Two cases of thievery near Port Saint-Denis; one fief dispute on Rue de Vaugirard; one drunken disturbance of the peace; taxes to be collected on Rue Pavée…Frollo mechanically went over the amount of work that awaited him once he would return to the Palace of Justice, but first thing on the agenda was to bring today's breakfast to Quasimodo. Despite such mundane work to be done, the judge found more peace of mind: in the last few days he had eliminated a growing threat of gypsies throughout the city—through incredibly violent means—and Jehan seemed to have made himself scarce (even though in the back of his mind, Frollo knew that was not a promising sign.) As long as there was order in his life for the time being, that was enough to keep the rigid Minister content.

"Quasimodo?" his voice resonated as he called climbing the wooden steps to his ward's loft, prepared to hear the boy's voice happily greet him. Glancing around, the judge called again, hearing nothing in return. He rolled his eyes at the thought that Quasimodo might be attempting to coax him into finding him hidden amongst the broken statues again, even though he loathed such a juvenile sport.

Annoyed, Frollo was tempted to simply leave if the boy was going to insist on playing this game. I cannot very well let him starve, can I? He reminded himself, setting the old wicker basket of food down on the wooden table. Turning around to check the boy's sleeping area, which was found to be empty, Frollo then heard a scratching sound coming from up above in the rafters, drawing his attention immediately. Though it was not uncommon to find mice and rats dwelling in the nooks and crannies of the bell tower, this sound was far too loud to be of that of common vermin, stirring his curiosity. His eyes quickly scanned around the rest of the boy's loft, not finding any trace of him.

Climbing warily up the next set of steps, up where the famous bells resided, the judge could hear more creaking and shuffling from above, as if something larger was creating such a ruckus. If Quasimodo was not in his sleeping area, or in the rest of the loft…Suddenly, suspicion overcame him as he anxiously imagined what could be making such noise.

"Quasimodo! Come out here immediately!" Eyes scanning up and down, back and forth, Frollo finally spotted a small misshapen figure dash across one of the rafters before leaping forward and grabbing hold of a rope, zipping down to ground level before the Minister of Justice.

Quasimodo's old brown tunic was covered in dust and dirt, his red hair sticking out every which-way, and his small blistered hands clasped nervously before him. Uneven eyes barely glancing at his guardian standing before him, whose own ominous ones glared grimly at the boy. "Good…good morning, Master," Quasimodo greeted timidly.

Frollo was still utterly baffled by what he had just seen, but schooled his face into his usual stoic countenance. "Quasimodo," he addressed, looking down his hooked nose at the boy. "What on earth do you think you were doing up there? Is this how you've been spending your days—scaling the rafters and God-knows what else like some common squirrel?" His tone did not possess accusation or frustration, but rather concern, all the while keeping his placid demeanor. Frollo held the boy's face in his hands, studying him closely but cautiously. "God help us all if this is the work of the Devil—you aren't possessed, are you, boy?"

"No, Master, I'm not! I-I'm sorry!" Quasimodo pleaded when Frollo released him, his small hands folded together tightly and prayer-like, his teal irises shining with sadness; to upset his adoptive father could only fill him with a sense of anxiety and remorse that no other child could imagine. "It wasn't that hard to climb up—I just wanted to see if I could and I did…Please don't be angry, Master!"

Frollo's expression remained unchanged as he studied Quasimodo's expression before turning his attention back up towards the rafters. "Do you mean to tell me that you are capable of climbing all the way up there?" he asked neutrally, his eyes directed skywards and examining the space above.

Quasimodo raised his eyebrows in surprise of the Minister's unexpected inquiry, instead expecting sheer exasperation and a heated scolding. Frollo looked as composed as ever: hands behind his back, his angular face stone-like, no traces of wrath whatsoever. "Yes, sir…I taught myself to climb a few months ago."

"And when were you planning on informing me of this newfound skill?" Frollo challenged, his tone become more taunting despite the same level of collectiveness.

