Dance My Esmeralda
Chapter Two
It is silent as the two walk down the halls, the way they move so smoothly that a passerby would reckon them as specters as opposed to humans. Frollo is incapable of allowing his gaze to remain ahead, allowing his eyes to shift, even if subtly, to take the outline of the sixteen year old next to him. He is the first to break the silence. "You are quiet. Do you not have anything to say?"
She shrugs, glancing at him for a mere moment. "Nothing is worth mentioning. I am thinking," she replies calmly, the light creeping in from the moon casting a soft glow upon her face, her dark eyes twinkling ever so slightly.
"Thinking often leads to bad thoughts. Be cautious and mindful of how much you allow to pass through."
Esmeralda halts at that, the words that he has uttered leaving a strange silence in the atmosphere to which she is unsure of responding. "… I… Do not believe I understand it is that you say."
The priest stops, turning his head to look back at her, uncertain upon what she meant. "Please, repeat that. What is it that you mean?"
"About thinking. Am I to keep track of my thoughts in case they go towards the negative side?"
He smiles at that, entertained at her confusion. The words she speaks are different and they come from a rather child-like perspective. While he does not perceive her as… moronic as her brothers and sisters, he knows that she is rather a child still. But it is one of the qualities he has become aware of: her curiosity. He senses a brightness within her, an intelligent spark that he has not even recognized within the eyes of children. There is a yearning for knowledge of the world, a want to discover the secrets and behold the greatest achievements in life. That of love, friendship, security. She believes that she had found the first with Phoebus… yet she is too naïve still to recognize the truth.
Frollo knows the truth. He knows of the engagement of the soldier and the elite woman. He knows the unity, the promise of the two. He also recognizes the lust of the solider and his denial of a pure life under the eyes of God. He is aware of the game that he attempted to play with eh gypsy. He would discard her after obtaining that night of passion and leave her as nothing but a whore.
Perhaps it was that that caused his anger and resentment towards the soldier… That… hatred of his actions. Nothing short of lust and lies. No honesty, no turht. He would claim her, take her flower, and leave her as something used… and when she is to find out, if she were to figure it out, that taint would leave her broken and take her will to discover love again.
Neither would she be pure for her first true love. But Frollo does not know the ins and outs of gypsy culture, of what is accepted. He does not know the beliefs nor the variables when it comes to the topic of marriage. What is considered acceptable; what is not considered acceptable. No doubt it differs greatly in comparison to purely Catholic union under the roof of God.
"No," he eventually responds gently. "I just believe that negative thoughts should not trouble a child such as yourself."
"Child?" she demands suddenly as she walks to him, crossing her arm sin front of her child. "A child, I am not! I mighty be younger than you but in no way am I a child."
"We have already discussed this, have we not?" he inquires, amused. She glares at him, her dark eyes glittering fiercely with both outrage and annoyance. It is apparent that she has no will nor want to allow him to restate what she is. He decides it best to ignore it for the time being, wishing to get to his haven of his quarters, walking past her, to which she follows hastily behind.
He enters his quarters, thankful that the other priests are eating, not particularly in the mood to explain why he brought a gypsy, regardless a prisoner, into the quiet abodes of their living quarters. He closes the door upon her entering, observing her as she takes everything in. "Is everything alright?"
She nods silently, going to the shelves of books, philosophy, religion, literature. She stares at them, the characters entirely foreign. Well, mostly foreign. She is not as illiterate as people might expect her to be. She knows the French alphabet well enough and knows how to write (phonetically, at best). She is capable of reading upon sounding out the words. But some letters, symbols, she has never seen before. "Ah… you appear to be interested in my Greek scriptures," he speaks and stands besides her, taking the book that she is looking at off the shelf.
"Those are3 Greek letters?" she inquires, seemingly surprised, to which he nods in response.
"They are. This particular one is by far one of my favourites. One of Homer's plays…"
She gives a quizzical look in return, not having the slightest idea of whom he is referring to. "Homer?"
"A famous Greek playwriter. Author of Odysseus, Iliad, so on. He wrote these plays out of devotion to his gods. If you are interested, I shall gladly tell you more. But in the meantime, I believe it best for you to rest and warm up. Food shall be waiting for you when you wake. I hope you sleep well." He turns and leaves without another word, knowing that he has much to clear up with more than one person.
