A bit of kink coming up in this chapter. Enjoy!

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The last of the sun's light had disappeared behind the tall buildings of the square and dusk was gathering in the corners. Esmeralda had lingered too long; there was no one left to dance for.

She looked up at the window high in the tower. It had been empty all week. For several days she'd seen the priest there, and of all the eyes that watched her she'd revelled in his the most. It was a different feeling to being watched by Phoebus. He saw just her pretty wrapper: a shapely calf; a swell of bosom. The archdeacon's eyes seemed to penetrate to her soul. But there was more than benevolence in that gaze. He looked upon her in ways that he'd told her were sinful, a realisation that had first shocked, then entranced her.

But where was he now? Her eyes sought his figure in every window, on every parapet of the cathedral, but there was merely glass and stone to behold. It seemed his conscience had told him to renounce her – how good he was. She should rejoice in his goodness, but it meant welcoming her own unhappiness.

A dark figure stirred between the open doors of the cathedral. It was the archdeacon, come to bolt them for the night. Esmeralda picked up her skirts and ran to him. Her hands pressed on the doors even as he hastily closed them, shutting her out.

'Please, have mercy,' she cried, imploring him, pressing on the wood with all her strength.

The archdeacon paled, but arrested his movements. His hands clutched the doors, using them to shield his body, he inside the cathedral and she without. 'What do you want?' he asked, his voice husky and low.

'I … want to confess.'

His jaw tightened. 'You are not of my flock.'

'But I have seen him again,' she cried. 'He has …' Dark eyes like storm clouds that lash me with their fury. A countenance so severe that I would soften it with kisses, though my kisses would fall as if against stone. '… a fair face and golden locks. My dreams are filled with kisses for him.'

He turned his face away from her. In a moment he would shut the door and she'd hear his rapid steps recede. He had hardened himself against her just as she had been awoken to him. And now what was she to do? The priest had cured her of one malady only to instil her with another, even fiercer than the last. It was too cruel.

She implored him, 'How do you control your urges, Father?'

His eyes suddenly lit as if with flame. A cold hand encircled her wrist and he pulled her inside the cathedral. The door slammed, and she was pressed back against it.

'My urges? My urges? I am the Archdeacon of Josas!' he snarled, the tip of his nose just inches from hers.

'Then for some other reason you have withdrawn from me?' she quavered.

His words were hot against her mouth. 'Oh, you are a demon witch sent to test me.'

'I am just a girl, Father. If I have tempted you, then you have triumphed over that temptation; you have triumphed over me, for my heart is in turmoil for you.'

His hooded eyes darkened with rage. 'You would lie to me in this sacred place? It is your Phoebus that you love.'

Esmeralda laughed. 'Phoebus! How could I love such petty regard? My heart did not sing to behold him, but it sings now. Tell me how you have silenced yours so that I may do the same.'

The priest's eyes burned into hers. 'The same,' he said to himself, and his voice was filled with scorn. 'Oh, she would do the same.' He unclasped her and began working at the buttons of his cassock with angry fingers. When it was open across his chest he pulled it down over one shoulder and turned his broad, white back to her. His skin was criss-crossed with angry red striations.

Esmeralda lifted a shaking hand and lightly traced a score mark. It was raised and hot. Some marks looked as if they had bled a little. At her touch, the archdeacon closed his eyes, his head falling back. 'Every welt is a torment that I have tried to quiet,' he whispered into the darkness of the cathedral.

'But who has done this to you?' she whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the marks.

For a moment he only breathed. Then he refastened his robes and rounded on her. 'I did it!' The topmost buttons were undone and his clerical collar hung loose, exposing his throat. 'I chastise my body to bring it into subjection. For I am in persona Christi for my flock – I act as God here on earth for them.'

She looked at him in wonder. His flock recited words as penance and that was enough to restore them to God's grace. Did they know that their archdeacon visited such punishments on his flesh, so that he might be worthy of them? When she closed her eyes she saw again that wounded back, and shivered.

'How does it feel?' she asked. 'After?'

His eyes were feverish when they met hers. 'Pure. Or at least, that is the intent.'

'But of what do you need to purify yourself?'

'You, gypsy,' he cried. 'How you torment my nights and plague my waking moments! Every mark is a thought of you that I can only repent of, but never banish.'

Esmeralda ached for him; by coming to his confessional speaking of her lusts she had driven him to self-violence. Though how eagerly he'd questioned her and drawn every detail from her lips. How quickly he'd offered to watch her dance. For all that he was the Archdeacon of Josas, and refuted his urges, he wanted her.

She lifted her chin, her eyes soft and wide. 'Is my impurity causing yours?'

He gave a dark, hollow laugh. 'Before I saw you in the square, how unbroken was the peace of my days.'

She bit her lip. 'Do I pollute you, Father?

'Yes, you are the pollution,' he said, advancing on her. 'I will baptise you, I will drive the impurity out. I will –' Then his eyes sharpened and he grasped her wrist once more. 'No,' he grated, his fingers digging into her flesh, making her gasp. 'This will answer better.'

He turned into the darkened church, dragging her with him. She had to half-run to keep pace with his long strides. They passed through a low door, and then up a spiral staircase. Finally they emerged into a large, square room. Esmeralda recognised the window – it was the one from which he'd watched her. There was a desk, and many books and paraphernalia, but she didn't have time to take in anything else as he pushed her face-first toward a wall. His hand rested against her neck for a moment.

Esmeralda opened her mouth to speak, but he ordered, 'Put your hands on the stones.'

She did so, and felt his hands grasp her dress at the nape. With a single wrench he rent the garment open to her waist. The skin of her bare back prickled in the cold air. Over her shoulder she saw him take something long and thin from his desk.

There were no restraints. She could flee from him if she wished, and likely escape. But she felt no panic, and no desire to flee. 'Will this make me worthy of you, Father?' she whispered.

He exhaled through his nostrils. 'Is that what you wish? To be worthy of me?'

'More than anything.'

He groaned, and lifted his arm. There was a whistling sound and the instrument struck her flesh with a stinging blow. Esmeralda cried out, and pressed her cheek against the wall, panting hard. The pain seemed to clarify her mind. She shrugged out of her dress and the garment fell to the floor. She was naked before him.

The priest's breath caught, and she saw his hand working on the cane, tightening and releasing its grip.

She had one stripe, now, to match his many. But she wanted more. 'Purify me, Father,' she whispered.

There was a whistle. A strike. Esmeralda cried out again. Behind her, the priest began to murmur, 'Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defence against the wickedness and snares of the devil …'

Esmeralda hid her face against the stone, biting down on the smile that curved her lips, her body writhing with each stinging strike of the priest's cane.

...

Any Frollo fangirls out there who wouldn't mind the same treatment - as long as he wasn't tooooo thorough about it? ;)

In the next chapter: how thorough he is, and what happens after!