Don’t Let This Siren Cast Her Spell
Summary: Frollo’s thoughts on Esmeralda’s sentence and the events after.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunchback of Notre Dame or any of its plots and characters. This is simply for entertainment purposes. All rights belong to Disney and Victor Hugo.
“After twenty years of searching, the Court of Miracles is mine at least!” Claude Frollo smiled, elated and for almost once in his life, content. He observed in sick pleasure as his guards surrounded the gypsies but his focus did not linger too long on that as his granite gaze glided along the struggling, terrified Bohemians, seeking for a certain one with piercing emerald eyes. Ah, there she was. His emerald.
He made his descent along the stone steps, barely paying any mind to his adopted hunchback of a son as he approached him, only one person in mind. “Dear Quasimodo,” he mustered his gentlest voice, patting his red hair, more than amused as he noticed Esmeralda’s hostile glare towards him at the corner of his eyes. “I always knew that you would someday be of use to me.” He hardly stopped as he addressed the lad, more focused on his emerald to even register Quasimodo’s whisper of protest.
“What are you talking about?” Came in the only voice he wanted to hear. He grinned at the sheer amount of venom and hatred the silky voice held for him. Yet, he felt a pain of sorrow strike through his chest at such dislike she had towards him.
“Why, he led me right to you, my dear,” he replied back, the smirk remaining as he brushed a finger along her jaw, wanting, yearning for so much more from her. She had so much to offer and he wanted every single last bit of her. He didn’t have as much time as he would have preferred to admire her features when she accused him of being a liar. He simply shrugged it off. She would pay for her insolence and Claude Frollo was not only a patient man but a man of his word.
“And look what else I’ve caught in my net!” he exclaimed, his eyes showing bitter hatred for the ex-captain yet his expression remaining the same as he turned his attention to him. “Captain Phoebus back from the dead.” His lips formed a scowl. “Another miracle no doubt. I shall remedy that.” He then retreated, speaking so everyone could hear him. “There’ll be a little bonfire in the square tomorrow and you’re all invited to attend.” He turned away. “Lock them up,” he ordered, looking at Esmeralda straight in the eye. Claude started to leave, only to be stopped by the deformed bell ringer as he clutched onto his robes.
“No! Please, Master!” he pleaded, groveling on his knees. He gave a sharp turn, giving him a look that said it all. Quasimodo dipped his head in sorrow and Claude, for only a fraction of a second, felt pity for the misshapen boy. “No… No…”
“Take him back to the bell tower and make sure he stays there.” He gave one last look to him but had not a single bit of sorrow or pity to give him. No. He didn’t have time for that nor would he create time. He had a certain gypsy he needed to visit.
She stared up at Claude as he entered the dungeons, shackled to the wall in the back of the dungeons. Ashe was still in her gypsy attire. The minister opened the cell door, turning to the soldier standing guard. “Change her into the normal prison garb for women. Go.”
The soldier gave a curt nod before leaving, not wanting to annoy the older man for his infamous temper. Claude watched as he was no longer in sight before he turned his attention to the zingara shackled in front of him. “Finally have no smart remark?” He asked, kneeling down to her. She said nothing, only staring at him with disgust palpable on her face, her emerald eyes blazing with fury. He ran a finger along her jaw before trailing it down her neck, enjoying the way she shivered beneath him, growing aroused at her response.
“I can save you,” he breathed in her ear. “You need only to choose me. I can protect you, give you sanctuary.” He knelt down more, now face to face with the breathtaking bohemian.
“And be yours?” she asked quietly, watching him. He nodded, hope rising in his chest that she was at least thinking about it. “Never,” she growled after a while.
“Then I cannot help you,” he responded and tucked a strand of raven hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered in the dark mane before he trailed them along her soft jaw and neck, relishing at how her caramel skin felt so beautiful against his hand.
It was either the coldness or disgust, he wasn’t sure but he felt her shudder against his hand. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed.
“You are in no place to tell me what to do, now are you, witch?” He wrapped his thin fingers around her throat, groping the warm flesh. He leaned down, his breath heavy against her neck.
She shuddered out of disgust for the vile man and she had to do everything she could to resist throwing up on him. Instead, she coughed, turning her head away and ripping herself out of his grip to which he slapped her across the face harshly with the back of his hand, his two rings leaving two marks on her cheek.
The bohemian collapsed on the stone floor at the sheer force behind the slap. Claude watched in disgust, his fists clenching and unclenching in bitter fury. “Get up, gypsy,” he growled and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt, pulling her up. “You would happily open your legs for the ‘Sun God’ but you quiver away from the one you truly deserve?!” he demanded.
At those words, she threw up, not being able to help herself. She earned herself yet another slap out of anger. Her fingers curled in pain, her head connecting harshly to the ground. She was about to receive yet another blow but Claude heard the guard approach, prison garb in hand.
“Sir,” he addressed him, silently gesturing for Claude to leave so he could change the gypsy.
“I would rather do it,” he answered to the guard to which he handed him the white dress without hesitation.