He also has a promise to keep, to allow her to leave. He does not wish to think of that now, however. If the time ever comes, then he shall discuss it with her. If… If… He shakes his head, shoving the thought away. He knows what his feelings are. Or so he thinks. He acknowledges his feelings of lust towards her, to which he subsequently has punished himself, attempting to erase the sins so that he might be clean under God's eyes. Yet he knows that lust is not the only factor for he would willingly burn in Hell if that meant he could spend an eternity with the child that lies under his covers this very moment.
Upon entering the dining hall, several other priests turn to him, wondering why he has arrived late. Typically, he is finishing up by the time the others arrive. They say nothing though, greeting him with a bow as they always do.
He does not eat anything but rather prepares a nice breakfast, not bothering to speak another word to his colleagues, knowing more than well that plenty questions will arise if he did. They are the type that do not say anything until given the chance to speak… Only if they are made known, however.
By the time he makes his way back to the room, Esmeralda is already asleep, curled up comfortably within the blankets. He sets the tray down, carefully sitting at the edge of the bed, ensuring that he moves carefully as not to wake her. And as he sits there, the sun finally rising, he is able to see her face clearly. Her features are soft and he now notices the peaceful look that she rarely seems to have. Whilst she is not happy as he saw her when she was dancing, it is much better as opposed to how he saw her this morning within the dungeons; she was filled with anger, fear. Her eyes, however, sparkled with such a ferocity that he has not even seen in soldiers, surprising him. There is such strong emotion and determination within such a small being that he finds it amusing and awe-inspiring at the same time.
As he studies her, he notices the dirt that coats her skin. He is aware of how filthy the people in the cities are but the fact that he is capable of cleaning her now makes him that much happier.
He stands and heads to a separate smaller room attached to the chambers, soaking a cloth within the water-filled basin before coming back, tenderly cleaning the areas of skin that are revealed to him. The water is warm, for a low flame is burning underneath the basin. He holds her face gently with one hand, wiping the caked dirt off her cheeks, the smooth skin beneath being revealed to him. To this, he cannot help but run his thumb over the patching, relishing at how soft it is despite it being covered merely moments before.
He pulls away ever so slightly upon her shifting, his fingers hovering over her cheek, his breathing stilled. He makes no move, not even daring to breathe, waiting. She slowly sinks back within the mattress and his own body slumps with relief, thanking God that she did not wake.
It is not as though he wishes her asleep so he could leer at her but rather so she rests fully. He has not noticed her exhausted stance when she was first brought to the dungeons. He watched with an aching heart as she grew weaker still after being tortured. He has no want of taking advantage of her, for he becomes sickened at the very thought of it. He knows well that he would never be capable of going through such an abhorrent crime. He has always hoped that those people would rot in the deepest pits of Hell.
But for now, he starts cleaning her again. There are a few things that he notices. She is much dirtier now that he can get a good look at her and he believes that is because she is living in the streets. There are rumours of a Court of Miracles, of which the gypsies reside. But she dances for coins and no doubt will have to run from men that leer at her. Paris, as beautiful as the city is, still has its fair share of criminals alike, especially horny men that attempt to grab any woman whenever they can. This girl, no doubt, is probably one of the more "valuable", as he has overheard.
As he watches her sle3ep, he is reminded that, gypsy or not, she is still a child. She is someone innocent and naïve and must learn the ways of life no matter how much she insists otherwise.
He stops upon noticing something around her neck to which he gently takes, allowing the small pouch to rest within the palm of his hand. His eyebrows crease with intrigument over the pouch, wondering what the significance behind it is.
It appears so small, miniscule, worthless. But certainly it holds some importance to her for she has it always with her. Almost akin to an extension of her. When she wakes, he will inquire the story behind it, of course, if she is willing. Some personal items, he has learned over the years, people are hesitant to tell the meaning of. Others are eager to share the tales and stories due to how dear it is to their hearts, yet it differs from person to person of course.
The pouch feels weightless, within his palm but he is aware that something resides within the material. He places it back down, careful not to move too abruptly, for it appears that she is an extraordinarily light sleeper. SO for now, he will leave her to rest. Right now he has some matters to discuss with the hunchback.
