Chapter 27:

With Esmeralda's disappearance, the hands which seized Phoebus were not gentle nor were they charitable. Instead they were large and calloused and businesslike, but they were nothing compared to the kick which unceremoniously slammed him in the side, right next to his wound.

Despite the weight of fatigue which pressed down on him, Phoebus was startled awake by the pain and the instinctive fear that his stitches would open and his life's blood would flow forth.

Granted, h was saved from that horror, but momentarily he heard Quasimodo stuttering a greeting to his "master" and the fear returned, holding Phoebus paralyzed in its grip.

So much for the better, he could take a hint. Now if he could just slip back into slumber, perhaps he would hold still as well as regain his strength…

Claude Frollo drawled something about food, and Phoebus instantly visualized his stomach full of cobwebs. How long had it been since he'd paused to eat? He'd been so busy all day focused on what Frollo had forced him to do…

Loud clatters and crashes from a far corner made him jump. Were they looking for him?

Tension in his back threatened to burst through his stitches. Why couldn't he just heal faster?

"Is something troubling you, Quasimodo?" Claude drawled.

Quasimodo stuttered out a few indications to the contrary, but still Frollo was not in the least convinced. In fact, he sounded smug… what did he know?

The strain of holding still was becoming unbearable, along with the mounting fear of discovery.

This was not helped at all when he heard Frollo speak again, saying: "I think… you're hiding something…" in a low purr like a lion facing off against a martyr.

Again Quasimodo's hurried protests were dismissed, in favor of a sharp admonition from master to… servant? Really, what kind of arrangement was this that Quasimodo was constantly groveling and calling Frollo his master?

"You're not eating boy!" Frollo scolded.

Sweet slumber drew a curtain over Phoebus's consciousness, but not for long, as his wound flared up as in vengeance for being forgotten.

He moaned in the throes of the radiating pain, having completely forgotten where he was and under which circumstances. Lacking this awareness, he did not restrain a second sigh, either.

An instant later, fresh blunt pain slammed into his jaw, driving out all consciousness in favor of all-consuming darkness.

It lasted until a crash overhead broke through his shell of unconsciousness. Someone was shouting, "You idiot!" but he drifted out before he decided if that was meant for him.

Nobody had shouted at him like that in years… he had done too well at rising up the ranks…

There again were words filtering through the shadows, velvet words that wrapped noose-wise about his mind. "But what chance could a poor, misshapen child like you have against her heathen treachery? Well, never you mind, Quasimodo. She will be out of our lives soon enough. I will free you from her evil spell. She will torment you no longer."

Those ominous words crawled into Phoebus's heart and petrified it.

Leave it to Quasimodo to deny the implicit meaning and ask for clarification…

Each word tripped venomously from Frollo's fangs—or rather his mouth. "I know where her hideout is, and tomorrow, at dawn, I attack with a thousand men!"

That was all he needed. Phoebus knew one thing, and that was how to rise to the occasion when he was needed. His limbs were infused with the strength he required, though he could not guess the source.

He peered out from under what he now realized was a table, and watched as Frollo descended out of sight. He did not move, however, until he heard a slamming door.

What had been the purpose of this visit? Why had he thought it necessary to inform Quasimodo of all this?

There was no time for deliberations! He had to save Esmeralda before it was too late! He certainly owed her after all she'd gone through to preserve his life! "We have to find the Court of Miracles, before daybreak," he said, and somehow his voice did not waver with pain or fatigue. "If Frollo gets there first..." there would be untold tragedy to follow… poor Esmeralda would… he couldn't let her down! "Are you coming with me?" he asked Quasimodo.

"I can't," the dejected hunchback replied, looking as if he was a dog which had gotten a kick to the gut. It must have been him who'd been called an idiot, by his master…

But Phoebus had been ejected from the profession he'd worked his whole life for, and his superior had threatened him with worse than a little insult… Perhaps there was something deeper, but, "I thought you were Esmeralda's friend!" he contended exactly as the words entered his mind.

Bitterly, Quasimodo refused to look at him as he said, "Frollo is my master. I can't disobey him again."

"She stood up for you!" Phoebus protested. "You've got a funny way of showing gratitude!"

He paused, dangling the accusation of ingratitude in front of him in the hopes that this would provoke him to act on his better nature.

However, he merely stood sullenly with his back turned to Phoebus. Just being around this groveling, sniveling dog was beginning to irritate Phoebus. He stared at the hunched back before him, the back of a man who refused to aid those in need.

Was it his chivalric upbringing which deemed this so disgusting? Whatever it was, Phoebus had no time to wade through the muck in Quasimodo's psyche. He turned to descend the stairs.

"Well, I'm not going to sit by and watch Frollo massacre innocent people!" he snarled. "You do what you think is right. I just thought you were a man who would protect his friends."

