A/N: Okee dokee day, here is the second chapter to this story that I am
writing. Yeah. Okay, well, I've got to say thank you for those who have
been kind enough to read the first chapter, and those who had enough
compassion to actually review afterwards. You know who you are. Okay, just
to tell you before you continue, Clopin is no longer dead drunk. He sobered
up, 'kay? Okay. Now that you understand, lets continue with the story.
Please. Read and Review.
Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Disclaimer: Clopin does not belong to me. I would be a much happier person if he did.
Chapter Two
Cassandra rubbed as much sleep out of her eyes as possible, yawning and cursing the rain as it fell in heavier and heavier sheets from the grayed heavens. They, she and her brother, had been traveling along the sodden fields for quite some time already, having little protection from the dampness other than a couple of cloaks that they had enough common sense to bring along. She loathed the rain and the horrible smells that it drew from the dirt and weeds. Hell, she hated the outdoors altogether. She had learned to tolerate it well enough, taking the time to do her chores or learn to ride horses and what not, but these little "excursions" that her elder brother, Malique, had forced on her was not something that she enjoyed. But, being the youngest in the family, not to mention the only daughter, she had to listen to what her fat-ass brother told her to do.
The old mare that she rode on quietly neighed as it forced its way through the thick mud and grasses that formed the fields, a ways from Paris, where they had left what seemed hours before. Behind them, wheels creaking from the strain of plowing through the muck, was a painted caravan, with the sound of clinking bottles coming from within. Her brother and the great white stallion that their father loved so much lead the wagon along the way, frowning at the drops of rain that dampened their coats (both cloth and fur) rather uncomfortably.
"Damn rain," Malique muttered, glaring at the sky as if it would make the raindrops stop. "Why did it have to start on the day that we chose to do this?"
Cassandra rolled her eyes at her brother's remark and drew the coarse fabric of the cloak about her. "We?" she asked, her voice quiet so as to not draw any antagonism from the fat man beside her. "I specifically remember you being the only one wanting to go on this goddamned trip. Not only that, but I also recall me suggesting the perhaps we do this whole damn thing on another day. And I recall you saying that the rain would stop eventually. Perhaps even before we got the wagon out of the city."
Malique glanced sideways at his sister and shook his head.
"You lack enthusiasm," he told her. "Be more confident and assertive. Enjoy the trip. After all, this is for a good cause."
"It's hard to enjoy something that you are forced to deal with," she muttered angrily, forcing the many 'damn yous' and 'shut the hell ups' that she had boiling inside of her.
"If you'll listen to whatever I say then I want you to be more assertive," he said, that normal grin coming across his fat lips. "Show some enthusiasm."
"Don't toy with me, Malique," she growled.
"Come on," he said, pushing her arm, nearly forcing her off the old horse. "How's about a smile?"
"Get away, Malique!"
"Smile, Cassandra, or I'll tell father to double your work time."
"You're such a child, Malique," she said, trying to get the black mare to move to the side, away from her brother.
"Smile, damn it, or I'll make it so you'll have to come with me every single time I go out and teach these gypsies a lesson!"
Malique's eyes burned with a fire that had strayed far from the joking shine that they had just the seconds ago that he had started. He was like that, the bastard, housing a short temper and everything else that made a horrible brother, along with an influence on their parents that was like nothing else. Cassandra frowned horribly, then lifted the corners of her mouth so much it was frightening. Malique shuddered at the sight, and coughed into his hand, looking away as quickly as possible.
"That's a lot less better than I though it would be. Goddamn it, stop doing that Cassandra. It only makes you uglier."
Cassandra let her mouth droop, despite her relief, and forced her horse to quicken just a bit to get a further from her brother. He was so goddamned stupid sometimes. 'Teaching these gypsies a lesson'? What the hell was that? Well, she really had never asked before, just going along with her brother, dragging along with them many wagons like the such and setting them on fire miles and miles from the outskirts. He was awful that way; she guessed he housed the same hatred towards the race like the many others in Paris. She didn't mind them much, though raised like everyone else she knew to hate them. But, perhaps it hadn't yet then sunk in. After all, she was only twelve, and still very impressionable.
Suddenly, a loud shriek came up from behind, resembling something of a man's voice, forcing her out of her thoughts and back into the dreary reality of the rain-swept afternoon. Malique straightened up on the stallion, listening.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Cassandra said, alarmed. "But, it sounded like someone cursing."
"Do you think someone's following us?" Malique asked, frowning, his eyes growing shifty.
