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Chapter Text

"The bell tower, perhaps," Frollo suggested, his gaze drawn to the top of the Notre Dame cathedral. "And who knows? Our Lord works in mysterious ways."

He studied the misshapen child he held in his hand, swaddled in rags. Thank heaven that it only cried briefly after its gypsy mother had suffered an accident mere moments ago.

"Even this foul creature may improve one day to be…of use to me," he said lowly to himself, his lips curling into a conniving smile.

Father Augustin, the Archdeacon, gave Frollo a quick condemning expression as he still held the gypsy's lifeless body in his arms as the winter snow whipped through the air.

"The bell tower? Are you sure that you wouldn't rather the child live with you in the Palace of Justice instead?"

Frollo shuddered to think of living under the same roof as such a beast. He thought of the humiliation and disgrace he would be subjected to should he be seen with the child. The Minister might have thought himself above all others in the city, but even he could not bear to endure the reproach he would receive from simple peasants…not when he knew that this whole mess was his fault, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

He gave a self-assured glance and nonchalantly replied, "Positive. This thing would not at all benefit from the scorn it will receive from the common folk. No...it is a monster and must be shielded for its own sake."

Augustin sighed. "Very well, Minister," he said. "We will make suitable arrangements for the child. I must see that this poor soul is properly put to rest." With that said, the Archdeacon shouldered through one of the church's wooden doors and carried the woman's body in.

Solemnly nodding, Frollo pulled himself off of the great black beast of a horse and followed the Archdeacon inside.

Frollo exhaled in irritation at the thought of another problem to worry about; it was enough that he was constantly pulling his teenage brother Jehan out of trouble for his reckless behavior—now he had another child to keep watch over?

But this thing was human by no means: its body was uneven and mangled and born of gypsy descent, and Frollo could not decide which was worse.

He made his way to the church's pews and directed his attention to the great rose window that bore the image of the Virgin Mary and Child. He wondered how many times had he looked up at this stained glass beauty in times of turmoil and great shame. The only thing he could think was, I was only carrying out my sacred duty to uphold the law and apprehend wrongdoers. Any misfortune that followed was through no fault of my own.

But why me?! He internally pleaded. I have done nothing to deserve such a burden to bear!

He looked down at the boy and studied his features: of course there was the unsettling sight of the large wart almost completely covering his left eye; a small tuft of red hair on his head; and even under the rags that swaddled the boy, Frollo could feel the baby's spine curved upward and creating a small hump in its back.

Suddenly the child began to fuss and wriggle in his arms, bringing the judge out of his thoughts. Nervously, he rocked the child to calm it, his heart beating fast out of a long forgotten emotion that he had felt only moments ago when all this chaos began: fear. Fear which made him see the reality of his situation.

Frollo denied to himself over and over in his head that he was to blame and hoped to be relieved of having to care for this creature. Unfortunately, there seemed to be no comforting bright side at all in this situation.

"Minister?" Frollo was shaken from these thoughts at the Archdeacon's voice. "I believe we have matters to attend to," he addressed, motioning towards the staircase that led to the bell tower, Frollo following behind.

"Once again, Frollo: the child can stay in another–more suitable–part of the church." Frollo gave him a cold stare indicating that his mind was made up. "Alright then," Augustin concluded. "I've never been able to stop you before…no matter how rash your decision may be." The last part he muttered to himself.

Frollo's lip curled at the man's words. "Don't test me," he said harshly. "I'm perfectly capable of deciding the fate of this child. Besides, what better place to become close to the Lord than in His own House?"

The Archdeacon decided to leave it at that knowing that such a stubborn man would not be so easily persuaded. Attempting to make light of the situation, Father Augustin said, "Tell me, Claude, when was the last time you traveled up to the top of the church?"

Thinking for a moment, he responded, "I haven't ventured up to the top of the cathedral since I was a child." Frollo tried focusing on climbing the stairs and carrying the child to avoid any unwanted memories that might come flooding back to him.

"Well, since you intend to house the child in the church, you do know that you must still visit and raise it as your own? Your penance does not end at simply finding it a place to live," the Archdeacon explained.

The Minister scoffed at this. "Isn't it enough that I spared the wretched creature its life?" He glanced disdainfully at the child who barely looked back at him with his good eye. "I have done my fair share of raising children, as evidenced by my brother. In all fairness, Father, I never intended to be a parent, let alone to a child that isn't mine, but rather what I assume can only be the wicked spawn of the Devil!"

The priest stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face the Minister on the lower steps. "Claude," he said sternly. "What we want may not always be aligned with what God expects from us. He obviously has other plans for you, and are you willing to challenge that?"

Frollo stood agape at this argument, unsure of how to respond.

"Besides," he continued, collected. "I think that this endeavor will benefit the both of you: the child will grow up cared for, and you might learn something as well."

They continued their trek up the stairwell until finally reaching the tower; a memory of venturing up here as a boy once coming back to the judge, only for him to quickly suppress it and any more nostalgia. The air in the tower was extremely cold and much darker than the rest of the Notre Dame. Frollo glanced around the tower which was cluttered with broken statues and tattered cloth.

"You are absolutely sure that the child should live here?" Augustin asked once more. Frollo shot him another irritated glance as his answer. "Well then, you do know that the proper necessities must be provided by you, Minister?" the Archdeacon reminded him.

"Money is not an issue," he assured. "I will personally see to it that it receives the appropriate provisions."

"It should be noted that our current bell-ringer should be informed of the tower's new occupant, although I'm not sure that he will be quite excited by the news."

"He will adapt," Frollo bluntly replied. "He is almost completely impaired by his hearing and I doubt that the boy's presence will affect him much. Simply explain that as the child's guardian I will visit it as often as time permits me, and that he does not have to pay any mind whatsoever to him. And should anything happen to the boy, I will hold the man personally responsible."

"By the way," Augustin continued. "If you are going to raise this child, then you must give it a suitable name to address it by."

"'Suitable'? This thing is not even completely human, but rather something incomplete and half-formed!" Frollo wondered what kind of name could at all seem fitting to grace this poor soul with. After a brief moment, he reevaluated his statement and chuckled darkly to himself. "'Half-formed'," he muttered again. "Quasimodo," he wickedly stated.

The Archdeacon furrowed his thick eyebrows at the Minister. "Claude, you cannot be serious. A name such as that is simply cruel on your part. Would you not prefer giving it a better name?"

Frollo frowned at this challenge of authority. "You did say to give it a suitable name, and what could be more fitting than naming it for what it is?"

Irked by the judge's smugly assured attitude, the Archdeacon retorted, "To be fair, Minister, you are not crippled despite your name suggesting otherwise."

Frollo scowled at the irony. "That is neither here nor there. But since I am to be its guardian, I will decide what is best for him…Quasimodo. Unless of course, you would like to place it in the foundlings' bed yourself and release me of this penance?"

The Archdeacon could only look disapprovingly at the Minister, still holding the quiet child in his gloved hands.

"I didn't think so," Frollo arrogantly clipped. "Anyway, I must go and sort out these arrangements for him. In the mean time I will need to leave him here while I attend to them."

"And how long do you expect these arrangements to occupy your time, Minister?" Augustin distrustfully asked, crossing his arms.

"No more than a day or two. But who knows? It could take more time than desired." Frollo handed Quasimodo over to the man as he turned back towards the stairwell.

"Claude." Frollo turned around at the stern tone of voice. "Remember: if you do not return to care for the child, it will only be a hollow gesture that you cannot pass off as penance."

"I understand," he replied, barely hiding his annoyance. "But I assure you, my soul will be just fine. Now if you excuse me, I have matters to attend to," before taking his leave down the flight of stairs.

The Archdeacon looked at the now sleeping child and shook his head. Softly he said to himself, "Lord have mercy on you both."

Walking down the stairs, Frollo suppressed a scream of anger as he furiously pulled at his hair.

That night, back at the Palace of Justice, Frollo drowned his frustration in spirits, each drink becoming more aggravating as he replayed the day's events over in his head.

He cursed himself for being subjected in serving a penance in his position: to be a young, up and coming Minister of Justice saddled with being an unwilling parent would most definitely put a damper on his mission of uncovering the legendary gypsy hideout, the Court of Miracles.

Is this all a part of Your plan? He lamented to God as he stared out at the dark winter sky from the balcony of his chambers. Have I not suffered enough? What have I done to deserve such a punishment?

Do you intend for that abomination to be of some benefit to me in the future? He prayed.

Will it assist me in finding the Court of Miracles?

He instantly doubted it as a possibility. Quasimodo was so ill-fitted to function properly that Frollo wondered how long the boy would actually live for.

"Deus, da mihi virtutem," he prayed before heading to bed.

Frollo slept restlessly, plagued by constant memories of first seeing the child's horrible, disfigured face—a face that could in no way be created by nature, only by Satan himself.

He was only relieved when the dawn began to break so that he may start his day as early as possible to escape such sleepless torment, albeit with an unbearable headache.

Chapter Text

Frollo had ordered various servants to fetch the proper necessities for Quasimodo, without giving too much away which could lead to unflattering gossip. They cast each other suspicious glances at his requested items: infant clothes, a cradle, linen cloths…Was the Minister expecting some secret love child or keeping family perhaps?

When one of the bold ones attempted to inquire about the contents of his list, the judge shortly replied, "It is not your place to question my orders; just do as you are told."

He commanded that these items be delivered to Notre Dame where he would visit later on, even with a constant throbbing in his head from last night's angry drinks.

X

The young man whistled happily as he climbed up the steps and pushed through the church's doors late in the day. As a handsome teenage boy with his riotous blond curls and red fur-lined tunic, he was the image of lust for life. He scanned around the nave until he located the Archdeacon.

"Father Augustin!" he called, his boisterous voice echoing and startling the man.

Gathering his composure, Augustin greeted the teen. "Good day, Jehan. What brings you here at this hour?"

"I've been all over the city looking for Claude and heard that he might be here. Have you seen him?"

"Ah yes, he's up in the bell tower actually. Although I'm not sure he is in the right mood to see you now."

Jehan shrugged his shoulders. "Nonsense! My brother's always pleased to see me!" he happily assured as he turned away and headed for the stairwell.

Jehan lightly pondered over the priest's words; he may have said that his brother was not in a pleasant mood, but then again Claude was always in a foul one, so what difference would it make?

"Claude!" he called out as he neared the top of the tower. "Claude! Are you up here?"

As he reached the top of the staircase, Frollo speedily marched down the steps, gritting his teeth and looking incredibly annoyed–as usual.

"Jehan!" the judge angrily hissed. "Will you be quiet?!" he said before turning around and making his way up the steps, the teen following his brother to the bell tower.

"'Quiet'?" Jehan questioned. "What are you doing up here anyway?"

Frollo huffed in frustration. "Never mind that! Whatever trouble you're in or amount of money that you desire, I cannot help you with right now. So if you would be so kind as to leave me be, I'll visit you another time."

"But I really do need your help today…" Jehan's plea was interrupted by a gurgling sound coming from the top of the steps of the tower. Glancing up and back at his brother, Jehan raised an eyebrow and asked, "What was that?"

Frollo shook his head and climbed back up the steps with Jehan in tow, curious to see what his brother was hiding.

Upon reaching the top, Jehan's eyes immediately fell upon the wooden cradle a few feet away from where the small voice came. While Frollo busied himself at a nearby table pouring milk into a hollowed out cow's horn, Jehan eagerly asked, "Claude, is that what I think it is?"

"Partially, so to speak," he answered dryly and glancing back at Jehan. "This child is now my responsibility and I have decided to care for it here in the church."

"You're a father now?!" Jehan asked in disbelief. "You know, I always had a hunch that you had a secret love life you weren't telling me about."

Don't say "hunch", he thought a grimace. Frollo gave him a cold look before saying, "This child is not my flesh and blood. I have just taken him into my care due to certain unforeseen circumstances."

Jehan stepped closer towards Quasimodo's cradle. "Come on, I'm sure that this child can't be all…"

The boy stumbled backward in shock and horror. "Good Lord! What is that?!" He shakily ran back and gripped his brother's arm. "What is that thing?!" he repeated, trembling and pointing back at the cradle.

Stoically, Frollo answered, "That monstrosity is now my ward." He pried Jehan's nails out of his arm and walked over to lift the baby up. Frollo walked back over to the table where a shaken Jehan backed up a little from the two. He watched as his brother picked up the horn and carefully fed it to the child.

The teen watched with morbid fascination the odd pair. "Why not just put it to a wet-nurse?" Jehan asked, still apprehensive of getting too close to the deformed infant. "Isn't that what you did for me?"

"Easier said than done," Frollo answered. "My endeavors have been utterly fruitless in finding a wet-nurse willing enough to feed a child as hideous as him."

Jehan examined the child's protruding wart over the left eye as he hungrily drank from the horn. "By the way, what's the little beast's name?"

"Quasimodo."

Jehan chuckled at this. "Good one." The teen scanned the tower, his gaze wandering upward towards the bells in the high ceiling. "Charming place to keep a child," he remarked. "So how did you come to be the caretaker? Unless he really is the product of a secret love affair; if so, well done!"

Frollo glared at his brother. "I have already told you that I did not sire this boy! It was orphaned and I was named his guardian. Besides, I would never be so careless as to commit such a disgusting sin as fathering a bastard child!"

"Then what does that make Quasimodo since you have no wife and he isn't yours by blood?" Jehan challenged, enjoying the sheer annoyance evidenced on the Minister's face.

"It simply means that I have taken him in as my own out of the goodness of my heart," he unemotionally answered. To prevent any further inquiries (and to avoid recounting the actual story), Frollo quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, what did you want in the first place, Jehan? If it is money that you seek, I will not help you."

Jehan's face turned up into an innocent smile. "Brother," he said sweetly, hands folded before himself. "I only wanted to pay you a visit, but then I remembered something... You know how much I value your good grace, which is why I come to you in need of a few pieces of silver. You see, I too experienced some unforeseen circumstances that have robbed me of my allowance."

Frollo took the now empty horn out of Quasimodo's mouth and gave him a light pat on the back before laying the boy into his cradle. He looked doubtfully at his little brother. "By any chance did these "circumstances" happen to be the succubi of Rue Glatigny, or perhaps a so-called "bad hand" at one of your card games?"

"Of course not! Give me a little more credit than that!"

"Hmm…a few more drinks you have put down on your already-extensive tab at La Falourdel's?"

Jehan frowned at his brother's inquiry. "That's not the point. I am in desperate need of money!"

"Then elaborate, please," Frollo said calmly and crossing his arms. "What do you so desperately require money for?"

Stretching the truth, Jehan replied, "Why, because there is a poor soul out there in great need of a new suit, and we are a charitable family, are we not? And I want to be the one to provide this poor man with said charity."

Frollo remained unmoved at Jehan's subtle lie. "'Charity?' Please, do you deem me a simpleton? I know fully well that you intend to waste my money on ridiculous luxuries to your heart's content. You do not need yet another suit! By the way, how are your studies? For your sake I pray that you are not getting involved in any more quarrels."

Jehan nervously sucked the air through his teeth and ran his hand through his hair. "Well...one of my books has been misplaced, and another was stolen."

Frollo rubbed his temples at the egregiousness of his brother's disregard for such materials. "Are there any books of yours that did not suffer the same fate?"

"I didn't lose my Aristotle book," he replied.

"That's a start. Jehan, you must be more responsible—'For each will have to bear his own load.' Take proper care of your possessions, especially when they are of priceless, intellectual value such as books."

"Except for Aristotle," Jehan protested. "Which is why I got rid of it."

Frollo blinked at this. "You purposely disposed of one of your school books?"

"Yes, I did. You always said to avoid such heathen ideas, which is why I have shunned the man's works." Jehan, in truth, had pawned off said book, and the money earned had gone straight into the pot of another card game. But he figured this would be the last thing Claude wanted to hear. "Anyway, I told you, the reason I sought you out is because I still need money."

Frollo's muscles tensed up as he wanted scold Jehan further and maybe wring his neck for such carelessness, which he gladly would have done had it not been for a cry emitting from Quasimodo's cradle.

Taking the baby once more into his arms, Frollo heard his brother remark, "But, I see that you have your hands full, so I suppose we will just have to discuss the value of education later. But Claude, there is still the pressing matter of some silver…"

"Jehan!" Frollo growled as he attempted to calm the wailing infant in his arms. "If I give you money, will you please leave?"

Jehan flashed a mischievous grin. "For you, brother, of course." He held out his hand expectantly towards Frollo who pulled out a coin purse from his pocket and tossed it to Jehan.

"Now be on your way already," he ordered.

Jehan smiled wickedly and thanked his brother before heading out, weighing the bag in his hand triumphantly.

Frollo cautiously rocked Quasimodo in his arms even though he continued to bawl, the sound ear-splitting to the Minister as he could feel a headache already forming in his skull.

The whole time the judge had been here, he had entered a never-ending battle in little Quasimodo's incessant crying. When he described it to the Archdeacon in an earlier visit, the man explained that the boy needed time to adjust after losing its mother and being handed off to a new guardian.

"Quiet!" he nervously begged, hoping that the baby would just cry itself back to sleep. Frollo couldn't even remember Jehan being this fussy as a child, which frustrated him even more.

He remembered the defeat that resonated knowing that he could have been rid of the child to the depths of the water well easily had fate not intervened.

Calm yourself, Claude, he thought, finding it difficult to do so. Remember that you are in control.

Frollo focused on trying to regain his composure and less of the crying that grated his ears, leading him to fall back on what he usually did when faced with a challenge:

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.

"Adveniat regnum tuum.

"Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra."

Suddenly the crying had become quieter. When Frollo looked back at Quasimodo, the boy gazed up at him in awe with his dark blue eyes.

The Minister was shocked that this tactic had such an effect. Without hesitation, he continued:

"Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis

"Debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo. Amen."

Steadying himself, the judge watched as the infant's eyes shut and rested his head in the crook of his guardian's elbow.

For some unknown reason, Frollo was captivated by the sight of the child now asleep in his arms. Suddenly he was taken back to the days when he had cradled Jehan like such after the deaths of their parents and he was forced to become the parental figure to his brother.

Shaking off these meddlesome memories, he carried Quasimodo back and carefully laid him down in the wooden cradle, relieved over the beautiful sound of silence.

Frollo looked out the window and saw the night was quickly approaching. The headache was pounding and he was exhausted from the first day of repeated parenthood. Without another thought, he shuffled towards the nearby table and took a seat before resting his tired head in his hands.

The Minister wasn't aware of how drained he was until he was surrounded by darkness as he fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

"Minister…" a voice said firmly but softly.

Frollo stirred as he felt a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and found that he was still in the top of the bell tower having fallen asleep at the table. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Frollo saw that it was the dead of night.

He looked up and saw the Archdeacon standing over him. Groggily, the Minister asked, "What is the time?"

"Almost midnight," he replied. "The bells will be ringing soon and I am certain that you would not enjoy sticking around to hear them."

"You are correct." Frollo stood up and stretched.

Augustin looked wearily at the judge before saying, "You know, Claude, this is not the most ideal place to keep a child, what with the deafening sound of the bells constantly. Aren't you the least bit concerned that Quasimodo might one day lose his hearing?"

Frollo rubbed his tired eyes and sighed in exasperation. "I'm sure that he will grow accustomed to them, Father. Honestly, for a man who felt that I should take the role of the boy's guardian, you seem very set on trying to take the task into your own hands."

"I am only trying to help you."

"If you wish to assist me, then allow me to have this ungodly creature baptized as soon as possible," he authoritatively bit. "No doubt that the boy is covered in more than just Original Sin; he is probably ripe with witchcraft and sorcery…such wicked practices are most likely the cause of his hideousness."

The Archdeacon rolled his eyes at the Minister's prejudices. "Arrangements can be made for the earliest convenience, but it depends: do you plan on inviting many people to this event?"

"Good Lord, never!" he heatedly answered, fire in his dark eyes. "I want this boy to be kept away from others as much as possible. Best not to make a spectacle by exploiting his deformity. No, it should be the most private of events–not even my brother may attend."

Frollo ran a hand over his hair and concluded, "But we can tend to such matters later, Father, for I believe that I should be returning to the Palace of Justice."

"Another time then," Augustin replied, concern evident on his round features.

Picking up and dusting off his chaperon, Frollo left swiftly, anxious to get out of this place which now felt suffocating. Outside he was greeted eagerly by his horse, to whom the judge casually apologized for their prolonged stay.

As he rode back, the night air was cold but oddly refreshing, accompanied by the silence of the sleeping city. It was bliss as opposed to the on and off again sound of crying that the Minister had endured throughout the day. In the background Notre Dame's midnight bells tolled loudly, breaking the silence.

Soon the ominous and imposing castle that was the Palace of Justice came into view, like an oasis against the tiresome day that had just concluded.

After taking his horse back to the Palace's stables, Frollo entered the great building, relieved at the quiet, peaceful tranquility as he climbed the steps to his chambers.

Running his hand through his hair, Frollo could only think about the day's events in exhaustion.

Was this really what his life was to be now? Juggling between being a prisoner of forced fatherhood, pestered endlessly by Jehan, along with trying to keep Paris in check?

You can endure, he reassured himself, unwittingly tightening his grip on the reins. The Lord will reward you for your service; it is all a part of His plan.

Reaching his chambers, Frollo was pleased to find only the fireplace lit, giving him solace in this night. However, the pain lingered on as he contemplated every nagging thought of his situation.

Frollo had reveled in his position of Minister of Justice not only for the power and influence it brought, but also because he knew that unlike most nobles, there was no one bothering him to commit to a family. Thankfully, his only familial obligation was to his brother; now the burden of having an unwanted son weighed heavily on the Minister.

Looking up at the iron crucifix that hung imposingly above the mantle of the fireplace, his expression changed from one of weariness to one of rage. Delirium and anxiety began to meld together, making his mind hazy. Marching forward, he collapsed to his knees in front of the fire and cried out in anguish, "What have I done to deserve this?!"

The judge buried his face in his hands and rocked back and forth pathetically. Fighting every urge to sob like a child, Frollo continued his pleas at the downcast messiah above him.

"I have always followed Your word above everyone else's. I have done Your bidding my entire life–everything I have done has been in Your name,!" His breathing became erratic and his body trembled with anger.

"How many trials must You put me through to prove my faith?" He asked, slamming his hands against the floor's hard surface, his rings clanking against the stone in response. He hated that his mind began to echo that he was damned–beyond any help, divine or otherwise.

On all fours, the Minister gazed at the open fire in front of him, jaw hung slack. Ignoring the stinging burn that built up in eyes, Frollo crawled back a bit as he imagined the bowels of Hell manifesting before him while he continued to stare at the flames.

Rising shakily, he stared at Christ again in woe before asking, "Do You test me in the way of Job? Do You doubt my faith? To see if I keep it even against the most trying of times?"

Frollo straightened a bit before continuing, "Anything else would have been more bearable, but a child?!" He bit his lip as he thought of the words that just tumbled from his mouth. He couldn't help the hot tears that leaked from his eyes and streamed down his gaunt cheeks.

Turning away, Frollo shuffled towards a nearby wooden chest and began to remove his gown, followed by his tunic to reveal his pale, white skin. Taking a set of keys from his pocket, he opened one of the drawers and pulled out a black leather scourge.

Throughout the judge's upbringing, he had been taught that the only way to instill a lesson into a person's mind was through severe punishment, no matter how deep the scars ran.

If I am to suffer, so be it...The world drifted away from him, leaving him numb to the pain pulsating through him.

With the scourge in hand, Frollo walked back towards the fireplace and addressed the crucifix, "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen." After crossing himself, he kneeled again and began to recite his prayers, "Deus meus, ex toto corde poenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor, quia peccando…" As the words poured from his lips, the anger continued to bubble up inside him. "…de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum. Amen."

Taking a deep breath, Frollo raised the scourge and flung it quickly behind him, striking his back. He cried out at the leather tips' sting upon the map of faded scars that he had carried on him since he was a child.

Hissing sharply, Frollo whipped himself again, biting back his cries from the infliction.

With each laceration, the judge could feel the memories of childhood abuses rushing back to him: vision after vision of punitive injuries as a boy at the hands of his father in order to keep him in line.

Crimson blood streamed down his alabaster skin like rain drops as he continued whip after whip. Once again the Minister's body shook in anguish, every nerve in him begging to stop such torment only for Frollo to ignore such instincts.

Holding himself on his hands, the judge arched his back up and stretched the open wounds as further abuse. Groaning from the straining affliction, he looked up at the flames dancing in front of him in the fireplace.

Atonement, he thought regrettably, his jaw clenched so tight he feared it might break lose from its hinges. Exhaustedly and devoutly he scolded himself, Discipline yields the fruit of righteousness to those trained by it. Frollo gritted his teeth and stood up, ready to strike again.

X

At the crack of dawn, the Minister opened his red-rimmed eyes at the rising sun outside his window. Raising himself up, Frollo winced a little the fresh scars that adorned his backside, which were clumsily bandaged but still enough to allow proper healing.

When he examined himself in the mirror of the washroom, he was shocked to see that dark circles were now forming under his slate-gray eyes. He sighed at this and splashed his face with water from the basin. Like clockwork, he began preparing for another long day.

Upon reaching Notre Dame, he automatically collected the fresh bucket of milk that Augustin had left for him in the church's kitchens before treading up the winding staircase to the bell tower, where upon reaching he was greeted by the harsh pitch of the baby's cry.

Running a hand over his face, he miserably thought, Back into the fray.

Stoically, the Minister went through the typical routine of childcare: feeding, changing, put the child to sleep. It was barely the second day of this new routine and already Frollo was sick of the fact that he would have to return later to check in on Quasimodo, dreading how time-consumingly aggravating it was by robbing him of much of the day that he preferred to spend patrolling the city.