Realizing what he intended to do, she trembled away from him. “Don’t you dare, you bastard!” she yelled, letting out a cry of fear when he grabbed her shackled wrists. “Don’t! Stop! Don’t touch me!” She felt her clothes torn off her body and tears began to spring up in her emerald eyes. She panted in fear, clenching her eyes shut whilst he worked.
Claude barely knew what he was doing as he shredded her clothes that now lay in a colorful heap of rags in the corner of the cell. He pressed her against the wall, holding her still, lust swimming in his granite gaze. He knew not what became of him but seeing the newly revealed flesh to him made him eager, hungry for so much more. He growled in frustration when she continued to struggle against him, making his work much harder than what he preferred it to be.
“So tempt me, gypsy witch, if you move one more bit, I’ll set every blasted gypsy here on fire!” He grabbed her by her wrist, holding her still as he forcefully put the prison garb on her. He dragged her out of the cell. “Look,” he snarled, pulling her along as she tried to get out of his grip. “LOOK!” He slammed her into the wall, latching his fingers around her throat, cutting off her oxygen supply. “Look, you stubborn gypsy whore! Look at the gypsies who are here! Who will be condemned to death because of you!”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “You will not put this on me,” she spat out. “You will not! It’s not my doing! I am not the reason why they are here! It is you!” The young Romani yelled. “You! Because you have sexual frustrations! Because you can’t accept the fact that I don’t want you! I want nothing to do with you! This is not my fault and if you think that I’m to believe that I am in the wrong…” Her rambling stopped, leaving the minister, for the first time in his life, in complete loss for words.
Obviously not liking the fact that a mere child, a gypsy no doubt caused this phenomenon angered him to a far greater extent. He merely clutched at her tighter and dragged her back to her cell, holding her still as he reshackled her wrists, tightening it to cause much pain. He took sick joy and pleasure, feeling dominant and moreso than ever around her whilst she cried in pain because of his doing. Her beautiful voice ringing out, even if it was in any form of agony sent waves of arousal and lust flowing through him, his blood pumping through his veins. He bit his tongue, hoping silently that she didn’t notice his arousal through his dark velvet robes.
The despicable thoughts swam through his mind, not only sexual fantasies fulling the sinful fantasies but the thought of her being under his control entirely, whimpering in pleasure and pain, submitting to his every need and want caused him to groan to himself.
Once shackled and restrained, he allowed himself to trail his hands down her neck to her breasts through her thin cloth, the hardening buds from the cold causing one of his own things to harden as he grazed his fingers over her perfect, round breasts.
She shuddered in disgust, looking almost angry at herself for allowing her body to react to his touches the way they were. “Do not fight against it,” she mumbled in her ear before biting beneath it, swirling his tongue on the patch of caramel skin. “Do not,” he repeated, growling at that point as she refused to submit to his iron grip he had on her in addition to the shackles restraining her. “When will you ever learn, harlot?” he demanded in bitter frustration. His hands moved up, his fingers curling into the material. He slammed her harshly against the wall, his eyes wild with lust and want.
“I will never submit beneath the likes of you,” she growled, staring up at him, her emerald eyes shining with defiance. “I will fight you until my dying breath or yours. I will never belong to you. Not to save my life nor others as much as I hate to say it. But there is no way I will be controlled, taken by someone like you. You’re a mad man, one that deserves the fiery pit of eternal suffering. You deserve not even one ounce of mercy that your Lord,” she spat the name, “has in store for you, if any.”
At her small speech, anger filled every inch of him. It rolled through his veins faster than his blood rushing to his face, a vein throbbing by his temple. “Despicable thing,” he growled, ripping off the prison garb. “Vile creature! You will not talk about the Lord like that! And you will not discuss my eternal soul! Do you understand me?!”
She said nothing, glaring at him in mere response. All she saw was his piercing eyes and felt herself being thrown to the floor before all went black for the gypsy.
Frollo stared at the still body of the young girl. He knelt down, lifting her head, studying her flawless features. He leaned down more, his anger diminishing in those mere seconds. He placed a rather gentle and tentative kiss on her lips before setting her down, running his thin fingers through her ebony hair.
“Why must you defy me? Fight against me? I merely want to help you, keep you safe.” He gathered her in his arms. She was nearly weightless in his strong grip. “Love you,” he mumbled and kissed her once more before sighing and leaving her on the floor, exiting the cell and dungeons.
The sun began to rise, the sky still quite dark but in a matter of an hour or so, it would be dawn and the gypsy who tormented Claude ever since the Feast of Fools would either no longer exist in this world or be claimed as his and his alone.
He stood on top of the wooden stand in front of Notre-Dame, the crowd forming around him, the cages filed of gypsies beginning to be dragged into the square. “Ah, look who has decided to join,” he smiled maliciously, taking sight of the blond Captain of the Guard. “I’m more than pleased that you are able to attend,” he laughed in a mocking tone. His smile grew broader as the man merely scowled at him, looking as though he could strangle him right then and there. “And here comes the star of the show!” He announced, watching in sick delight as the gypsy was practically dragged to the platform and forcefully tied to the wooden post.