Cassandra shrugged her shoulders. She only partially cared about that; now that she thought about it, why would someone want to follow a gypsy wagon? Her brother sighed, and slapped her across the shoulder. Cassandra held in all screams.
"Well, go check it out! There might be one of those heathens in the wagon!"
Cassandra glowered at her brother, not wanting to have to trek through the mud, no matter how short a distance it was.
"What if there is?" She asked. It sounded as if she didn't want to go at all, which was exactly her feeling at the moment. She eyed the great thick stew of mud and stalks sinking in deeply with the impressions of their horses' hooves.
Malique rolled his eyes, the answer being obvious to him, and he flung the cloak from over his round belly, and reached for the hilt of a small dagger that hung from his leather belt. The blade shrieked against the lining of the small scabbard in the most unpleasant of ways, and he tossed the dagger to his sister. Cassandra, luckily, was able to grab the wrapped hilt instead of having the painful surprise of gripping the sharp edged metal.
"Kill him," he answered, and he pulled the reins of the white stallion that led the caravan. With a neigh and huff, the strong horse came to a stop. Cassandra, with a sigh, followed suit and made her mare stop her way. She jumped down of the horse, and tried to force herself through the mud, which, she discovered, was a little worse than she had expected. It turned to be somewhat of a relief, however, for she was not sure whether or not if she would have the courage to actually murder a gypsy. But she didn't say so. Never in front of her brother would she claim her cowardice.
Clopin watched as the young woman trudged down the side of the caravan, collecting mud, water, and grass blades on the hem of her simple skirt and cloak. She was taking a long time, he noticed, but either from anxiety or mud, he was not to be sure. She was mumbling and cursing the rain (something about it, along with her brother, 'shitting up her whole goddamned day'), and, gripped in her short fingers, was a knife. The very same that he had suspected to have heard just moments before.
"She wouldn't kill a gypsy," he thought to himself leaning on one elbow. "She's too innocent for that. Look at the way she moves with her short little legs. Poor little girl, listening to that slob of a man who didn't even himself have the courage to confront me."
Not that Monsieur Clopin actually did wish for the large man to discover him. He was still feeling rather light-headed from the amount of alcohol he had consumed earlier. He was sober, of course, but he would've preferred it if he had been able to sleep off all of the drunken effects, rather than having to force it out of his system at the arrival of a dilemma.
The little girl had finally reached the door of the wagon, her fingers grasping the dagger with tighter fingers. Clopin watched as she stepped onto the small set of wooden steps that led to the entrance, and flinched somewhat when he noticed how much mud she trailed all over them before finally reaching the door. It wasn't that he minded dirt so horribly (though he did not enjoy having his clothes stained with it frequently) but he was in already more or less a goddamned horrible mood, and the thought of having to clean it up threw a nasty shiver down his spine. So many hours spent on hands and knees, soaked with water and soap!
The little girl knocked on the door as if expecting someone to open it for her, then kicked it open with one muddy foot, and baring the dagger as if she were about to stab somebody right through the chest. She stopped, obviously noticing no one within, and, after several minutes searching the meager furniture (if you would call it that) she walked out of the door, closing it behind her, and making her return trip to the black horse that waited for her on the opposite end of the caravan.
"Well?" asked the man, receiving the thin blade back and placing it in the hilt at his side. "Were there any of those heathens?"
"Did you hear any screams?" she asked sharply, replacing herself upon the worn saddle of the mare's back. "If you didn't get that," she added, "the answer is no, luckily."
"Luckily? What did you mean by that?" the elder asked, glaring at her from beneath his blue cloak. "Are you a gypsy supporter or something, Cassandra?"
"No," came her hasty reply. "That's not what I meant Malique."
"Then what the hell did you mean?" Malique asked rudely.
"Nothing," she muttered, looking down.
"The hell that was nothing," he said. "No really what the hell did you mean?"
"Why the hell do you care, Malique?" Cassandra responded angrily. "No body was there, okay? What does it matter what I said?"
"Cassandra," he said, "we aren't going anywhere until you tell me what the hell you meant by luckily!" Malique's eyes were shining with an angry and violent light. Clopin clicked his tongue as quietly as he could and shook his head as he leaned on his elbows, noticing how much Malique wanted to hurt Cassandra. Those threats were a cover, he suspected. Something used before his parents at home to conceal the truer, more physical intimidation that he was really lusting for. He had gotten used to it, perhaps, and used it even without the household.