Judging by the sunlight hidden behind the winter clouds, the day was still young and there was much to be done.

Taking another look, Frollo made sure that Quasimodo was fast asleep before gliding down the steps and heading for the church doors.

"Claude!"

Sighing, the Minister turned around to see the Archdeacon approaching him. "What is it now?" Frollo asked harshly, already a fist tightening at his side. "I cannot have my work being constantly disrupted with more distractions!"

Ignoring the judge's snappish attitude, Augustin pressed on. "Excuse me, Your Honor, but I believe it was you that instructed me to make arrangements for the child's baptism 'as soon as possible.' I only mean to inquire the details of your plans."

In pure irritation and exasperation, and without a logical thought, Frollo indignantly blurted out, "Tonight then! Baptize the child tonight! Now that this issue has been sorted out, I cannot afford to waste any more time here! I must ensure that the city is in plausible condition!" With that, Frollo marched forward out the doors before slamming them with a thunderous boom.

How frustrated he was: his whole world was tilted on its axis that he could not keep calm for the life of him. He ignored the usual tightening in his chest, that usually only manifested when Jehan pushed him too far. He prayed that a quiet patrol day could ease the stress that was eating away at him as he headed toward his horse who whinnied anxiously upon his master's return.

However, before he could pull himself on top of the mighty steed, an unknown voice called out, "Minister Frollo!"

Annoyed enough as he was, Frollo reluctantly turned around to see a man in an expensive looking green cloak nearing.

"Monsieur Poussepain," Frollo addressed with feigned politeness. The man, Denis Poussepain, was a renowned doctor among the Parisian nobility. His son, Robin, was a known troublemaker…and (much to the Minister's chagrin) Jehan's best friend; many times over when Frollo received a letter of complaint regarding Jehan's behavior in school, it was not uncommon for Robin's name to be mentioned for being involved.

"What can I do for you today?" Frollo asked, forcing a genial smile.

"I just wanted to bestow my congratulations upon your foray into fatherhood! I must say that I do admire your mercy for taking in a deformed foundling, and with such a demanding job!" The man beamed, promptly shaking the judge's hand.

The Minister went cold and felt as though he was completely exposed and defenseless. He swallowed and, remaining calm, inquired, "I thank you for your kind words, sir. But I must know: how did you happen upon the news of my situation?"

"Why, my Robin came home with the tale from your younger brother about you finding an abandoned, disfigured child and taking it in as your own. My wife wept at the tale, she was so touched and impressed at your initiative–not that we have ever doubted you, Minister!"

"My brother, hmm?" Frollo kept his tone even and cool, despite the fact that inside he was livid with boiling anger. A twitch tugged at his forced smile, which he fought to keep plastered in place. "Well, I wonder with how many others Jehan has shared such knowledge. I should be going, Doctor, for Paris alone will not rid herself of the evils that walk among us."

"Of course," Poussepain replied, now patting Frollo on the shoulder, much to the latter's discomfort. "Ever vigilant, our city is in good hands. Again, congratulations, Minister!"

As the man walked away and Frollo climbed atop his horse, he breathed heavily with fury at Jehan's utter disrespect for what should have been a private matter.

Idiot! He thought spitefully as he headed off to perform his duties as Minister of Justice.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for the Minister, the rest of the day did not go over as smoothly as he hoped: there were quarrels to be settled among townsfolk, wrongdoers to be arrested, and of course more paperwork to be done. Sadly, there was no time in Frollo's busy schedule to oversee any torture in the Palace's dungeons either.

The late winter snow had lightened a bit and the sun peaked through the white sky, much to his further dismay since it was the dark, gloomy days that ironically brightened the judge's mood. However, today was not one of those days.

Frollo was drained and grated with Jehan's disregard for keeping the story under wraps about his brother's new position. He wanted the teenager to suffer the consequences for such negligence.

For this, the Minister seemed more merciless than usual as he sentenced newly acquired criminals to their punishments, especially for gypsies who seemed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He looked on hatefully at a dark-skinned man who had been arrested for allegedly attempting to steal from one of his soldiers. "Two weeks in the dungeon!" he ordered without mercy, receiving a petrified look from the detainee.

"But Your Honor!" the man pleaded, manacles clanking around his trembling hands. "The crime for stealing is a day in the stocks, isn't it?"

Frollo's face twisted in annoyance at the man's challenge. "For that comment, an additional week is to be added." With that he waved the guards away to lead the man out as he scribbled over the piece of parchment in front of him.

From one of the sole windows of the court room, the judge could see that dusk was approaching and it would be best to call it a day. "Court dismissed." He gathered up the documents scattered around his judicial bench and put on his hat before exiting. All the while his blood boiled with absolute fury in anticipation for the choice words he had for his brother later.

X

Jehan breezily strolled up the steps to the Palace of Justice; a soldier had come to him earlier with a message saying that the Minister of Justice requested to see him that evening after the last court finished session. The boy figured that he was just going to be chided over another complaint from school, so there was no reason to fear his brother, the judge.

He sauntered through the sinister atmosphere of the Palace without an ounce of fear that most would have felt upon entering. Arriving at the Minister's study, Jehan pounded loudly on the door, easily announcing his presence.

"Enter," the low and unwelcoming voice from inside called.

"Good evening, Claude" Jehan greeted charmingly as he ambled into the study and found Frollo poring over a dozen pieces of parchment.

Frollo's study was an eerily dark room whose walls were aligned with careworn books and various maps. Behind the cluttered wooden desk was a bronze crucifix, whose downcast expression seemed to bore holes into the back of the Minister's skull. The few candles that illuminated the room increased the ever present feeling of the danger in the judge's lair.

"Close the door," Frollo ordered as he stood up from his desk. He walked to the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back and wearing an indifferent expression on his face. He was further vexed with the fact that Jehan had gone and spent his allowance on another new outfit.

"Come here," the Minister instructed coldly as he narrowed his eyes at his younger brother, his breathing now deep and enraged. Behind him, the rings on his right hand dug deep into his skin as his fists clenched tightly.

Trying to hide a smirk of amusement, Jehan shuffled towards him while attempting to weave an excuse for whatever complaint that his brother might have received from the University. "Claude, if this is about my little strife with Edmond Dufour, I swear to you that it wasn't-"

Jehan's explanation was cut short by his brother's hands gripping his collar and slamming him violently against the stone wall, his knuckles pushing into Jehan's throat.

"You think yourself amusing going around and heralding my personal affairs to the public?!" Frollo breathed furiously. "Does the concept of privacy mean anything to you?! Especially with the fact that I am the keeper of this city?"

With a violent fire in his eyes, Frollo bared his teeth and flared his nostrils like a mad dog. His knuckles turned white by his deadly grip on Jehan, which now making his frame tremble but not about to release this brat. He could kill the boy right then and there!

"Claude! I…" Jehan choked out while trying to release his brother's firm hold on him. His handsome young features into a grimace of terror. He suddenly feared that Claude might have indeed snapped this time.

"Do you understand the precariousness of this situation that you have put me in? What if the King hears about this?" He shook the boy with wrath, rattling his head furiously. He was fighting the ever-growing urge to simply toss the boy out the window–it would certainly help lighten his load anyway. "I could lose my position if he decides not to show clemency! No doubt that soon the whole aristocracy will hear of it, thanks to you!" Without another thought, Frollo tossed Jehan forcefully to the ground, leaving the young man sprawling and choking for air.

"Listen to me, Jehan," Frollo growled, pointing an warning finger towards his brother. "It would be in your best interest not to recount this story further to anyone else. Do you understand?"

Jehan looked at him with daunted blue eyes. "Claude, I'm sorry," he uttered meekly, now attempting to crawl away from his incensed brother. "I-I didn't know you would be so sensitive over something like this."

"'Sensitive'?!" the judge repeated, reaching out to seize him by his arm and eliciting a whimper from the boy. "I have enough matters to deal with without being publicly mortified by my younger brother. I need to keep this story as quiet as possible, and so do you."

Frollo lowered himself closer to Jehan who was still on the floor, afraid to get up. In a dangerous voice he said, "Remember: if the King discovers this news, I can only pray that he will understand. If you cause any more damage by continuing to spread this story, I will not be so forgiving. Are we clear?"

Jehan fearfully nodded his head and Claude reluctantly offered his hand to help him up. If it were not a matter of principle, he would have easily killed the boy. In the back of his mind, he feared that no matter how many warnings he gave, Jehan would do just as he pleased, as usual. He would continue to regale the story and all of Paris would know of the Minister's plight soon enough.

Frollo cleared his throat as he regained his calm demeanor. "As for whatever quarrel you found yourself in, I have already ordered you to cease with such childish fights, Jehan. They are a waste of time that you could be using to actually study, as you should be doing. I went to great lengths to get you into the University, and I do not wish for you to squander such an advantage by getting expelled one day!"

Fear dissipated almost instantly at his brother's paternal tone. Jehan rolled his eyes at his words. "I know, I know. Is that all for today, Father?"

Frollo glared at the young man, resentful of his nonchalance. "Do not take my words lightly. If you choose to ignore them, you will indeed suffer the consequences."

"Don't worry, Claude. The University wouldn't dare expel the Minister of Justice's brother," he reassured as he approached the severe-faced man. "I'm virtually untouchable!" He clapped Frollo hard on the back, the elder brother hissing at the stinging tenderness.

Jehan could only laugh a little at his brother's pain, completely unaware of the wounds underneath. "Getting old are we? Can't take a friendly strike?"

Frollo glowered hatefully at the boy. "Just get out of my office," he commanded, his tone causing Jehan to back away, but not without a signature smirk.

"I must be on my way since my presence is required elsewhere," Frollo said, rolling his shoulders to dispel the pain. He crossed to the large window of the room and stared regretfully at the cathedral looming in the distance.

"Big plans for tonight?" Jehan asked mischievously with his hand on the door handle.

"Strictly official matters that I must attend to, none of which is any of your business."

Jehan shrugged. "If you say so. Now before you send me away, would you at least send me along with some money for dinner, lest you want your brother to starve?" He pulled an innocent smile for extra measure.

"Fine." Frollo pinched the bridge of his nose before going to retrieve a coin purse from his desk and tossing it to his brother. "Now leave"

Jehan grinned. With feigned gratitude, he left with "Much obliged!"

After the boy left, Frollo circled his temples in annoyance. What am I going to do with that ungrateful leech? He thought as he rubbed the back of his neck. In that moment, Frollo knew that Quasimodo would never be like that good for nothing brother of his. Rather, he would raise him to be entirely grateful and loyal to his provider.

Frollo had considered different ideas of how to set his brother straight in the past. He had thought about disowning Jehan, but then again it might only cause more damage to their family name than there already was. Their name to which he as a student tried to reclaim some honor after a life of shame resulting from the unfavorable reputation his father held; shame that was reborn as soon as Jehan entered school and made it perfectly clear that he had no interest in higher education.

Placing his hat atop his head, Frollo made way for the door and down the Palace's grand staircase towards the entrance.

X

Augustin handed the candle over to the Minister who also held Quasimodo in the other arm, swaddled in traditional white baptism dress. Surprisingly, the boy remained very calm during the ceremony. The Archdeacon continued the rest of the rite. "Accipe lampadem ardentem, et irreprehensibilis custodi Baptismum tuum serva Dei mandata ut cum Dominus venerit ad nuptias…"

The nave of the church was almost completely empty had it not been for the presence of the Minister, Quasimodo, Father Augustin, and a handful of monks. But the judge was dead serious about the event being extremely private and without an audience. In fact, it was very reminiscent of his brother's own baptism in the quality of exclusiveness.

"Vade in pace et Dominus sit tecum. Amen."

"Amen," Frollo unemotionally repeated, praying the boy wouldn't start howling over the sacred oil on his little head.

Even though Quasimodo was now considered a follower and child of God, Frollo could still not bring himself to fully embrace him as such; in his eyes, the boy was still a grotesque monstrosity that he could not find in his heart to wholly adopt as his own. Quasimodo, however, seemed to completely accept the unwilling Minister as his new father.

Frollo brushed some of the boy's red hair away from his bad eye as he looked up at stern faced judge. He gasped in alarm when the baby wrapped his small hand around his finger, unnerved by such a gesture. A small pang of warmth swept through him as the child held onto him.

"In all the years I have known you, Claude, I would never have foreseen this image."

Frollo snatched his hand away from the tiny creature's grasp and faced Archdeacon. "What image?" Frollo asked, now stoic.

"I would never have thought that one day you would be here for the baptism of your own child."

"Nor would I," he monotonously replied. "If I had, I would have thought that at least the child would actually be my own, and legitimate." Guiltily, he looked away when Quasimodo's teal eyes met his, averting his gaze to some far side of the church.

A small smile touched the Archdeacon's face before asking, "You mean with her?"

The judge froze and shuddered as he fought back the distant memories that he had tried to keep buried for years. A sharp anger suddenly built up inside him.

"Do you ever think about her, Claude?" Augustin asked quietly. "Don't you ever miss Cele-"

"Never say that harlot's name!" Frollo snapped as he turned back around to the priest, his face intense with hateful ferocity. "Ever!"

His fierce response echoed throughout the massive church, causing some of the retreating monks to spin around in surprise. Even Quasimodo cried out in fear from Frollo's powerful voice, eliciting an irate growl from the Minister. Frollo glared icily at Augustin, whose expression was one of shock at such an outburst. True, Claude Frollo was known for a short temper, but even he was able to keep calm when challenged or angered.

Without another word, Frollo whipped around, abruptly leaving the nave and marching up the bell tower with the crying baby in his arms. After such a nerve-wracking day, the last thing the judge wanted to do was confront his inner demons.

Chapter Text

From his desk Frollo sat motionlessly and watched the flames of the fireplace burn for what seemed like an eternity. For the past few days the Minister had scarcely left his study, busying himself with paperwork and writing orders to his soldiers, hardly speaking to anybody.

When he did leave his chambers, it was only to Notre Dame to check in on Quasimodo, all the while keeping to himself. He blocked out all other human existence from his sensory receptors and was always absorbed in his own unhappy thoughts.

He was not in the right state of mind, as in not his usual stern, unyielding self. In these last days, the Minister felt like a shell of the man he presented himself as. Not only his mind, but his body was suffering as well: night after night he spent flogging himself and tearing his skin open to distract himself from mental agony. Combined with his now unkempt appearance, complete with dark gray stubble and under eye circles, Frollo closely resembled the prisoners that dwelled in the dungeons below his quarters.

Ever since the boy's baptism, Frollo was unsure of how he should be feeling; he was confused on whether he should hate the child even more for now being in the same spiritual league as him, or compassionate now that Quasimodo would now be officially seen as his son.

Frollo was especially rattled by the Archdeacon's questions; for over sixteen years, nobody had ever asked about the prior relationship he had with that gypsy girl. He went through his daily life always avoiding thinking about the emotional damage that scarred his soul, the result of heartbreak that never left. Especially since the grudge he held against her kind was the product of such hurt. Augustin's words reignited those old bitter feelings of lost love that had tortured him many times over.

Since that night, Frollo had painfully been visited by memories of childhood mischief and days spent together with her that would leave him sleepless and angry with himself for revisiting such times. It left him hateful at the entire gypsy race with every fiber of his being as he watched them from above inhabiting the streets of the city he loved.

But also resentful that the Archdeacon was right: Frollo held such contempt for Quasimodo because in his youth he had foolishly envisioned such a ceremony for his real child…by her, not some poor soul to be burdened with.

The voice in the torn judge's head nagged him endlessly.

Embrace him as your own…the church has declared him as such anyway.

But he is only a gypsy! A heathen spawned by mangy street urchins!

Was she not a gypsy too? The voice retorted. Remember how much you loved her? Protect the boy in her name.

You know that you have never forgiven yourself for what you said to her.

He sneered at the conscience which decided that now of all times would be to reason with him.

Penance not only to God, he thought. But to her as well.

Harshly, Frollo clamped his hands to the sides of his head and dug his nails into his skin, as though trying to prevent any more aggravating thoughts from entering his mind. He despised the sentimental logic that his conscience threw at him. It left him feeling defeated and weak–emotions that he abhorred, especially when he saw his vision blur from tears building up. Wiping his eyes dry, Frollo pushed his hands into his hair and exhaled deeply as he tried to steel himself from falling too deep into a full-fledge nervous breakdown. These inner arguments with himself buzzed around in his head obnoxiously, causing more painful headaches by the hour.

All of these conflicting thoughts and memories had prevented him from carrying out his normal routine, instead wanting as little human interaction as possible. Even though he was a man who liked to stay on routine, Frollo could barely find it in his heart to go out and face the world more than he had to.

It wasn't until a message from the Captain of the Guard reminding him that the sixth of January was approaching soon that Frollo was reeled back to the world before him. He regretfully remembered what that day meant to the city of Paris.

Damn it, he thought bitterly. Another year of this peasant absurdity!

This spiral of depression picked the worst time to strike the judge. Tiredly, he straightened himself up and tried to regain the iron-willed demeanor he needed in order to face such a task. His body ached and was raw but he fought to keep himself steady.

Frollo reminded himself that he would need to be fully focused on keeping everything running smoothly during the dreaded Feast of Fools…a day that he had held great disdain for ever since he was a boy. And in recent years, Jehan had turned it into another spectacle that he could use as an excuse to embarrass his older brother in front of the citizens of Paris.

Reading over the message again, Frollo made a realization: It's a mere day away! Almost instantaneously, he took a piece of parchment and a quill and began to scribble down orders and instructions.

X

The morning of the Festival had arrived and Frollo reluctantly peeled himself out of bed, dreading this day. He might have made purging the city free of sin his personal goal, but the Feast of Fools had proved to be a battle in itself what with more crime and debauchery. How the King could even allow for this immoral lunacy was beyond him.

After throwing on his black cloak and adjusting his hat, Frollo made his way outside to the carriage waiting in front of the Palace of Justice. During the rickety journey to the square, Frollo went over his mental notes repeatedly to ready himself for madness that laid ahead.

Hopefully Jehan will not cause any more commotion than need be, he prayed, anxiously toying with one of his rings.

Soon the sound of hundreds of voices could be heard, becoming deafening as soon as he stepped out of the carriage. The square burst with color and music, streamers and performers as far as the eye could see. Most of the citizens already reeked of alcohol and enjoyed the merriment.

Frollo motioned for his Captain to come forward. "Captain Gerard, remember: any disruption of peace and sign of lawlessness, take care of it!" he fiercely ordered. "And if you run across my brother, report him to me immediately!" he added before heading up towards his designated seating area.

"Yes sir!" the tall burly man responded before dispatching his men into the crowds.

Frollo scanned around the ocean of happy, drunken Parisians in a fruitless attempt to seek out his curly-haired brother. The sight and feeling of being surrounded by peasants by almost agoraphobic, and on top of that, Jehan was on the loose up to who knows what? Anything could happen.

As the festivities kicked off, the city was captivated by the endless amounts of entertainers, from jesters to fire-eaters, stilt-walkers and dancers. Frollo, however, drummed his fingers on the arm rest of his chair tensely with eyes shifting left and right, still trying to find Jehan. He attempted to distract himself by ordering guards to anywhere that indicated a crime in progress.

You are making yourself paranoid, he thought to himself, detesting this uncharacteristic jitteriness.

He wouldn't be so paranoid if only he knew where his brother was. He continue to fidget until he heard a voice call, "Minister! We've located your brother!"

Leaping to his feet, Frollo quickly ordered, "Lead me to him," and followed Gerard.

Elbowing harshly through the merry crowd of festival-goers, Frollo pleaded internally, Jehan, you had better not be doing anything idiotic…

The Captain motioned to a group of chagrined looking scantily-clad women standing about, stopping before them. His brother, however, was still nowhere to be found.

"Well?" Frollo asked irritably, instantly disgusted at the pair. "If you have indeed located Jehan, then where is he?!"

The Captain looked a bit embarrassed at the question. "Sir, please. He was right here when I left him. I found him with this lot here."

Frollo's sights rested on these women, causing him to twist his face in annoyance. "What has he done this time?" he asked them.

"The blond kid?" one of the rounder ones asked. "He tried to get some time with a few of us, but said he would pay up later. Something about going to find his brother for money. As soon as your guard coming, he took off, to where, we don't know."

Frollo huffed in exasperation. "Helpful to the last detail," he sarcastically quipped. Turning to the Captain Gerard, he darkly uttered to him, "I want him found at once!"

All of a sudden, the volume of the crowd seemed to increase as they broke out into unison cheers. Frollo looked across the sea of people at the center stage where colorfully attired jesters and peasants now lined up. Though the master of cermonies's energetic voice was inaudible in the throng of spectators, the judge knew that the festival had reached its height and the time that everyone looked forward to: the crowning of the King of Fools.

As the crowd rejected hopeful contestants who attempted their "ugliest" face, it was then that Frollo saw in the midst of the mob of people a mass of blond curls and began to rush toward the figure.

His journey was cut short by more onlookers packing tighter together, making it impossible to get through. He cursed the awful timing in finally finding his brother.

"Jehan!" the Minister shouted loudly, hoping that miraculously the teen would hear him.

The laughter and insults from the peasant folk grated his ears as they continued to watch the event onstage.

Damn this idiocy! Simple-minded imbeciles, celebrating something so vile as worshipping one who can present themselves as the biggest dolt.

The volume again reached another peak when the mass applauded a warty, heavy-set man (a city grave-digger) as their king. Words of admiration and disgust filled the atmosphere.

"He's repulsive!"

"Absolutely wretched!"

"A sight to behold!"

Frollo rolled his eyes at their amusement before turning back to scan through the crowd. But it was becoming increasingly difficult with more people closing in and blocking his view. Most were either too drunk or too distracted to notice the Minister of Justice among them. Nevertheless, he pushed and shoved through the throngs of people.

"What's that kid doing?!" a spectator called out, causing the judge to stop and direct his attention towards center stage. Frollo's jaw dropped and he paled in horror as he witnessed his younger brother clambering up onto the stage, much to the confusion of the presenters and audience alike.

Jehan wore a stupid, intoxicated smile on his red face and was barely balanced, instead swaying back and forth and ready to drop any moment. "Good citizens of Paris, please!" he announced with joviality, waving his arms to draw the attention on him. "This is not how you crown the King of Fools!"

The Minister was frozen in place as he watched Jehan, too stunned to even think about what was happening. He could only watch his brother make a fool of himself in front of the entire city.

The boy grinned as he continued his speech. "You don't pick a King of Fools by the hideousness of his face; you should be crowning the biggest moron this city has to offer!"

For some reason the crowd was too entertained to drag him away from the stage, instead wanting him to go on, much to Frollo's dismay. He still pushed further towards the stage which now felt like a million miles away in such a vast amount of people.

"Take my brother for example!" Jehan called with an arrogant grin and beet-red face, Frollo stopping immediately where he was and again looked to his brother above. "He has to keep watch over this whole city, and he decided to adopt a small demon as his own! As you can see, my brother is both the Minister of Justice and an idiot!"

Many of the audience members turned their attention to the judge who they now barely noticed was with them. Most of them backed away as they saw Frollo's face was contorted with anger as he marched toward the stage.

Jehan began to ramble on that he was a god among mortals, high above the rest of them. A few annoyed jesters and performers climbed up onstage and attempted to grab hold of him only for him to swat them away.

"You can't touch me!" he slurred, slapping their hands away. "My brother's the Minister of Justice; he'll have you all hanged for this! Right, Claude?" he asked when he saw the judge striding towards him, teeth bared and fuming with rage.

"Tell these commoners that they can't do a thing-" Frollo gripped him tightly by the arms and wordlessly dragged him away down the steps. "You look like hell," the boy commented and laughed, Frollo paying no attention to him.

"Captain!" The Minister called violently, ignoring the frightened onlookers who stared at the brothers. Gerard and more soldiers arrived swiftly and awaited the Minister's orders. "Take this miserable lout back to the Palace of Justice at once!" He cast a heated glance to the dazed teenager, still locked in his brother's iron-like grip. "I will deal with you later…" he warned ominously before shoving Jehan towards the guards.

The crowd fell dead silent as the Minister climbed to the platform once more, his face stone-like and indifferent as he faced the city. Blood roared in his ears and forgot all pretense of keeping the festival running smoothly.

"This festival is over!"

X

Frollo ordered his men to lock up Jehan in the Palace's dungeons; he had decided that after such an episode, he would not further spoil the boy by locking in him inside one the building's many guest rooms.

The judge had spent the rest of the day going through hearings for those arrested during the festivities. Admittingly, most of the sentences he ordered seemed a bit of excessive, but that was to be expected since he was still shaking with boiling anger. Because of that, Frollo decided that if he went and saw his brother immediately, he probably would have done something regrettable. Like break every little thieving finger, he mused resentfully.

Signing the last sentence, Frollo sighed in exhaustion from the dreadfully long day. But he knew that it was time to go and check on his brother, even though it pained him to do so.

He tiredly made his way down to dimly-lit and bitingly cold dungeon, quickly ordering the warden to show him to his brother.

"When we locked him up earlier. He mostly just kicked and screamed a lot, sir," the man explained, averting his eyes from the Minister, who looked ready to snap. "But he tired himself out soon enough; 'spose the booze ran its course, now he's just sleeping it off."

As he has his entire life, Frollo thought bitterly, teeth grinding at imagining that blithe and youthful grin that would no doubt welcome him.

Arriving at the isolated cell, the warden was correct that Jehan was still out cold, slumped over against the wall and snoring loudly after a long day of swimming in wine.

"You may take your leave now," Frollo said, the man nodding and heading in the opposite direction leaving the Minister alone.

Frollo looked at his brother and shook his head. "Jehan!" he bellowed, his gravelly voice echoing off the damp stone walls.