To say that Quasimodo was not exactly happy with Frollo is rather an understatement. There is much that he will love to tell his adopted father but it was also too much to say at once. "She has been sentence to death…" he starts. "Under your supervision."
"She has repented," Frollo addresses him calmly in return. "She is no longer going to die. She has seen the light of God… and shall follow the path to righteousness."
The red haired lad looks at him, rather suspicious, unsure of the words he says are true, are well-met, well-mannered.
All he does is stare. That is all he can do, trying his best to read the priest, waiting for him to remove his hood. He does not, to which more suspicions arise. "You are hiding yourself."
"I am cold," Frollo responds simply to which Quasimodo's eyes narrow. He limps over, raising a large hand.
"Take it off. You have never hid yourself from me before. You wear that hood when there are matters that you do not want to address… you said that she repented. Where is she?"
The priest sighs, taking in a deep breath. "She is resting in my quarters," he answers honestly. Quasimodo, observing his mater's body language, is aware of the truth he speaks, to which his own body relaxes, no longer tense.
"She is okay?"
"Yes. She is tired but she is faring well. Worry not, Quasimodo."
"She is good to me. She is my friend. Am I not allowed to worry?" he inquires, staring almost directly into his soul. Frollo does not respond, merely placing a hand on his hunch.
"She has been the only one besides me who has looked upon you without fear, who has given you water, shown you empathy. To which, you no doubt take great comfort upon." He studies the bell ringer, wondering what the next best step to take would be. "… Do you wish to see her when she awakens?"
He gives no hesitation within his answer, immediately nodding as soon as the words escape his master's lips. "You will allow me to?"
"I would not have inquired otherwise. As for the time being, let her rest. We have lessons to resume. The last few days have made it rather challenging. We have much to make up. Go fetch the readings."
Quasimodo immediately does so and Frollo lowers his hood, watching as the sun now fully rose, a crowd beginning to form in front of the cathedral, the people eager for yet another execution. Always ready for a good show. As long as it is entertaining the people disregard the subject.
Frollo is well aware of that particular statement and despite executions being necessary, it truly sickens him the amount of pleasure that the city people obtain from the deaths, no matter how they take place. He has taken notice that stoning are more popular amongst the deaths. Hangings are more typical. Some more show up for witch burnings but the vast majority arrive for the stoning.
He wonders how many souls within the city are truly pure, truly sinless. Besides the children of course. But he believes he has seen a few kids throwing stones, ushered on by their parents, typically fathers to their sons.
The priest shudders at the thought of his father. He was very religious and made it a point to instill his teachings within Claude, often physically. Most of the religious figures he has met have a similar backstory as he does and he cannot help but find some sort of comfort with that information.
Yet despite all his father has done, he does not feel any form of resentment towards him. In fact, a large portion of him is grateful for he has set a life out for him that he truly enjoys. Although some others might perceive it differently.
Frollo begins to take notice of the crowd growing larger, seeing a rather large group of gypsies shoving their way forwards. He stands as they approach the doors of Notre-Dame, the cries of Esmeralda's name filling the air. They must have went ot the Palace Greve and found out that hse was no longer there so they figured that she would be at the cathedral.
He is quick upon addressing Quasimodo, telling him to stay in the bell tower no matter what is to occur. The only exception of him descending is if Esmeralda is in any sort of danger for he knows he would go against his wishes regardless if that were to occur.
Before he event gets to the doors, Esmeralda is already there, having been woken up by the commotion. He is unable to get her attention in time, the doors swining open to which a large gypsy approaches the child, hugging her tightly, as if she is his source of life.
The gypsy finally pulls away and he notices Claude standing there. "Take her back to the Court," he instructs another gypsy to which she nods.
"She cannot leave," the priest speaks up, looking at the child. The man stops and turns around.
"She is no criminal."
"In the eyes of Paris law, she is. She has been sentenced to death and the only way that she can counteract such a sentence is if she repents and joins us in Notre-Dame."
The man stood there, standing in front of Esmeralda as if to shield her from Claude, the other woman wrapping her arms around the child, as if Claude is the bad guy. "How the Hell can we trust you?" Clopin snarls.