Cassandra seemed to flush at the remark and bent her pale faced downward, allowing the large hood of her cloak to conceal her face.
"I just meant that maybe they were armed. You know, with a dagger or something. You know how they are..."
Clopin sighed. He rolled over from his spot and quietly turned on his side silently and felt his waist. He shook his head.
"I'm afraid I left mine at home on my other belt," he thought.
Malique smiled and spurred his horse's side.
"I don't blame you for being afraid, Cassandra. After all, those damn heathens would not even skewer you without a second thought, they would probably eat you afterward."
Cassandra shuddered at the statement, but was frowning at her brother in defiance. "I wasn't afraid," she told him.
Malique shrugged, smiling knowingly and rolling his eyes in disbelief. He spurred the steed yet again, yelling for it to go forward, and the caravan began moving again. Cassandra followed, though rather hesitantly, flicking the leather reins and making her horse continue forward on its way. Clopin watched her as she stared down at the muddy ground, feeling sympathy somewhat, for he loved children very much. But, he was more engrossed in his own situation, where he was just barely out of sight at the moment. If either of them looked at a certain angle they were sure to spot him flattening himself against the painted boards. And, not only that, but he had to keep absolute quiet, unlike how he had acted beforehand. He groaned inwardly and rested his tired head against his forearms. There wasn't much he could do.
"I could just jump off and leave while nobody's watching," he thought to himself as he pondered over the choices he had. "But that would leave my poor caravan in the hands of the fat man and the self-esteem deprived young woman. And God knows what the hell they would do with it."
He closed his eyes, readying himself for another, hopefully silent lapse of consciousness. This didn't prove too easy, for the raindrops continued to annoy him and he felt as if he wanted to scream into the air. Damn it! Now that he had the time to think about it, he felt damp and uncomfortable, lying on his stomach while in his godforsaken wet clothes. He did another inward groan but dared not move from his spot, letting the rain drip and soak into his clothing.
It was then that he had finally the sense to regret hiding on the roof.
A/N: Okay, that's the end for know. I'm kind of in a creative speed bump, here, and my writing is terrible right now. And that whole Cassandra and Malique thing...I don't know why I did it in their POV. I bet after that half of you people were thinking that I was an idiot and have no more interest in my poor story. Oh well. Thank you, by the way, Clopin Trouilefou. You've helped me a lot and I still don't think I need anxiety pills. (or anger management, as I've mentioned before.)
Oh yes, I nearly forgot. Disclaimer: Clopin does not belong to me. I would be a much happier person if he did.
Chapter Two
Cassandra rubbed as much sleep out of her eyes as possible, yawning and cursing the rain as it fell in heavier and heavier sheets from the grayed heavens. They, she and her brother, had been traveling along the sodden fields for quite some time already, having little protection from the dampness other than a couple of cloaks that they had enough common sense to bring along. She loathed the rain and the horrible smells that it drew from the dirt and weeds. Hell, she hated the outdoors altogether. She had learned to tolerate it well enough, taking the time to do her chores or learn to ride horses and what not, but these little "excursions" that her elder brother, Malique, had forced on her was not something that she enjoyed. But, being the youngest in the family, not to mention the only daughter, she had to listen to what her fat-ass brother told her to do.
The old mare that she rode on quietly neighed as it forced its way through the thick mud and grasses that formed the fields, a ways from Paris, where they had left what seemed hours before. Behind them, wheels creaking from the strain of plowing through the muck, was a painted caravan, with the sound of clinking bottles coming from within. Her brother and the great white stallion that their father loved so much lead the wagon along the way, frowning at the drops of rain that dampened their coats (both cloth and fur) rather uncomfortably.
"Damn rain," Malique muttered, glaring at the sky as if it would make the raindrops stop. "Why did it have to start on the day that we chose to do this?"
Cassandra rolled her eyes at her brother's remark and drew the coarse fabric of the cloak about her. "We?" she asked, her voice quiet so as to not draw any antagonism from the fat man beside her. "I specifically remember you being the only one wanting to go on this goddamned trip. Not only that, but I also recall me suggesting the perhaps we do this whole damn thing on another day. And I recall you saying that the rain would stop eventually. Perhaps even before we got the wagon out of the city."
Malique glanced sideways at his sister and shook his head.
"You lack enthusiasm," he told her. "Be more confident and assertive. Enjoy the trip. After all, this is for a good cause."