Claude Frollo now ignored the man in the cage as well as the other gypsies struggling to escape. He was focused only on the caramel skinned girl in front of him. He stared at her, watching her every move, every breath, every struggle. He took notice of the stray hair falling in front of her face, the ebony hair now free from her ribbon and falling, creating a dark outline around her beautiful face.
“Preparations should take no longer than an hour,” he spoke calmly, his voice portraying at how much he was truly enjoying it, as if it was a sick game to him. “I will give you a choice again.” He ran a finger on her cheek. “Think about the others who will die along with you,” he whispered in her ear. “Think… Their lives could be spared if you just agree… I will be back and I expect you to say yes… mon beau.” He left with that, the gypsy feeling weak to her knees. She knew that if the rope wasn’t keeping her upright, she would have fell by then.
He entered the cathedral, immediately going to the altar and silently praying. “Notre pere qui est au paradis. Que ton nomsoit sanctifieton noyt aum vient ta volante soit faite sar terre commil est dans le ciel Donne-nous aujound’hair notre pain quotidien et pardonne-nous no offenses ear nouse pardonnons a ceux qui nous transcuettent. Et ne nous conduil pas a la tentation mais delivrez-nous du mal.” He finished the small prayer, taking a deep breath. He had to beg for forgiveness. For everything he had done and everything he was going to do. He clenched his eyes tight, his fingers curling to form fists. He trembled in anger, biting his lower lip. It began to bleed at the sheer force he put upon it.
He began to talk in complete bitterness for he just wished to get the prayer over with. “You teach us to ‘let the peace that comes from Christ rule in our hearts’. When I forgive in words, allow your Holy Spirit to fill my heart in peace. I pray this peace that only comes from Jesus will rule in my heart, keeping out doubt and questions. And above all, I am thankful. Not just today, not just this week, but always. Thank you for the reminder, ‘Always be thankful’. With gratitude, I can draw closer to you and let go of unforgiveness. With gratitude, I can see the person who caused my pain as a child of the Most High God. Loved and accepted.” He couldn’t help but scoff at that line. She didn’t deserve it and even if he knew he was lying to God Himself, he felt better saying that statement. “Help me find the compassion that comes with true forgiveness.
“And when I see the person who hurt me, bring this prayer back to my remembrance, so I can take any ungodly thoughts captive and make them obedient to Christ. And may the confidence of Christ in my heart guide me into the freedom of forgiveness. I praise You for the work You are doing in my life, teaching and perfecting my faith. In Jesus’ Name. Amen.”
As he talked, he thought about the words. Ungodly thoughts? From him? He was not the one who opposed God. She was. They weren’t unholy thoughts but righteous thoughts. He had done no wrong. She committed all the sins. She deserved to be punished, not him. “What was the blasted point of praying?” he mumbled to himself at that point.
None. He finally came to the conclusion. There was no point. He stood from his knees and roamed around the cathedral, admiring everything that the large House of God had to offer. He looked around it, seeing the sheer beauty of it all but yet, Esmeralda’s beauty passed it much greater. Esmeralda. Esmeralda. Esmeralda. Her wretched name burned a hole through his soul. He exited the cathedral and advanced to the wooden platform.
He came as the executor was piling the wood around her. She watched in alarm and looked up as he approached, the unmistakable fear in her eyes. Dom Claude Frollo smiled cruelly at that. He loved the fear of God that he was able to put into a person, especially a sinner, nonetheless, a gypsy. A vagabond, zingara, harlot, enemy of God. All those names went with the wretched people who dare claim that they did no wrong.
“The time as come gypsy,” he began to address her. “You stand upon the brink of the abyss. But even now it is not too late. I can save you from the flames of this world and the next. Choose me… or the fire.”
His smile had grew when she backed away whilst he inched closer. Having her trapped and basically trembling beneath him merely aroused him in ways he had yet to truly understand. He waited for the answer to which she spat in his face. He backed away, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, watching her in disdain to where she glared in response. He had to admit, he was impressed for her spitting in the face of death… So to speak.
But, nonetheless, she did refuse him. He held the torch overhead, beginning to speak to the large crowd watching. “The gypsy, Esmeralda, has refused to recant!” He continued speaking, continuing even though he barely knew what he was saying anymore, anger and frustration clouding his vision as he continued to talk. He began to rant but still kept up a dignified tone, surprising himself greatly since he always managed to allow a few things to slip whilst ranting about something he hated and oh, he despised the gypsy in front of him.
He slowly came to comprehend what he was saying and continued, lowering the torch. “And for her own salvation, it is my sacred duty to send this unholy demon back where she belongs!” he announced, setting fire to the stake. He smiled in sick glee, watching as she coughed, the fire blazing around her, creeping closer to the caramel skinned girl.
He could have sworn that he heard a cry from the hunchback but he wasn’t paying much attention, his heart beating erratically as her eyes began to close. She leaned her heard back on the stake, struggling to get a true breath in without inhaling any of the fumes. No such luck, causing the minister to slowly feel something escape him as the gypsy finally went limp. Lust. Pure lust and want for the girl who was on the brink of death.