The blond boy groaned at hearing his brother's voice before picking his head up in the general direction of the Minister. "What is it, Claude?" he asked groggily, rubbing his eyes.

Frollo crossed his arms over his chest and gritted his teeth. "I hope you're satisfied with what you have done: because of your little stunt, you have humiliated and made a mockery of me in front of the whole city!" he hissed, damning the iron bars keeping him from beating the living daylights out of the teen.

Rising shakily to his feet, Jehan inched closer to his brother on the other side. "Claude, understand that I wasn't in the right state of mind. I would never have done that at any other given time. It was a mistake and I promise it will not happen again," he said smoothly. Jehan stretched his arms lazily before saying, "Now, will you please let me out of this cell? I'd like to return home to my dorm."

Frollo narrowed his stone-gray eyes at Jehan and coldly replied, "No. I'm ordering that you be detained here until I say otherwise. No more than a week, I'm sure."

Jehan's expression changed to one of bafflement. "What? Why?!"

"You have caused me enough trouble in these past few days, and I believe that some time away from wretched vices and influences will do you some good."

"Claude, you can't do this!" Jehan protested, gripping his hands around the iron bars of the cell.

Frollo smirked at him. "As a matter of fact, I can. You seemed to have forgotten who is Minister of Justice and who is not."

His brother shook his head in fear of this decision.

"Enjoy your stay," the judge icily clipped before turning to leave.

Chapter Text

The heavy iron-bar door creaked loudly as the guard swung it open, Frollo stepping forth in front of the cold, dark cell. The whole place was pitch black without the sole illumination of the few torches adorning the stone walls. "Now," he mockingly began. "Have we learned our lesson, Jehan?"

The teen sat in a corner of the tiny cell, hugging his knees to his chest. He glared spitefully at the Minister as he stood up. True to his word, Frollo had ordered for Jehan to be held in the Palace of Justice's dungeons for a week now with the delivery of daily meals serving as his only instances of human interaction; the Minister established strict rule against speaking to the prisoner. Needless to say, Jehan had grown painfully bored and resentful towards his brother's position of power. The curses he'd muttered under his breath did not go unheard by the guards.

The boy said nothing as he walked past the judge while exiting the cell. His expensive clothes were damp and stained from the dungeon's filth and he smelled no better.

"Come along," the Minister ordered, leading Jehan out of the bowels of the Palace. Frollo smiled at the lack of spirit in someone who prided himself over his devil-may-care attitude and reckless lifestyle, relishing in the notion that he might have broken his brother at last.

Finally this hellion has learned his place, the judge thought contently as he walked, Jehan still remaining wordless and keeping his gaze down towards the ground. Frollo had enjoyed his brother's absence this week, savoring that his work was not constantly interrupted by the teen's daily plea for money to waste on disgusting vices.

Upon reaching the front doors of the Palace, Frollo turned to address his brother. "I hope that you remember this experience next time you have the urge to do something so utterly foolish; next time, think before you act, Jehan!"

Jehan turned his back to his brother and shuffled out of the Palace of Justice, leaving Frollo to mull over his own thoughts.

Damn ingrate, Frollo thought as he turned towards the grand staircase, ready to return to his study.

X

"…remissionem peccatorum, carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam. Amen." Quasimodo slept soundly at the Minister's resonating voice as the latter recited his prayers.

Carefully, Frollo placed him back into his cradle before a familiar voice greeted him. "So, has your brother turned over a new leaf since you released him from his sentence?"

Turning towards the Archdeacon, Frollo replied, "Strangely, I haven't heard from him since that day, and I can only hope that he has not reverted back to his old ways, Father." It had been two days since Jehan had left the Palace of Justice from his sentence, not once intruding on his brother's work. What should have been a peaceful break from the boy's nonsense did not sit well with the elder brother.

"Unfortunately, that can only mean that he's out wreaking havoc somewhere," the Minister relented grimly. Bitterly, he then said "He'll never change. And if I had not made such a foolish promise years ago that I would always keep watch over him, I would gladly let him suffer at the hands of the real world."

"Have faith in your brother, Claude," Father Augustin assured him. "He might be unruly now, but eventually he will grow out of it. You can only guide and encourage him to change his ways, and you know, of course, it is not an easy task. But it will be worth it when the day comes when he thanks you for leading him in the right direction."

Frollo considered these words: it seemed, however, that most of his life consisted of finding Jehan in trouble. How optimistic the judge had been of his little brother's future before, imagining that he would follow in the elder's footsteps and become a promising scholar. However, he was without a doubt disappointed with the end result of his brother's lifestyle. It seemed that the drink, card tables, and women's hold over Jehan were too strong to free him. It would be quite a reward in itself to hear the boy credit his older brother for turning into an upright, productive member of society. Unfortunately, that seemed like an unreachable pipe dream for the long-suffering Minister.

"And if it's any consolation, at least your brother can serve as an example of how not to raise a child," Augustin assured, waving in the direction of the child.

"Very much so," Frollo evenly replied looking down at the sleeping infant then gently rocking the cradle to prevent it from waking up. "I have sworn to myself that Quasimodo will never be like him—quite the opposite, in fact. No vices, no rebellion or objection, and only undying gratitude to me."

"That seems a bit excessive," Augustin pointed out, doubt coloring his face. "I'm sure that it would serve you both more if you were just not as distant and lenient as with your brother."

"I don't care. I would rather Quasimodo be a quiet, reclusive subordinate than a reincarnation of Jehan." Frollo's tone of voice indicated no trace of clemency, only that he was set about his plan.

Clasping his hands patiently, the Archdeacon simply responded, "I see. As you wish, Minister. I suppose you should be heading back to the Palace of Justice since it's late."

"Quite." Picking up his hat from the nearby table, Frollo nodded and headed out without another word.

As he rode his horse along the dimly-lit streets of Paris, Frollo took note of all of the drunks, strumpets, and beggars that adorned the streets and alleyways. These characters made him increasingly curious as to what Jehan had been up to in the time that he did not come to solicit money from him. No doubt Jehan was lingering in some card den with the likes of these wastes of life.

Perhaps his little gambling vice has finally rewarded him with what he deserved, he sadistically hoped. If he were to receive a report that his brother had been injured—or worse—by one of his many enemies to whom he owed money, Frollo would show some remorse for the only family member he had left, but not enough to embark on some city-wide vendetta against Jehan's attackers.

Still, his absence raised questions in the judge's head. What could that boy be up to?

X

There was a light knock on the door, which was strange to the Minister at this late hour. He called for them to enter as he continued to shuffle through pieces of parchment, not even looking up at who was entering his uninviting study.

"Evening, Claude," Jehan's voice said sweetly. He flashed a smile that was devoid of any humor or mirth, rather something foreboding.

The judge's head snapped up upon hearing his brother's voice. Keeping his voice steady, he calmly asked, "Where have you been these last few days?"

Jehan shrugged. "Oh, around. Here and there. But you know me, I just can't stay away for too long." His last statement was sprinkled with condescension.

"What on earth could you possibly want at this hour, Jehan?" Frollo asked loathingly, gathering up his work and stacking the pieces neatly in a corner of the desk. Despite his question, he had an idea of what the boy could be here for.

The boy smiled and replied, "Fear not, dear brother, I'm not seeking your patronage at this time."

Frollo raised an eyebrow suspiciously at this response. "Is that so?"

"No, instead I brought something for you." Jehan cocked his head back, indicating his surprise was behind the door.

The Minister rose from his seat and approached his brother. "And what would that be?" he asked cautiously, instantly detecting no good from this statement.

"Well, I've noticed that the last few weeks haven't been easy for you. So...you need to loosen up."

Frollo crossed his arms and leaned against his desk, furrowing his brow at Jehan's statement. "'Loosen up'? I do not need to "loosen up", since stooping to your level would only encourage an unscrupulous lifestyle. And I believe you've indulged enough of for the both of us."

"Oh, please!" Jehan said without hiding a laugh. "You're wound too tight, and you could use one night to help you get through all this stress. Believe me when I say I know what happens to a man when he doesn't relax once in a while."

All you do is relax, he thought, unsympathetic. "Humor me then, little brother. If you wish for me to go along with your proposition, by what means would this be carried out?"

Jehan's face twisted into a devilish smirk and he rubbed his hands together. "I'm glad you asked." He turned back to open the door and popped his head around the corner. "Pásale!" Stepping aside, Jehan was joined by two women—a redhead and ebony-haired one—both with heavy make-up and tight black dresses entering the Minister's domain.

Frollo's eyes widened and expression dropped at the sight. "Wha…What is the meaning of this?!"

"Exactly what I explained to you, Claude," Jehan said smugly, slinging his arms over the two luxuriantly. "A man needs to let loose every now and again, and by the looks of it, you are in dire need of that."

Exhaling in disbelief, Frollo then said, "Jehan, how you remedy whatever stressful situations that you find yourself in—if that's even possible—is in no way similar to how I handle things. This," he pointed at the quiet, stone-faced women. "Will not help me in the slightest—rather only worsen the state I'm already in! Believe me when I say I know what I am talking about."

The boy gave his brother a doubtful look. "Are you saying that you have actually had experience with women?" he asked jokingly.

Keeping a straight face, the judge vaguely answered, "My past actions are my own burden to bear, and are none of your concern."

True enough, Claude Frollo was not a man who enjoyed sharing information about himself, even to his own brother, fearing that the boy might use such knowledge for the wrong reasons. He was as much of a mystery to Jehan as he was to the rest of the city, but fortunately for the Minister, Jehan was too self-centered to care.

"Jehan, I am not asking you—I am ordering you to get these harlots out of my home now!" he said, raising his voice, casting the two women a fierce scowl.

His brother broke from his grip on the ladies and smirked at him. "So the Minister does have a weakness then?"

"What are you talking about?"

"A man's weakness can also be his only medicine," Jehan elaborated, eyes darting around the two harlots. "I see that in your case, it's women."

Frollo's mouth went dry as his brother's implications were heading toward a subject that he did not want to discuss.

Placing his hand on his brother's shoulder, Jehan said, "Go ahead, Claude. Just because you're Minister of Justice doesn't mean that you have to deprive yourself of all of the earthly pleasures that God gave mankind. Unless, of course, you're not man enough."

Frollo frowned at his brother's prodding. Looking again at these two now impatient looking women, the Minister suddenly felt a burning in his lower region, the temptation kicking in.

"Think about it," his brother continued, his tone conspiring. "You have enough work to last you a lifetime, and now you have a son to care for. Don't you think you deserve one night to forget about that and enjoy a little carnal pleasure?"

The torn judge thought about it for a few moments. Would it really be the end of the world to give into the sins of flesh for one night? He had no commitment or archdeacon looming over him to remind him of his wrongdoings, and Jehan would not mock him for breaking his religious dogma.

Don't you remember the effects of those previous times? His mind protested.

Unfortunately, every day.

Still…how often would he get this chance again? The aching in his breeches certainly had no objections. He could still hear Quasimodo's screeching cries; still see the contorted, angry faces of those he sentenced for their disregard of the law; the endless parchment scraps of reports from petty to major crimes; and of course the never-ending migraines and stress headaches—it was overwhelming! How many nights in the past few weeks had he been awoken by fearsome nightmares? Too many.

His body was taut with anxiety, his mind tormenting him with doubt and hatred, the endless, splitting headaches... Everything was quick to tighten his chest and jaw, making him want to crumble.

Maybe one night…

Any other time, the Minister would have easily resisted and stood his ground. However, the feeling below was becoming unbearable. One night... He took a deep breath before asking, "Which one?"

Jehan's eyebrows shot up in complete surprise of his brother's compliance and grinned widely. Giving a small chuckle, he then answered, "Take your pick, I've already paid for both of them."

Frollo was slightly put off by their silence and stoic demeanors. "Do they even understand what I am saying?"

The teen shook his head. "Not really. They just traveled here from Spain." It was fortunate enough that Jehan had picked up Spanish in his time of drinking with countless travelers.

Frollo looked longingly at the one whose black hair cascaded around her tan shoulders and bright blue eyes bore into his own gray ones. His mind sickeningly conjured up images of what animalistic things he desired to do once they reached his chambers. "That one," he said nodding in her direction, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Jehan pointed to her, "Ven aquí."

The woman studied the Minister intensely, which did not make him feel any more comfortable about this situation. Raising an eyebrow slightly, she smiled a little while examining him. That small, artificial look of warmth was inviting and made him yearn even more.

Jehan muttered something to her, to which she nodded in understanding. "Alright, she's all yours," he said, giving her a small push towards the judge.

The woman took hold Frollo's arm lightly, quickly causing his heartbeat to increase. Slightly trembling, the judge led her out of his study and down the hall towards his own chambers. The air around him suddenly felt colder as it contrasted with the heat building up inside of him. Opening the door, Frollo motioned for the woman to go inside, after which he followed and immediately deadbolted it.

As soon as he faced her, he froze as he watched her begin to shimmy out of the black dress. The burning sensation underneath urged him to follow suit, swiftly pulling his robe off and discarding it uncaringly. This is wrong...

X

Keeping his now scratched back to her, Frollo quickly tied the strings of his hose and promptly stated, "You may go now." He ignored the droplets of sweat that were beading on his forehead, some threatening to drip into his eyes.

Sitting up and keeping the linen sheet over her chest, the woman gave him a salacious smirk and asked, "Ya terminaste?"

Picking up the black robe on the floor, he turned to her and yelled, "Leave!" pointing to the door.

Despite not knowing at all what the Minister was saying, the woman could take a hint, swinging herself out of his bed and swiftly rearranging her clothes in the proper manner. As she exited, she mumbled out some Spanish words of farewell or something or else.

Frollo continued to dress himself, focused on the tedious task. Wiping the sweat from his brow, a blaring thought echoed in his mind: What were you thinking?! Sitting down on the edge of his bed, the Minister now rested his face in his hands while he contemplated, the anxiety instantly returning. Once again in his life, he had broken his piety for the urge of the flesh. How did this happen?!

How could he have made such grievous error in judgment? Better yet, how could he have taken the offer from Jehan of all people?

Placing his robe back in order and brushing his disheveled hair back, the judge exited his chambers and slowly walked back to his study, where sure enough Jehan sat at his brother's desk with a goblet of wine in hand.

"So," he began playfully and wiping his mouth. "Enjoy yourself? She certainly seemed to."

Eyes set to the floor, Frollo gravely responded, "It appears that I might have experienced a…misstep in judgment."

Jehan took another long sip from his goblet before saying, "I know," smiling diabolically.

Raising his gaze and narrowing his eyes at his brother, Frollo asked, "You 'know'?"

Jehan rose to his feet. In a strangely serious voice, he said, "And that was for putting me away in the dungeons."

Frollo blanched at this conniving display. "You blackmailed me?!" The bewildered judge said viciously, feeling his blood boiling. When did this young fool become to devious?

"You really do underestimate me, Claude. But yes, I could use it to my advantage and now we're even, but I won't. And I did do you a favor: if that whore thought you were good, then it couldn't have been that bad, right?"

Suddenly that satisfied smirk on his face disappeared as his brother grabbed one of his wrists in a blur, pinning them to the top of his desk, before reaching for the dagger that hung on his belt, which he raised to Jehan's throat. "I have had enough of your interference with my personal life!" he said viciously, Jehan's attempts to escape futile. "I am not afraid to kill you, Jehan—in fact, I feel as though I should right now. Your demise would easily save me a great deal of future trouble."

Knowing that he was no match for Claude's strength, Jehan blubbered pathetically, begging his brother for forgiveness. With remorseless eyes, Frollo watched his brother writhe and plead for his life. This really was a new low for Jehan.

Eyes rolling and huffing, the Minister then said, "I will cut you a deal."

Jehan's terror-stricken blue eyes welled with tears, much to his brother's disgust, as he looked up at Frollo in hope. "Anything! Whatever you say!"

For your sake, I hope so, inconsiderate leech.

"First of all, vow that you will never breathe a word of this incident to another soul as long as you live," he authoritatively demanded, the grip on Jehan's wrist becoming crushing.

"I promise I won't! Not a soul!"

"Second, never try to tempt me down the sinful path that you lead. I do not need the fate of my soul imperiled by the likes of you!"

Jehan was taken aback by such an accusation, a confused frown flashing across his face. He still tried to tear Claude's hand away from him. "To be fair, you didn't have to take her. You could have resisted, but you didn't."

"You caused me to sin!" the judge retorted furiously. "You and her! Never again will you lead me to do such a thing!"

"Fine, Claude! I'll agree with whatever twisted logic you possess."

Reluctantly, Frollo released his brother from his grip. Rubbing at his wrist, Jehan glared at the still fuming Minister of Justice before stomping out of his study.

Plopping himself down at his desk solemnly, Frollo internally pleaded, Dear Lord, why do you do this to me? He now felt disgusting, all former pleasure having quickly dissipated as quickly as it came.

Chapter Text

By the time word had reached the ears of King Louis XI, the Minister's story had become well-known as an act of charity of him "willingly" adopting a deformed foundling. The whole situation seemed odd given Frollo's infamous reputation of being cold and dedicated solely to his position, prompting the monarch to have the judge summoned to explain himself before him. Louis himself had paid for the Minister to be brought to Tours, including all of his boarding along the way on this multi-day excursion—likely to prevent any notions of fleeing. Frollo had happily left his ward in the care of Notre Dame's clergy as he prepared to meet the monarch.

Louis XI had only been in power for about a year, but already he had become noted for his crackdown on French bureaucracy; needless to say that the newly-tenured Minister of Justice had thoroughly impressed him with iron-fisted rule. Though even Louis had to ensure that the judge could be counted on with his new bout of parenthood. There would be no chances taken under Louis's reign.

Despite the King's notoriety for being cunning and sly, Frollo knew that he could somehow outwit the monarch...it was all about finding the right angle. He had been formulating a new version of the night of the incident, counting his blessings that out of the only other two people that were there were either dead or would not dare be questioned by the King. As he sat before the King at Royal Château de Plessis-lez-Tours, the judge remained calm and calculative. He wouldn't let on the ever-growing fear coming over him when he had passed through the chateau gates.

"Judge Frollo," Louis said gruffly, looking every bit as commanding in his simple black frock. His reputation of his hatred of ostentatiousness preceded him, even down to one or two simple signet rings. He barely bothered to even glance at the Minister. "I know that you are no idiot—far from it! I've heard nothing but praise about you, so know that I have the utmost faith in your abilities as Minister of Justice."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Remaining stoic, Frollo nodded and kept his hands clasped before him at Louis's desk. His eyes never left the unreadable king, looking for any signs of weakness he could exploit.

Louis continued. "Therefore I must know the logic as to why one of France's most esteemed public officials has decided now of all times to adopt some hellish monstrosity, as I have heard?!" He whipped around and leered accusingly with his beady eyes at Frollo.

Frollo remained stone-like as he carefully thought out his response. "Your Majesty," the Minister spoke respectfully, locking eyes with his sovereign. "It appears that the information given did not contain the complete details of my situation."

Louis leaned heavily on his ornately designed desk, narrowing his dark eyes at Frollo. With an expression of slight disbelief and replied, "Is that so? Then tell me, Claude, what are these "details" that seem to have slipped my informants' minds?"

"You see, sire, I owe it to this child to take him and raise him as my own."

"And how on earth did that come about, Minister?" Louis asked doubtfully, a humorless smile now stretching over his lips. He now tapped his fingers against the desk surface as he waited for an answer.

"Well, the boy's mother was a gypsy—not just any street urchin—but an informant," Frollo blatantly lied, trying not draw his attention to a collection of swords over the mantle opposite him. "In order to uncover more underworld villainy committed by their kind, I thought that an inside source would be most beneficial. And you, of course, Your Highness, understand that their kind will do anything for the right price; it is all a matter of negotiating."

"But how did you come to be this thing's caretaker?"

"One of the wench's conditions was that should she meet any tragic ends during the time of our deal that I would look over her child—not to just be placed in the foundlings' bed in front of the church. However, I seemed to have overestimated her abilities, seeing as to how her usefulness came to abrupt stop. And since I am a man of my word, I took the boy in."

Frollo was not so much worried about lying to the monarch as he was that Louis would see through this fabricated tale. He prayed desperately that the man would just believe the story and send him away.

The King raised an eyebrow at the Minister before ambling aside to casually lean on the mantle, blankly eyeing the fire lit within. "How strange that a man so clever would seek assistance from the scum of the earth. Tell me, Your Honor, do you often make arrangements with gypsies?"

Frollo felt his heartbeat quicken but kept himself collected as he explained. "No, sire. But, please understand, that I only carried out this mission for the good of Paris. I would never have made such a pact if she was a fugitive of any kind. Given the turn of events that followed, I would never again attempt to associate with their kind for any other purpose than to decide the fate of their pathetic lives when presented in my court room." His cool façade hid the nervousness that he would be discovered. Take the bait, you inbred dolt! he prayed, discreetly letting out a breath of relief.

Louis turned to study the rigid judge and asked, "Will this turn of events compromise your ability to perform as Minister of Justice in any way? I cannot have your work suffering because of a deal gone wrong, Frollo. I don't think I need to remind you how vital Paris is to our kingdom."

He was almost in the clear! Smiling a little at the King's gullibility, he replied, "Rest assured, Your Majesty, that I have done everything in my power to make sure that this boy is in no way a threat to my influence over the city."

Louis nodded trustfully at Frollo's assured attitude. "Very well, Minister. Given your reputable name, I trust your judgment and ability. Besides, I understand that your intentions were for a greater purpose, and I admire that. Using one of their own to conspire against them—nothing that I wouldn't have done!"

How fortunate to have a ruler that understands, Frollo thought sarcastically, eager for this interrogation to be over and return to Paris.

"By the way, Claude," he continued, his tone now gentler and forgiving. "I have heard nasty rumors speaking of this child of yours, painting him as a grotesque demon. I must know: how true are these accusations?"

Frollo exhaled at the question, shame overwhelming him for a moment. At any other person's inquiry the Minister would have readily ignored or rejected such prodding; however, when the King asks, the circumstances are much different. Frollo recounted the hideousness of Quasimodo's deformity that he "braved to look at" each day as guardian, King Louis's face twisting in disgust.

"Dear God, Frollo! You've welcomed a changeling into your home?!" He questioned with odd fascination, jaw dropping as Frollo recounted the tale. "I hope for your sake that you've cleansed your home to rid it of any remnants of black magic left behind!"

"Believe me, Your Highness; I have done what I can to keep the demon at bay." Frollo smirked with satisfaction that the fool actually bought such a tale.

X

Months later…

The air in the bell tower was stale and stuffy, while outside the rest of Paris went about their day in the cool summer air. Much to the Minister's dismay, he was stuck here.

He had worked out a new schedule in the past few months where he would climb up to the top of the bell tower and visit his small hunchbacked ward for an hour in the morning, afternoon, then in the evening.

As usual, he was unenthusiastic about it. Since Quasimodo would no longer sleep for most of the day, the Minister's visit became more prolonged. Frollo would lift the boy out of his cradle and place him on the floor where Quasimodo would sit and take in the surroundings of his home. Frollo had presented the boy with a small clay rattle filled with peas that he had purchased off a street vendor, much to the infant's delight (anything to keep him entertained).

Frollo kept his eyes glued to the pages of his book, Bellifortis, an old one of military technology while trying to ignore the obnoxious rattling of the toy. Reading always was able to take his mind off most undesirable situations he found himself in.

Though Frollo was certain of his suspicion that the boy might be some hell-spawn demon, even he could not deny that Quasimodo possessed that same innocence that reminded him of his little brother all those years ago. Despite the unsightly lump of an eye, the protruding hump on his back, and mess of red hair, the judge would find himself captivated at times. Something about the tiny hunchbacked child's wonderment of the simple bell tower would briefly cause the Frollo's heart to swell before quickly turning his attention back to his reading material. Whenever Quasimodo smiled at his guardian, showing his tiny jagged teeth, Frollo would remind himself of the circumstances that led to his new job as surrogate father to ward off any strong attachment that might form.

All of a sudden the child began to cry, surprising the Minister before he realized what was wrong. Instantly he rose and shuffled towards the creaky cabinet where he extracted a small wooden bowl and flour. After scooping some into the bowl, Frollo ladled some water from the pail nearby, mixing it rigorously and creating a pasty substance.

Quasimodo's crying lessened as Frollo lifted him into his arms. "There, there," he cooed tiredly, seating the boy on the table then proceeding to carefully spoon the food into the baby's mouth, albeit reluctantly.

"Come then, Quasimodo. It's only pap," he encourage, the boy still barely taking the spoonfuls of brown goop. He himself was disgusted at such a meal, but it was the simplest source of nutrition that he could give the boy. Frollo's lips always curled in revolt as pap dripped down little Quasimodo's chin and piled onto the tabletop.

"I knew I'd find you here, Claude!"

With a sigh of annoyance and without turning around, Frollo answered, "What is it? I don't have any money."

"How kind of you to think of me, but no, that's not why I'm here," Jehan quipped, coming to his brother's side. "Afternoon, Quasimodo," he greeted, gently patting the boy on his head. "Am I interrupting on lunchtime?"

"If you aren't here to collect an allowance, then what do you want? I'm very busy at the moment." Frollo tried to concentrate on feeding Quasimodo, who continued to spit excess food at the Minister, much to his chagrin and Jehan's amusement.

"It's about that tenant of yours at Tirechappe," Jehan continued, once he quelled his laughter. "What's his name? Duval?"

Wiping off pap particles from his robe, Frollo answered, "What about him?"

Jehan smiled. "I ran into him today and…apparently he found something at the estate that might be of interest to you, Claude."

"And that would be what, might I ask?" Frollo inquired, his expression skeptical. The last thing he needed was to return to his childhood home and settle some tenant-landlord disagreement.