"It's hard to enjoy something that you are forced to deal with," she muttered angrily, forcing the many 'damn yous' and 'shut the hell ups' that she had boiling inside of her.
"If you'll listen to whatever I say then I want you to be more assertive," he said, that normal grin coming across his fat lips. "Show some enthusiasm."
"Don't toy with me, Malique," she growled.
"Come on," he said, pushing her arm, nearly forcing her off the old horse. "How's about a smile?"
"Get away, Malique!"
"Smile, Cassandra, or I'll tell father to double your work time."
"You're such a child, Malique," she said, trying to get the black mare to move to the side, away from her brother.
"Smile, damn it, or I'll make it so you'll have to come with me every single time I go out and teach these gypsies a lesson!"
Malique's eyes burned with a fire that had strayed far from the joking shine that they had just the seconds ago that he had started. He was like that, the bastard, housing a short temper and everything else that made a horrible brother, along with an influence on their parents that was like nothing else. Cassandra frowned horribly, then lifted the corners of her mouth so much it was frightening. Malique shuddered at the sight, and coughed into his hand, looking away as quickly as possible.
"That's a lot less better than I though it would be. Goddamn it, stop doing that Cassandra. It only makes you uglier."
Cassandra let her mouth droop, despite her relief, and forced her horse to quicken just a bit to get a further from her brother. He was so goddamned stupid sometimes. 'Teaching these gypsies a lesson'? What the hell was that? Well, she really had never asked before, just going along with her brother, dragging along with them many wagons like the such and setting them on fire miles and miles from the outskirts. He was awful that way; she guessed he housed the same hatred towards the race like the many others in Paris. She didn't mind them much, though raised like everyone else she knew to hate them. But, perhaps it hadn't yet then sunk in. After all, she was only twelve, and still very impressionable.
Suddenly, a loud shriek came up from behind, resembling something of a man's voice, forcing her out of her thoughts and back into the dreary reality of the rain-swept afternoon. Malique straightened up on the stallion, listening.
"What was that?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Cassandra said, alarmed. "But, it sounded like someone cursing."
"Do you think someone's following us?" Malique asked, frowning, his eyes growing shifty.
Cassandra shrugged her shoulders. She only partially cared about that; now that she thought about it, why would someone want to follow a gypsy wagon? Her brother sighed, and slapped her across the shoulder. Cassandra held in all screams.
"Well, go check it out! There might be one of those heathens in the wagon!"
Cassandra glowered at her brother, not wanting to have to trek through the mud, no matter how short a distance it was.
"What if there is?" She asked. It sounded as if she didn't want to go at all, which was exactly her feeling at the moment. She eyed the great thick stew of mud and stalks sinking in deeply with the impressions of their horses' hooves.
Malique rolled his eyes, the answer being obvious to him, and he flung the cloak from over his round belly, and reached for the hilt of a small dagger that hung from his leather belt. The blade shrieked against the lining of the small scabbard in the most unpleasant of ways, and he tossed the dagger to his sister. Cassandra, luckily, was able to grab the wrapped hilt instead of having the painful surprise of gripping the sharp edged metal.
"Kill him," he answered, and he pulled the reins of the white stallion that led the caravan. With a neigh and huff, the strong horse came to a stop. Cassandra, with a sigh, followed suit and made her mare stop her way. She jumped down of the horse, and tried to force herself through the mud, which, she discovered, was a little worse than she had expected. It turned to be somewhat of a relief, however, for she was not sure whether or not if she would have the courage to actually murder a gypsy. But she didn't say so. Never in front of her brother would she claim her cowardice.
Clopin watched as the young woman trudged down the side of the caravan, collecting mud, water, and grass blades on the hem of her simple skirt and cloak. She was taking a long time, he noticed, but either from anxiety or mud, he was not to be sure. She was mumbling and cursing the rain (something about it, along with her brother, 'shitting up her whole goddamned day'), and, gripped in her short fingers, was a knife. The very same that he had suspected to have heard just moments before.
"She wouldn't kill a gypsy," he thought to himself leaning on one elbow. "She's too innocent for that. Look at the way she moves with her short little legs. Poor little girl, listening to that slob of a man who didn't even himself have the courage to confront me."
Not that Monsieur Clopin actually did wish for the large man to discover him. He was still feeling rather light-headed from the amount of alcohol he had consumed earlier. He was sober, of course, but he would've preferred it if he had been able to sleep off all of the drunken effects, rather than having to force it out of his system at the arrival of a dilemma.