"Umm, soon." Quasimodo was now sure that the judge would snap with anger and lecture him harshly for withholding information. "But I'm very good at climbing now, Master; I learned to climb the church walls outside!"

"Outside? You've been scaling the cathedral walls?!" Frollo suddenly gripped Quasimodo by his slumped shoulders, eyes suddenly gleaming with a ferocious fire. "What in blazes are you thinking, boy? Do you want to get yourself killed?!"

Tensing under the judge's hold, Quasimodo shakily tried to answer back. "But…but, Master! I'm very good at climbing—I promise I won't get hurt!"

Letting him go, the judge's form was still tense. But seeing as that Quasimodo was unhurt still did not entirely relieve him, with the thought of the Archdeacon chiding him to no end should something happen to the boy playing in his mind. Rubbing the back of his neck and examining the gargantuan space above his head filled with rafters and bells, the Minister rationalized. He damn well couldn't idle here all day to ensure that Quasimodo was staying grounded and safe; on the other hand, was he willing to face the subdued wrath of Father Augustin?

"Quasimodo," he calmly began. "Have you ever injured yourself while climbing?"

"No! Well, not very much, Master," the boy immediately answered, shaking his head. "I fell a few times."

"Listen to me: I understand that with the limited amount of activities available here, these…acrobatics seem an interesting choice as a pastime. Therefore, you must promise me that you will do everything in your power to make sure that you stay safe and do not hurt yourself if you are going to continue practicing these little stunts. Are we clear?"

Quasimodo beamed an enthusiastic smile as he nodded and said, "Yes, sir! I mean, no—I-I won't hurt myself, Master! I promise! Watch!"

Without warning, the hunchbacked boy turned on his heels and rushed towards a pile of broken statue pieces, quickly grabbing the edge of a saint's head and hoisting himself on top. Quasimodo leaped onto the platform above him before expertly sprinting up one of the slanted wooden beams, climbing higher and higher. The Minister of Justice clapped his hand over his mouth in awe and perplexity as his ward demonstrated his parkour skills as nimbly as a spider, swinging from rope to rope as it were his web, the bell tower becoming his playground.

Frollo muttered anxious curses under his breath as Quasimodo landed onto a wooden beam below him, running along with ease before leaping down before the judge.

Trying not to look too surprised, Frollo clasped his hands before himself said, "Well, I must admit that it is…something. But still, I must warn you again to be extremely careful when practicing this sport of yours. Can I trust you with that?"

Quasimodo flashed his crooked teeth in a smile, overjoyed by his master's approval, and eagerly answered, "Yes sir! I will!"

"Very good. Now then, shall we eat?"

X

Frollo craned his neck to the side, producing a popping sound as his eyes adjusted back to the Parisian spring sunlight upon exiting Notre Dame. Momentarily pausing, he turned and again studied the façade of the massive building as he remembered Quasimodo's earlier statement. Climbing the walls of this great holy structure? Impossible, he thought to himself, hoping that the boy was exaggerating and not putting himself in danger by attempting such a thing. The last thing he needed to worry about was an injured child in his care.

"Minister Frollo!"

Cocking his attention around, Frollo stood tall as two old officially-dressed men approached him. One, appearing a couple of decades older than the Minister himself, was as haggard as some of the beggars that the judge's men arrested; had it not been for the rich imported fabric of his gown and shining rings adorning his fingers, this man could have easily been mistaken for a local vagrant with his unkempt gray hair flying in all directions. That did not keep him from acting as the King's proctor—the man, Jacques Charmolue. His deep wrinkled face beamed at the judge as he shuffled towards him, acquaintance in tow. His colleague looked only slightly younger than himself, whose visage was sterner and accentuated by his sharp facial features, complimented with a thin mustache. Oily black hair covered mostly by a large hat, the attention was more drawn to the rich fur-lined coat he wore; this man was Jacques Coictier, chief physician to King Louis.

