Sitting stiffly on his horse Achilles, Phoebus surveyed the area around him with the trained eyes of one who had already witnessed his share of disasters. Still, it was one thing to see a battlefield only made familiar in the span of several years; it was something else entirely when the burned buildings were from your own city, the casualties littering the streets your neighbors. A tiny ember drifted past his nose, winking once in bright defiance before succumbing to the air and tumbling down to join the billions more flecks of ash that carpeted the square in front of Notre Dame cathedral. He could still feel the smoldering heat, insistent upon claiming as much of the city as possible after several nights of rampant burning. Those that the fire had moved on from now stood bare against the deceptively cheery morning sky, blackened skeletons with the souls within long fled.
A few more nights had passed since the one fateful night where the city nearly burned to the ground. Though nearly all of the smoke had long since dissipated, everything still faintly smelled of ashes and metal, and as all he saw was more and more work to be done, Phoebus knew that it would be many, many more nights before the city could even begin to properly rebuild itself. More than just a matter of building repair; everywhere were signs that this had been no ordinary city skirmish. The wheeled cages that littered the square were tipped over and in various states of ruin, as though a whole menagerie had been let loose. Running the entire length of the front of Notre Dame cathedral and off slightly to either side, the entire ground was covered in pools, piles and misshapen dollops of what by now was completely cooled lead. Splatters of it gleamed dully from both stone carvings and heavy wooden doors, and broken weaponry jutted out here and there like bones in a disturbed graveyard.
A shudder passed involuntarily through Phoebus, as his gaze lingered on a certain spot, wondering not for the first time if anything would be found there once the lead was removed; a scrap of cloth from a hat perhaps, or one of the heavy rings that had once adorned pale, spider-like hands clasped in cruel contemplation. He highly doubted it, but it would be just like the judge to leave a small part of himself behind, a last lingering curse to the city that had been so keen on refusing his 'aid' to their immortal souls.
But looking around now, he had a hard time imagining a city that seemed more on track with recovering it's supposed lost soul. For just as the square and the city surrounding it was littered with trash and debris, it was also full of people, and the sounds of general bonhomie were in the air. Four burly men, two of them wearing the faded but colorful fabric of gypsies, were helping to pull down what remained of a small cottage before it could fall down in a dangerous heap, while a slender woman adorned with bangles helped an elderly woman in the adjoining space next door sort through heaps of ash in search of what remained of her belongings.
Roofs that were still able to hold sturdy bodies were mounted by the same, some in bright fabric and others in traditional homespun, all hammering away and calling out to one another like crows on a hilltop, working together to rebuild what had been formally recognized as everyone's home. If there was one good thing that the demise of Judge Frollo had brought about, it was that the people of Paris could finally interact positively with their neighbors, and see how little physical differences truly mattered.
"Sir!" a voice called out to his left, and Phoebus moved his glance from the rooftops to the man who had appeared alongside him. He recognized him as his short-lived successor, the guardsman whom Frollo had appointed in his stead after his 'betrayal' at the mill. The man looked very much the worse for wear; the plates of his armor were streaked with ash, and he could see flecks of slightly shinier material where some of the molten lead had landed. Singed fabric on his tunic that revealed welted skin indicated places where he had not been as lucky with the lead, and his helmet sported an impressive dent on one side. Since that morning, the former captain had been all too happy to give Phoebus his position back, and since then he and the surviving soldiers had been working twice as hard as any Parisian or gypsy in penance for their part in the battle. While they were markedly less welcome wherever they went, at least the folk had realized that a helping hand was a helping hand.
At Phoebus' encouraging nod, the happily-demoted soldier spoke up. "Sir, we've just finished our last sweep of the Palace of Justice, and we can safely assure you that it has been completely emptied. Everyone who was down there is now free." A sudden and unbidden sound reverberated inside his head; a scream of agony echoing down a damp, stony tunnel as a deep, baritone voice rumbled in the background: "I'm sure you'll...whip my men into shape." Even then, how could he have justified turning his back and forgetting what had gone on in that building? He couldn't even use being away in the war as an excuse after that. Was it because he had thought that everyone who was locked up down there deserved to be there? Even those who were there just for being gypsies? How many women and children had he left in there as well that day, and how many had survived long enough to be rescued?
Recognizing the now-worthlessly debilitating thoughts for what they were, Phoebus dismissed them with a mental shake of his head and willed his dark blue eyes to focus on the man in front of him. "Excellent" he said, "though I'm surprised our friend Quasimodo left anyone for us to find after that night." He could still picture the hunchback being led away on the shoulders of the city folk, making a long, winding trail heading straight for the Palace of Justice, which they had then stormed en masse and freed as many people as they could find, be they innocent foreigner or backstabbing war deserter.
It hadn't been possible to tell who had truly deserved to be there, and so they had all been released to go their own way. Luckily so far, it appeared that those who had had true ill will had sought their fortunes elsewhere, while the rest had remained behind to reunite with family and help rebuild the city. The palace was a maze, especially beneath the ground, but there had been no shortage of willing volunteers to pour down it's halls like a cleansing flood, finding and emptying every nook and cranny from the biggest pit to the smallest closet.
He hadn't seen much of his friends since then, as both he and they had been all over the city, helping wherever they could. He glimpsed them every now and then; a shout and cheer as a large-backed redheaded form hoisted a support beam on his shoulders by himself for the others around him to set into position. A fleeting glimpse of multi-colored skirt followed by the clatter of goat hooves as two figures flitted through the crowd with buckets of drinking water from the covered Fountain of Innocents (many of the wells in the city had become choked with ash). Suddenly he heard a loud voice crowing above the general din and spied a lanky fellow in a large plumed hat that had somehow survived the battle against all odds, marching along Pied Piper style as children followed him with armfuls of broken weaponry salvaged from the battlefield, to be melted down and reserviced as nails and other more useful tools.