"I'm not a man," Quasimodo muttered quietly. "I'm a monster."

Phoebus turned a sneer on Quasimodo. "You can hide behind that excuse all you like, but the choice is yours. Whatever you choose, I hope you can live with it!"

With that he left the bell tower behind, and walked out into the crisp moonlit air. How long was it until dawn? He tried to remember the last time he'd heard the bells toll the time… Had it been six? Seven?

Ah, it did not signify!

Who could say how long he had lain unconscious? If only so many stairs did not loom before him… So many opportunities awaited the chance that he may lose consciousness and crack open his skull on the stone steps. Then what good would all Esmeralda's effort to save him do?

He had to pace himself.

Slowly, he eased himself from on high to the mortal plane. Despite the pain in his shoulder and face, he stumbled down the many, many steps, thinking at one point that it was a dream and he was actually going right down to Hell.

He had defied orders, after all, did that mean he was essentially a bad man, after all? Ah, but it had been the right thing to do… he couldn't bear to think of what would have happened to those children and that baby…

He paused to lean against the wall and pant, fighting back the mental images. Even though the family was safe, or at least they had been safe the last time he'd gone by that way, the screams were too easy to imagine. He could hear the screams of the families who had fallen to the siege…

No! he had to press on!

His head was swimming, and he wondered if it was down to the dagger wound in his back, or his concern for Esmeralda, or because Quasimodo had kicked him in the face. Perhaps it was because by all accounts, one of those things should have killed him.

He paused, opening a side door, to collect himself once more. No sooner had he decided that he was well enough to take another step and exit the cathedral than something dropped down from above and hissed his name.

It was not one of his prouder moments, but he couldn't help crying out in terror and pressing a hand to his much-harried heart.

"I'm coming with you!" Quasimodo said, as it was he who dropped down to the ground in front of Phoebus.

In order to save his manly image, Phoebus smiled more quickly than he was prepared to. "I'm glad you changed your mind," he said honestly.

Still with a distinct edge of bitterness, Quasimodo replied, "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for her." What had he ever done to this fellow?

"Do you know where she is?" he asked.

"No, but she said this would help us find her," Quasimodo said, revealing a small wooden necklace and holding it up for inspection.

"Good, good, good!" Phoebus exclaimed in order to stall long enough to figure it out. "Ah… Great!" Unfortunately, when he held it before his face, its meaning did not suddenly become clear, as he had hoped it would. At last he was forced to ask what it was, and surrender his pretenses.

"I'm not sure," Quasimodo admitted much more easily.

"Hmm," Phoebus massaged his aching jaw, half out of habit and half because he was worried there was a fracture there. "Must be some sort of code." He may as well throw out a theory since otherwise neither of them would get anywhere. Come to think of it, he'd better just share all of his theories! "Maybe it's Arabic, no, no, it's not Arabic," there were none of the characteristic swooshing characters and disjointed dots, rather there were just a few random smatterings of different colored string and some tarnished jewels. "Maybe it's ancient Greek..." he muttered, but even this did not yield a better clue.

The Greeks were not known for cryptic little woven amulets, they would much rather inscribe a figure or a set of figures on this amulet and the clues would be bound up in symbolism easily recognized by anyone who knew their stories.

In the midst of his random theorizing, he heard Quasimodo mutter something to himself. When he was pressed for an explanation, Quasimodo said, "It's the city!"

"What are you talking about?" Phoebus asked.

"It's a map!" Quasimodo insisted. He pointed to the center of the amulet, as if that was meant to mean something. "See, here's the cathedral, and the river, and this little—"

They were wasting time! Phoebus cut in with, "I've never seen a map that looks like this and—"

It didn't matter that he tried to say it wasn't a map, as Quasimodo refused to let go of the notion and even talked over him, insisting that it was one.

They each took deep, frustrated breaths, but as they did, Phoebus realized that they really were wasting precious time, and they needed to hurry in order to find Esmeralda before it was too late.

"If you say it's a map, fine, it's a map," he said in irritation. "If we're going to find Esmeralda, we have to work together. Truce?" He gave Quasimodo a back slap of camaraderie, hoping to encourage cooperation.

He ought to have thought that through. When Quasimodo returned the back slap, it was right above the tender spot where his wound still afflicted him. It was impossible to hide his cry of agony as the sheer force of the blow was more than he could take in his maddeningly delicate condition.

"Sorry," Quasimodo said in that same bitter tone, and it made Phoebus frown, though he was beyond arguing with him.

Still, he grunted irritably, "No, you're not."

He had to focus. It wasn't important that he got along with Quasimodo and his moody brooding. It was important that they rescued Esmeralda and whoever she was hiding with.

What still troubled him as they crept through the darkened streets of Paris was why Quasimodo seemed to hate him so much.