Claude heard a cry in the distance that only became more distinct and before he realized what was happening, his adopted son landed on the wooden platform, immediately untying the zingara.
He expected the guards to take over, only for Quasimodo to take hold of the actual stake and shoved the soldiers off. Watching the ordeal of him grabbing the rope once more, he cried out his name in bitter anger, the lust and wanted that left him appearing once more, annoying him. “Quasimodo!”
“Sanctuary!” The hunchback called out, holding the unconscious Esmeralda high for all of Notre-Dame to see. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” He reiterated twice before retreating back inside.
“Guards,” the judge growled. “Seize the cathedral.”
The moments here release fueled his anger, the want of relief causing him to practically shimmer with fury. Quasimodo would pay and he would personally see to it. Esmeralda, if she was alive still, will once again get another chance.
He glared at Quasimodo as he ran off with the gypsy remaining unresponsive in his arms. He silently growled. Of all the damned things to happen, out of all the events to occur. A gypsy had to curse him, make him no longer see straight and bring people loyal to him under her curse against him. He wasn’t the villain in this. No. She was and she managed to twist the truth and cloud the mind with unholy thoughts. Well, no matter. She would get what was coming towards her. Maybe not in this world but definitely the next and he would see to it.
Of course he would prefer her as his and not to kill her, he would do what he deemed fit. If her life was spared, he would punish her in the end. She will be tortured or at the very least starved and dominated by him but she will get what she deserved.
As one thought led to another, realization spread that she probably created many more sins seen as punishable. Thievery, no doubt. She was a gypsy. Prostitution was most likely yet another. If she could spread her legs for strangers in the brothel, then more than likely, she could spread her legs for someone who needed it more.
Witchcraft, blasphemy, and probably other crimes much worse. Acts against God Himself and perhaps even ones for the Devil to please him. Vile actions, unholy thoughts, sinful acts in more than one bed with more than one man at a time.
And he was deemed the sinner? He laughed at the thought. Sinner indeed. All he did was serve right outness in the name of the Lord. He gave out punishments and offered salvation. None were willing to accept it. No gypsies at least. They would rather accept death and the fiery pits of Hell than submit to the will of God and His plan He had in store for them. Pathetic. How truly pathetic it was. For their pride and dignity was greater than eternal salvation.
He chuckled. “All of them will get what they deserve. You will too, my emerald. You will too.” He descended down the stairs of the execution platform, his anger taking over as he looked around, seeing the retreating form of Quasimodo with the zingara in his arms. His zingara, gypsy, witch, bohemian. No. She wasn’t his. Not yet but soon enough, she will be. She will be his and he shall see to it.
But it was perceived by him a pity that she would not even consider her soul to be saved and brought to salvation. There was a willingness to learn evident in her. She was merely a child still, eager to learn, to discover. A beautiful young girl such as her was worthy for salvation.
The judge’s granite gaze searched upon his soldiers and guards and somehow, through the turmoil, the gypsies had managed to escape from their confines. His thin lips twisted into that of a snarl and he began to approach his carriage, merely only a short distance from it when a tremendous wooden stake fell on top of it, breaking the simple carriage and sending his horses racing with terror from the abrupt attack.
His eyes glazed over with anger, bewilderment, and fury at how easily something could fall into disarray. His soldiers were of little to no use and he, himself, could easily bring everything into proper order if under the right circumstances. He was a skilled soldier, trained when he was younger, stronger than what his robes allowed people to perceive about him.
He could protect Paris, rule it with an iron fist as he has throughout his time as minister. If he could protect a city to as an extent of Paris, he could easily outmatch Phoebus whilst protecting Esmeralda. He couldn’t even protect himself, nonetheless, a beautiful gypsy that was vulnerable to the horrors and sins of everyday men who would take advantage of her at every turn they get, every chance. He could shield her, protect her, much unlike Phoebus. She needed someone stronger, better. He could provide her with that. He could give so much more.
Claude was experienced. He knew both women and men. Simply by one glance at them. All of them were open books and Phoebus was no different. Esmeralda foolishly fell in love with a cheating bastard who was engaged to a French mistress by the name of Fleur-De-Lys. A woman of high ranking to keep his already superior status. All Esmeralda would be towards him but a simple lay. A simple fuck and he would have no use of her.
He was no knight in shining armor but rather a coward, a pusillanimous man that was not fit to have her in bed with him. Claude could certainly be a worthy one to fill his place.
“A young, naïve child,” he mumbled mostly to himself as he advanced quickly towards one of his soldiers who was staring dumbly into space. “That is too pure for him yet too wicked for the world,” he hissed quietly, returning his vision to the chaotic scene that laid before him.
The lava pouring down from the cathedral caused Frollo to make a quick escape, his eyes searching for any means of it. The sword he held was clenched onto tightly that his already ghostly knuckles were turning whiter by the second. He shielded himself from the sudden flow of molten iron, managing to break open the rest of the door so he could hurry in. Once the coolness of the cathedral surrounded him as compared to the heat of the lava, he felt his tension loosen and his fear diminish.