"Master Charmolue, Doctor Coiticier, good day to you both," the judge amicably greeted, shaking both of their hands. Frollo felt relieved that for once he was not bothered by some old fool whom he held contempt for, but rather two learned men who had mentored him.

"I told you we'd find him here!" Charmolue remarked to Coictier. "And you wanted to check the Palace of Justice first! The church is a shepherd, always keeping its flock from straying too far."

"An excellent analogy, Your Honor," Frollo replied, nodding respectfully, hands folded before him.

"Seems about right," Doctor Coictier added, his voice monotone and droning. "I suppose when one fails to achieve the position they want, they cannot help but return to grovel before those who rejected them."

Frollo's eyes pierced the doctor's, wishing for a moment that the term shooting daggers could be in the literal sense right about now. He did not appreciate being reminded of his failure of obtaining priesthood by his old adversary. The Minister of Justice knew to hold his tongue at times when speaking to someone so high in the French political food chain. Jacques Coictier had been there multiple times to try and denounce the abilities of the judge: from latter's early days as a student and a young minister, to more recent years as Frollo proposed new ideas to improve the welfare of Paris. However, much to Coictier's chagrin, Frollo had proven time and time again that in a battle of wits, he was more than capable of holding his own against the esteemed doctor.

Ignoring his rival's swipe, Frollo asked Charmolue, "To what do I owe the pleasure this fine day?"

"Relax, Claude," he replied lightly. "I'm not here on any official business. But I do have a request of you, given what I've heard from a reliable source."

"What information would that be?" Frollo furrowed his brows suspiciously, doubting that any source giving information on him could be deemed reliable.

"You see, my boy," the old man locked his crooked fingers together as he spoke. "In such tumultuous times across this world of ours, there are some who strive to make it a better place—you for one can concur with that. Take the Florentines, with that attempted coup not three years ago. Their grand master of sorts, Lorenzo de' Medici, as I have heard, is quite the leader—a strong reign he holds over that city."

"So I've heard," Frollo unenthusiastically replied. "Jacques, what does this little current events report have to do with me?"

Raising his hand to silence the Minister, Charmolue continued. "Think of the power one could achieve with an ally like the Medici family on his side. And we are diplomats, are we not?"

"Of course, now would you please just tell me what this is about?" The Minister of Justice asked, trying to sound too bored with his teacher's incessant babbling and riddles.

"Very well, Claude. To gain favor with someone as powerful as Lorenzo de' Medici, you have to wow him—make yourself stand out against all the others to show that you are worthy of such a position. And it occurred to me, how do you win over someone who strives to make his city wealthier?"

Frollo glanced at the reserved Coictier, who stood by uninterested in associate's words. To hurry the conversation along, the judge humored the King's proctor and guessed, "Propose a trade agreement that also offers military protection?"

"Not quite. You can impress them with the power of turning ordinary metals into gold! I mean alchemy, my boy! I've heard that you've tried your hand at it, and I know you are a man of many talents. So what say you? Will you teach your old mentor Flamel's famous art?"

Looking back balefully at the silent doctor, Frollo accusingly asked, "You told him that?"

Coictier shrugged. In his dead, emotionless voice he answered, "The subject came up, and I simply suggested that if anyone could brew the Elixir of Life or create the Philosopher's Stone, it would undoubtedly be the most impressive Judge Claude Frollo."

"Precisely!" Charmolue piped up. "With a skill like that, we'll be in the pockets of every leader all over the world!"

"Your Honor," Frollo said. "Despite what the King's most "respectable" physician has professed, the art of alchemy is only something that I studied very briefly as a teenager. And even then, I myself never uncovered Flamel's secrets to eternal life. I may have spent days digging through the ruins of his former home, but found nothing of importance. So I apologize for the misleading information that our friend, Doctor Coictier, has given you."

Crestfallen, the old proctor nodded in understanding. "Ah well, then I suppose I'll have to find another tutor in the field."