"I have not a reason to lie. My work is to lead people to salvation and allow them to see the light of God. Repenting is the first step of the way, to which she has already agreed to." He purposely leaves out the bed portion, knowing well that it would not help matter. All he can hope for is that the child does not say anything, not needing to be incriminated.
Clopin turns to Esmeralda, almost in disbelief as he sighs. "I do not blame you. You are far too young to die, my little sister." He presses a kiss upon her forehead, glaring at the priest as he looks back at him. "And she will be safe with you?" he inquires, his voice low. "For if I find out otherwise, I will personally be the one to slit your throat, do I make myself clear?"
He nods, giving a small bow out of respect before taking Esmeralda's hand gently, leading her back inside the cathedral. She looks back, watching in dismay as the doors close before she turns to look at Claude. He says nothing, beginning to lead her back downstairs.
"You lied," she speaks, causing him to falter.
"Pardon?"
"You lied to him. About saving my soul. You wish me in bed with you… But of course you cannot tell him that for you have an image to keep… right? The holy Man that spreads God's words?" she steps closer upon seeing him tense, knowing that she had struck a nerve. "Is that not dishonesty? Is that also not lying? I do not understand how you can begin to save my soul when your own needs saving."
He walks over, grasping her arm firmly with a cold hand, leading her downstairs. "You should not speak if you cannot confirm if the words are indeed true or not. You know nothing of my soul, child…"
"No. But I know your beliefs and what your teachings say about lust or am I wrong? Is it not sinful to indulge in sexual wants and desires?"
"I have not done so."
"Yet. But you want to and you want to soon." She watches as he hesitates. "Or is that not the reason I am here? Have you lied to me in the dungeons? Have you lied to me upon saying that you want me in your bed? Or did I also conjure that up with my 'sorcery'?"
He chuckles silently at that. "You use that as your argument?"
"You are the one that believes all I do is tied to witchcraft or do you no longer perceive me as a witch?"
"… I am unsure. I do not even know if you are truly from this Earth. Perhaps you are a demon sent from Hell to destroy me, pull me away from God's holy hand… Make me nothing but a shell of whom I once was… Surely, that must be it. There is no other reasonable explanation to it, is there?"
"Or you are experiencing human emotions," Esmeralda mumbles as she its on the bed, already fed up with Frollo's excuses. "You have so many books. Surely you have read something that explains the human emotions. You said that you like philosophy. Is that not connected in some way?"
He turns to her, staring as though she has just sprouted another head. "What?"
"Do you really believe that… Satan causes all emotions and bad things? That feeling the way you do is going to send you to Hell? Feeling a certain way does not mean you are instantly damned. It is how you respond to your emotions that define you. Beautiful and addicting things exist in nature. So do all those things that arouse emotions are from Satan?" she inquires. "If they are good, would you not think that it comes from God? Maybe we misinterpreted what is made for what. Maybe we suffer only because we take seriously what God put on this Earth for fun and enjoyment."
All he can do is look in astonishment, for it makes much more sense than he cares to admit, surprised by her response and thought process. "I…"
She smiles slightly upon his hesitation. "My brother… He has traveled lands far and wide. My sisters and brothers hold many sotries and share experiences that mnot many people in Paris have been through. They met so many people and heard so many views upon life. I believe in God, yes. But I do not believe that there are external forces manipulating our decisions. I believe that if you are a fair person that, well… God will see that and judge from there.
"Lust is one of those emotions and I think if both people are alright with it, then it is okay to indulge with one another. So just feeling lust should not be enough to get you sent ot Hell... As long as you do not act upon it." She yawns, fatigue washing over her again before she lays back down, allowing sleep to claim her once more, the room falling silent.
Frollo sits there, watching the sleeping girl, unsure how to feel about what just occurred. He has not seen that many views of religion before, despite his in depth knowledge of history and philosophy alike. And he certainly has never thought of science connecting with religion. Those forces seemed to be against each other in almost every way. But the ties to each other just seems to make sense with this given perspective. She is not denying the existence of neither. They lace together perfectly coherently.
It also surprises him that much more due to how young she is. He has rarely met someone as wise around his age. It is truly remarkable. But he supposes, based upon how many gypsies showed up for Esmeralda, that she has learned that much more and her horizons are that much brighter. He wonders how much more there is to learn from her. And quite truthfully, he is that much more eager to find out.