Notre Dame was on fire.

The flames that already consumed half of the city had arrived to the mighty feet of the cathedral, and were now licking them avidly. The blackened sky was glowing with the inferno beneath it. The smell of dense smoke made the hot air even more suffocating.

The screams that filled the night were a mixture of fear, pain and anger. The cries of the gypsies and the Parisian commoners trying to fight back the guards were intertwined with those of the soldiers themselves, shouting instructions at one another and clashing their swords. It was chaos.

But somehow, from above the multitude, it all sounded muted, like it came from underwater. There was this chilling silence as his eyes screened the open corridors and terraces, where no trace of them could be found. He had just lost sight of them for a second, but they seemed to have vanished. Unless…

He gazed upon the balustrade and looked down. There they were, hanging scarcely from a gargoyle. The look on fear of both their faces only made his victory juicier. He climbed onto a gargoyle as well and, unsheathing his deadly sword, he lifted it over his head with an evil grin, ready to end, once and for all, the cause of all his misery.

But before he could throw the final strike, the stone under his feet cracked deeply, making him lose his balance. He grabbed onto it with both hands, and then to his terror, he watched its eyes come to life in a satanic glow. The demonic gaze pierced his very soul for a second, before unhanging itself from the wall and precipitating into the fiery abyss below.

The free fall shook his body into awakening with a violent scream.

His hands clenched at the sheets as if holding for dear life, his pale knuckles even whiter. His whole body was covered in a cold sweat, making his hair sticky into the pillow. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was, while looking around frantically into the darkness of his chambers.

There was an anxious, irregular sound that he initially failed to identify as his own desperate breathing.

He swiftly rose from the bed and walked to the window, as if wanting to make sure that the real world still stood on the other side of the glass. The faint orange shimmer on some points of the dark clouds spoke of fire, but nothing compared to the images he had just a moment ago so vividly dreamt. The streets were dark and silent, though there was an ominous feeling overall.

"What has just happened?" The mighty judge pondered, while his heart slowly regained his steady beat. He didn't usually remember his dreams, but when he did, they were most certainly not nearly as real and physical as tonight's visions. Maybe it was some sort of premonition… or even a warning? Perhaps God was showing him the consequences of his actions if he insisted on following this path. Though the vision had been much more hell-like… so could it be an evil power trying to scare him off from fulfilling his duties to the city?

He stepped away from the window, running his hand through his wet forehead and silver hair, while he let out a heavy sigh. The past few days had been confusing and tortuous, too hasty and consuming to have a moment to think about what it all meant, and if it was the right way to proceed. His own burning desires had taken over his usually cold calculating mind and they had gone rampant all over the city he had sworn to protect.

But, to his comfort, all of his efforts had paid out at last, and he had managed to find and capture Paris greatest plague; the gypsies.

And among them, her. The gypsy witch that had put this fiery spell on him, forcing him to go mad in search for the only thing that could quench his thirst.

Now all of them awaited in the dungeons for their last sunrise, when he would at last put an end to all the craziness, lighting the final fire on the execution pyre.

Starting with the witch.

That was his civil and holy duty. That was what it was required of him.

Wasn't it?

He poured himself a glass of water from the porcelain jar that rested on his nightstand, and felt the fresh water clear his throat and mind. He contemplated his reflection on the old, burnished mirror on the wall. He looked like a dying man. Like a mad man. His eyes were sunken in his skull, surrounded by deep purple circles, but nevertheless glowing feverishly. His skin looked yellowish, and he had probably lost some weight during the past week (which wasn't surprising as he had forgotten to eat or even sleep during his obsessive persecution), for his cheekbones were even more prominent than before, giving him the appearance of a skeleton.

This sent a chill down his spine, as if he was looking at the angel of Death itself.

Was that what the dream was trying to tell him? That he was becoming his own downfall? And quite literally, sending himself to the flames of hell?

He looked away from the mirror and into the darkness. His hands unconsciously rubbing against each other.

What was he to do?

"What do you want from me?" he whispered desperately to the massive cross that hanged over the dark fireplace.

He prided himself of being a man of virtue, of purity. A man of God. And that's what he claimed when he started the persecution of the gypsies, the pagans who had caused more trouble and chaos in the city than any other. But these past few weeks all had been blurred by unholy thoughts and cravings that twisted his mind and made him feel he was losing it.

Maybe he was making a mistake?

Then he remembered the part of the dream that felt the realest, and also the scariest. It was the look on Quasimodo's eyes while he swung his sword above them. Such fear, but also shock and betrayal.

He felt a sharp pain in the pit of his stomach. He had betrayed him, alright, when letting him believe he knew about the Court of Miracles in order to follow him there. But lying was once thing, and actually hurting him a very different one. He would never do that, even in his maddest state…. Would he?

"No", he denied firmly, shaking his head as if to shake off the sheer thought. The boy was like a son to him, since he had been found abandoned at the steps of Notre Dame, almost 20 years ago. True, they had had their differences lately, and the once compliant boy had turned into a rebellious young man… but he couldn't be blamed for that, for the judge knew very well that he too had been bewitched by that damn gypsy dancer. How could he expect him to resist what he himself had failed to fight off?

As the light of the sunrise started creeping out of the horizon, and the grey chamber became clearer, so did his mind.

This wasn't right. This madness could only lead to chaos and damnation for all involved. Something needed to be done, before it was too late and the fire of hell was unleashed on the city and themselves.

With this resolution, he readjusted his hair and grabbed for his clothes. He dressed quickly and leaving his chambers, he descended the stairs decidedly towards the dungeons.

He had to speak to her.

A/N: This is my first attempt at fanfic writing, so any well intended reviews will be greatly appreciated! Please keep in mind English is not my first language so I'm more interested in story-based reviews than language corrections (which of course I'm working on as well!) Thanks! ;)