"Master Jacques, alchemy is nothing more than some preposterous pseudoscience—a Satanic art! You would be better off finding another field of expertise to impress the Medici family, perhaps something that you are already educated in, given that you are the King's proctor."

"Perhaps. Well, I'm sure you of all people could have made gold with proper time and materials, Minister."

"Please, he couldn't even show off this professed skill to another friend years ago, Jacques," Coictier sardonically remarked. "Claude here told Tourangeau that he was "too old" to learn, even though he was no closer to making gold than he is to curing the plague. Figures that our dear Minister would come up short when his superior facilities are most needed." Frollo caught fleeting sight of the doctor's mocking grin.

Locking eyes with Coictier's own dark-circled ones and crossing his arms, Frollo shot back, "I understand that making such judgment comes easily to those skilled in only one area, such as that of a doctor, but I would enjoy to see yourself handle a position such as mine and having to be educated in an assortment of subjects. Something as absurd as alchemy is not particularly at the top of my list of priorities."

The doctor and King's advocate exchanged expressions, both taken aback. It seemed as though Frollo was dangerously close to losing his temper, usually preferring to keep a cool head when dealing with fellow officials to keep a professional appearance. Even in the most heated of debates, the Minster could easily best an opponent without so much as raising his voice until pushed too far.

Charmolue's attention shifted away, discreetly pointing away and abruptly saying, "I say, Minister, why on earth does that gypsy over there keep giving you the evil eye?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Frollo only saw a shabbily cloaked man immediately turn away, shielding himself behind a group of nearby fish vendors. "Who knows? But should he decide to stir up any trouble, it is nothing that a rightfully placed punishment would not correct."

"Yes, where would the city be without your sanguinary barbarism under the pretense of enforcing justice?" Coictier jeered, grating on the judge's last nerve, his dark sunken eyes baiting the Minister further. "You know, Claude, the more you treat those people like rats, the more they are bound to object to you. Shouldn't your duty be trying to keep peace in the city, instead of fueling a widespread rebellion and more hostility?"

"They are nothing more than rats!" Frollo snapped, inching threateningly close to his associate. "I find it rather odd that a physician feels so inclined to instruct me on the aspects of my position."

"Pay him no mind," Charmolue intervened before the judge and Coictier could come to blows, nudging the judge back from the doctor. "We have our God-given talents, and we must put them to good use! For the safety of our country, we should spare no expense at stamping out a few undesirables."

"Thank you, sir. I'm sure even the King himself would concur with such a statement." With that, Frollo was quick to give the doctor a curt taunting nod, whose pallid face was strained to remain unmoved as he fought back his own bitter retort.

"Louis is quite impressed with the work you've done," Charmolue continued, smiling proudly at his former pupil. "Your ruthlessness against these gypsies has been momentous in crushing their shameless ways! More gypsies tortured, tried, and executed than we know what to do with them, and to that we say well done, Claude! I mean, such harsh punishment for even their small crimes against Paris; it takes a firm hand to exact such justice."

"Look," Doctor Coictier spoke up, one thin finger pointing towards a cloaked man quietly nearing the men. "Here comes one of your many fans now, Your Honor."

"Well, we should let you return to your daily duties, Claude. So perhaps Jacques and I should take our leave, but we can talk politics another time," the King's proctor gesturing to his colleague, the latter being more than happy to leave.

"Please, these peasant problems don't take very long to resolve. Probably just another complaint about the guard," Frollo assured as looked down at the mysterious man approaching him. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Lowering his hood, the man revealed himself to be the same scraggly-looking gypsy man from earlier, whose black eyes locked forebodingly with the judge's own gray ones. His grime-caked face leered maliciously at the looming Minister, lips turned downwards in a grimace.