He hid the sword beneath his robes, rolling his shoulders and neck to which he groaned at the strain. The uneasiness disappeared and he hurried up the stairs of the cathedral or at least attempted to. He barely got halfway when the archdeacon appeared, ruining his already foul mood. “Frollo! Have you gone mad?! I will not tolerate this assault on the House of God!”
The minister cut him off halfway through his rant, not in the right mind to list to yet another scolding from the older man. “Silence you old fool!” he snapped, his bony fingers curling into his cloth of his robes, throwing him down the remaining stairs. He was in such a rush to obtain the bohemian, he forgot one crucial detail. She was most likely guarded by his adoptive hunchback of a son. “The hunchback and I have some unfinished business to attend to,” he continued, hurrying to the other stairwell. “And this time, you will not interfere.” He slammed the door shut, locking it hastily before climbing up the stairwell, his eyes ablaze at the realization of the challenge that Quasimodo may prove to be.
He headed down the long corridor, searching for any indications where the two could be. Quasimodo will pay for his defiance, for his protests against his own animadversions. He went against him much more than once within only a few days. For twenty years he kept the boy incarcerated within the tower, making sure he could never leave. He knew that he always had a longing, an insatiable wanting to join the outside world and join everyone and be… normal. Claude scoffed at the thought. Quasimodo? Normal? What a ludicrous thought. He had no chance at it, even if he had help. No one could truly accept him. There was no way and he’d end up in Hell before Quasimodo had even the slightest of chances.
He soon grew frustrated at what little luck he came to, growing more annoyed by each second that ticked by with no progress. Luck was granted to him for a few minutes later seemingly out of nowhere. He saw the hunched figure of the deformed boy enter a room in glee over some form of victory he didn’t have a single indication to what it was.
He remained quiet, standing by the door, listening as the voice of happiness shifted into that of despair as he realized, from the sobbing that escaped the bell ringer, that the gypsy was dead.
Elation spread across the judge in waves at the thought of being liberated from the damnation that had crashed upon him the very moment he laid eyes upon the girl. He was free. Her spell was broken. She could no longer tempt him and he, he had passed the test. His test had been given to him and he passed it. He would no longer be teased, would no longer live in guilt, would no longer beg to his God for salvation. The relief felt as though the world had been lifted off of his shoulders, his chest was not constricted any longer and he was free to breathe again, free to live again. But not yet.
Quasimodo had for long been a thorn in his side. The boy took up much of his day and all he ever perceived the lad as was what he saw the moment he laid his eyes upon the blasted creature. A demon. That was his final test. He had spent twenty years guarding the boy. Teaching, caring, raising him. And his trial, much like the shorter lived one, he felt, was done. He would be fully at peace once he sent the demon back to where he came. He would send him back to his real master and he would not rest until the deed was complete.
He was silent when entering the room and his suspicions were confirmed. The boy was on his knees, grasping onto the gypsy’s dark hand as he cried over her. He did not keep his attention on his adopted son but rather the cause of all his troubles and unfortunate events.
The girl appeared to be merely asleep. Her whole body was relaxed against the makeshift bed of wood she laid upon. She was not quivering in fear nor anger. She was still. He allowed her attention to move from her raven hair that he loved down to her closed eyes that would never again be seen by the world. The stunning emerald orbs that would no longer captivate anyone foolish enough to look into them.
Then her lips. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, wet as well. The reason being more than likely Quasimodo giving her water in an attempt to wake her. He remembered his lips on hers for it had not been long at all. Her lips, they were not human. Nothing about her was human. But her lips. They were soft, smooth and the taste was like nothing he had ever experienced before. It was captivating and one would get drunk off the taste of her. And he was finding himself to be more than thirsty, wanting another moment with her. Unconscious or not, struggling or not, replying or not made no true difference to him. He would have the chance once he rid the world of the grieving abomination resting on his knees.
He placed a hand at the peak of his hump, giving the only indication of his presence for the boy had not noticed. He could have killed him without letting him know he was there and Quasimodo would have been none the wiser. But he would be an easy kill in such a vulnerable state no doubt so he figured why not taunt the prey before swooping down for the kill?
“You killed her,” was the venom spewed acknowledgement.
Frollo had to mask his voice filled with glee, knowing it could easily brew anger within the lad. “T’was my duty,” he began, speaking what his perception was of the truth. “Horrible as it was… I hope you can forgive me.”
The boy was seemingly ignoring all the words spoken by his master who did not mind the lack of interest. It would make little to no difference within the next moments. “There, there Quasimodo. I know it hurts. But now it is time to end your suffering…” He raised his right hand high over the back of the boy who continued to cry over his loss. “… forever,” he mumbled the last word as he brought the dagger down.
All Frollo heard was a gasp from the boy and if given another moment, he would have perceived his mission as a success but before he was able to decipher what was occurring, he was struggling with the much stronger man in an attempt to regain his weapon.