Phoebus felt a dull throb at his temple at the sight; he knew the self-proclaimed gypsy king was trying to include the children and doing his part to clean up and rebuild, but did he really think that gathering SHARP, POINTED WEAPONS was a good idea for the city's children? He knew that part of his irritation was there on principle; even after all of the gypsies had been freed and the soldiers regathered and made to serve a better purpose, he and Clopin had not exactly seen eye to eye, and still refused to do so, both stopping just shy of open hostility towards each other and working together with absolute minimal interaction. He didn't particularly blame the man after the way his people had been treated by his soldiers, but it irked him that the so-called leader of his people couldn't lead by example and set differences aside for a common good like everyone else seemed to have. It had had no effect on the repair efforts so far, but that would surely change if a poor child ended up lopping off a finger because some flamboyant dullard had instructed her to gather sword pieces.
He tugged on Achilles' reigns and was in the process of gently digging his heels into the horse's side to canter over to the ragtag group, when a brown-robed figure materialized in front of him. Bringing the reigns up sharply and earning a whuffed rebuke from the animal, Phoebus looked down sternly at the figure, who appeared to be wearing a monk's robe, with features hidden by a truly voluminous hood that couldn't be anything but sweltering hot in the middle of the square in midmorning. "Hey, be careful there; I almost didn't see you!" he barked a little more harshly than he had perhaps intended.
The figure stopped dead in its tracks, and a long-sleeved hand appeared to pull away the hood, revealing the picture of a man in contrition. "Oh, I am very sorry sir; I thought you could see me. But then, there IS a awful lot of activity hereabouts for you to keep an eye on, isn't there?" The odd statement of someone who was here and had NOT realized what happened caused Phoebus to pause and take a longer look at the man before him. He would venture a guess and say the man was in his mid to late 20's, with a face that was no stranger to a razor but also no stranger to mealtime, as the faintest beginnings of a double-chin was just starting to bloom on the hairless face. The man's large, brown eyes were kind, and true consternation at his surroundings was evident from his bushy, arched eyebrows, the same light brown as his tousled hair, yet to be adorned by a tonsure. In all appearances an ordinary face, but something about the openness gave Phoebus thought. A newcomer surely, for everyone else around him still bore the haggard looks of their home being besieged by days of Hell on earth.
"No harm done," he replied, managing to bring his tone down to merely gruff, "But I don't believe I've seen you around here before. Did you just arrive in the city?" The man blinked in surprise before replying. "Yes, I passed through what was left of the gates before sunrise; I've been trying to find my way here since, but I had to change my path many times with all of the destruction." The man looked around with a forlorn air. "Such wanton violence..." Phoebus blinked. "Not to sound rude, but do you have business here in the city? Paris isn't exactly a welcoming place for travelers at the moment, especially those that resemble...erm...clergy, if you do know that much about what happened here."
The man nodded sympathetically. "I did get word of what happened. The people that I know...well let's say they have as many eyes and ears as a seraph host has wings. As for myself, I am called Father Matthew, newly instated and eager to assist in the more spiritual rebuilding of your great city, though seeing the state of all of this, please consider me at your disposal for menial labor as well." Phoebus winced and leaned down towards Father Matthew. "Again I would advise against saying you're here for any sort of religious reasons, and I'm saying this to you as not only the designated peacekeeper, but as a friend. All of this destruction you see in front of you is because of a religious man who went insane and tried to burn it all to the ground looking for one girl. I would hate to see someone who had nothing to do with all of that come to harm here, or start something without meaning to."
"Your words are most appreciated," Father Matthew replied, "And believe me when I say that the last thing I want to do right now is bring further sorrow upon your city. Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Notre Dame's Arch Deacon, I can complete my mission and see if he has any ideas for me to help out and eventually regain the people's trust. Unless, that is..." His voice trailed off as his eyes fixed worriedly on the piles of lead outside of the cathedral. Following his gaze, Phoebus felt himself truly smiling for the first time that morning. "Oh don't worry; he's alive, if a little banged up. I'd be happy to escort you over there, small walk as it is." Father Matthew smiled gratefully and was able to follow Achilles' brisk canter in spite of his heavy robes, and after a bit of careful stepping around questionable piles, he found himself opening one of the splintered doors with a creak.
By the time Phoebus had dismounted and walked over, Father Matthew stood in the large doorway, speaking to a much older gentleman with a balding white head, pristine white and red robes to look as though a battle had never happened at his doorstep, and leaning rather heavily on a stick on his left side. As he walked up, he could hear Father Matthew say to the Arch Deacon: "So he just PULLED you down and barged up? What was he thinking?" The aged man shook his head sadly. "He wasn't, my son; that was the sad thing. He allowed his rage to consume him, and I fear it has consumed him as far as it can possibly go. I cannot lament my leg when his punishment was so much worse. Though in spite of it all, I do pray that he saw the light before the end."
Biting back a retort, Phoebus cleared his throat. "Yes well, I have more things to see to in the city; repairs and whatnot. Arch Deacon, Father, if you have any further need of assistance, please contact one of my men and I'll do what I can. Good day gentlemen." He all but ran back to Achilles and carefully guided him around the lumps of lead and the small groups just starting to hammer at the edges with tools. He shook his head in mild disgust; as much respect as he had for the Arch Deacon, he still felt that the city needed a religious outsider like Clopin needed a bigger feather for his hat. Speaking of THAT no-good... The throb in Phoebus' head returned as he dissolved back into the crowd.