The Minister's eyes rolled at the response of silence. "Mangy gypsy, I don't have all day!" Frollo warned, arms falling to his side and balling his hands into fists. He frowned, annoyed at having his time wasted for the sake of some mute beggar. "If there is no urgent matter at hand, then I suggest you make yourself scarce before I-"

In a sudden wave of the tattered cloak, Frollo barely saw the man lunge forward and drive something into his shoulder, the judge not even registering the gasps of his associates. The gypsy suddenly pulled back his right arm holding onto something, before plunging it into the judge's side. In a flash, the man had whipped around and sprinted down through the square, pushing and shoving numerous merchants and peddlers.

Shaking off the confusion of what just occurred, Frollo looked back at the awestruck magistrate and doctor whose jaws hung in complete shock. Pressing his right hand to his left shoulder where he was struck, the judge felt his robe was slightly damp, lifting his hand to find it covered in crimson blood. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of his shoulder tight, blood still escaping through his fingers. Without warning, he doubled over as a stinging pain tore through his arm followed by one in his side, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth in response.

"Guard! Guard!" Frollo heard Charmolue cried out, pointing in the direction of the perpetrator. "That man has attacked the Minster! Hurry before he escapes!"

Frollo's breaths were labored as blood continued to stream from his puncture wounds, knees buckling under him. Looking up, he watched as his metalclad men pursued the swift, fleeing gypsy running into the crowd of peasants in the square of Notre Dame. Blood roaring in his ears and overwhelmed by the affliction of his injuries, Frollo cursed at the top of his lungs, "Infernal gypsy dog!"

Attempting to stand up again, Frollo looked up at his idle associates who could do nothing more than watch him struggle. "Don't just stand there!" he barked, eyes burning in frustration. "Aren't you going to help me?!"

"Umm, actually, Claude," Doctor Coictier answered, readjusting his hat and backing away. "I seemed to have forgotten that Master Jacques and I have an important meeting to attend." Frollo could see the man's mustache twitching upward as he tried to conceal his smirk.

"Oh, of course!" Charmolue skittishly agreed, his careworn face paler than before. Coictier tugging at the magistrate's sleeve anxiously, Charmolue looked down at his former student trying to keep himself from bleeding out. "Apologies, Minister, but we must be on our way! Good day!"

Watching Charmolue and Coictier quickly stride away, Frollo uneasily lifted himself back on his feet and leaned heavily against the front door of the church, pushing it open with his uninjured shoulder. Lumbering sluggishly into the nave of the church, Frollo gritted his teeth as the searing pain continued to tear through his arm and stomach. "King's physician, please! Of all the spineless things…" he cursed under his breath.

"Good gracious!" Frollo twisted around to see the Archdeacon exiting the bell tower stairwell, Quasimodo behind him. Quickly turning the boy away, Augustin studied the blanched Minister trying to quell his bleeding wounds. "Claude, what happened to you?!"

"One moment I was having a discussion with my peers, and in the next, a gypsy had pulled a knife on me—so if you would please lend me the necessary supplies before I bleed to death!" One arm crossed over his chest to suppress the bleeding in his shoulder, the other over the wound in his abdomen, the Minister was starting to feel increasingly dizzy, his breathing shallowed, and his heartbeat continued to pound in his ears.

"Quasimodo, go back to the bell tower and stay there!" The Archdeacon insisted, quickly pushing the hunchback up the stairwell. Hurrying back up the stairs, Quasimodo glanced over his slumped shoulder to steal a peek at the scene ensued by his master.

Father Augustin rushed forward, eyes scanning over the state of the Minister. "Come quickly! We'll see to this immediately!" The Archdeacon gently and hurriedly pushed Frollo across the nave, into one of the vestries.

Inside the cell, Frollo looked down on the sole straw pallet, grinding his teeth at the pain. "Use these to quell the bleeding," Augustin instructed, handing Frollo some linen cloths, the latter gladly taking them and holding them to his wounds. "Let me fetch a few things and some help, and I'll be right back."