"Well," Jehan said. "You'll just have to come along with me to Tirechappe, won't you?"

Chapter Text

"Tirechappe? I detest that place!" Frollo argued, cleaning the spilled pap away from Quasimodo's chin. He scowled at the notion of once again setting foot into his childhood home. "Besides, I only return to that accursed place if I have to. I don't enjoy making social calls."

"I know that, Claude, but you really need to come with me," Jehan attested, sincerity now in his voice. "Don't you want to know what might have been uncovered in your house? Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"But you have no idea what it is?" Frollo asked sarcastically. He curled his lip now as he now examined the stain of barley and water coloring his black robe.

Jehan shrugged. "No, but I want to find out."

The judge rolled his eyes at his brother's naïveté. "And you don't worry that this might be some sort of trap conducted by my tenant?"

Jehan chuckled. "Always overcautious, aren't we? Stop worrying so much! Besides, you're Minister of Justice; Duval wouldn't do anything to you!"

Frollo pondered it for a moment. He made it a point to even avoid that damned street on his patrol routes, as to avoid having to look upon that wretched place. But if seemed that important to his brother, would it be so terrible to indulge him in this little mystery? "Very well," he caved with obvious reluctance. "I will accompany you, Jehan. But I will be on high alert for anything suspicious if this is a trick of some kind."

The boy smiled widely. "Great! We should leave now! The sooner the better!" he beamed, tugging Claude by the arm in an attempt to rush him out the door.

Yanking his arm away, Frollo turned from him and took his adopted son in his arms before saying, "Why don't I just meet you in front of the Palace of Justice in about an hour?"

"I'll be there!" Jehan called as he ran down the steps, exiting the bell tower with great enthusiasm in his step.

"Ignorance truly is bliss," Frollo commented to himself after his brother was gone. The child's wriggled in his arms and Frollo now seriously wondered what his tenant, Duval, must have found in Tirechappe.

X

"How long has it been since you've actually been to Tirechappe, Claude?" Jehan inquired as he sat across from his brother inside the dark carriage.

Frollo furrowed his brow as he thought hard about it: How long has it been?

It seemed like it had only been a hub of painful childhood memories, words and strikes against him at the hands of his father. One of the last times the judge had been inside was when he had received word that the plague had spread to his family's home. Upon entering, the young man had discovered that his parents had succumbed to it and an infant Jehan had been abandoned.

It was a moment like this in which Claude had concluded that the house might be cursed, vowing never to enter it again, even having one of his servants collect the dues of his tenants rather than doing it himself. As the new lord of the manor, he would rid himself of this shack if he could. He would have sold the property if he was not reliant on the meager rent money it brought it, something necessary for a university student with an infant brother. Soon afterward, Claude had leased the former residence to a man named Duval and his peasant family that would bring in a form of income, most of which would later go towards funding Jehan's vices.

Reeling back to the present where his younger brother patiently awaited his answer with an inquisitive look on his cherubic face, Frollo answered, "I have not ventured inside the estate in many years."

"Why not?" Jehan quickly asked, absently looking out the window.

Frowning heavily, Frollo rebuked, "I have my reasons. Let us just assume that I have never been fond of such a place and leave well enough alone." Truthfully, he had always been somewhat grateful that Jehan never pried too much on his life before his brother came around.

Jehan waved his hand in indifference. "Fine, Claude. Keep it all bottled up inside then."

For a moment Claude envied Jehan's free spirit—never having to worry about returning to the source of such dark, troublesome memories that still haunted him. Always able to rely on others to shoulder the burden of his constant gaffes and mistakes. Blissfully unaware of all that he had endured for his "beloved" baby brother.

Not much later the carriage came to a halt and Jehan eagerly jumped to get out, but not before Claude elbowed him back. Stepping out first, black cape billowing behind him, the judge set his eyes upon the once great manor. It seemed as though its tenants were not as enthusiastic about proper maintenance as his family had been: once a pure white was now a dull yellow with hideous vines creeping up its walls, paint chipping off the ancient shudders, and weeds popping up every which way.

They would be rolling in their graves, the Minister thought cynically as he examined the state of the house. He remembered his parents paid handsomely for the artful upkeep by their groundskeepers. He was shaken from these thoughts when he heard Jehan pound loudly on the front door, stepping forward to join his younger brother who grinned heartily.

Seconds later, a haggard old man opened the door. "The brothers Frollo," he gruffly addressed, bowing to the Minister. "Please, come in."

Inside, Frollo's expression turned into a scowl as he examined the interior of the home: once a pristine and neat noble home was now a cluttered mess, littered with empty wine jugs and held a lingering scent of both alcohol and meat.

"Disgusting," Frollo muttered under his breath. He remembered how accustomed he was to navigating through his own home as a child, expertly avoiding his parents' many cherished furnishings.

The old man hobbled on a cane as he led the brothers into the parlor. Unkempt white hair, complete with a scraggly beard, and dressed in equally dirty white clothes, he looked as much a part of the estate as the worn furniture within. The withered old man turned to the elder Frollo. "Minister, I haven't seen you in a while. Usually a landlord does regular check-ups on his property."

"With my position and schedule, it does not leave me much spare time to be constantly inspecting my estates, which I can see," Frollo retorted, motioning his hand towards the clutter behind him. "Is at its finest." With that sarcastic jab, he flashed a condescending smirk.

"So," the Minister continued, batting away one of the numerous flies that buzzed around ceaselessly. "What did you request our presence for, Duval?"

"Well, I ran into this blond devil, and, as you've probably heard, I told him that I have found something that might interest you, Claude."

Frollo nodded and glanced over at Jehan, who was subtly ransacking a nearby chest. "Jehan!" the judge exclaimed, his little brother coming to his side. "Well then, what is this "something" that is so important?"

"Follow me," the man Duval ordered, leading them out of the room and up the stairs, the steps creaking in protest. The judge noticed the abundant dust motes floating around in the beams of scant sunlight coming in through equally dusty windows.

Frollo looked around the house, remembering being a teen and the Parisian nobility gathered there to celebrate his baby brother's christening; how he frantically ran through the home after finding it deserted when his parents had died. He left the estate with his brother in his arms and feeling more alone than he ever felt before. A small instance of guilt passed through the steely judge, leaving his chest feeling heavy.

Duval led them forth to the door that lay at the end of the long corridor, opening it to reveal the room that once belonged to Claude's parents, or, at least, his mother. Hesitating, Frollo felt as though a cold force prevented him from following his tenant. Shaking off the feeling, he followed into the large bedroom.

Like most of the house, the room was not the most well-kept and harbored an eerie sensation that unsettled the judge. He was not superstitious, but it wouldn't be a stretch to say he felt as though something were watching him in this room The only remnant left of the previous owners was the large oak armoire where their father once kept various weapons.

"So," Jehan said glancing around the room, sniffing at the musty smell pervading his nostrils. "What are we looking for?"

The old man pointed toward the large armoire, prompting the brothers to exchange confused looks.

"My grandsons said that there's something behind it," Duval explained, now leaning heavily against the cracked wall. "Something attached to the wall, as they claimed."

Suddenly, it occurred to Frollo that there was something…significant about this armoire. But what? Years away from Tirechappe left the memory long gone.

"If there's something behind this thing, we'll take care of it," Jehan assured, hugging his brother. "After all, money's no problem. Right Claude?"

Shrugging him off, Frollo made his way towards the armoire and grabbed one side of it. "Jehan, help me and take the other side."

The brothers pushed the heavy furniture forward away from the wall, though with some difficulty considering Jehan was not used to such manual labor and resulting in Claude doing most of the work. The younger made an evident show of how heavy the wooden obstacle was with an audible groan.

With the armoire out of the way, peeling away the many cobwebs with it, the group was baffled that of all the possibilities of what could be hidden behind the armoire was in fact a metal latch in the middle of the wall, accompanied by the outline of space about half the size of a regular door.

"What the hell is this?" Jehan wondered aloud, stooping to examine the hidden compartment.

His brother shared in his puzzlement, racking his brain for answers to what it was. However, whatever it was, it had long been forgotten by the Minister.

"Well don't just stand there," old Duval said. "What's in there?"

Frollo stepped forward and lifted the latch and forcefully pulled, the sound of thin wood creaking as the small compartment revealed itself. He and the other two looked in amazement at the secret space that now lay before them. Though the tiny space inside was dark, the only thing visible was a large rectangular mass covered by a white sheet.

What…? Brushing away more cobwebs, Frollo pulled the object out of the space and into the light, Jehan ripping the sheet away to reveal a stack of wooden frames that held…paintings. Frollo blanched, bile rising in his throat and instantly remembering…

Pointing at the frame, Jehan asked, "Claude, who is this?"

The Minister studied the contents of the paintings, his heart becoming stuck in his throat as his gaze met that of the portrait's subject: a large, austere-looking man with a thick, black beard, broad nose, black chaperon, and fierce gray eyes. He could have let the painting fall flat on its face had Jehan not narrowly caught it.

"Well?" Jehan nudged his brother in the arm. "Who is it?"

For some reason the judge could not find the words to answer his brother, shuffling away. It was coming face to face with a ghost—a ghost that was never adverse to reminding him his place as a child, whether with a switch, whip, or his bare hands.

"The late Minister of Justice," Duval gravely answered instead, quickly averting his tired eyes. "Isn't that something?"

"Yes," was all Frollo could respond with, tearing his gaze away from the portrait. Even in death, you can't escape him, he gloomily thought. "That, Jehan, was…our father." Even as a mere oil painting, there was a harrowing sense of dread pressing on the judge making him tense up as he looked into the identical gray eyes.

Jehan's mouth hung agape at his brother's revelation. "You're bluffing!" He pulled the painting closer into the light to examine the mysterious man he had seldom heard about.

"Truly, I wish I was not," Frollo lamented solemnly. A certain old resentment he hadn't felt in years had began to bubble up inside him, making him tighten his hand into a fist.

Jehan continued to examine the painting with great fascination. "Well, it's clear to see who I didn't get my looks from; but you look a lot like him, Claude."

The statement sent a chill up the Minister's spine. It wasn't the first time he had heard such a "compliment", and it never failed to sicken him to his core. Even growing up, he loathed to be compared to that man.

"What I want to know is," the old man interjected, hacking a loud cough. "Why are these things hidden in my wall?"

Frollo sighed. "I think I might know why…"

X

It had been days since the former Minister of Justice and his wife had been taken by plague, leaving behind their two sons. Claude had arranged their funeral and the fate of his baby brother, never letting on to others how terrified and alone he felt. Needless to say that it had been a whirlwind of emotion for the young man.

Claude had needed a source of income to provide for him and his brother; other than the fief of Moulin, he had rented his family home of Tirechappe to a peasant family. The first thing to do was clearing out most of the remnants of his deceased family members. But other than his dorm at the University, where could he possibly hide these last few effects?

Unbeknownst to the rest of the world the young man had not been taking the recent events very well; he had been alleviating most of his pain with red wine, dulling his senses and judgment. In the dead of night, after completing his reading and studies, he had to nurse this inner wound he knew how.

In his frustration, Claude only wanted to see such relics gone—out of sight, out of mind. But he could not bring himself to have them destroyed. On a particularly difficult Sunday, intoxicated, he stupidly hired a carpenter to make an addition to the manor…somewhere where he could hide these dreadful possessions. Make it quick, make it fast, but it wouldn't be cheap. But at this point, he couldn't care less.  After cleverly disguising this crawlspace behind his family's old armoire, the future Minister had completely forgotten about it…

X

"I'm assuming this is our mother then?" Jehan was fascinated by a painting of a pale, fragile woman whose golden locks were held back by a thin veil.

"You assume correctly," Frollo replied, now staring pitifully at the young lady in the frame. "The poor woman: trapped in a hollow marriage to a self-centered, uncaring, and licentious bastard." He wasn't usually one for foul language, but here he decided that the man deserved it.

Jehan and Duval looked with surprise at the judge's spout of resentment. "Come on, Claude," Jehan retorted, waving a hand back at the man staring back at them on canvas. "I'm sure he wasn't that horrible."

Frollo shot an icy glare at his brother in response as he tried not to lose his temper. How little he knew of their family...

"You didn't know him, Jehan," Duval chimed in, trying to play diplomat between the brothers. "Old Nick Frollo, your father, was a, umm...a cold man, to say the least."

"That's an understatement," Frollo commented with blatant hostility, glowering again at his father's face. How he wanted nothing more than to fling this image into the nearest fireplace he could find. A fitting place for such a man.

"Really?" the younger one inquired, arching his brow at the two. "What did he ever do to you, Claude?"

Frowning, he vaguely said, "More than you could imagine." The topic of their family was not one that Frollo discussed with enthusiasm, if at all, despite a young Jehan's constant inquiry. He wanted to avoid the history behind many of the Minister's abundant number of scars that he consistently kept hidden.

"Well, most of the old geezers at some of the taverns tell me different things about him," Jehan callously pointed, tapping the edge of the frame with his finger.

"Like what?" the irritated judge was now curious to know what falsities Jehan's drinking companions might have fed him.

His brother explained, "I've been told that he was a powerful, no-nonsense man who ruled the city with an iron fist."

"Sounds right so far," Duval agreed, scratching at his beard. "But lacking in few details."

"I also heard that he knew his way around the whore-houses, you know, like the Val-d'Amour," Jehan smirked at the statement, no doubt reverent to where he might have inherited his prowess from.

Frollo felt nauseated that his brother would actually be impressed with this, never knowing the burden that he himself had carried because their father's escapades. "Another wretched truth," he admitted regretfully, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"Looks like we both took a little after him, didn't we?"

The Minister was filled with revulsion by Jehan's amusement. "Never compare me to such a vile man," his voice was low and threatening, matching the viperous glare he now shot to his brother. "You have no idea of the shame and humiliation that he brought to our family."

"Jehan, perhaps it would be best not to continue this conversation," Duval warned as he peeled himself away from the wall with evident pain, not wanting to see the brothers get into exchange verbal blows—or physical ones.

The teen examined a new painting as he ignored his brother's fierce demeanor: a serious young boy—dark black hair, thin lips, and crooked nose—sitting in the center of a large library. Frollo loathingly studied the artwork, wishing he had destroyed this particular relic long ago.

"Happier times here?" Jehan teased, inspecting the depiction of his brother.

"None whatsoever," the judge deadpanned. He remembered that day: his father had commissioned a painter—an old Flemish man, perhaps—from far away to have the piece done at the insistence of his wife who wanted a painting of her son, probably around nine or ten years old. He sat for hours, bored and miserable, as the artist took his time capturing every detail—even muttering swipes and insults which did not go unheard by the subject. Accidently shifting in his discomfort prompted the artist to openly express his frustration and the Minister to harshly remind his son to sit still, Claude wordlessly obeying. Frollo recalled his father conversing with the artist in Latin, seeing as the family did not speak Flemish.

The judge looked at the signature adorning the frame, barely making out the name Jan van Eyck.

"Even as a child you looked like you hated the world!" the teen commented, laughing at his brother's expense. "Nonetheless, you look adorable, Minister!"

"So I assume that you want to remove these things from Tirechappe then, Your Honor?" Duval inquired, drawing close to the judge and tilting his head towards the artwork.

"I suppose so," the aggravated Minister answered. He sneered as his brother continued to examine the paintings. "Jehan, help me with this."

After pushing the armoire back into place, Frollo bid farewell to his tenant, promising to send for someone to collect the next rent, before he and Jehan carried the paintings back to the carriage. As the carriage began moving, Frollo could not keep his eyes from wandering to the art pieces that lay between him and his brother.

"So what are we going to do with these things?" Jehan piped up as he pulled back the sheet to take another look at them.

"Honestly…I am not entirely sure," Frollo admitted, trying to keep his attention from the artwork, as they now seemed to mock him. "I myself do not care to display these mementos in my home."

"Well I can't keep these in my dorm. Come on, Claude, you have to keep these paintings!"

Frollo curled his lip at his brother's pleas. "And why would I do that? Why should I hold onto these artifacts that are constant reminders of the past, which should remain untouched?"

Clasping his hands together, Jehan gave his most innocent and pleading look, before again saying, "Please, Claude! I was too young to remember our parents, and these are the last things I have of them! You have to!"

The judge was loathe to admit it, but Jehan might have had a point. If he did away with them now, it would effectively erasing their family name off the face of the earth. Even he was not so cynical that he could do such a thing. "Alright! Enough of your incessant whining! I will keep these paintings at the Palace of Justice; but I will not display them."

"Fair enough!" Jehan chirped, gleefully smiling.

"I swear, Jehan, one day you are going to have to stop crying like a child to get what you want," Frollo scolded, leaning back in his seat.

"Admit it, Claude: you want to hang onto these paintings just as much as I do!"

Frollo schooled his expression into one of indifference. "I wish that were true," he clipped before averting his gaze from his brother's accusing eyes.

Jehan was confused at his brother's reply. "What exactly happened between you and our parents, Claude?"

For a brief moment, the judge's expression almost looked…pained. "That discussion is best reserved for another time. But let me give you some advice." Frollo now leaned closer, his expression now familiarly cross. "Do not think so highly of our father, considering you had never met him. And this is possibly the only time I will say these words, so savor it: you are fortunate that you were orphaned, as you did not have to suffer the same experience that I did."

Jehan blinked at his brother's cryptic words. Frollo, on the other hand, remained rigid and grim-faced.

"You really do have a lot of unresolved issues, don't you?" Jehan broke out into another fit of laughter, his brother sighing in exasperation.

"You have no idea," Frollo muttered under his breath and began circling his temples.

Chapter Text

"I told you enough of these childish fights!" In the center of his study, Frollo held his brother in a tight headlock after being informed that Jehan had been involved in yet another squabble with one of his fellow students.

"Mahiet Fagel is absolutely pathetic, Claude! It was hardly a tear in an otherwise cheap gown!" Jehan was powerless as his brother's grip on his tiny neck intensified.

"That isn't the point! Now I suppose you are here to plead for more money? To spend on so-called "charity" with those idiots you call friends—Pierre "the Slaughterer" and Baptiste "the Rook"? Honestly, Jehan, who are you trying to deceive?!" The Minister was livid with anger today, evidenced by the heightened volume of his voice.

Jehan choked out, "I needed the money!"

Frollo's eyes filled with indignation, snarling, "When are you going to grow up and desist with your relentless begging?! I will not always be there to fund your depravity, and most definitely do not want you to influence my ward with your behavior!"

"Why can't you just trust me, Claude?"

"Rather difficult to when the one seeking trust lives life with such careless abandon that he practically beseeches for the damnation of his immortal soul!" The Minister's strength never letting up.

"It's easier to savor life and be damned, brother!" Jehan protested, while attempting to break from Claude's hold. "But at least the journey is more enjoyable!"

"Blasphemy!"

"Minister Frollo?"

The judge and his brother looked up from their strife, Frollo still with his arm wrapped around the blonde troublemaker's neck, at the Captain of the Guard standing in the doorway. Glancing at Jehan, Frollo released him and sent him stumbling backwards to the floor.

Clearing his throat and regaining his composure, the Minister quickly replied in a dignified tone, "Status report, Captain?"

"We've received tips of citizens harboring illegal gypsies in the Rue Pavée."

Frollo narrowed his eyes at the rough-faced Captain. "Then we must leave and eradicate this dilemma at once." He picked up and adjusted his hat before ordering Jehan to leave, red sash whipping behind him.

X

"Many of the neighbors have reported gypsies coming and going late at night, sometimes even climbing in through the windows!" Gerard explained while he and the judge rode their horses toward the scene of the crime.

Frollo's lips curled in hatred. It was bad enough that his city was plagued by the gypsies' mere presence, always attempting to lead the good citizens down the path of their ungodly, pagan ways. What irked him even more was their efforts to gain entry into the city without proper documentation.

"No matter, Captain," Frollo said darkly. "When such filth is in custody, the sword of justice shall be wielded and unleash its righteous fury."

Oh, how he relished in watching gypsies plead for their lives as they fell victims to his dominance and acrimony. Today would be no different.

When the Minister and Captain arrived at the scene at the Rue Pavée, there was already a crowd of citizens assembled outside the large building that his soldiers now guarded despite the intense summer heat.

Frollo scoffed at the spectators. Of course. Why carry on with what your work requires of you, when you mindlessly watch criminals suffer at the hands of the law? He thought to himself sarcastically.

Captain Gerard noticed that a satchel hung from the Minister's side, which was odd considering that he usually only carried his sword when patrolling.

"Minister," he began. "May I ask the reason for bringing that with you?"

Glancing at said item, Frollo vaguely answered, "Consider it a sort of backup plan, Captain, should things go awry in this matter."

Steering his horse forward, Frollo looked down at the peasant couple and their son, as well as the building's numerous other tenants, shackled and guarded by a foot soldier awaiting his orders.

"Well?" he asked the soldier. "If there is suspicion of illegal gypsies, then where are they?"

Nervously the man answered, "Sir, they refused to give up the suspected criminals, claiming that there are none to be found."

"Did you try raiding the home?" Frollo asked dryly, slightly annoyed at seeing the building still intact.

"We, uh, tried, sir. But, somehow the inside of the house was barricaded after we made the arrests."

"Barricaded?" Frollo turned his attention back toward the house where his men stood exchanging ideas of how to handle the situation.

Out of pure frustration, he dismounted from his horse and advanced toward the house, brushing aside the idle guards. He shook the door handle furiously trying to open it before harshly slamming his shoulder against the wooden door in another futile attempt.

Frollo raised his eyebrow at the timid family whose pitiful expressions pleaded for mercy from the heated judge. "Rather questionable, isn't that?"

"Your Honor, please! We can explain!" the peasant father nervously cried, only for Frollo to raise his hand in dismissal.

Ignorant plebs, believing they'd be able to beguile me!

"Orders, sir?" Gerard asked, rearing his horse to Frollo's side.

The judge smiled deviously at the building, a plot already formed in his head. "If our dishonest peasant friends will not give up their houseguests willingly…then it is time to resort to extreme measures."

Captain Gerard blinked at the ambiguous answer. "And what are these "extreme measures," Minister?" he asked skeptically.

Reaching into his satchel, Frollo pulled out a small, round object, holding it up to show Gerard.

The Captain looked confused as he studied the object in Frollo's gloved hand. "And this is…what exactly, sir?"

Frollo smirked. "This is a smoke bomb, Captain; something I picked up from the Ottomans. Arabic gunpowder filled with skunk oil and sulfur in a terracotta casing which will explode on impact. A few of these and those mangy gypsies will be drawn out in no time." The judge removed the satchel and handed it to Gerard. "Distribute these among your men. The building will most likely be damaged in our efforts to apprehend these fugitives, but that is a risk we are willing to take."

The Captain looked somewhat bewildered at the Minister's cunning, but nevertheless did as commanded and handed off the rest of the explosives while recounting Frollo's scheme.

"Minister, please!" the peasant man pleaded, a shaken expression on his face. "This isn't necessary, is it? We've already told you that we are not housing gypsies in our home!"

Frollo scowled at the man's begging. "Of course not; I suppose homes just happen to board themselves up without their tenants inside." He nodded at the guard, signaling him to land a hard blow to the man's abdomen, resulting in a shriek emitted from the wife. "Until I have firm evidence that contests otherwise, you and your family are accessories to a smuggling operation!"

Frollo turned to witness his soldiers either chucking rocks or firing arrows through the building's many windows, the sound of glass shattering pierced the atmosphere.

"What are you waiting for?!" the judge shouted. "I want those vermin out immediately!"

His men hurled the palm-sized bombs through the broken windows, bangs instantly following upon impact. Smoke escaped from the building while the overwhelming odor of skunk oil filled the air around it. The sounds of cries and screams cut through those of the small explosions causing a smug grin of satisfaction to creep upon the Minister's face.

But the fun did not stop there: the front door was suddenly flung open and a blur of over a dozen colorfully dressed gypsies frantically evacuated the house. Frollo's men were ready and waiting, seizing each and every one of them before shackling them tightly.

Spectators watched in awe as the coughing and choking gypsies protested and cursed the guards relentlessly.

"A terrible decision to try and mislead a public official," the judge boasted as the family looked on in fear and shock. "Captain, escort each and every one of them back to the Palace of Justice!"

He smiled wickedly as he imagined how soon they would be begging for clemency before him.

"Lieutenant! You and your men inspect the rest of the building; tear the facility to bits if you must! Make sure there isn't so much as a rat left alive in there!"

You can never be too careful.

x

"The old man assured us that we could slip in without being noticed." A dark-skinned, colorfully-dressed man rested pathetically on his knees in a damp cell-bruised, cut, and nose bloodied. He looked up feebly at the impatient Minister of Justice, arms crossed, as a confession finally been extracted (albeit violently). "He said we'd be safe," the gypsy's red eyes began to expel tears in defeat and he began to sob. "Have mercy, Your Honor!"

The judge schooled his expression. "Unfortunately for you, I am not as easily swayed by tears as others might be. The fact of the matter is that you have admitted to entering my jurisdiction illegally, therefore proper execution of the law must be carried out. The rest of your heathen family will be no different."

The man shook his head in shock and disbelief upon the judge's statement.

"Although," Frollo said slyly. "Perhaps an agreement can be reached under certain conditions."

The gypsy man looked in confusion over his statement.

"Say, if proper information is given, then there might be an alternative to the sentence of death."

"Information?" the gypsy asked. "About what?"

"I know that your people are keen on bargaining, so I will offer you a deal, gypsy," Frollo lowered himself closer and continued in a hushed tone. "I will lessen the severity of yours and your family's punishment…in exchange, you will reveal to me the location of the infamous Court of Miracles."

"What?!" the man was bewildered at Frollo's offer. "And what about our freedom?"