Due to being taken by the element of surprise, he was thrown back into a stone wall, a sharp and unwelcoming spike of pain soaring throughout his entire body from the base of his tailbone. He now opened his eyes, meeting the terrifying scene of Quasimodo stalking over to him with the weapon meant to end his life, presumably by about to do so with him. He inwardly grimaced at the feeling that soared through him that was as foreign to him as the lust and want he had for the girl laying down on the wooden bed. “N-now, now. L-listen to me, Quasimodo,” he begged, desperation and fear soaring throughout his body as he felt his heart spike with fear that his life was going to be stolen by the hand of the very creature he raised.
“No! You listen! All my life you told me that the world is a dark and cruel! Now I realize that the only thing dark and wicked of it is people like you!” he yelled as he threw the dagger onto the floor with a clatter.
The submissive state of the boy did not exist and had been replaced with a raged and dare he say hate filled monster. Frollo was defenseless. He was on the floor, cornered, and he had not a chance of surviving if Quasimodo choose to attack and kill him. Curling away more, he wanted nothing more than to hide away in the confinements of the dark. His only saving grace would be…
“Quasimodo…” The assault of her voice made Frollo breathe in relief. He would not be killed. He was saved. He would live some more. He watched as the bell ringer turned his attention back to Esmeralda. She was awake. She saved him but she was alive meaning that he had not yet passed his test.
Wrapping his thin fingers around the hilt of his sword attached to his side, he spoke aloud, his voice dripping with anger at her stubbornness as his determination to rid the world of unholy women. He would not offer her another chance. She was to die for a reason. His death was halted for a reason. So he cold rid her life in the name of God. She escaped death multiple times during the course of the recent days but not again. She will not walk free and continue to sin. She will not persuade others, charm others, and cause them to turn away from God. He will fulfill h is duty. He will kill both of them and they will be judged accordingly.
The refusal from Quasimodo as he gathered the gypsy in his arms made him want to laugh at the sheer stupidity and naivety he held. He hadn’t a choice in the matter. Both of their souls were already damned. Neither could escape God’s plan. They were to die and he would see to it that fate will take its toll. Destiny will run its course and he will deliver. He will not disappoint.
The thoughts continued to reiterate within his mind as he searched for the gypsy and the hunchback. They could not go far. Quasimodo, while being agile and strong, now had to keep in mind the extra precaution in his arms. No doubt would he not be reckless. While the boy was naïve, he was not stupid. He would take care of his zingara. Frollo scoffed inwardly at the adjective.
She had bewitched Quasimodo’s mind, made him believe that she was not who she really was, a witch in colorful garments. She convinced the fool that she was a young, innocent girl who was wrongly accused due to her ethnicity. Not only did she manage to weave the web of lies but was capable of ensnaring Quasimodo, the captain and who knows how many other unsuspecting, innocent men.
When she spoke, no matter what the topic was, even if perceived truthful, was nothing but lies, coated with lies, coated with deceptiveness for the man to bow to her and perform her unholy acts against God. She was tainted at such a young age. She lived with those heathens, was raised by the king of them, was the queen of the lying, thieving, Devil-worshippers. He would not easily fall into her web. He would not be spun until he was unable to escape. He will fight. He will be led by God, out of the dark tunnel of lust to the light of God’s salvation, to righteousness, to the word he lived by.
Turning the corner, he kept his sword in front of him, not understanding how the two would have gotten so far. They didn’t, he realized. They could be hiding right under his nose.
Creeping closer to the railing, he looked over, smiling maliciously when he was correct. Quasimodo was dangling from a gargoyle with one hand, the other arm wrapped securely around the gypsy, protecting her the best he could while she had her arms wrapped around his neck to ensure she wouldn’t fall.
The way they held onto each other caused jealousy and anger to spike throughout his body. She appeared so willing to allow a grotesque man hold her that close but threw up when he, a holy man of God, a good man, barely touched her. She was disgusted by him but was charmed by the demon. Alike went with alike, he concluded. But it did not diminish the anger soaring through the veins. It did not help the jealousy brewing in his heart. It did not decrease the horrible fury he had even more towards the gypsy.
However, the fear in both of their gazes made his ecstatic, made him feel powerful. And hers… hers aroused him. To see the always certain, always bold woman shrinking away from him in fear brought such satisfaction to him that was next to impossible to identify for he had never experienced it before. Unfortunately, he could not reminisce in the pleasure for long. He had a job to do and he was intent on doing just that.
“Leaving so soon?” he taunted as he brought his sword down, narrowly missing the gypsy as she cried out in shock and fear. Another pleasurable shiver followed by a wave of anger for missing a target that was directly beneath him. Perhaps if he could somehow manage to get Quasimodo to loosen his grip just enough for both to fall into the flames below them… a much easier method as opposed to killing them both off one by one. Both were considerably difficult on their own and Frollo was in no mind to spend any excessive time if it wasn’t necessary.
He attempted. Again and again. Again and again. One strike, one blow after another with more rage and anger in the new one compared to the one just brought down. “To Hell with this!” he growled beneath his breath, the frustration building in his chest as he failed to complete such a simple task in his mind.