The little girl had finally reached the door of the wagon, her fingers grasping the dagger with tighter fingers. Clopin watched as she stepped onto the small set of wooden steps that led to the entrance, and flinched somewhat when he noticed how much mud she trailed all over them before finally reaching the door. It wasn't that he minded dirt so horribly (though he did not enjoy having his clothes stained with it frequently) but he was in already more or less a goddamned horrible mood, and the thought of having to clean it up threw a nasty shiver down his spine. So many hours spent on hands and knees, soaked with water and soap!
The little girl knocked on the door as if expecting someone to open it for her, then kicked it open with one muddy foot, and baring the dagger as if she were about to stab somebody right through the chest. She stopped, obviously noticing no one within, and, after several minutes searching the meager furniture (if you would call it that) she walked out of the door, closing it behind her, and making her return trip to the black horse that waited for her on the opposite end of the caravan.
"Well?" asked the man, receiving the thin blade back and placing it in the hilt at his side. "Were there any of those heathens?"
"Did you hear any screams?" she asked sharply, replacing herself upon the worn saddle of the mare's back. "If you didn't get that," she added, "the answer is no, luckily."
"Luckily? What did you mean by that?" the elder asked, glaring at her from beneath his blue cloak. "Are you a gypsy supporter or something, Cassandra?"
"No," came her hasty reply. "That's not what I meant Malique."
"Then what the hell did you mean?" Malique asked rudely.
"Nothing," she muttered, looking down.
"The hell that was nothing," he said. "No really what the hell did you mean?"
"Why the hell do you care, Malique?" Cassandra responded angrily. "No body was there, okay? What does it matter what I said?"
"Cassandra," he said, "we aren't going anywhere until you tell me what the hell you meant by luckily!" Malique's eyes were shining with an angry and violent light. Clopin clicked his tongue as quietly as he could and shook his head as he leaned on his elbows, noticing how much Malique wanted to hurt Cassandra. Those threats were a cover, he suspected. Something used before his parents at home to conceal the truer, more physical intimidation that he was really lusting for. He had gotten used to it, perhaps, and used it even without the household.
Cassandra seemed to flush at the remark and bent her pale faced downward, allowing the large hood of her cloak to conceal her face.
"I just meant that maybe they were armed. You know, with a dagger or something. You know how they are..."
Clopin sighed. He rolled over from his spot and quietly turned on his side silently and felt his waist. He shook his head.
"I'm afraid I left mine at home on my other belt," he thought.
Malique smiled and spurred his horse's side.
"I don't blame you for being afraid, Cassandra. After all, those damn heathens would not even skewer you without a second thought, they would probably eat you afterward."
Cassandra shuddered at the statement, but was frowning at her brother in defiance. "I wasn't afraid," she told him.
Malique shrugged, smiling knowingly and rolling his eyes in disbelief. He spurred the steed yet again, yelling for it to go forward, and the caravan began moving again. Cassandra followed, though rather hesitantly, flicking the leather reins and making her horse continue forward on its way. Clopin watched her as she stared down at the muddy ground, feeling sympathy somewhat, for he loved children very much. But, he was more engrossed in his own situation, where he was just barely out of sight at the moment. If either of them looked at a certain angle they were sure to spot him flattening himself against the painted boards. And, not only that, but he had to keep absolute quiet, unlike how he had acted beforehand. He groaned inwardly and rested his tired head against his forearms. There wasn't much he could do.
"I could just jump off and leave while nobody's watching," he thought to himself as he pondered over the choices he had. "But that would leave my poor caravan in the hands of the fat man and the self-esteem deprived young woman. And God knows what the hell they would do with it."
He closed his eyes, readying himself for another, hopefully silent lapse of consciousness. This didn't prove too easy, for the raindrops continued to annoy him and he felt as if he wanted to scream into the air. Damn it! Now that he had the time to think about it, he felt damp and uncomfortable, lying on his stomach while in his godforsaken wet clothes. He did another inward groan but dared not move from his spot, letting the rain drip and soak into his clothing.
It was then that he had finally the sense to regret hiding on the roof.
A/N: Okay, that's the end for know. I'm kind of in a creative speed bump, here, and my writing is terrible right now. And that whole Cassandra and Malique thing...I don't know why I did it in their POV. I bet after that half of you people were thinking that I was an idiot and have no more interest in my poor story. Oh well. Thank you, by the way, Clopin Trouilefou. You've helped me a lot and I still don't think I need anxiety pills. (or anger management, as I've mentioned before.)