Frollo paused and chose his words carefully. "All in good time. Understand that as Minister of Justice, it would not be morally correct for me to allow a convicted criminal to walk away free without proper repercussions, even after providing essential information. Nevertheless, I still stand as the difference between life and death regarding the fate of your family. The choice is yours."

The gypsy leered at the judge. "Bargaining is not one of your strong suits, Minister. I would sooner sprout wings and conquer Byzantium than tell you where our safe haven is!"

Frollo bared his teeth and swung his arm, landing a hard blow to the man's face, eliciting more blood to flow from his mouth and sharp intakes of breath. The Minister remained as stone-faced and unmoved as ever, even when examining the fresh blood staining his gloves.

"I have tried to be diplomatic, but I suppose my endeavors have all been in vain. It seems the only way to keep your abominable kind in place is by force! No matter, tomorrow's little spectacle will be quite enjoyable, no doubt," he said venomously before turning to exit the cell, the sound of metal slamming afterwards.

As he stepped down the dark corridor on his way to next prisoner, Frollo could not help but grin. It had been such a long time since he had been fortunate to obtain such large catch of gypsy wrongdoers that he was eager to get the trials over with and go straight to the punishment. But first thing was first, he had to confront the leader of such an operation.

"Unlock it," he ordered a guard as he arrived at the next cell.

Entering the dark space, Frollo set his eyes on the man whose wrists were shackled to the cold wall: the peasant father who was the suspected ringleader of harboring gypsies in his home. Similar to the other prisoners that he had intimidated today, this man had seen his fair share of abuse, as evidenced by his numerous bruises, gauntness of his face, and how he shook from pain. The trembling man looked up into the judge's cold eyes with his own deadened ones. Like so many others, he resembled a dying man who waited for sweet oblivion to claim him.

Stepping closer, Frollo grimly said, "Given your physical state, it would be unwise to deny the inevitable truth of your innocence; the evidence is clear as daylight. However, my position requires a confession from the perpetrator himself, which means that there must be a trial which shall be conducted immediately."

"Immediately?" the beaten man asked fearfully.

"I am a man with obligations and priorities, so yes, immediately," the judge said curtly. "Bring him up," he instructed his men as he strode forward through the long corridor, subordinates in tow.

The Minister did not bother to stop and wait for the rest to catch up since they were hindered by the old man's weakness, instead scoffing and continuing his ascent to his courtroom.

The hollow, empty courtroom greeted him familiarly as he set his jaw, ready to send another lamb to the slaughter.

Taking a seat at his judicial bench, he gathered his parchment pieces and prepared his official stamp, lips curling into a sadistic grin as his captive was brought before him.

"Now then," he said tauntingly. "You sir—last name, Blanchet—are being accused of committing the crime of harboring at least fifteen counts of illegal gypsies in your home. How do you plead?" Frollo's dark gray eyes bore coldly into those of the accused man.

The man named Blanchet opened and closed his mouth nervously, knowing well enough that it was a lost battle. Under such pressure, he could not tear away his stare from the patronizing one of the Minister. "You too would break the law for your own survival," he tiredly croaked.

Frollo was visibly taken aback by such a response. "To violate the law of God for a dishonest way of life?! Utterly despicable and idiotic! On top of that, blatant denial of committing said offense. As you might be well aware, proper punishment must be enforced."

X

The whole city of Paris flocked to the square for the day's event; executions were always something that excited the community. The sky had become eerily gray and overcast, as if on cue for the occasion. The Minister had ordered for a large gallows to be constructed to accommodate the number of hangings. But Frollo had instructed his men to hold Blanchet the admitted mastermind until the very end.

"You will witness the consequences of such underhanded actions," Frollo had muttered to him fiercely.

Many citizens shouted protests against the charges Frollo read aloud, others in full support and eagerly awaiting a good hanging. Numerous gypsies, once so full of life, were now so expressionless as the public ruthlessly shamed them. The gypsy women and children were dubbed as demon-spawn practitioners of witchcraft, further encouraged by Frollo's own verbal hatred.

He had no desire to grace his prisoners with traditional last rites (and wasn't as though Father Augustin would have performed them anyway), preferring that they would meet their ends bathed in the shameful sin that led them to such a fate.

Tears streamed down prisoners' faces as his executioner wrapped a noose around each neck, especially the man Frollo held on the sidelines. Blanchet glared viciously at the content judge before the latter commanded the hanging his wife and son followed by sorrowful blubbering.

Paris applauded the elimination of more criminals, some demanding that they had met a more gruesome end.

After dumping the remaining corpses onto a cart to be thrown into some mass grave, Frollo shoved the man forward towards the executioner. Noose around his peasant neck, Frollo announced the man's crime (followed by crowd booing) before giving the signal.

Neck snapping, the city rejoiced in the killing of another wretched sinner, Frollo beaming in sadistic pride.

X

Long after the cadavers had been disposed of and the audience had long gone home, Frollo had remained and reveled in the ominous atmosphere the still lingered.

The world is rid of more heathen abominations and accomplices, he thought satisfied.

Breaking from his trance, the he turned his attention upward to the great façade of the cathedral. Promptly, he made his way to the entrance of the church and through the wooden doors.

"Claude!" an angry voice called, Frollo barely registering as he turned around and saw the Archdeacon striding down the steps from the bell tower in a huff.

With an indifferent expression and mellow tone, Frollo simply answered, "Yes?"

Father Augustin narrowed his eyes at him. "I saw what you did out there! Mass executions now? Are you insane?!"

The judge retaliated, "I am doing what my position requires of me and serving justice."

"Condemning even a woman and child to death though?"

Frollo shrugged. "They were in cahoots with an illegal smuggling endeavor and the law cannot bend on the grounds of their age or gender. Proper consequences must be met to ensure that others are discouraged from committing the same offense. Need I remind you, Father, of the words of Romans? 'For it is not the hearers of the law who are righteous before God, but the doers of the law who will be justified.' Now that may not most prominent set of words in our Lord's book to you, but I carry said verse as a key to the conduct in which I perform my sacred duty."

Clasping his hands, Frollo tried not to smirk as he knew that he had won today's verbal exchange between he and his old adversary.

Augustin crossed his arms and said, "Frollo, one day the misdeeds you have carried out will come back to haunt you. I am begging you not to abuse your position and power as Minister of Justice. No doubt you have already made a few enemies along the way."

"I am well aware of that," the Minister said under his breath.

"Your prejudices and fear-mongering cannot benefit the city's sense of community and brotherhood at all; rather, only creating more hostility and hate among the people!"

"As long as there is order, I will do what I must to prevent more sin and immorality from plaguing these streets. If it requires a few miserable gypsies to meet their demise in the process, the so be it!" Without another word, Frollo marched up to the bell tower.

Chapter Text

Climbing the stairwell Frollo dusted his robe off after another long day, but at least it was more eventful and enjoyable than usual with less writing and more hands-on work.

When he reached the bell tower he found the Archdeacon carefully rocking the gurgling Quasimodo before placing him back his cradle.

"Good day, Minister," he greeted kindly. Furrowing his brows, he then gestured to his own face before saying, "You seem to have…blood, on you cheek, Frollo."

Wiping at his face, the judge saw that there was indeed more blood than he thought as he assumed he had brushed all of it off. As a gift from a fellow magistrate in England, the rack had proven to make quite a messy, though effective, method of extracting information and execution. "Screamers tend to be the most viable source of leads for criminal activity."

Father Augustin nodded curtly. "Claude, there's a matter that I need to discuss with you."

Removing his leather gloves, Frollo asked, "And what would that be?"

"Follow me," he said, leading the judge out of the bell tower.

The two made their way to Augustin's study, which resembled Frollo's own with its large array of books, however less daunting. The Minister took a seat, the Archdeacon following afterwards.

Closing the door, Augustin gravely asked, "What ever became of Quasimodo's father?"

Frollo blinked at the question, caught off-guard by such an inquiry. Steepling his long fingers together before him, he thought hard for an answer. It had only been about seven months since the incident but the Minister had exterminated gypsies like any other pests, and to him the band of them which had brought Quasimodo to Paris were just more nameless faces.

Shaking his head, he responded, "I am not entirely sure. I might have had the man executed…or there might be a chance that he still lies in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. Who knows? Perhaps I had put him on trial, or maybe not."

"And that's that?" The Archdeacon crossed his arms.

"What's done is done, and he is no longer a part of Quasimodo's life," Frollo sharply retorted. "Why does it matter?"

"I have scarcely seen you try to make an attempt to really embrace him as your own and show some sort of affection towards him. And since you've taken his father from him, it just makes one wonder what became of the man."

Frollo's face twisted into a sneer. "What do you hope to accomplish with this admonishment?"

Augustin sighed. "Quasimodo is growing, Claude. I'm sure you would enjoy fatherhood if you put your heart into it."

The Minister rolled his eyes, easily resembling Jehan when he lectured him. "As you may recall, Father: I promised to care for him, not…love the boy." The word left a bitter taste in his mouth as the man was not accustomed to exercising it in his normal vocabulary.

"Honestly, Claude," Augustin chided as the Minister rose from his seat. "Since you are now Quasimodo's father, then you-"

"I am not his father!" Frollo snarled angrily. "We have established that I am simply his guardian and he is my ward—not my son. This discussion is over." Quickly, he straightened up to his signature imposing stature.

Augustin narrowed his eyes pitifully at the judge. "Very well. But food for thought: if he were your son by blood, wouldn't you care for him more?"

Frollo frowned at the man's argument. "If that were the case, then yes, perhaps I would be more willing to embrace parenthood. But it is not and I am grateful not to have any children of my own." The Minister turned around and reached for the iron door handle about to open it until Augustin spoke up.

"Are you quite sure about that?"

Frollo stopped immediately, his eyes widening upon hearing this question.

"You think about her, don't you, Claude?"

His grip on the handle tightening, he replied, "I…don't know to whom you are referring."

The Archdeacon looked doubtfully at him. "Yes, you do, Claude. I have known you your whole life, and I know that you were friends with her for almost ten years."

Frollo remained facing the wooden door, hiding the fact that his expression softened into a crestfallen one.

"I remember that she was your "best friend" by your own words," Augustin continued. "Don't you ever wonder about her?"

Frollo did not respond. Inside, however, he knew that there were many times where he questioned the eventual fate of his old friend, occasionally scolding himself for letting his greatest companion go. But he also remembered that the future that he once saw with her had not been in practicality.

Looking down at the red ring on his finger, he lied, "No, I don't." Suddenly the air was tight and he felt the need to exit the room.

Before he could, "She had come back, Claude," the Archdeacon said suddenly.

Frollo squeezed his eyes shut and stiffened for a moment. "When?" he asked quietly, still refusing to turn around.

Augustin sighed. "About fourteen years ago…"

X

The Archdeacon walked through the nave with the candle lighter in hand. Evening Mass would not start for quite a long time and Notre Dame was dead silent.

Until there was the sound of a small cry, followed by a voice quietly shushing it.

Father Augustin turned around and saw a figure walking through the pew: a young woman by the look of it, carrying a small bundle in hand. He decided to approach said figure, who looked on awestruck at the stained glass pictures high above.

"My dear," he greeted calmly. "Mass does not start for another half hour."

The young woman turned around…dark bronze skin, hazel eyes, colorful gypsy attire complemented by an orange scarf around her head. In her arms, a small child, who looked about a year old, squirmed restlessly and looked around the colossal church interior surrounding him.

"Forgive me, Father," she said sincerely. "I haven't been here in a long time, and I just wanted to see this place again."

"You seem familiar," Augustin said carefully, studying her face.

"You may recall me never leaving Claude Frollo's side as a child?" She said with a smirk.

Augustin smiled. "Celeste. I remember now; you were his closest friend."

The girl's own smile disappeared. "Yes, I was. But I haven't seen him in about two years since he can't stand me anymore."

Augustin vaguely remembered a time when Claude transitioned into a hateful bigot, seemingly in a day (never elaborating why). Around that same time, the young scholar had begun spinning anti-gypsy sentiment to his fellow students and noblemen.

"Celeste," the Archdeacon began. "What made you leave Paris?"

She looked down at the child in her arms. "Well…got married and decided that we should try living somewhere else. So, we went to Spain for a while, had a child almost a year ago, and now our caravan's traveling all over Europe. We're just stopping in Paris for a few days."

"You were married? Congratulations, my child!" he beamed sincerely.

"Thank you," Celeste gave a small smile. "To one of the boys in my caravan: Marcel." She chuckled. "Claude hated him, and he hated Claude. You can see why it was better to leave Paris."

Augustin could then recall times when the young Frollo had cast scowls and looks of scorn at a certain curly-haired gypsy boy. It made sense considering he was a notorious grudge-holder.

The man took another look at the child who wiggled in her arms and noticed how much lighter he was in comparison to his much darker mother, and how he possessed dark gray eyes that looked very eerily familiar.

Remaining subtle, Augustin said, "And of course congratulations on becoming a mother. You and your husband must be very proud."

"We are, but sometimes it isn't easy when your son looks nothing like your husband."

Augustin did not know how to respond to such a statement, analyzing how much the boy resembled someone else…

Celeste sighed and held the child closer. Looking up to the Archdeacon, she then said, "He's Claude's son."

It took a moment for the man to wrap his head around the idea that such a pious, God-fearing person like Claude Frollo would break his vow of celibacy, especially outside the nobility. At first it didn't seem to make any sense, until he remembered how close Claude had been with the gypsy girl as children, and that his prejudice against her kind seemed to only manifest after she had left Paris.

"Claude is the father? Claude Frollo?" he asked, still stunned. "Are you sure?"

"Believe me, Father, I'm certain it's him. He's the only other man I've been with besides my husband, and my son looks absolutely nothing like him; he can only be Claude's."

"Did you ever tell him about the boy?"

"Never," was her reply. "Could you imagine what he'd do if he found out that he had a gypsy child? He'd go ballistic!"

The baby boy gurgled impatiently and continued to fuss, Celeste rocking him to calm him down. "No, it's better for the both of them if they don't know."

X

Frollo kept his eyes clamped shut and his breathing shallowed as the words sunk in painfully. His knuckles were a deadly white as he never released his grip on the door handle.

Damn her! He fumed and rejected the notion that he of all people would ever have a child out of wedlock—and a gypsy at that. But another part of him wanted to break down and weep for his old friend.

Unsure of any other way to respond to such a tale, Frollo could not even control his next words from escaping. "It's not mine."

"Claude," Augustin said slowly. "If you had seen the boy, then you-"

"It's not mine," Frollo repeated fiercely, trying to keep from releasing the anger inside that made his blood boil. "It could belong to any unsuspecting man. Whatever half-breed bastard that that witch expelled from her womb is of no concern of mine."

The Archdeacon crossed his arms at the Minister and his expression was one of doubt. "Were you two ever together?"

Despite his track record, even Frollo could not find it in his heart to lie any further. "Never more than once. And now you are aware that I have not always honored my vow of celibacy."

"I told you, Minister, that your vow is one of personal choice, not the ministry. And since you were with her, then you cannot rule yourself out as a possibility."

Frollo turned around slightly to face the Archdeacon. "I firmly believe that I did not sire such a child." Once more he reached for the door handle prepared to leave.

"He had your eyes, Claude," Augustin stated sentimentally.

The muscles in the judge's back tensed up as he imagined a gypsy child with his cold gray eyes.

"Would you like to know what she named him?" he asked the Minister.

His heart wrenching in his chest, Frollo wanted to hear no more on the subject. With a sharp inhale, he quietly replied, "No. I never want to hear about her again."

Without waiting for the Archdeacon's response, Frollo stormed out of the man's study, slamming the door behind him, and marched down the lengthy halls leading the bell tower.

Half-way up the steps to the tower, the Minister stopped and leaned heavily against the stone wall. Tears welled in his eyes even as he stifled a sob of resentment.

X

Frollo brushed past the guard as he opened the door and made his way down the stairwell into the dungeons. There was something that needed to be checked…

He approached the warden and darkly said, "I want you to show me to every gypsy in custody."

"Yes, Minister." He swiftly led the grim judge to the first, then the second, and a third cell with a gypsy inside. None of them contained the person he sought out, to which he would simply order, "Next," then heading to the next cell.

So many of them looked at him like skittish animals about to be attacked, confused by the judge's brief visit to study each of their faces before storming out of each cell and down the corridor. Such a search was beginning to look fruitless, to which he took mental note of how many gypsies he should dispose of to prevent overcrowding in his dungeons.

None of these seemed to be the one he was looking for, but the Minister knew who he was after.

"This is the last of them, Your Honor," the guard stated as he placed the key into the cell door.

With annoyed anticipation, Frollo eyed the inside of the dark cell as the door swung open. The figure inside flinched and quickly shielded himself from the incoming torch light.

"Show yourself," Frollo ordered harshly.

Reluctantly and weakly the gypsy man raised his head and looked upon the imposing Minister of Justice. Frollo recognized the man by his long face, crooked nose, and dirty facial hair (once only a mustache). The man had been there the night of the incident…Quasimodo's father.

Glancing back at his guard, Frollo sent the guard away, leaving only him and this prisoner.

The gypsy coughed loudly, blood staining his hand. "It's…it's you," he choked out. "Judge Frollo."

"Indeed," Frollo responded. "You were caught trying to enter the city illegally with three others including a child in late winter, correct?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Please," he shakily crawled closer to the rigid Minister. "What became of them? My wife and son?"

Frollo pursed his lips. Nonchalantly, he answered, "Your wife perished in an unfortunate accident; your son survived and is in good hands."

The gypsy looked bewildered before furrowing his brows at the judge. He raspily breathed, "What did you do to them?"

Taken aback, Frollo dryly answered "Nothing that wasn't required of me."

He coughed again. "You are so full of it," the dirty man commented hatefully while attempting to raise himself up. "Your reputation is well-known all over the country; everyone knows that you are a cold, self-righteous son of a bitch! Especially towards my people. I know whatever misfortune that followed my family was because of you! Now tell me: what became of my son?"

Frollo refused to give into the demands of someone below him, tightening his jaw in annoyance.

Deciding to keep the upper hand, he posed his own question. "Have you ever given any consideration to the notion that your wife might have been…unfaithful in your union?"

The man glared at Frollo resentfully at his implication, fury growing with such taunting.

"Come now, your son resembled neither of you, therefore the culprit could only be your wife's infidelity," the judge drawled. "Such a woman who violates the sanctity of marriage will not be missed, wouldn't you agree?"

"That's not the point, Frollo!" the man angrily retorted, feebly standing up a bit, his ankle chains rattling. "He is my son nonetheless. Now what happened to him?"

"Gone," Frollo deadpanned. "Simply given to another's care, but not dead, mind you. Besides, what do you care if you were most likely not even the boy's true father?"

The man's expression resembled the Archdeacon's of sympathy which Frollo easily detested. "You don't understand, do you, Your Honor? It isn't about whether I sired him or not; my wife and I loved him because he was ours. As a parent, you are supposed to love your children unconditionally. I know that he might have not have resembled me, but I called him my son and viewed him as such."

Frollo chewed on the statement for a moment, baffled by such impassioned devotion from a gypsy of all people.

"So you would care for the child as your own even though he might not have been yours in the first place?" he asked cynically.

The man's expression was one of dead seriousness as he nodded in response.

Frollo couldn't help but let out a condescending chuckle at such a thought. "Such idiotic logic piled upon blind emotional conviction. I almost feel sorry for you, good sir, for not being able to see through a harlot's deception and trickery. Obviously she had seduced some other weak-willed lowlife before perverting your mind into believing that you should actually harbor affection for the result of her heedlessness. Truly a pity when a man falls for the enchantment of a treacherous, silver-tongued wench. That would explain why your son resembled a hell-spawn demon."

"You bastard!" Suddenly the man had lunged forward, calloused hands going for the judge's throat and tackling him to the stone ground.

The gypsy gritted his teeth tightly as his hands coiled around Frollo's neck. The judge tried in vain to push him away while fighting to keep breathing. The man's eyes and expression looked almost animalistic with the ferocious intent to kill.

"If they kill me, I can die knowing that the world is rid of another selfish tyrant!" he breathed, increasing the pressure on his grip.

Frollo could feel the air around him becoming tighter and tighter, vision becoming black and distant. His strength seemed to be sapped away as he continued to try and pry off the murderous gypsy, obviously strengthened by adrenaline and hatred.

Was this truly how it was going to end? Being strangled to death in his own home by some gypsy? It just couldn't be.

The instinct to stay alive kept him fighting, even though he could barely register what was going on. Unknowingly, one hand began searching his belt for anything that could be of help, especially when it felt that his last breaths were escaping.

In a dire light-headed state, Frollo felt himself grab something from his belt, instantly piercing it into the side of the gypsy man.

The judge felt the lock on his throat lessen then disappear, followed by a voice heard screaming far away. Though his vision was still hazy and head still spinning from the lack of oxygen, Frollo choked on the air trying desperately to get into his lungs and looked down at his attacker who lay on the ground clutching his side with a blood-soaked hand. Without thinking, Frollo thrust another puncture into the man's shoulder not once, but twice, and eliciting another painful cry from the man.

The gypsy looked down at the blood that trickled down his arm and limply fell over on his side. Frollo looked at the once clean blade of the dagger and then at the man's figure. Shakily, he rose to his feet and stumbled a bit of out of the cell before closing it shut and making his way back down the corridor.

Shock at his own impulsive actions consumed him—not remorse over what he had just done, just utter shock. He hadn't expected such a confrontation to end in bloodshed, but if that was the way it had to, then so be it.

Heart racing and head pounding furiously, Frollo noticed that his robe and hands were stained with gypsy blood as well. Usually a kill did not involve the other gaining the upper hand before him, which was something that truly surprised the judge.

"Minister!" the guard called, metal clanking as he rushed towards him.

Frollo's head snapped up upon hearing the guard address him, breaking him slightly from his disoriented state.

"Minister, what happened?" he asked, astounded by the amount of blood adorned by Frollo.

Wearing the same collected façade, Frollo responded, "There was a slight altercation with the prisoner I needed to speak to: he had attempted to kill me by means of strangulation, but I have taken care of it. See to it that such a mess is taken care of."

"O-of course, sir!" the guard obediently answered.

Climbing the stairs to his chambers above, Frollo's mind raced with numerous different thoughts. One was processing was had just happened; another, of what the man had told him…

Could it be possible to actually feel an emotional bond for the child, despite not even being flesh and blood?

Frollo had thrown Augustin's story to the back of his mind, refusing to revisit the conversation about her or any other absurd notions that the Archdeacon might have informed him of. He frequently denied to himself that he could not be held accountable for anything that might have been a result of his own youthful carelessness.

Did he learn anything from these past few days?

The boy's own gypsy father had tried to end him…to teach him of their dark ways would further increase his status as a mindless subordinate to the judge.

Quasimodo shall always know of their malignity and wickedness.

Chapter Text

Winter had once again arrived with a bitter cold and Frollo was taking the necessary steps to ensure that the bell tower would be warm enough to prevent Quasimodo from freezing to death.

It had been over a year since the Minister had agreed to take on the responsibility of parenthood; though he tried to keep his visitation to a minimum, Quasimodo still waved his small arms and smiled happily at seeing his father figure. The same could not be said for his adopted uncle Jehan, as Quasimodo always seemed slightly apprehensive about the student's presence. Whenever the young man would come to see his brother in the tower, it was almost as though the child could sense the contempt that the Minister held for him.

Frollo had brought more blankets for the child and had allowed him to crawl around on the floor during this visit. Lately the boy had attempted to shakily stand up on his own, but it proved difficult since his short legs were bowed which slowed most of the progress. Not to mention that he hadn't even started repeating any words—no matter how elementary—which worried the judge that he might be more invalid than originally thought.

"You wanted to see me, Claude?"

Picking up the boy and sitting him down on the wooden table, Frollo turned to his brother reaching the top of the steps. "Yes. I have matters that I must discuss with you."

Jehan pursed his lips and approached his brother. "Any luck today?" he asked regarding the child's abilities. He looked down at Quasimodo, who seemed to be eyeing the teen suspiciously. He cried out and reached his small hands toward the Minister, no doubt in more discomfort from the new teeth coming in.

"None whatsoever." Frollo glanced back at the hunchbacked boy before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a raw licorice stick to give to him to chew on, instantly quieting him. He sighed heavily. "Now, there is something that I must painstakingly ask of you, Jehan."

"It can't possibly be anything that you've already asked of me tenfold, could it?" he replied. "I have already explained to you, that my mistakes are simply "learning experiences" that are through no faul-"

"Please, I have heard this excuse so many times that it has since lost any value left in it. Just shut up and listen to me for once!"

His blue eyes widened at his brother's tone of voice, instantly heeding his words.

Collecting himself, Frollo carried on, "I understand that you particularly enjoy gambling down on the Rue de Glatigny."

Jehan shifted his eyes away from his brother's stone-gray ones. "You know, Claude, people will weave whatever lies they can to-"

"If you cease with trying to impress me with this innocent façade, then I can explain the situation more quickly." His face evidenced tension and hesitance to address the issue at hand; whatever the judge had to say was obviously not going to be easy for him and Jehan did not see any reason to aggravate him further. "Given that you frequent these establishments of ill repute, then I am confident that you are familiar with a man named Henry Cezanne?"

Jehan simply shrugged. "I might have thrown a few dice with the man at one of the taverns. Why do you ask?"

"The man is not only a spy, but has also been assisting gypsies enter the city illegally, Jehan," Frollo answered, a vein pulsating on the side of his forehead. "You know as well as I that the Lord's Book itself instructs that the only way to kill a snake is to cut off its head. The man is as slippery as he is treacherous and it my duty to bring him to justice, especially one who has the audacity to mingle with such a low race in my jurisdiction. My previous attempts to eradicate such activity have all been in vain, therefore I must look for another approach."