"Just leave the supplies here and I shall tend to them myself," Frollo stubbornly stated, face white as a sheet as he continued to suppress the bleeding, breathing heavily as his vision began to blur.

"I'm not going to try to argue with you right now, Claude, I'm going to get help." With that, the Archdeacon was gone.

Frollo slouched down gracelessly onto the straw pallet, propping himself against the wall, chaperon tumbling to the side. Bleary-eyed, the small church cell seemed to be spinning around him. He replayed the moment back in his head, how that gypsy seemed to appear out of nowhere and catch him completely off-guard. The notion left him feeling completely foolish: to not be on the offense in the presence of one of their kind as he should have been. The humiliation from such an ordeal stung more than the gushing lacerations.

God, this can't be how I'm going to perish, he inwardly pleaded, head still reeling and vision unfocused while wishing he were more alert had he not been losing so much blood.

He suddenly felt a shake of his uninjured shoulder, blinking back to the present. Focusing, he suddenly saw the worried expression of the Archdeacon, behind him a nun wearing a standard beige robe and black head covering, her head bowed down respectfully.

"Claude, I've brought Sister Elise here to assist us," Augustin said, holding a bottle of wine in his hands. "She's been trained as an infirmarian, thankfully."

A young woman with a sweet face, who nervously flickered her eyes between the angry judge and the stone floor. In her own small hands, she held a small stack of white linen cloths, bandages, and needles and thread. "Yes, forgive me, Minister, for such an uncomfortable situation-"

"I don't care!" Frollo snapped through gritted teeth, startling the two others. "Just do what you must!"

"Very well," Augustin agreed. "How many injuries?"

"Just two—the shoulder and stomach." Frollo hissed as more blood soaked through the linen cloths, pure rage somehow keeping him conscious.

"Then I suppose we should get started right away. Minister, if you please, remove your robe," the Archdeacon instructed, uncorking the wine.

Frollo's eyes darted between the Archdeacon and Sister Elise before settling on his hand holding the cloth over his shoulder.

Removing the cloth from its spot, Frollo felt the air strike the slash, only to become more aggravated when he began to undo the buttons of his judicial robe, sliding it off his good shoulder. Frollo saw how the front of his black doublet was stained with blood from the gash in his side, while the purple sleeve of his left had turned the color of wine.

Undoing the clasps in the front, he reluctantly pulled his injured arm out of the sleeve, the shy nun looking away awkwardly and her cheeks reddening. The whole left side of his torso exposed, Frollo curled his lip at the sight of so much blood covering his person.

"Best to start on the more severe one on the side," Augustin remarked to Elise, who nodded anxiously in agreement.

"Yes, Father. Minister, we need you, um, on your back," the nun instructed, intimidated by the pale and exasperated judge. As an infirmarian, she had seen unspeakable things and ailments, but there was something so foreboding and frightening to see the Minister of Justice in a state of affliction, especially half-naked.

"First the wine, then we will start applying the stitches," Augustin instructed.

Frollo's hand shot up, pausing him and the jittery sister. "Keep in mind that if any sloppy work results in something fatal, it shall be on your head," he threatened the Archdeacon, gray eyes still burning with rage. It was with great unwillingness that the Minister laid back on the worn pallet, clutching at the other half of his doublet covering his right, not wanting to expose the hidden trails of scars covering his back.

X

Muscles pulling painfully, Frollo forced himself to stand up, despite the instructions of the Archdeacon to rest while his injuries healed. He was told from a young age that rest was for the dead anyway, his industrious nature thanking him for such a mentality. That Sister Elise had been so shaky while tending to his wounds that it was a wonder that she did not rip the gash wide open.

Frollo balanced himself against the wall as he tried to regain his stature despite the dizziness that struck him as soon as he tried. The judge looked at the bandaging over his stomach, then aside at that covering his left shoulder. What's another few? He thought grimly, imagining the new marks that now adorned his body.