The boy was far too agile and much too strong and determined in keeping Esmeralda safe. His whole body covered the small girl, shielding her from harm. If Frollo was to strike anyone, he would receive the blunt of the attack The way he held her only increased Frollo’s rage. He felt a need to take over. To hold her, to protect her much like Quasimodo did. It should be him covering her body with his. It should be him protecting her as she clung on for dear life. But it wasn’t. She refused him, spat in his face, threw up beneath him, struggled and cried, yelled and shouted.
She did not gaze upon him with love and admiration as she did with the captain, with the hunchback, with her people. Instead, she cowered with fear. She fled and hid, refused his invitation for salvation. She went against him every step of the way since she met him. It seemed as though she was hidden from the truth… that she should stay with the Sun God and not him. With Quasimodo and not the man she truly deserves, who would care for her and love her… No. No. He will not allow the lust turn into a false thought of affection. She held no place in his heart that held its complete devotion to God and only God. She will taunt him no longer, hold him in her hand no longer! He will not longer be a slave to her! No longer!
Utilizing the energy that gathered in his veins, he struck again, his sword digging into the stone of a gargoyle. Yanking the sword but with a heave, he turned his attention to the gypsy that was climbing up and over the balcony, Quasimodo no longer shielding her from harm. So he struck. And missed. The hunchback had managed to push the gypsy away right in the nick of time, leaving the two there. He decided to ignore the girl. Getting rid of the boy would ensure that no one was there to protect the harlot. Not Phoebus, not her own brothers of Satan. No one. His priority had changed once more.
“I should have known that you would risk your life for that gypsy witch. Just as your own mother did trying to protect you,” he revealed finally. The appalled look and the inquiry followed by Quasimodo made the minister laugh to himself a the stupidity the lad held. But he was not going to temporize the matter again. “And now, I’m going to do what I’ve should have done twenty years ago!” he yelled, throwing the cape he wore (that somehow appeared even though he wasn’t wearing it when he first entered the room with Quasimodo and Esmeralda but let’s not question that at the moment) covering the boy’s head as he yanked him forward and off the gargoyle which he stood upon. However, underestimating the bell ringer’s weight allowed him to topple over the balcony to which he was left dangling over the Hell created at the base of the cathedral.
He somehow managed to grasp the velvet cloth, looking up with eyes filled with terror to his son that was holding onto the material with one hand, the other grasping onto the stone balcony of the cathedral. He managed to catch a glimpse of the forgotten gypsy who grabbed Quasimodo’s large hand in a futile attempt to help him. The girl was small, using cunning methods to escape dire situations. What she held in charm, she lacked in strength. But the alarming factor he took notice of was the slackened grip the stronger one of the three seemed to have on the cloth. Acting quickly, he managed to swing himself from the cloth to a nearby gargoyle, climbing on top of it, surprising even himself at what he had accomplished. He rose to his feet as he saw victory just within reach, raising the sword that had been dropped earlier over his head, meeting the terrified gaze of the Bohemian girl.
He was giddy with the thought of success in mind. He will kill them both. He will succeed in his mission. They will both die beneath his hand. And with that thought, he rose fully while yelling, “And He shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit!” But right before he was able to do so, the gargoyle began to crumble beneath his feet, causing him to lose his balance and desperately clutch onto the disintrigrating structure as he hung over the flames.
Fear, great fear enveloped his heart, squeezing and paralyzing it as he watched with a sickened stomach the gargoyle transform from an inanimate object into that of a demon, laughing at him, glaring at him dead in the eyes and he knew, he knew that he was condemned to Hell.
All became clear to him in that single moment. His delusion was not brought upon the word of God but rather the sinful actions of Satan. His life’s work was destroyed, deemed pointless and in vain, going against every single word of God. The murders, the torture, the executions were not righteous. His acts were not to please who he worshipped. He had spent his life working for Satan. He had killed because of him. He had ruined people’s lives, put fear into the hearts of man and convinced himself that it was all necessary, it was all warranted, it was what he had been born to do.
And he screamed as he plummeted. It was not the scream of a man terrified of death but rather of that of a damned man, sorry for his sins, wishing to repent, wishing to start over. The scream was that of pure agony, sorrow, regret. Pure pain and defeat. His soul cried out, begging to be saved, begging to restart, begging to live again in the name of God. Tears had blurred his vision as he knew his fate. He knew the judgement before he even faced the afterlife. He knew his sins, his wrongdoings. He knew all he had done wrong. And all he could do was hope that he would be given another chance. A chance to set things straight, right what has been wronged.
He connected with the lava, the molten iron, and all he felt was a blinding pain. But it did not compare with what he felt towards his soul. The agony his sins piled upon him, making it next to impossible to even comprehend the searing burning he felt. His sins were his torture. His sins were his Hell. Hell could not offer a method of torture that was worse than his pain. Not even the Devil himself. He grew numb, felt nothing, nothing. And all went black.