"What does this have to do with me?" Jehan asked impatiently.

The judge sighed again and rolled his eyes. "I have formulated a plan to capture him, but unfortunately…I would require your assistance."

The boy was taken aback before emitting a smug grin then a mocking laugh. His arrogance did not soothe his brother's frayed nerves and made him feel even more pathetic for having to rely on someone as ignorant as this miscreant. Frollo simply crossed his arms and waited for his brother to calm himself.

"You need my help?" Jehan repeated with a taunting satisfaction. "Claude, did you by any chance injure your head today? Or have you simply hitting the bottle a tad too much lately? Why on earth would you need my help?"

Gripping the wooden table behind him to avoid lashing out at the Jehan, the judge elaborated, "I require a pawn of sorts on the inside, and since you are a regular at these taverns, you would not raise any suspicion as opposed to myself sending in one of my enforcements to pose as a patron, since it has proven to be an ineffective method. And it would be much too risky to send in some lost soul off the street; any one of them could be a potential lackey to another lawless fugitive."

This boy is much too stupid to have gotten involved with some crime lord anyway, Frollo thought cynically. Luckily Jehan still showed some loyalty to his elder brother, no matter how much it was shrouded in his own selfishness. Jehan might have bluffed about blackmailing his brother previously, but even he was no sidewinder when it came to taking sides…especially when that side was the one providing him his allowance.

"Your angle would be to lure Cezanne out to allow my men to arrest him. I am asking you as my brother to do this," Frollo continued.

Jehan looked doubtfully at the Minister. "I see. And what would I receive as payment for my service in your plan, brother?"

The elder frowned at such a request. "I believe that you continuing to run amuck with the filth of Paris at my own expense is payment enough in itself; I already fund everything else that you indulge yourself in."

Jehan folded his arms. "With that attitude you can find yourself another mole then! Twenty pieces of silver!"

The Minister would not admit that he was indeed out of options and therefore could only try to appeal to the boy's demands to an extent. "Avaricious vulgarian! I'll give you five."

"Twenty." Jehan's smile was one of good humor and innocence which he prayed would influence his brother to concede. However, the judge remained unmoved by such a charade; he would not stoop lower to give into such demands so easily. "Fifteen then?"

Frollo's expression soured as he reluctantly considered this bargain. It was a shame the boy had never quite grasped the concept of greed being a deadly sin. "Ten. Nothing more," he stated coldly.

Jehan shook his curly head. "Very well, Claude. Ten it is!" He extended his small hand to shake on it, Frollo's own grip threatening to break it.

"Grow up," the Minister remarked as his brother hissed and clutched at his hand.

"If I may," Jehan said, straightening up. "Why the sudden interest to capture criminals at the source? Usually don't you wait it out until your men arrest them?"

Frollo exhaled solemnly. "I cannot take any chances. Ever since those parlement oafs in Toulouse pardoned François Villon to banishment instead of hanging—as I had rightfully sentenced—I cannot let these lowlifes assume that my power has been diminished! I must ensure that all lawbreakers suffer the rightful justice as is proclaimed by God. And my job is not about lying in wait, Jehan."

"Right then," the younger then said. "Well, I should be off, since I have plans with a certain Isabeau la Thierrye tonight."

Before he could stride off into another lecherous evening of pleasure, Frollo quickly grabbed his wiry arm. "I think not," he retorted, keeping his brother planted.

Stumped at this, the boy questioned the meaning of this, to which Frollo answered, "We have matters to discuss and I'm positive that you can skip one night of your licentiousness to do so, lest you would rather me not provide you with the monetary means to enjoy these pastimes."

Jehan looked dumbfounded at the judge. "But Claude!" he childishly whined.

Frollo opened his mouth to chide him over his behavior, but before he could, a small voice from behind cried out, "Cloud!"

The two looked at each other in surprise and turned their attention to where Quasimodo still sat atop the table and once again cried, "Cloud!"

The Minister's eyes widened in disbelief and his mouth hung agape, while Jehan was thrown into a fit of laughter.

Quasimodo cherubically smiled at his caretaker before repeating his new word again.

Frollo glared spitefully at his brother. "Now look what you've done!" he snarled, motioning towards the boy.

Jehan's face was bright red from the hilarity of the situation; his brother's own seemed to color itself a similar tint, though from embarrassment and not amusement.

Gripping Claude's shoulder, the younger one said, "Please, he was bound to learn that sooner or later. Besides, a child's first word is supposed to be one of the proudest moments of being a parent, right? At least you know now that he's not mute or invalid!"

"I suppose," Frollo responded dryly as he glared at the smiling child. "It would take a miracle for him to be able to walk though. I will figure out a proper title for him to address me by in time."

Patting his brother on the shoulder, Jehan mockingly said, "You're going to be a great father, Claude!"

X

Though Jehan was known to frequent La Falourdel's for most of his drinks and seeking company with his favorite strumpets, his brother had received information that Cezanne had been seen in one of the other taverns on the Rue de Glatigny. The place was a haven for carousers like him could spend their evenings in debauched bliss, but the bane for law makers such as Claude, who worked hard to eradicate the infestation of prostitutes.

Pulling his black cloak over his head, Frollo turned to his younger brother. "You understand the task at hand, or must I explain it again?" he asked bitingly.

Jehan smiled confidently. "Don't worry, Claude. I'm well aware of what to do and you can count on me."

The judge cast him a doubtful look. He might have made it seem like Jehan could fully handle this assignment, but in case something should go awry he had conjured a few backup plans. Trusting the boy completely would be like riding a blind horse into battle anyway.

Before the blond-haired hellion could head off into the fray, Frollo yanked him back and warned him, "If you lose yourself to the power of drink tonight and neglect to do your part, then you can forget about me paying you!"

Snatching his arm away, Jehan retorted, "Have some faith in me! I promise you will have Cezanne by the end of the night!" Without another word, the boy sauntered off towards the tavern.

As Frollo slipped into the darkness with the place in view, he inwardly prayed that his brother would be safe considering he was short on family.

He is the only one left, he mulled.

Frollo had posted numerous guards around the shady establishment, who also hid themselves behind walls and in alleys, weapons at the ready for the Minister's command; though he hoped that such excessive reinforcements would not be necessary for this operation.

Underneath his stoic demeanor, Frollo could feel anxiety rising at the thought of his brother actually helping him in trying to apprehend a criminal. The very thought unsettled him: his once innocent baby brother was going to use his drinking and gambling as ploy to lure out a known felon.

Be careful Jehan, he thought as he eyed the tavern warily.

X

The teen deeply inhaled the familiar scent of cheap wine and swill pervading the familiar locale. His fellow patrons filled their gullets with spirits, cursed like sailors, and burned through their earnings on gambling. Such establishments had always been homes away from home for Jehan as he strode through.

"Jehan!" called a boisterous voice that could match his own. The boy smiled as his friend made his way towards him with two bottles in hand. With a plain black doublet, short unruly brown hair, and a trustworthy face, this handsome boy could not have passed for a delinquent at first glance. However, he equated Jehan's form of being another wolf in sheep's clothing with his shared love of mischief-making.

"Robin!" the young Frollo greeted with hearty pat on the back.

Handing one bottle to Jehan, who readily took a thirsty swig, Robin said, "Come along, my friend. I've met a couple of lovely girls from out of town and they would love to meet the famous Jehan Frollo du Moulin!"

Before he could impulsively head off to make acquaintances with said women, Jehan remembered the promise he made to Claude. Claude's trust in him was already hanging by a thread; if he allowed this slip-up, then he would never trust Jehan with anything and probably cut his allowance.

His usually happy façade was replaced with a crest-fallen expression of deep thought.

"You'll have to excuse me," Jehan apologized. "But tonight my business is with Henry Cezanne. Have you seen him by any chance?"

His friend looked disappointed. "'Business'?" he questioned. "What do you mean by "business"?" For a moment, Robin pondered Jehan's statement before looking at him skeptically and asking, "This wouldn't have anything to do with the Minister, would it?"

Chugging down some more wine, Jehan then vaguely answered, "Just some things that need to be discussed, Robin. You'll have to court your lady friends without me tonight."

"If you say so. Cezanne's over there," he said pointing towards a dice table to where a group of rough-looking men gathered. Robin carefully looked over his shoulder and examined the group of rogues, most of them looked overly-brutish. "Don't get yourself killed."

"You sound like my brother." Jehan rolled his eyes, pushing Robin aside and making his way towards the group. Each of the men downed their drinks in a matter of seconds and kept a reluctant looking woman by their side.

Jehan kept his eyes on the man in the center: an imposing, Viking-like physique; long, unkempt brown hair; a rough, heavily-scarred face; a heavy fur coat; and a poniard secured at his side.

Taking a breath, he jumped headfirst. "Monsieur Cezanne! It's been a while!" he greeted.

Gulping his drink heavily and slamming his goblet down with a thud, the man studied Jehan.

"Yes…Jean, was it?" his voice raspy and indicated a hidden danger.

"Jehan, sir. I was wondering if you'd be up for a game. First one to a hundred wins?"

The posse surrounding him laughed a bit at the proposal. Cezanne smirked. "Well, who am I to deny a game? Loser buys the next round!"

X

"Are you positive that your brother can handle this, Minister?" Captain Gerard asked.

"Honestly…not entirely," Frollo answered as he inspected an arrow before loading it into a crossbow. "Which is why if Cezanne exits the tavern—with or without Jehan—I still want him arrested. However, our chances of doing so are much greater should Jehan succeed in drawing him out. It is all a matter of waiting, Captain."

"Do have faith in your brother, sir?"

Frollo scowled at him. "He's an idiot but he has some use, I suppose. Sadly, this is a last resort."

The judge prayed that Jehan hadn't found his way into trouble so soon.

X

"100!" Jehan proudly declared as the dice landed on the winning number ten to win the game. "Good game, old man!" he said, Cezanne grimacing at such a loss. Slowly reaching for his weapon, he would have gladly slit the boy's throat if it weren't for Jehan's next words.

"To show you that I'm a good sport, drinks are on me!" the boy announced, receiving approving applause and cheers.

Robin approached his friend. "I take it that you've taken care of business? How much did your brother give you for tonight, Jehan?"

"Enough!" the blond boy laughed. "Just have another drink, Poussepain!"

Beer and wine flowed like an endless river as Jehan and his friends drank to Kingdom Come for hours on end. Laughter erupted from vulgar jokes and tales and fights broke out, but the good times never ceased. The teen reveled in the attention and admiration from his friends (including Cezanne) while he recounted his own exploits that were the cause of misery to his long-suffering brother.

"I wish you could have seen my brother's face; I swear to God when he's angry, he could scare the horns off of the Devil himself!" Jehan was red as he howled in laughter and continued to drink like a fish.

Cezanne himself had lost most of his own wits to the power of alcohol and roared mercilessly from the teen's story. "Jean! No…Jehan! You truly are brave man! I can't imagine anyone who could push the Minister of Justice so far and still live to tell the tale!"

"My brother is a chump! He may parade his title and power like Nero but believe me: he's weak-willed and bends to my wishes at the snap of my fingers! I demand money and he hands it over without a second thought."

Cezanne blinked at the boy's statement. "But how? Everyone knows that the Minister is cruel, ruthless man."

Jehan shrugged and produced an intoxicated smile. "My brother says that I was hexed by a witch as an infant, so whenever I found myself in trouble…'It's not my fault, Claude! I was cursed by the she-demon!' But that stopped working years ago. And he still gives me whatever I want!" That said the boy reached over the table for another drink.

Cezanne's scarred face softened as he frowned a bit. "A funny thing, your relationship with your brother; it's much different than that of your father!"

"My father?" Jehan repeated, his head swimming in alcohol. "My father's been dead for seventeen years!"

"I know! I remember growing up and seeing him—the other Minister—and how he used to punish your brother out in public."

Jehan knitted his brows together, trying to focus on Cezanne's tale. "Really?"

Cezanne nodded. "And here you boast about your brother's leniency, but perhaps you ought to give him more credit. He could have been a lot harder on you as a lad."

Suddenly Jehan felt sick, whether it was from the copious amount of wine he had consumed since entering the tavern, or perhaps something else. Automatically he reached for his glass and shook off the feeling.

"Such wise words from such a rugged man!" he suddenly said. "But still, my brother has and always will be a stick in the mud! So I say, we should continue this celebration! Come, Monsieur Cezanne! We'll go in search of the finest women in Paris!"

"A wild man!" Cezanne cried enthusiastically. "If you insist! Let's be on our way!"

X

"Sir, if I may, how much longer are we to wait here?" Captain Gerard asked, stifling a yawn.

"An excellent question, Captain, one to which I unfortunately do not have the answer," Frollo replied as he leaned against the wall in the alley in which he waited, crossbow in hand. Jehan had gone into that tavern hours ago with a simple task and had yet to return.

Perhaps I overestimated the poor boy's abilities, he pondered, his lean frame beginning to shiver from the biting cold.

"Do you think he's alright?" Gerard asked.

Frollo's lips turned into a frown at the question. Quickly disguising his worry, he answered, "If I know my brother, he is like a cockroach: he can survive anything. He may not possess the same sagacity that I held at his age, but somehow he always makes it out alive."

Suddenly the two men heard the sound of drunken laughter emerging from the tavern. They glanced to check if it was from some lost peasants, but were shocked to see Jehan Frollo stumbling about with Henry Cezanne in tow. Swiftly the judge and Captain hid themselves, prepared to spring their trap.

"Now, sir?" Gerard whispered, hand on the hilt of his sword at the ready.

"Wait until they're further out in the open," Frollo replied as he fixed his gaze on the two intoxicated buffoons staggering about.

"Come, Henry! I know where the prettiest girls are to be found at this hour!" he heard his little brother slur.

"Your treat, Monsieur du Moulin!" Cezanne responded.

Jehan patted the coin purse at his side, expecting to hear the jingle of coin and hearing nothing.

"Forgive me, Henry, but I seem to be out of money," he wearily said. "But don't worry! I'll just ask my brother for more! In fact, he should be meeting me here any moment!"

Cezanne turned around and eyed Jehan in disbelief. "What? Your brother is coming here?!"

Jehan nodded. "Yes. He told me to meet him in front of the tavern, and he and his friends would come."

Within earshot, Frollo could hear the idiotic words tumble from his brother's drunken wine-stained lips and could only slide his hand over his face in exasperation.

Jehan continued, "Who knows? Maybe he's already here waiting for us." The boy searched around the dark area, looking for the Minister. "Claude! Claude, are you here, brother?!"

Out of his element, Jehan did not register the expression of livid fury on Cezanne's face as he suddenly seized the boy and instantly raised the poniard to Jehan's throat.

"Frollo!" he bellowed, red eyes scanning his surroundings. "Where are you?! Show yourself before I gouge your brother's eyes out!"

Frollo's eyes narrowed in alarm at Cezanne as he quickly called his men out from their hiding places and raised their weapons at the man who still held a struggling Jehan in his grip.

"Claude! Help me!" Jehan cried as the blade pressed further into his throat.

Chapter Text

"Unhand him and come quietly!" the Captain commanded severely.

Frollo rolled his eyes at the Gerard's swaggering bravado as Cezanne chuckled at him while pressing the poniard hard against Jehan's Adam's apple.

He held the boy still and kept his red eyes locked with those of the Minister. The guards surrounded the two and steadied themselves as they waited for Frollo's orders.

"Just release the boy," Frollo ordered, tightening his hold on his crossbow. "I assure you, he isn't worth such trouble."

The drunken anger etched in Cezanne's face resembled a hungry wolf. "How low can you stoop, Minister?" he taunted. "Sending your own brother in as your spy? He's not a very effective one either, is he? And don't you know how much I despise a traitor?" He pressed the blade even harder, drawing some blood from Jehan's neck who whimpered in fear.

"Claude!" Jehan cried again. "Help me! The plan didn't work!"

Frollo scoffed at this. "Oh, it worked for the most part; you just happened to go and compromise it upon its most crucial point!"

"Treacherous son of a whore!" Cezanne bellowed angrily at the boy, tightening his lock on him.

Frollo flinched at the look of intimidation that was evident in Jehan's face. "Monsieur Cezanne," Frollo calmly addressed, trying to fool the drunken madman into lowering his guard. "I implore that you let my brother go, or else this will end badly."

The man's eyes darted around to see the numerous soldiers armed to the teeth with their swords and arrows and ready to attack. Although, how often does someone have such leverage over the mighty Minister of Justice? "I will release dear little Jehan here…on a few conditions."

Frollo and Gerard glanced at each other in uncertainty and confusion, never lowering their weapons.

Of course, Frollo thought sarcastically.

"I don't negotiate with lawbreakers," he deadpanned, pointing his crossbow.

"Sir," Gerard whispered. "What about your brother?"

The Minister displayed a frown of inner turmoil at the question, slightly unsure of how to answer. But he couldn't show vulnerability now.

Cezanne smirked. "How much does the life of this lying brat mean to you?"

Frollo examined the terror in Jehan's red-rimmed blue eyes and his heart wretched at the sight. He had to protect his brother at all costs…but letting a criminal hold power over him? Could he allow a man like this gain superiority over him in such peril?

Others might try the same ploy to evade arrest, he mentally argued with himself. And what if his enforcements saw him as weak too? He could potentially lose all influence and authority he held over Paris; the last thing he needed was a rebellion against his power.

Then again…could he live knowing he wouldn't have taken that risk for his brother?

"What are your conditions?" he asked reluctantly, lowering his weapon a little.

Grinning triumphantly, Cezanne replied, "I knew you'd bend to that. You will allow me go free and I will release your boy. Once we do so, you will not pursue me or my men. Do you understand, Minister?"

His face grimacing, Frollo looked over to Jehan who could only choke out, "Claude…just do it!"

The arrogance instilled in the Minister decided on another approach. Surely the man was so inebriated that even he couldn't be serious about committing such malice. "And if I do not?" Frollo then asked skeptically, a quick smirk appearing to further taunt the man and his threat.

Cezanne gritted his teeth menacingly at the judge. "Perhaps this might change your mind."

Jehan wailed and crimson leaked from his side as the knife's blade entered his flesh, the sound and sight causing the judge's vision to turn red instantly.

THWACK!

"Minister!" he barely heard Gerard exclaim in astonishment.

"Jesus Christ, Claude!" Jehan's pained voiced screeched.

For a moment, the judge did not see anything and could only hear a faint buzzing in his ears, not registering anything around him. Shaking his head then blinking back to the present, the shocked man noticed the arrow from his crossbow gone. Frollo shifted his gaze and examined his handiwork: Cezanne lay on the cobblestone street in a heap with an arrow lodged in the center of his face, dark red streams pouring from the wound and fragmented bone caving into the injury. The silver moonlight from above made it especially unsettling.

Looking around, Jehan clutched at his side desperately and his guards' faces were all painted with bewilderment. Specks of blood hung on the ends of Jehan's blond curls as well as his shirt.

"Claude, what have you done?!"Jehan cried shakily.

Doing his best to regain his composure, Frollo bitingly responded, "I protected you, of course, you feckless ingrate!"

"You killed him! My God, you didn't have to kill the man!"

Frollo sneered at Jehan's ignorance. "Would you rather I allow him to slit your throat and leave you for dead?"

Jehan opened and closed his mouth looking for a response but was at a loss for words. He studied his hand, which was now covered in blood. Suddenly he blanched and wobbled more on his feet than before, knees about to buckle under him. Frollo quickly gripped him by the arms and steadied him.

Seeing his men still confused and dumbfounded at the episode that had just occurred, Frollo instantly barked, "What are you all simply standing around for?! Have this mess cleaned up and have any associates of this man apprehended at once!" sending the men scrambling.

"Sir, what about your brother?" the Captain asked.

Holding the boy's faint form up, Frollo answered, "I have to treat his wound. See that such matters are attended to, Captain."

"Yes, sir!"

Before the Minister could take off, Gerard stopped him and quietly asked, "Sir, was all that really necessary?"

Stoically, Frollo answered, "We may discuss ethics at another time, but I believe what transpired was indeed necessary to prevent such a dangerous character from evading the law. Right now I must tend to this one's injury before it becomes infected."

With some trouble, Frollo managed to lift his wounded brother up onto his horse. Removing his black cape, he bundled it and pressed it the gash to suppress the bleeding. He then made headway towards the Palace of Justice, all the while trying to wrap his mind around what had just occurred.

X

It was fortunate that Jehan was out cold while his brother treated his knife wound, considering the boy would have whined to Kingdom Come if he was awake. After applying salves and stitching up his unconscious brother, Frollo left him to sleep it off in one of the Palace's many guestrooms. Meanwhile, the judge was left to lament in his study. As he sat at his desk, he stared blankly at the surface trying to recall what had gone through his mind during his action.

Impulsively killing a man? Seems more along the lines of some foolhardy youth set on trying to prove himself, he thought to himself confused.

No, it hadn't been the first time he had taken the life of another (his track record was quite evident of that). But only once had killed another without such intent, and that occurred on that one winter's night in front of Notre Dame. He had always covered up that episode by asserting that his judicial duty required him of doing so. It was instinctive that he would give such a response to the Captain's question about the need for such violence when rescuing his brother.

It just seemed so out of character for the judge. But at the same time, it made perfect sense: his familial instincts had simply taken over and he did what he felt he needed to in order to protect his younger brother, like a wolf protecting its pack. It took him back to the days as a young man and having to scale a tall oak when Jehan had marooned himself among the branches. Even then, the serious Minister could not help but laugh a little at the thought of such dedication he had to his naïve teenage brother.

As long as one less bloodthirsty savage is out of the way, then everything seemed to have worked itself out.

X

The Minister had decided to continue his work from his study since it seemed wiser than to be out and about while Jehan was still recovering. Orange light from the late day's sun streamed in through the windows of his study. A slow knock at the door broke the concentration of his work, Frollo beckoning them to enter.

"Claude?" Jehan's voice lowly addressed, causing his brother to look up immediately at the teen entering his study. His steps were slow and his eyes seemed darker; obviously the injury of his side still ailed him.

"You're looking well, at least better than yesterday," Frollo commented, leaning back in his chair. He motioned for his brother to sit down.

Jehan's eyes were red and most of his energy was still sapped from him, but took a seat before his brother, the Minister. Sheepishly, he then said, "I wanted to thank you, Claude. You know…for everything."

Frollo raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you mean preventing you from being murdered by a maniacal crime lord or keeping you from bleeding to death?"

Jehan averted his gaze from the judge. "Both. And…I'm sorry about getting into trouble."

For a moment, Frollo wanted to admonish Jehan for his careless behavior, but the notion of the boy actually apologizing for his errors and showing gratitude was one that should be savored. He simply nodded and replied, "You are forgiven. Although it would do you well to not be so rash in your decision making. Still," pulling open one of the drawers of his desk, Frollo retrieved a coin purse and placed it in front of Jehan. "A deal is a deal and Cezanne is no more."

Taking it, Jehan counted the silver pieces and perked up a little, brightly saying, "Don't worry, Claude; next time I promise things will go over more smoothly!"

Frollo's eyes flickered away from his brother's. "I appreciate such sentiment, however, there will not be a "next time," given the circumstances that followed because of you. So, it appears that we both have learned something: you need to be wiser about your actions, and I should not involve you in my work."

Jehan slumped in his seat, pouting at the stern-faced Minister. "That's a shame," he said. "It was fun working with you, Claude. Despite this," he pointed to his side, indicating his wound.

"Yes, you are a paradigm of gallantry," Frollo sarcastically commented. "Chances are that such an injury will leave only a small scar so you needn't worry about the damage done to your precious skin."

Jehan sneered. "I guess, and maybe the girls might like it." His brother scoffed at this.

Figures, Claude thought sardonically.

"But hey, if you don't need my help, then you can always get your boy in the bell tower to do your dirty work in the future."

Frollo let out a low chuckle. "True, but first thing is first: he needs to show that he has some kind of ability that might deem useful."

Frollo rose from his seat and ventured across the room, laying down two glasses upon his return. Taking out the keys from his pocket he then unlocked one of the drawers of his desk, pulling out a dark bottle and uncorking it.

"Here," he said, pouring Jehan a glass before one for himself.

Jehan examined the amber colored beverage and inhaled its scent. "Brandy? Very nice."

Taking his own glass, the judge raised it. "To loyalty: may we always show dedication to those whom we owe our very livelihoods."

"And to brotherhood: because blood is thicker than water."

Clinking their glasses, the brothers downed their drinks in unison. For a moment they just sat in silence, until the younger spoke up. "Did you really have to kill him?"

The judge's eyes traveled to a small crucifix on the far side of room as though looking for the answer. "No, I suppose not," he responded nonchalantly. "The intent of the plan was to arrest him so that I may put him on trial. However, with the turn of events, the plan became compromised and I did what I felt was required of me for the good of both you and the city. If that meant that a crooked man lost his life in the process, then so be it."

"Yeah, but Claude, you shot the man with an arrow and acted like it was nothing. Didn't that bother you?"

Frollo shrugged. "That's the essence of my position. I've seen things much more gruesome and horrific than that of last night: people beaten, maimed, mutilated, disemboweled. Eventually it becomes second nature," Frollo explained as he refilled both of their glasses.

Jehan looked unsurely at his brother. "That's a very cheerful mindset. Have you always been like this?"

"More or less," the Minister answered taking another sip.

Jehan tapped his fingers on the desk in thought. "You know, Cezanne brought up something about you when we were drinking."

"Whatever it was, I'm sure it cannot be any worse than the countless insults that have befallen me before. What did he say?"

Jehan looked at his drink. "I don't remember much, but something about how our father used to punish you…a lot."

Frollo raised his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to his glass in hand, looking somewhat ashamed at the question.

Jehan studied his brother's solemn expression, trying to read him. "How much of that statement is true?"