Turning his head aside, he barely saw his hat resting on the straw pallet. With some difficulty, he managed to dress himself in the black doublet he wore under his judicial robes. Hooking in the clasps, there was suddenly a frantic knock at the cell door, making him a jump a bit.

No peace whatsoever, Frollo thought bitterly. Shaking his head he called, "Who is it?"

"Claude—it's me!" Frollo recognized the voice instantly, reluctantly pulling the iron lock then the door handle, Jehan rushing in. "Oh, thank God—I thought you were a goner!" he breathed, relieved to see his older brother still in one piece, standing tall and commanding as ever, albeit paler than he usually was.

"Did someone tell you otherwise?" Frollo asked unemotionally.

"Well, you know how fast rumors can travel, and how…misleading they can be. You wouldn't believe the load of bull they were saying down at L'Pomme. But I'm glad to see you're still alive and well!" Jehan excitedly gripped his brother by the shoulders, eliciting a hiss of agony from the stiff judge. "Alright, alive and but not well," he said, Frollo irritatedly frowning at him as he instinctively took hold of his injured arm.

"Don't do that!" his voice menacing, taking a deep breath to handle the pain as he gripped his forearm tightly.

Jehan scratched his head as he studied his brother's response to the soreness in his arm. "Those gypsies really a did a number on you, didn't they?" he asked, taking some pleasure at seeing the Minister in such agony. "They get you anywhere else?"

"The stomach—and it was only one gypsy, mind you. You should know better than to believe everything you hear from the lips of tavern drunks." Frollo regained his composure, lest he be seen as incapable of tolerating a few aches in the eyes of his brother.

"You're probably right. They won't be too happy to hear that their favorite bureaucrat survived a knife attack, but they'd have found out sooner or later. By the way, you should go and have a talk with your boy in the bell tower; I went up there to ask what happened, and he was worried you might have died or something, so best to clear that up now before he starts saying one of those mourning prayers."

"He's not the only one I'd like to have a word with," Frollo remarked coldly, eyes darting to the small iron-barred window letting in the scarce sunlight.

"Who rattled your cage this time?" Jehan sardonically asked, hands on his hips and looking at his tense brother.

Absent-mindedly gazing through the small window to the city, Frollo answered, "You know Jacques Coictier, the King's doctor? As soon as I was attacked and bleeding on the steps of the church, he decides that it's time to flee the scene, without so much as asking about my condition and preferring to leave me to die! I've always said that he is nothing but an arrogant, two-faced coward!"

Jehan looked at the judge with limited interest. "Well, sorry about that, Claude, but I can see that you've got your own things to take care of so I'll leave you to that. Now if you excuse me, I have a full day ahead of me, so I will see you soon!" Giving the judge a two-finger salute, Jehan left his brother alone in the dusty cell.

As he sat alone, Frollo could feel the wound in his arm still lightly throbbing with pain. Of all the low, underhanded, conniving things…he began to think. How was it that only he himself could see gypsies for what he believed what they truly were? Most people either chose to ignore the problem or claim that the threat they were to the city was greatly exaggerated by the judge. No doubt attacking the Minister of Justice might actually help his propaganda against them, rallying more of Paris to side against them.

That's it, he suddenly thought, cogs in his mind turning.

The idea dawned on him. Quickly reaching for his black robe crumpled on the stone floor, the muscles in his abdomen crying out in pain, he hurriedly dressed himself. As he struggled to arrange himself back to his former glory, his mind raced with his new thought.

Frollo rushed out of the cell, striding down the hall, until suddenly he was stopped by the Archdeacon himself, whose face was etched with worry to see the Minister in such a whirlwind after enduring such malevolence.

"Minister," he said calmly despite brown eyes expressing alarm. "I'm glad to see you up, but you really should not be straining yourself, lest you want those wounds to take more time healing."

"I am feeling just fine," Frollo protested, sidestepping the man. "Now, it is important that I go and see my ward immediately; the poor boy probably has questions of what he had seen, so goodbye."

