips as he caught sight of the man's tall form and fiery mop of thick, coarse ginger hair. He knew this man. This monster. The bell ringer. He'd heard of whispers of this one from other members in their tribe.
Or rather, knew of the man's father. Of Judge Frollo. The bastard who dared to speak out against the King and held prejudiced views of their kind, and his mind, like father, like son, and the apple never fell far from the tree, as the human expression in the wizarding world went. Wasn't that the saying?
Is that how it went? But Jean had no time to ponder what Clopin had found interesting enough in a dying monstrous wretch of a creature shunned from their society, though it had made its way to Jean's own curiosity as well when the man spoke again.
"When will he see me?" the He-Stranger growled angrily, the shadow of the Monster within him dancing across his mostly handsome but lined face as he leaned forward from his seat on the edge of the hard mattress's thin and worn frame. The voice had risen, dark, firm, and on the last vestiges of its patience.
Jean's brows furrowed into a thick frown. "Soon. Whenever he wills it."
"Then he's too slow!" he bellowed, slamming his fist down on the railing. He was panting heavily now, and Jean hoped he'd not need to use force against him, not in his current physical condition. "Tell him to see me. NOW!"
The chains rattled as he lunged, a cry of rage on his lips, though given the chains were bolted to the wall and he had no knife or weapon of any kind anymore, he posed no threat to Jean, and therefore, the guard was unfazed by the monstrous man's snarling and savage growling.
"The faster he sees you, the faster is your execution, have you not thought of that? He would have you hanged, monsieur," Jean demanded in retort, quirking a brow towards the Judge's accursed ward's direction.
Silence brooded before their captive let out a relieved sigh. "Better, then."
But Jean did not remain convinced. He knelt in this darkness and leaned forward himself to better look into the man's light cobalt eyes, darkening to an almost cerulean and burning bright with anger and a raw intensity that he wasn't sure what to make of.
"Is it?" he challenged, biting the inside wall of his cheek. "And just who the hell are you, that you would welcome death at the hands of the King than postpone it?" The chains gave a rattle, signaling to Jean that the other man had stretched from the far corners of the tent and came forward and stepped further into what little dim light was wafting in from the opened tent flap. Close enough for Jean to make out the details of the Stranger's face, every line, every feature.
His hardened face fit the icy fire of rage and antagonizing hurt in his voice. "A man discarded by your own kind because I failed to save one of your own from a death that I could not prevent, much as I tried. I wanted to. Shunned too from the rest of the world. A man wanted dead at the hands of someone else because I have something that he wants," he growled, and Jean felt his hackles raise, and a low snarl escaping his lips as his lips curled upwards and he raised his knife, preparing to plunge his dagger straight through the man's heart if he tried to fight, though he relented as the man dipped into his thick woolen brown tunic and pulled out a chain.
Around his neck on a simple silver chain rested a beautiful elegant yellow gold ring, though something about this simple piece of jewelry was…different. It was almost…glowing. Jean blinked owlishly at the little ring in shock, his lips parted open slightly. Jean had never quite seen anything like it. He wondered briefly if magic was involved.
Someone clearly wanted this creature to find them. It was truly ingenious, something he never would have thought to do in his life. Jean found his curiosity piqued, and the question escaped his lips before he could stop it. "What is it that this man wants?"
The man's darkened brown eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, and he did not answer.
"If your King is to kill me for my crimes, whatever it is that I have done to warrant a death sentence, and I am to die at his hand, then let it be now. But if he would delay my execution, then tell your King," here, he spat the word as though it were poison that had settled upon his tongue, "to grant a dying man's wish."
Jean frowned. Who in the hell was this man? "And that is…?" he clarified. He watched as the man turned to face him, and there was no trace of tears, not in his eyes or in track marks on his reddening face. The He-Stranger's eyes were narrowed, rigid, cold, and hard. At that moment, he was already far away.
His eyes held a deadness, a horrible stillness. He had judged Jean already and, in his eyes, the man only saw cool hatred in the He-Stranger's icy glower. His eyes were a knife in Jean's ribs, the sharp point digging deeper. Where there had been love was an emptiness, but not in any vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with the void, he had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with - raw anger.
The unmoving gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing like he was fighting something back and losing. When he finally found his voice, it was rough, coarse, and trembling as he struggled to restrain the beast within him, something that Jean was all too familiar with, and he spat the words as though they were poison and spat them through clenched and gritted teeth.
"To see my father's own head on a spike if I have that ability. He killed me. Took my wife," and Jean shivered at the coldness laced throughout his quiet, reserved tone.
"Your name?" Jean prodded, gruffly though not necessarily unkindly. "What's your name?"
The man hesitated, and he finally relented after a long silence that felt as though it hung in the air. When he spoke, his voice shook and warbled in anger, laced to the brim with wrath. Jean heard the cathedral's bell ringer huff in frustration, and his cobalt orbs were merely glistening pinpricks in the darkness of the prisoner's tent.
"My name is immaterial to this conversation, but if you must know it before I die, then it's…Quasimodo, sole bell ringer of our Lady of Peace, Notre Dame de Paris, husband to the Lady Belle Dupont, of which my wife is currently missing, presumed dead or held captive at the hands of none other than our own Prince of these lands, and if your King grants me my wish to allow me to live long enough to see this through and find my pregnant wife, then I want my face to be the last thing on this earth that Frollo sees before I send him down to the seventh hell myself with me."