He bit his lip then took a drink from his brandy before replying, "It amazes me that in your whole life you have seldom ever questioned my upbringing."

"Just answer the question."

"I told you that there is much that you don't know about me, Jehan. The past is in the past and I have since moved on. The matter is of no importance or concern of yours so I suggest you drop it."

The teen shrugged. "I just want to know more about our family. But now I think I'm starting to see why you don't ever want to talk about it."

Frollo shook his head, trying to prevent any buried memories from creeping up on him that might find their way out into open discussion. "I've already explained to you that our family was no different than any other of the nobility. Except ours was more…aggressive than preferred."

"So Cezanne was telling the truth then?"

Running his fingers through his dark gray hair, Frollo suddenly came to the realization that perhaps it was time to be honest with his brother about his background.

"Let me show you something," the judge said grimly. Putting his glass aside, he then reached for the end of the purple sleeve on his right arm and pulled it towards himself, revealing his pale skin. He pointed to a long-faded scar that ran up his forearm from his elbow.

Jehan's cerulean eyes widened at the sight. "What's that from?" his brother inquired, now interested. Jehan was not even aware that his brother had scars, simply assuming that a studious and serious man like him would be the last person he'd imagine carrying something as painful.

"Let us just say that this was a much lighter punishment in comparison to the others: specifically, being pushed down a few of the Palace's steps." Quickly, the Minister pulled his sleeve back over, again hiding under the dark fabric. The marks on his flesh were all harrowing memories that he made sure others did not have to know about, especially those that ran deeper than others.

"You may curse and spit at me all you wish," Frollo suddenly said, narrowing his eyes darkly. "But I never laid a hand on you, no matter how deserving you were." Raising his glass, he took a much deeper drink, suddenly regretful that he might have shown weakness by sharing something so personal.

Jehan pursed his lips. "Alright, Claude," he took a drink himself. "But can I just say that if what I've been told is true, then I hope you're not that kind of father towards your own son."

"That is the last thing I want to do."

Chapter Text

Three years later…

With a wicker basket nestled in the crook of his arm, the judge made his way up the winding staircase to the bell tower.

December had gone and so had another year of Frollo's guardianship over his hunchbacked ward. Recently the Minister had begun reading to the boy from the Bible given that he was finally old enough to grasp some of it; Frollo would then discuss the stories with Quasimodo to test his comprehension. He was a quiet boy, and probably not in the same precocious league as the Minister at such an age, but still looked up to his adoptive father in admiration and loyalty and loved his daily visits.

Climbing higher, the Minister could hear the boy's faint voice; Quasimodo had recently taken up the habit of speaking with the numerous gargoyles around the bell tower, adopting them as companions of sorts. Though Frollo wanted to inform him that they were simply inanimate objects, he knew his words would fall on deaf ears since it wasn't like the boy had many friends to substitute them with anyway.

"It looks like fun, but what are they doing?" Frollo heard his ward quietly ask his stone compatriots. "Maybe Master will know!"

"Quasimodo!" the Minister's dark voice echoed as he climbed the last few steps.

"Master!" the hunchbacked child stomped towards him, his little jagged teeth showing in his innocent grin.

The Minister of Justice might have fed and clothed Quasimodo, but he made it perfectly clear to the child at a young age that he was his keeper and shall be addressed as such. Though the boy's first year of speech was spent addressing him as "Cloud," Frollo had come to like the title of "Master" much more than a fatherly one, despite Jehan and the Archdeacon's pestering encouragement. The title reflected the power and influence that he would hold over his young ward, which only seemed to inflate the Minister's ego further.

"Good morning, dear boy," Frollo greeted monotonously, patting him gently on his red-haired head. "Conversing with your so-called "friends," I see," Quasimodo nodding enthusiastically.

Frollo motioned for the child to follow him, taking a seat at the small wooden table and removing his hat. Retrieving the tableware from a nearby shelf, Frollo filled the wooden cup with water and his goblet with wine. As he emptied the contents of the basket, Quasimodo suddenly came to his master's side and tugged on his sleeve.

"Master, come see!" he hurriedly said.

Raising his eyebrow at him, Frollo asked, "Quasimodo, what's come over you? What have you to show me?"

Quasimodo pointed his small finger towards the balcony of the tower. "It's outside, Master! Come and see!"

Reluctantly Frollo got to his feet after deciding that there was no use in trying to argue with a small child. Quasimodo led him outside, his gaze pointed down towards the square as he looked on through the stone banisters, Frollo instantly groaning in annoyance at the sight.

"What's that, Master?" Quasimodo asked quizzically, pointing.

Tents of all colors were being erected, flags and banners waving, stages being constructed; they could only indicate one thing.

"An annual nuisance of calamity, that's what," he muttered, gripping the ledge as his dark eyes pierced the sight of future pandemonium with disdain.

Though the boy heard his master's low-voiced curse, he still had no idea what he meant and looked confusedly at the man.

Frollo looked back at the boy and answered, "That, Quasimodo, is a gathering of chaos that the city celebrates every year after Advent: appropriately dubbed the "Festival of Fools", which, sadly, I must attend tomorrow."

Last year the townspeople had agreed to skip the celebration on account of heavy snow. The year before that, Quasimodo had been too young to take the sight into consideration.

"What do they do there, Master?" Quasimodo inquired further.

"Ridiculous activities: dancing, singing, drinking ale and gorging themselves on food as if the Rapture is nearing. Afterwards, the entire city will be three sheets to the wind and lose an entire day of productivity!" he vented bitterly as he sneered at the idea of the whole of Paris sleeping off the effects of never-ending beer.

Lounging around like a bunch of slothful vagrants.

The boy smiled fondly down at the people below taking no heed to Frollo's condemnation of the event. "It looks like fun! Master, may I go?"

A jolt ran up the Minister's spine at such a request. To be accompanied by such a miniature monstrosity was unfathomable given that he was constantly being humiliated by his brother.

He responded, "I don't think that would be the wisest or safest decision. Therefore, it is not a possibility, I'm afraid."

Quasimodo's smile faded at his mentor's words. "Why not?"

Frollo lowered himself slightly and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Dear Quasimodo, there is so much evil out there in this cruel world; vice and sin that I must ensure that you never have to see or live amongst. Truly the church is the only environment that can protect you from its wickedness. You understand, don't you, my boy?"

Quasimodo took another glance at the preparations below before turning back to the judge and responding, "Yes, Master."

A smile crept upon Frollo's face at this demonstration of authority. For months now, he instilled to Quasimodo that the world was a dark and merciless place, from which he was safe in the confines of the bell tower. He ushered the child back inside, seating him again at the table. Retrieving the book from his basket, the judge opened it up to his place. "Now then, we left on after the fall of Man; next, Cain and Abel."

Frollo told of the tale of the ancient fratricide born of jealousy, Quasimodo's young mind barely listening to the technical terms of his master's tale (prompting Frollo to put most of it in layman's terms). Ending with the birth of Seth, "…'At that time men began to call on the name of the Lord.' " Closing his book, he narrowed his eyes at the boy. "Now, what we have learned from Cain and Abel is that jealousy only leads down the path of destruction, and we must be grateful for our place in life. Cain was not; killing his own brother as a result and ultimately cast away by God as punishment. Do you understand, Quasimodo?"

Teal eyes blinked at Frollo, unable to tell whether or not he did. "What's a brother, Master? And a son?"

Frollo was taken aback and his mouth hung agape for a moment, but he knew that the question was inevitable. "Well," he began. "A brother is a boy or man born to the same mother as someone, such as what Jehan is to me. A son is a male belonging to a set of parents."

"And what are parents?"

Frollo nervously looked down at the rings on his fingers. "Parents are…" his eyes darted from Quasimodo to the rafters above and the broken statue heads littered around. "They are a man and woman who have children of their own; the man is the father, the woman the mother. If they are not properly married, then the children born between them are impure in the eyes of God."

"Does everyone have parents?" Quasimodo continued to ask, much to the Minister's chagrin.

Oh God, please stop asking me! He inwardly begged.

"Originally," he answered vaguely. "However, not everyone has the opportunity to have their parents in their lives."

"Why not?

"Sometimes life is unpredictable and parents leave their children's lives. Other times, children never know their parents or the parents never know their children."

Quasimodo eyed the tableware, deep in thought and giving the judge a chance to collect himself by taking a thirsty drink from his goblet. It was truly something that he was hit by a multitude of questions by an otherwise quiet and taciturn boy, something that he was very unprepared for.

Before long, Quasimodo looked back at him and asked, "Do you have parents, Master?"

Cold gray eyes widened at this inquiry. "Of course I did, though it was many years ago as they have both moved on." He looked at his fingers nervously drumming on the wooden surface.

"Where?"

Looking up at the gloomy atmosphere surrounding the bells high in the rafters, Frollo replied, "To the Lord's keep, far away in the Kingdom of Heaven hopefully."

The hunchback boy stared intensely at the Minister who now kept his eyes locked on his jittery, twitching fingers. "Master?" he asked.

Frollo sighed in irritability. "Yes?"

"Where are my parents?"

The judge froze, the question shaking him to his core. Suddenly his mind flashed images of that night: kicking the gypsy woman down the steps, discovering the child's deformity, and nearly disposing of it in the nearby well. Anxiously he had hoped that out of all of the questions regarding family, this would not be one of them. He did not want to have to explain himself again over the incident.

Then again, he thought. If he is barely making such an inquiry, surely whatever I recount he would assume to be fact.

The cogs in his head turned at breakneck speed as he plotted such a scheme. If he could weave a new tale about the fate of the boy's parents, it might just strengthen his faith and loyalty to the judge.

Schooling his expression, he responded with false pity, "It pains me to say this, Quasimodo, but neither of your parents could be found anywhere."

The boy's expression fell into one of shock and alarm. "Wh-What happened to them, Master?"

The Minister shook his head in feigned grief. "I know not of what became of your father, but it was your mother who had left you on the steps of this church. Many of the townsfolk had gathered and did nothing to help you, but it was I alone who had taken it upon myself to raise you and care for you as my own. Had it not been for me, you could have perished at the hands of the townsfolk!"

Quasimodo tore his deformed gaze from the man and stared down at the table's surface, a small choking noise escaping him. Frollo noticed that tears now streamed down the child's face.

Lightly gripping his shoulder, Frollo comfortingly said, "There, there, Quasimodo. It is an awful thing to do to one's own child, but know that you have a guardian who has saved you from great harm and given you a place to call home."

Quasimodo nodded and looked up at the tall judge beside him. Before Frollo could say another word, he felt the boy's small arms encircle him in a tight embrace. Frollo looked down at the sniffling child who buried his face in the obsidian robes. Not knowing what to do, he glanced around in confusion and simply let Quasimodo cry it out for a while.

"Come now, my boy," Frollo calmly spoke. "You needn't worry about something that happened so long ago. As I have previously stated: you have a guardian who provides for you as no other, and for this you should be grateful."

Gently he pulled Quasimodo away from his now tear stained robes, the boy finally stopping his crying as he wiped away the last of his tears with his tunic sleeve. Frollo smiled at the regaining of the boy's composure and suggested that they finish their meal.

Breakfast was eaten in silence much to the Minister's reprieve. Looking up, he noticed the reclusive church bell ringer climbing up towards the bells; Frollo and Quasimodo covering their ears as the man above chimed the hour.

After the resonance of the mighty bells finally died down, the judge rose and said, "It appears that I must be off. There is much to do and time is of the essence," placing his hat back on and turning towards the stairs. As he left, Quasimodo stared in mystification at the industrious nature of his master. Soon afterwards, he lumbered back outside, eager to watch the festival from above.

X

The heavy doors of Notre Dame were hastily pushed open as the Minister of Justice struggled inside with his inebriated brother squirming in his arms.

"Come on, Claude!" Jehan slurred, his face bright red and stinking of ale. "The festival is barely getting underway!" His voice echoed throughout the empty nave.

The judge groaned as Jehan pushed him in an attempt to get back to the celebration outside. Frollo had found his brother early on trying to court a few dancers at the festival and instantly detected no good from him. "Given your history, I have decided that you will not be partaking in the festivities this year. The day is demanding enough without your capricious behavior getting the better of you again!"

"Minister? Jehan?" The Archdeacon was approaching quickly as he saw the brothers again in one of their squabbles. "What's going on here? Shouldn't you two be at the festival?"

Still gripping Jehan tightly, Frollo looked at the Archdeacon. "I'm glad you are here, Father. Is there anywhere that I might detain this one until the day's madness has ceased?"

"Don't listen to him, Father!" Jehan cried, his blond curls disheveled and trying to wriggle out of his brother's hold. "Claude just envies me because he has to work during the festival!"

With a roll of his eyes, Frollo simply replied, "I wish that were true. Anyway," he looked back to the perplexed looking Archdeacon. "May I? I cannot risk him wreaking more havoc than necessary."

With Jehan looking more than intoxicated from today's endless drinks and the expression of growing impatience of that of his brother, Father Augustin hesitantly complied. He led the judge to one of the back cells of the church, Frollo instantly pushing his brother in and slamming the door shut.

Ignoring Jehan's slurred protests, Frollo locked it and turned again to the Archdeacon. "I will return for my brother in due time, until then make sure that he stays here."

"As you wish, Minister," he monotonously replied, knowing all too well that trying to break up the brothers in a fight was futile.

Already the day was starting to take its toll on the weary judge, who could feel a headache forming in his skull. At least the absence of his pest of a brother would make the day more bearable. Still, he needed something to remedy this pain now.

It was then Frollo remembered that he still had wine up in the bell tower that might be of aid.

One drink before having to return to such chaos couldn't hurt, he told himself as he turned towards the spiral staircase and began climbing his way up, his pulse pounding heavily in his ears.

"Master, you're back!" Quasimodo greeted spiritedly as he saw his adoptive father marching up the wooden stairs again.

Falsely smiling, Frollo nodded and responded, "I am only here to retrieve something. After which, I must be on my way immediately." Brushing past the boy, Frollo went straight to the top shelf where his wine was stashed.

Uncorking it quickly, the judge took a hearty swig from the bottle much to Quasimodo's confusion, the sweet red substance relieving his nerves instantly. The boy came to Frollo's side and stared up at him. Corking the bottle up and returning it to its place, Frollo looked down his long nose at Quasimodo and raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

"What's it like out there, Master?" he curiously asked. "I heard singing and shouting. It sounds like fun!"

The Minister scoffed. "Our definitions of 'fun' are quite different," he quipped as he walked out towards the balcony. Looking down again at the sea of peasants gathered together, Frollo sneered at their indulgent delights. The blue sky, throngs of ebullient festival goers, and colors bursting from all ends; just looking at such joviality left him feeling drained. He dreaded being forced to return and endure another painstaking year of observing the common man shun his virtues for a day of frivolous behavior.

I should have done away with this damn revelry years ago, he thought cynically.

"Be forever grateful that you do not have to take part in such foolish nonsense, Quasimodo," he said, his back still turned.

Sighing weakly, he walked back into the belfry and expected to hear the voice of his ward, probably asking another question about the Feast of Fools. Hearing nothing, the judge scanned around for the boy, but found nothing.

"Quasimodo?" he called, still glancing around for him. He peeked around some nearby broken gargoyles and brushed away the curtain that concealed the boy's sleeping area, only to find that he was still nowhere to be found. Trying not keep his frayed nerves at bay, he continued to search any other nook and cranny that Quasimodo has been known to inhabit, but to no avail.

Oh no.

With a quickened pace, he moved forward to the stairs and descended quickly, hoping to God that the boy was simply hiding somewhere in the lower rafters or something. As he approached the spiral staircase, Frollo could hear the boy's footsteps echoing as they clopped down the stairs eagerly, his heartbeat picking up speed.

The door!

Stewing in such a relentless headache, he had been so quick to get in and out of the bell tower that he had foolishly forget to close, let alone lock, the door at the bottom of the staircase.

"Quasimodo!" he called, rushing down the steps.

The restless boy stomped down the stairs, the Minister racing to catch up with him. Quasimodo ran (if it could be called that) through the empty nave before coming to a halt at the imposing wooden doors, misshapen eyes staring up at the intricate design above in wonderment.

Out of unbearable curiosity, Quasimodo lumbered forward stretching out his small hand. Frollo, finally reaching the bottom of the staircase, laid his eyes on the boy in bafflement, quickly beckoned, "Quasimodo!"

The boy, too lost in his juvenile fascination, seemed to not hear his master, only inching forward closer to the doors. Perhaps the Master was wrong and the world out there was not as terrifying as he purported it to be…

"Quasimodo, stop this instant!"

The hunchbacked boy suddenly heard the low voice of the Minister and gasped in fear at the sudden sight of his master's twisted expression of livid rage upon the realization that Frollo now held his small arm in his iron-like grasp, swiftly dragging him away from the church's entrance and back up the staircase.

Quasimodo was absolutely petrified that half-way up the journey Frollo had still not reprehended him. The Minister's breathing was laborious with frustration and beads of sweat collected on his forehead, never bothering to look at the child he held forcefully pulled up the staircase. He only kept his eyes set ahead and as he frowned heavily with displeasure.

When the pair reached the top of the tower, Frollo released his hold on the boy and turned away, gripping one of the wooden beams nearby and turning his knuckles white. Back stooped and his other hand pinched the bridge of his nose, Quasimodo dared not say anything out of fear that he could aggravate the judge further.

Frollo's jaw tightened he whipped around to face the child, arm suddenly raised back and he impulsively wanted to strike him down for such insolence.

Eye widening, Quasimodo raised his small arms in defense as he expected the judge's heavy blow for his actions.

Suddenly Frollo saw his ward's terror-stricken face as he shrunk in fear of his master's fury. He could see himself cowering from his own father's rage as he trounced the young Minister for his own wrongdoings. Letting his hand fall to his side, Frollo turned back and breathed as tried to collect himself.

Frollo cursed himself for his anger overwhelming him and mentally admitted that he never allowed it to be displayed so evidently in front of his ward. He knew that such emotion stemmed from the idea that Quasimodo had attempted to venture outside and explore the world that he had so feverishly condemned. He had never even allowed the boy to leave the bell tower, let alone Notre Dame.

And so it begins…he thought.

Taking a last breath to calm himself, Frollo then faced Quasimodo who looked away in shame, plump arms hanging shielding his face from whatever his master might do.

"Quasimodo," he said firmly but trying not to sound too stern.

"Y-yes, Master?" Quasimodo squeaked out, his eyes glued to the dusty floor.

"Look at me when I speak to you," Frollo ordered, Quasimodo mechanically obeying. "I have reminded you countless times of the terrible nature that lies outside the walls of the church, have I not?"

"Yes, Master."

"Precisely. I have always emphasized that the world is a cold and dangerous place; a place that one should try to limit his time in and dread every moment, particularly, a person such as yourself."

Quasimodo sniffed and his blue eyes now shone with tears building up at his adoptive father's bleak scolding.

Out of some quick inner concession for being so harsh, Frollo placed a gentle hand on Quasimodo's protruding hump, the boy looking up at the looming judge pitifully.

"Quasimodo, understand that I only keep you here to shield you from the horrors and pains of the world. It would be best for all of us that you stay here in the safety of the church. Do you understand?"

The boy could only nod in agreement with his master's words. Frollo, in turn, lightly ruffled the boy's red hair and half-heartedly replied, "Good lad then."

Frollo stepped forward to leave and return to the festival when he suddenly felt a small tug at his cape, blinking stupidly as he saw Quasimodo looking up at him inquisitively.

"Master?" the boy's small voice addressed. "What do you mean a 'person like me'? Why can't I go outside like you?"

Another question that was bound to manifest itself sooner or later.

Frollo knelt down to Quasimodo's eye level and responded, "There is no proper way to say this, Quasimodo, but you are not normal; you do not resemble any other person in the world. For such a trait, you will not be rewarded, only hated and shunned. Should you go out into the world, you will never find anyone who will accept you as I do. They will insult you, hurt you, and deem you a monster. Your place is here in the bell tower where they cannot do such things."

Quasimodo hung his head at the realization that Frollo was right. The few people that he interacted with in the church more closely resembled his master in terms of appearance; Quasimodo had contemplated it before when he would see his reflection in a pail of water, before seeing it as his own unique look—not deformity and hideousness.

"They won't like me because I'm different?" he timidly repeated.

Frollo nodded gravely before rising up to stand tall. "It is a cold truth, but yes; a harsh reality that we must endure as we go about our days in this miserable world."

"What about you, Master?"

"My role is to punish the evil-doers; to make the world more bearable by cleansing it of such filth. I know my place in this world, and what is yours, Quasimodo?"

The boy twiddled his thumbs. "To stay up here?"

"Correct." Frollo turned to exit the tower, determined to get the rest of this day over with as soon as possible. He gave a self-assured smirk, hopeful that such a lecture would prevent any future defiance.

X

"Was he any trouble?" Frollo asked, retrieving the key from his pocket as he approached the back cell containing his brother. The day had finally drawn to a close and another Feast of Fools had come and gone to the Minister's relief and he once again returned to Notre Dame to feed his foster son dinner and release his brother.

"Of course not," Father Augustin replied. "You know your brother, Claude. He'll kick and scream until he tires himself out."

"Always," he agreed, unlocking the door and swinging it open. Inside Jehan lay huddled on the stone floor, obviously still asleep. Stepping forward, Frollo nudged him in the back with his boot only for Jehan to respond with a tired groan.

"Would it be too much trouble if I just left him here until he's back among the living?" Frollo asked the Archdeacon exhaustedly. "Unfortunately I don't have time to wait for him to wake and escort him back to his home."

"No trouble at all. Should he ask, I shall tell him that you had matters to attend to."

Frollo nodded. "Very well." With that, the judge and Archdeacon turned and left the sleeping man in his unlocked cell.

An hour or so had passed before Jehan woke from his intoxicated lethargy and warily raised himself up. Much to his delight, the door from his cell was unlocked.

The inside of the church was dark from the falling sun outside, the colors of the rose window becoming less distinct. If it was this late and the cell door wasn't locked, then maybe Claude was still here in the church, no doubt with Quasimodo. The idea in his cloudy mind, Jehan made way for the steps to the bell tower.

He kept his hands plastered to the stone wall as he clumsily trekked up the staircase, fighting every urge to vomit all of the poison he had consumed during the day.

"Claude!" he shouted weakly when he finally made it. "Claude, you here?"

Glancing around, he was surprised to see a small figure emerge from behind a wooden beam and shyly stare at him.

Crookedly smiling, he said, "Evening, Quasi. Have you seen my brother tonight?"

Rubbing at his good eye tiredly, he answered, "Master left."

"Dammit, Claude!" Jehan cursed under his breath and slammed his fist against the palm of his hand in frustration.

Quasimodo recoiled a bit at Jehan. "He was angry, Jehan."

The young man laughed at the statement. "When is he not?" Waving his hand.

Quasimodo looked down at the floorboards. "He never gets mad at me."

Jehan's laughter ceased at this. "Wait, Claude was mad at you?"

The boy nodded sadly. Jehan looked at him in disbelief. "Huh…what did you do to piss him off?"

Quasimodo forgot the reprimand he should have given Jehan for his use of colorful language, instead sniffling and answering, "I tried to go outside. He told me to stay here because it's dangerous."

Crossing his arms, Jehan nodded. "Yep, that sounds like my brother. But then again, who am I to argue with his "superior intellect"? No point in trying to fight with him; that's a battle that's lost as soon as it begins!"

Quasimodo shuffled closer to Jehan. "Does he always get mad like that?"

Jehan smirked. "Don't worry, Quasi. Claude gets mad at me like that all the time. At least you haven't seen him when he's drunk; not a good time to be around my brother." He chuckled at the thought, Quasimodo looking at him in confusion.

"I don't like when Master is mad at me," Quasimodo stated sadly.

Something about the boy's disappointment in himself unnerved Jehan, given that he himself had never taken his brother's frustration over his behavior into consideration. Quasimodo showed only dedication towards the judge, and it didn't look like that was changing anytime soon.

"Well, just try not to make him angry again. If he says to stay up here, just listen to him. Can you do that?" he asked softly, kneeling to reach eye level with the boy.

Quasimodo looked up to his de facto uncle with his dark blue eyes and nodded. Jehan patted him lightly on the shoulder and commented, "Good. The last thing my brother needs is the both of us acting up!"

Chapter Text

A book in hand—the title unreadable, but the mass of it indicating its abundance of knowledge—the small boy sat high up on a rooftop somewhere contently, overlooking the surrounding trees and gray skies in his dead silent environment.

Suddenly the sound of approaching hooves beckoned his attention away. Turning, he crouched low towards the edge to see who was making their way towards his homestead.

He kept his head low as he examined a large man dismounting a black horse, a bronze skinned beauty in his hold. Her attire contrasted greatly with his dark black and red fur-lined coat, herself covered in magnificent teals, greens, and gold. Holding a wide, calloused hand out to help her down, the bearded man flashed her a desirous grin, returned by her own, before leading her into the grand manor, black chaperon sash trailing behind him, the pair never noticed the pair of eyes following them from above.

The sight was appalling…

No…this isn't right!

The judge heard himself gasp out, sitting up and still covered in darkness, only lit by the thin sliver of moonlight streaming in through his windows.

Frollo could feel the sweat on his forehead as he pressed his hands to his face trying to collect himself. How he detested dreams like these: ones that interrupted his night's sleep by resurrecting visions of the past, ones that he was not fond of welcoming back.

Damn gypsies, he sluggishly cursed before slumping back against the mattress and trying to sleep the rest of the night in peace.