The first thing he noticed was that everything was white. Everything. The robes that he had on were white, his shoes were white, his rings and the hat that he always wore was white. While not having died with the hat on, he believed it to be one of his favorite pieces of clothing to wear. He was glad to have it on.
The next noticeable thing was that he was… younger. He had no wrinkles, no gray hair, no fragile bones. He was back as a youth before he even became minister. He would reckon upon twenty years old. It was great to feel youthful again, it was amazing to not feel any aches or pains that came with age.
He didn’t have long to relish in it when his very soul cried out. The pain that soared through him caused him to collapse to the floor in a fetal position, curled within himself as he observed Esmeralda do it earlier because of him. The pain was that of nothing he had ever felt before. He laid there, groaning at the agony. It surpassed a length of time later. He hadn’t a single clue as to how long he was on the ground for but he found that he did not care. Maybe this was his Hell. Maybe it would not be any external factors causing the torture. No demons, no fire, no pitchforks or goblins. Maybe this was his eternity. Maybe this was his fate.
Sitting on the floor, he hadn’t a moment to calm down when the smell of smoke filled the air. Clenching his eyes shut, he prepared himself for the floor to give way and for him to go falling through the pit. But no such thing occurred. No pain, but a touch. A gentle touch on his cheek and a hand running through his now pure black hair.
No, he thought to himself. No. This is some cruel torture. This is not real. I am to be damned!
Despite these thoughts, his gray eyes opened and he backed away suddenly upon seeing who it was. The gypsy girl that he had attempted to murder. She, much like him, was dressed in pure white. She retained her beauty, her emerald eyes shining, her hair pulled back in her pink ribbon that was also white. The only noticeable difference was the large pair of angel wings spread out behind her.
How was this…? Why…? Had he killed her? Had he caused her death and he was to see her ascend while he plummeted?
As if reading his thoughts, the girl smiled and laughed, the laugh warming him throughout his body. “No, Claude Frollo,” a shiver rushed through him at his name on her lips. “You did not kill me. I was assigned to you.”
“What? Like my guardian angel?” A nod of confirmation. “But… when? And…” His mind was flooded with questions and so many needs and wants to have them answered. The angel raised a hand to silence him. He obeyed.
“I was assigned to you as soon as you were born,” she began, kneeling across from him once he relaxed. “I watched over you as you grew, as you entered priest hood, as you became minister. And I was proud of you. I was always there guiding you, wanting to lead you down the right road and that was what happened until my grip on you became weaker as another entity took over. The entity and I fought for control… and I lost. So I had to watch with an aching heart as he manipulated you, changed you. And I knew I had to intervene. So I did.
“I sent you Quasimodo in order for you to raise him. However, the way you obtained him was dictated by the spirit that had the hold on you. I saw you change as he grew and hoped that my plan was successful. It was on giving you someone to love and you were changing back to your old ways. But the entity struck back and struck back hard. Not only did he force you to bury your love for you son away but he gave you an objective. And I was not strong enough to intervene again. He kept me bound.
“But after twenty years, I managed to strengthen again. And I went down to help you, help you see what you’re doing wrong. But there was always him intervening within getting to you, always something holding me back, changing the course that should have been straightforward. And I lost you… I failed my mission. But I’m given a second chance, which means, you get a second chance.”
Claude stared at the angel, soaking every detail in. Shaking his head, he gazed into the gypsy’s emerald eyes. “But why give me another chance? I couldn’t fight.”
“But you can now. With this new knowledge you hold. If I was not strong enough to protect you, all the fault rests on me. You are human, you are a man. You are not perfect. Not a single person is. We all have flaws. Yes, even angels,” she smiled. “You will be given a chance to redo everything. You will not change your name or identity. You will explain how you grew young, reclaim title as minister and I will be standing besides you in spirit and in life. Esmeralda will live alongside with you. You must gain her trust. There are two parts of me now. But it is still me. My human side knows the knowledge I know. She is me. And we will both be helping you.”
The disbelief was more than evident in Frollo’s gaze, his soul growing excited and determined at another chance. “But you are not going to be given another chance after this one if you are to fail. You will have this knowledge and you will fight. But you will never fight alone.” She stood and held out a hand for Frollo to take. A large door opened across the room. She gestured to it once the former minister took her hand and stood.
“This will not be easy. Not for a single moment. You are not alone in this. Go through the door and right what has been wronged.”
Claude nodded, determined and ready to change his life. He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the door knob before opening the door, stepping inside. White light engulfed his vision entirely and he was left blinded.
It took a moment for everything to clear up. But once it did, he was on the floor by the steps of the cathedral stairs. He stood and looked around, the sun shining high in the sky, the square empty with Notre-Dame looming over him. He was alive. He was brought back. He had died and was given a second chance and he was not alone. With this in mind, he began to head to the Palace of Justice for the large challenge. And this time, he will live in the name of God.
A/N. Hoped you enjoyed. I’m thinking about doing a sequel to this. If you guys want a full story based off of this, let me know but it will take a while to get it written if desired. Comments and likes are appreciated greatly.