Before Father Augustin could say another word, Frollo was already marching down the long hallway. Finally he reached the bell tower stairs, gliding up them while ignoring the injury in his abdomen. When he arrived in the bell tower, his eyes scanned up and down, in case his charge might still be at it and running over the rafters.

"But what if Jehan is right? What if my master isn't going to make it?" Frollo stopped and listened to Quasimodo up in the loft as he expressed his concerns to his stone companions. "What will happen to me? He protects me, takes care of me…no, I couldn't go out there. You heard what he said, it's not for me…The master isn't that bad! He's the one who teaches me everything. If he's…gone, then who will?"

Suddenly Frollo felt he could not listen to such anguish any longer. Stepping up the ladder, he called out to the boy, who peered eagerly in the direction of his approaching guardian.

"Master!" he greeted wholeheartedly, clambering down from his rafter and looking up in awe at the once presumed dead judge. "You're alright!"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Frollo replied evenly, hand once again holding his left arm.

"Jehan said that you were hurt, and that they might not be able to help you!" the boy recounted. "I saw you—all the blood on the floor, and the Archdeacon told me to wait up here. Master, what happened to you?"

"Quasimodo, didn't I tell you not to believe every word that flies out of Jehan's mouth? And regretfully, I was attacked by a gypsy."

"A gypsy?"

"Yes, one who had the gall to pull a dagger on me while I was in the middle of discussing some important matters with a few associates of mine. I told you that no good could come from their kind!"

Quasimodo shrunk in response to his master's rising voice. "They're really that evil, Master? You were right?" he asked in a lowered voice and looking over his shoulder, as if one were nearby.

Clearly his throat and keeping his countenance stern, Frollo answered, "Undoubtedly. They won't stop until they have devastated the whole of society, starting with public officials such as myself! Their souls are so filled with darkness that they would even attempt to kill the very man who lives to improve this city."

"I thought…I thought that people weren't supposed to murder?" Quasimodo said falteringly, remembering the number of times Frollo tested him on the Lord's commandments.

"You're correct, dear boy. That is precisely why the gypsies are ripe with devilish sin—they could never truly accept God unless we beat it into them," Frollo cynically replied, stepping past Quasimodo and walking outside onto the balcony and leaning against its parapet on his hands, ignoring the pressure in his left arm.

"Master," Quasimodo hesitantly spoke after following him outside. "The Archdeacon says that everyone just needs to be treated with kindness and respect. He said if we try to understand others, then we can make life better for everyone."

Frollo chuckled dryly, no humor whatsoever in his voice. "Wishful thinking!" the judge remarked over his shoulder as Quasimodo took up a spot next to him and gazed down at Paris as well.

"What does that mean?" the boy asked, not particularly enjoying the dark nature of this conversation.

"If people relied on "understanding" do you think Charlemagne could have brought civilization to those heathens, the Saxons? No, he wouldn't have," Frollo vented, eyes scanning over the cityscape. "The world is inherently evil, Quasimodo, and sometimes those who contribute to making it so must be dealt with in a manner that might seem cruel, but is all for the greater good."

Quasimodo looked through the stone banisters down at the bustling city as well, taking note of the many citizens going about their day and wondering about these fabled gypsies. He then asked, "Master, what are you going to do with that gypsy if you catch him?"

"When the guards capture the man responsible, he will punished so severely that no gypsy will even think about doing something so idiotic and capricious! They have crossed the line at making attempt on my life, and mark my words, the people will finally see them for the animals they truly are. I'm sure even the King will allow me to handle the threat they pose after learning of this attempted murder."

Frollo mused to himself, There truly is nothing more rewarding than watching them suffer for their crimes…

x

*A/n: I don't care if the fandom has gone on hiatus, I still love writing. Read and review please! I NEED FEEDBACK!

P.S. Here's to ChicRockerGeek for enjoying the last chapter! And if you're a Fresme shipper, check out my story "Love You to Death"!