X

As the Minister of Justice rode down the cobblestone streets atop his coal black steed, he was greeted by the usual cautious looks of the Parisian commoners. He always reveled in omnipresence that he seemed to hold over the city: peasants ever mindful of the almighty judge and his lackeys that could be just around the corner. It plagued him to no end that no matter how many of their kind he did away with, the gypsies of Paris could never stay in line for long. He conjured up any kind of loophole that could result in the arrest (or worse) for even something as simple as panhandling. Though the day was young, there was bound to be a few unwitting gypsies that he could stamp out before dusk.

He steered his horse forward on his rounds towards the cathedral. The cool late winter air was refreshing, gently whipping the red sash of his hat as he rode, keeping a keen eye glancing around to make sure everything was as it should be. As he drew closer to the square, Frollo's eyes locked onto a peculiar looking stand that was surrounded by small children, instantly assuming that no good could come of this spectacle.

Drawing his horse up to a reasonable distance, Frollo soon discovered why so many of the town's children had gathered: it was another gypsy puppet show, making the judge sneer in response.

A teenage gypsy boy adorned with a bright purple mask, short black beard, and whimsical purple hat with a yellow feather sticking out of it was the culprit of this show. In one hand he held a paper snake on a wooden rod, a puppet of a princess on the other.

"And the snake said, 'Fear not, my wife, for I am no snake as you see me. Behold me as I am,' before somersaulting and transforming into a man!" The boy tossed the snake figure upwards into a flip before reaching over and retrieving a new puppet of a handsome young warrior, making the princess puppet gasp at the sight. "She saw the man, threw her arms around him and kissed him before saying, 'You will live many years, my king. I thought you would eat me!'" The boy pressed the two figures together showing their kiss, the young audience openly expressing their disgust by their twisted expressions.

The Minister rolled his eyes as the gypsy ended the tale with the princess looking more radiant than ever after she married the snake-turned-man. The children clapped and cheered for their storyteller as he bowed in youthful pride, thanking them for their presence. Seemingly out of nowhere, the boy presented a hand puppet that resembled a certain public official, complete with crooked nose, dark chaperon and red sash, and a menacing expression complimented with sharp, pointed teeth.

"Be safe, little ones," the boy warned. "And behave yourselves, or else the wicked Judge Frollo will come and snatch you up!" He growled humorously as he waved the puppet around towards the children, who laughed and feigned screaming at the sight of the tiny judge before them.

From afar, Frollo's lips curled in indignation seeing that this young gypsy was brainwashing impressionable peasant children with such slander.

When the last of them had finally left, the Minister reared his steed up to the puppet master's caravan, who was carefully cleaning up and folding the flimsy backdrop into a nearby trunk. Frollo noticed the boy examine the puppet of him into his hand before chuckling to himself at the sight of it, never noticing its inspiration's slate-colored eyes boring holes into the back of his skull.

"You there! Ignorant gypsy!" the judge called as he steered his horse closer towards the puppet stand.

The lanky gypsy boy looked on in disbelief at the imposing man. Suddenly he glanced at the caricature of him in puppet form on his right hand, quickly hiding it behind his back.

"What is your name?" the judge rumbled, his hardened expression never failing him.

The boy frowned and shifted his gaze to the ground. "Clopin," he answered reluctantly.

"How old are you?"

He sighed, "Eighteen, Minister."

"Tell me then, boy. What do you think you are doing?" Frollo narrowed his dark eyes at Clopin fiercely in case he might have forgotten the judge's authoritative stature.

Pursing his lips and keeping his eyes looking away, the boy replied, "Just putting on a show for the little ones."

"An interesting choice of appearance for that particular character that you are so discreetly attempting to hide from me."

Clopin raised the Frollo puppet and studied it again. "You have to admit, Your Honor: the resemblance is uncanny, is it not?" He smirked with great defiance, much to the Minister's chagrin.

Furrowing his brows at such smugness, Frollo spoke lowly as he tried to make this gypsy understand. "Should I see you using such defamatory characters again, the consequences that follow be much more severe than a mere warning. Do I make myself clear?"

Clopin raised his eyebrows at the judge. "Have a heart, Minister!" he protested. "I'm simply trying to make a decent earning through the use of my art!"

"'Art'?" the judge asked in disbelief. "I would hardly call what you do to earn your wages an "art"! Merely colorful misrepresentations of the more respectable members of society! And if not that, then more of that gypsy drivel that you enjoy filling those children's heads with."

Clopin shrugged. "What you call "misrepresentations" I call more accurate depictions of very unsavory characters. And the others are just old gypsy folktales that we enjoy sharing!"

"Nothing but nonsense that promotes your heathen beliefs. A snake turned into a man and eloping with the king's daughter? Obviously metaphorical for the Devil ensnaring an unwitting woman into his clutches. Witchcraft if I ever saw! And now you fill the minds of the Lord's children with these notions, eager I'm sure for them to run off with your wicked practices!" Frollo's grip on the horse's reins tightened with his scornful words.

"Well, Your Honor, doesn't your religion also believe that?" the boy argued. "I've heard your book also tells of a woman being persuaded by a snake. Perhaps we're not so different."

"Blasphemy!" Frollo bellowed angrily, hand on the hilt of the sword at his side and heart hammering in his chest. "I should strike you down for even considering us similar! A ludicrous comparison!"

Clopin crossed his wiry arms cross his chest stubbornly and curled his lips at the judge. "Look Judge, there's no harm in just telling stories–fictional or not. Believe it or not, but my tales are actually quite popular among your fellow high-class citizens. They just plop their little ones in front of my shows and run off. I don't think they'd be too pleased if you did away with one of their children's favorite pastimes." Out of pure spite, raised his Frollo caricature and made it nod in agreement.

Damn, he makes a fair point, the judge conceded internally. He rationalized the argument: should he do away with this ridiculous side-show, his fellow nobles would surely lose favor with him for getting rid of their children's entertainment. In his position, it would be most beneficial to keep that favor and loyalty within the nobility.

Dammit, dammit! He hated being bested by another–by a gypsy was unthinkable.

Huffing in defeat, Frollo dryly responded, "I will allow you to continue these foolish shows, but…" in a flash, Frollo whipped out his sword and swiped it clean over the man's hand, Clopin flinching instantly at the action. When the gypsy finally looked again at his hand puppet, its face of exaggerated features fell clean off its neck, nearly slicing the tips of his fingers off. "This one will not do."

Clopin's eyes widened and jaw hung open at the Minister's actions, confused at what just happened. "I…I get the point, Minister," he stuttered out.

"Good," Frollo monotonously replied, sheathing the weapon back. "A lesson to be learned every day."

"Clopin?" A small feminine voice piped up from behind causing the Minister to whip his attention around to see a short gypsy girl approaching and staring up at him.

Bright green eyes met the accusing granite ones of his own before looking around to the gypsy teen. "Clopin, what's going on?" she asked, carefully walking around the judge's black horse, who snorted maliciously at her, to join the boy at his side.

"Nothing, Esmeralda," the thin boy answered, protectively clutching her away from the Minister of Justice. Furrowing his brows at the stoic man, he continued, "Minister Frollo and I were just having a discussion about my puppet shows."

The girl, maybe no more than ten years old, gazed up distrustfully at Frollo and asked, "You were? Why?"

Her green-eyed gaze unnerved the steady judge; something was…off about this child, but he was unsure what.

"Oh, you know," Clopin said, his voice slightly quivering. "He just wants me to do away with them and resort to begging and starving to death!"

Esmeralda's expression shifted to one of anger and scorn. "You can't do that!" she naïvely protested to the judge who was obviously taken aback. "My brother works hard to feed our family! He loves his puppet shows and you can't take that away from him! Do you know how hard it is for us?!"

Frollo blinked in astonishment at the girl's reprimand. Such powerful, impassioned words from such a young mind…it reminded him so much of himself for a moment.

Regaining his composure, Frollo replied, "Quite a tongue on this one, puppet-master. It would be wise to teach her how to control it. Such a trait could prove to be a dangerous thing if used carelessly. Not to mention that eyes such as those could only mean that there is an evil lurking within her." In that moment, the judge and Esmeralda exchanged hateful looks, never hiding their disdain for one another. "Any way, young lady, the fact of the matter is that I had indeed permitted your brother to continue his "art", just so long as he discontinues the use of a certain character."

The girl smirked up at him before pulling Clopin close to allow her to whisper something in his ear. Laughing, he replied, "Yep! The very one!"

Pursing his thin lips at their exchange, Frollo simply said, "Now that that matter is resolved, I partially trust that there will be no more trouble expected from either of you?"

The gypsy duo looked at each other before looking back at Frollo and giving him shared wide but false smiles.

Nodding skeptically, Frollo steered his horse forward onto the rest of their route, hoping that he would never have to run into those two again.

X

How the day seemed to drag on without any reprieve, mercilessly dull to say the least. Frollo wondered for a moment if he should simply return to the Palace of Justice and see to the documents piling up on his desk. Shaking his head, he was about to steer his horse off back home until the sound of a skirmish nearby caught his attention, yanking the reins in its direction.

Frollo stopped the horse abruptly as he looked to a nearby alley where he now witnessed two of his soldiers kicking the life out of some poor gypsy man, bright colored clothes dirtied from being pummeled into the ground.

Lips turning into a sadistic smirk, Frollo suddenly called, "Does the punishment fit the crime, gentlemen?"

The metal-clad dolts gaped at the ominous judge and stood at attention, quickly explaining that the man had been scamming local peasants by posing as lame.

If he could, Frollo would have easily allowed them to carry on, no questions asked, but as Minister of Justice there was certain protocol to be followed.

"Have you any solid evidence to support this claim?" he asked reluctantly, inspecting the withered looking man, leg covered in dirty rags as bandages.

"Sir, we witnessed him with our own eyes standing up and walking about with ease after being given a few coins," one guard stated. "This man is obviously a charlatan!"

Climbing down from his horse and joining the two by their side, Frollo simply replied, "Then let us put it to the test."

Stepping closer, Frollo towered over the gypsy, still huddled on the ground, with a blank expression on his face. "Sit up!" he commanded the man, as though speaking to a dog. The tired man dragged himself to sit up against the wall of the alley, glowering at the stoic Minister.

"Now tell me," Frollo said diplomatically. "Which leg is the one that ails you?"

Clearing his throat, the pallid man answered, "Umm…the left one, Your Honor." His dark eyes flickered nervously back and forth at the leg and up at the judge before him.

Frollo nodded without any change of expression. "Have you any feeling in that leg at all?"

Opening and closing his mouth, the gypsy answered, "No sir. An infection long ago cost me any feeling in it."

"So it never occurred to you to simply do away with it? Amputate it and be rid of such a burden?"

Suddenly the gypsy glanced back at the guards who eyed him cautiously as he seemed to keep from crumbling before the mighty judge. Avoiding those apathetic flint-colored eyes, he quietly answered, "I suppose not."

"Now elaborate, please: on what grounds would my men claim that you are not as invalid as you appear?"

"Perhaps your men are not as honest as you would prefer!" the gypsy retorted in an acidic tone, gnashing his teeth at the impassive Minister.

"I see," Frollo dryly said. Reaching over, he then withdrew his sword from his hilt, the gypsy's eyes widened to the size of saucers and the nearby soldiers grinning wide with their crooked smiles.

"If you are as impaired as you purport yourself to be, then I would not cause any pain if I were, to say, plunge this weapon into that leg that you claim can feel nothing?" Frollo stared icily at the trembling gypsy as he pulled his sword back to take aim, the doltish soldiers shouting encouragement for their superior to do it.

In the blink of an eye, a flash of color sprung to its feet and darted down the alley, and Frollo immediately ordered the two to seize him. "Swindling gypsy!" the hot-tempered Minister called out in aggravation as he mounted the horse to follow the two.

Infernal con-artists! All of them! Frollo internally ranted as he split off in another direction to locate the man should he evade the guards.

Head glancing back and forth like a meerkat, the judge suddenly caught sight of the gypsy sprinting down another nearby alley, lurching the black beast after him. Frollo wanted nothing more than to beat this wretch into the ground himself, half disappointed and relieved when a blur of silver tackled the fraudulent invalid to the ground.

"Minister! How would you prefer us to deal with this waste of skin?" one asked with the weary gypsy in his grasp.

"I believe that the prior handling of the situation seemed appropriate," he answered coolly. "If he has indeed devoted himself to portraying a cripple, then we should at least make sure it is the honest to God truth, should we not?"

With a dismissive wave of his hand, the brutes savagely pushed the gypsy to the ground, instantly resuming their earlier beating.

The bronze-skinned man coughed and wheezed furiously as the soldiers landed more kicks and blows to his already bruised body. Frollo all the while sat idly by, keenly observing the event he had ordered and smiling wolfishly at the display of his unbreakable power.

For a fleeting moment, the judge suddenly locked eyes with the man, his grin immediately disappearing. Suddenly it was as though Frollo could see all those before who had writhed and screamed in agony at his command. Those eyes felt so accusing, so familiar of someone else.

His taut frame felt as though it would crumble under the weight of confusion and sudden guilt as he watched his lackeys beat this man to a pulp.

Do you know how hard it is for gypsies?!He heard the girl's voice echo in his head.

"Stop!" he boomed, raising a shaking hand. The guards looked dumbfounded at this change of heart. "I suppose he has learned the consequences of feigning injury," he quipped, eyes looking to his hands clenched tightly on the horse's reins.

"But sir," one of the big oafs piped up. "You told us-"

"I am well aware of what I commanded and now I am ordering you to cease!" The two exchanged looks of bewilderment and nodded their heads obediently in understanding, disgust still evident as they glared down at the wounded gypsy. "Now return to your posts immediately!" With that, the pair scrambled away, afraid to question the authoritative judge.

Despite the internal nagging to help, Frollo watched dolefully as the man struggled on trembling limbs to stand tall. Frollo shook his head and turned back, eager to get away from whatever haunting sensation had come over him.

Before the gypsy could meet his eyes again, Frollo quickly turned away. "This was merely a single instance of mercy, so I intend you keep quiet about this and do not try your chances again, gypsy.

He quickly snapped the reins and the horse trotted off, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts clashing against each other, not knowing what to focus on.

What happened? Why had he suddenly felt these feelings of…what? Pity? Empathy? Remorse?

He had no idea where he was heading; all he wanted to do was carry on without feeling the long-forgotten emotion of guilt for his actions pressing down on him.

Chapter Text

The tavern was lit only by single fire from the hearth, the smoke easily choking those sitting too close. Red-faced patrons sat side-by-side on wooden benches at tables, drowning themselves in their beloved poison.

From afar, Jehan could instantly recognize the familiar black and purple striped chaperon resting on the wooden counter at the end of the dimly-lit building. Next to it was a stiff figure that was the Minister of Justice sitting down. He almost didn't recognize his brother not screaming at someone or poring over paperwork.

Striding forward, Jehan pulled up a wooden stool next to his brother and suspiciously asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Collecting alms for the poor," Frollo snidely answered, taking a sip from the glass of wine in hand. "What do you think I am doing here?"

"Fair enough," Jehan agreed. "Pint of mead here!"

The large burly man behind the counter grimaced distastefully at the young man. "You got the money to pay for it this time?"

Smirking, Jehan glanced at his brother beside him. Claude averted his own gaze by focusing on his wine before Jehan got any ideas of asking him to cover his drink. Disappointed in this, Jehan frowned at his brother before answering to the man, "Don't worry, I got it covered."

Jehan slurped down the freshly poured mead. "Never took you for a tavern man, Claude. I thought you preferred to drink alone. What happened? You drink the whole Palace of Justice dry?"

Frollo nudged his brother in the arm mid-drink, Jehan spilling some down his chin and tunic. "I simply needed something to drink and did not feel like wasting my time returning to the Palace and back to my rounds. Otherwise I would not dare step foot into a commonplace of such scum. Now allow me to finish in peace." Frollo decided not to recount the sudden onset of guilt he felt watching his soldiers beat the life out of that gypsy. It was more relieving to simply dull the feeling with alcohol.

"Fat chance—if you're going to get plastered tonight, I'm going to be right by your side!"

Frollo could feel the wine's power kicking in, causing the muscles in his shoulders to slump. "Despite the fact that you only seem to be interested in getting drunk as a lord, I somewhat appreciate the gesture," he sarcastically quipped.

Jehan blinked at him. "Well there's the expression "Sober as a judge", which I guess in your situation means nothing. And I see you're still not the fun drunk, are you?" he swiped before downing some of his own drink. "What bit you in the ass today?"

Giving a dry chuckle and glancing down at his wine, Frollo stoically answered, "Godforsaken gypsies, that's who. They are getting on my last nerve when it comes to staying in line—going about and disrupting the normal order of society. I had to confront one today who does these absurd puppet shows and attempts to pass it off as entertainment. I should put in a request to the Crown for the means to create an army, then I would have the ability to purge them from the city!"

Jehan could see the agitated expression on his brother's face, even as he gulped down the rest of the wine in his glass before reaching for the nearby bottle and refilling it. The young man could tell that his brother had been drinking for a while now.

Leaning forward, Jehan quietly asked, "Just out of curiosity…how long have you been here?"

Frollo's gaze wandered away to the dark timbered ceiling above in thought. "That depends…how far is the sun from setting?"

Jehan laughed violently, nearly spitting out his drink and slamming his hand against the countertop. "Did you forget that you have a son locked up that you need to visit? Have you gone to see the little monster at all today?"

"This morning," Frollo deadpanned, staring pensively at the heavily scarred wooden countertop, his expression wan. "Trust me, he'll wait till the rapture for me if he needed to. I will return to see him in due time. Until then, I believe a drink is in place for my work." Again he took another long sip, Jehan downing his mead.

Suddenly a look of pain appeared on the judge's stone-like face.

"Why did it have to be me?" Frollo sullenly grumbled, clenching his fists tightly. "Of all the twisted souls set on God's green earth who are in dire need of punishment…it had to be myself who was charged with caring for him?"

Jehan raised an eyebrow at Frollo, awkwardly taking a sip of his drink and blue eyes never leaving his brother.

"I have always done what the Lord has expected of me!" the Minister continued to lament. "I attend Mass, recite my prayers, rid the city of those who tarnish it—all in His name—and how am I rewarded?!" Frollo's teeth gritted and breathing became strained as the heated words poured from his mouth. "By having to raise some crippled abomination! Bound to this Sisyphean task, and all because of some damn divine intervention!" The judge furiously slammed his fists against the hard surface before burying his face in his hands, all the while his brother watched with confusion.

Jehan nervously looked at the exasperated judge, unsure of how to handle such a situation. Usually when he was angry, Jehan could easily tune his brother's droning lectures out. A drunk Claude Frollo, however, was not something that he was entirely familiar with.

Pulling the wine bottle away from the judge, Jehan calmly said, "I think you're done drinking."

Frollo snapped his attention back at the blond boy with an enraged expression, startling him bit. "You don't have the slightest idea of what I have been through, do you?" Frollo hissed, his silver eyes burning with drunken fire. "You have no problem wreaking havoc to your heart's content—never a thought for the consequences of such actions, or even its impact on me!"

Jehan glanced over his shoulder, somewhat thankful that the other tavern patrons were lost in their own intoxicated worlds and not listening to the nearby Minister of Justice's rant. Suddenly Jehan felt his brother's rigid fingers clasp around his thin arm, pulling him closer.

Jehan was taken aback by the psychotic look on Claude's face: his bared teeth and murderous scowl suddenly made the boy fear that his brother might be the Devil himself.

"Do you remember when you were five and you scaled up that oak tree?" Frollo breathed heavily. "Remember how you screamed for me to climb up there and rescue you? And when I finally reached the top…you were already on the ground, calling out for me to come down and follow you?"

The young man tried in vain to tear his brother's fingers from his arm. "Claude, be reasonable! I was only a child, and—"

"And when I tried to climb down I fell and damn near broke my neck!" Frollo tightened his grip on Jehan, certain that his arm would look like a bruised peach. "Remember how you laughed and clapped as I lay there on the ground? Blood pouring from my nose and my shoulder dislocated? But it was all in good fun, now wasn't it?!" Without warning, Frollo swung Jehan around and violently shoved him to the floor, mead soaking him all over and attracting the attention of a few other patrons. But the bloodthirsty face of the judge instantly reminded them not to intervene and go about their own business.

Jehan scrambled to his feet, wiping away the mead off his face. "So what then?" he asked bitterly as his brother slumped back down at the bar, blankly looking down at a stupefied Jehan. "You're just going to take out all your anger on me for the things I did as a child?"

Frollo turned away without another word, nervously running his fingers through his gray hair. Unsurprisingly, he reached for another helping of wine, all the while he trembled with drunken fury.

Shaking the mead out of his golden curls, Jehan sat back down and said, "I don't understand why you came here—you're even more of a bastard when you're sloshed to the gills!"

Sitting hunched over at the bar, Frollo barely glanced at his brother from the corner of his eye. "Then enlighten me, little brother: why do you feel the need to drink more than needed?"

The boy shrugged carelessly, smirking impishly. "It makes things more lively. At least when I drink, people enjoy themselves; you aren't the fun kind of drunk. You're about as much fun drunk as a day of leeching!"

Frollo looked at his brother with tired eyes. Lowly, he then said, "For once, your half-witted drivel actually makes sense. I'm impressed, Jehan."

Taking a seat again, Jehan replied, "Thanks. Now can we just have our drinks? And promise that you won't get violent again."

Frollo raised his eyebrows at him. "I'm afraid I can't make that promise...and I'm not paying for you," he nonchalantly reminded him, pouring another glass.

"Well, you did give me the money, so technically you are paying," Jehan rebutted, tossing his coin purse before him just to slight his brother.

Scoffing, Frollo replied, "Then at least control your intake. The last thing I need is you completely inebriated running amuck in the streets."

X

"What…what did you mean by "divine intervention"?" Jehan slurred after chugging down yet another pint of mead. After spending what seemed like an eternity rambling on about his misadventures with Robin Poussepain (the Minister hardly paying any attention at all), Jehan remembered his brother's earlier statement.

"Divine intervention?" Frollo himself, though not as loosened up as Jehan, could feel the alcohol's effects manifesting even more strongly with the time he had been lingering at this tavern. His head was already feeling heavy as the night went on.

"You…you told me that you got stuck with Quasimodo because of it, remember?" the younger one said, his face a bright red and eyes unfocused.

Numbed by the wine, Frollo fuzzily tried to think of an answer. Too intoxicated to recount the earlier discussion, the judge uncaringly shrugged.

Limply grabbing Claude's shoulder, Jehan garbled out, "You know, I've always wondered that. Why…how did you even end up with him anyway? I…I just never understood that."

The judge's drunken mind flashed back to that dreadful night when it happened, groaning irritably at the memories. In any state of mind, he would have been able to divert Jehan's attention away from the subject with another topic. However, alcohol proves to be the enemy of discretion.

"The only thing I was trying to accomplish was expelling those who trespassed against the law," his low voice rumbled. "One moment, I am about to dispose of the evidence from the incident, and in the next…I am being mandated to raise a miniature demon! I was only doing what my duty commands of me: to keep Paris in order! But apparently requiring me to take the boy in as my own is a part of His plan." Smirking darkly, Frollo then laughed humorlessly, his brother trying to make sense of his words.

Jehan could not help but laugh as well, too drunk to even care if nothing was even funny. "What…what were you going to do? Kill him? Were you going to kill Quasimodo?" he slurred.

Suddenly, Frollo slammed his cup against the countertop harshly, Jehan jumping a bit at this. He menacingly hissed, "I swear it was justified!" Manic ferocity filled his eyes again as he continued. "And if I had done so, I could have gone the rest of my days without having to ask the Lord of whether this was the only way to atone for what happened!"

Jehan listened to his brother's words half-interested, considering he was too wrecked to care for what the judge was saying. That, and Claude's bouts of acrimony were taking some of the enjoyment out of drinking.

Doltishly smiling, Jehan heartily clapped his brother on the shoulder. "I don't know how you do it, but somehow you can do it!"

"Do what?" Frollo was prepared for more of Jehan's stupid, intoxicated questions, growing ever more annoyed as always.

"You have to take care of Quasi and take care of the city—it's a mess! But somehow, you can always do it!"

Frollo's eyes widened at his brother's statement: convinced only by the fact that since he was drunk, Jehan's statement of reverence seemed genuine.

"Claude," Jehan said slowly, trying to sound sober and collected. "I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I admire what you do, and I'm proud to call you my brother!"

Even the drunken Minister could not help but smile a little at Jehan's sentiment. It wasn't every day that he heard such respect from his brother.

"And, Hell!" Jehan continued, raising his glass. "You're a great father too! We…we should go and see Quasimodo right now! Weren't you supposed to earlier?"

Frollo quickly looked behind him out through a grime-covered window across the tavern, finding the city was already painted in darkness.

How long have we been here?! He inwardly screamed as he shakily got to his feet, picking up his hat and squashing it flat against his head.

"How could I have forgotten?!" he questioned aloud in exasperation, fishing out money from the coinpurse at his side. "I have been idling about, drinking like some peasant with the likes of you when I have tasks at hand!" Tossing the coins to the countertop and adjusting his hat, he unsteadily made his way towards the front door, knees almost buckling and drawing the attention of some nearby patrons.

"I'm right behind you!" Jehan slurred as he stumbled after the judge.

Frollo wobbled gracelessly out into the dark streets, Jehan in tow as the Minister of Justice headed towards his restless black horse. Romulus stamped his hooves, relieved to see his returning master. While the judge untied the reins from the post, the horse whinnied reluctantly at the master's lax clasp, as though sensing that something was amiss.

"You're not going to actually attempt to ride that thing, are you?" Jehan asked, about to break out into a fit of laughter.

Leading the stubborn horse away from the tavern, Frollo leered at his brother. "What kind of fool do you take me for? Of course I'm not going to ride him now!"

"Good. I know you can ride, but…who are we kidding? Even you can't ride when you're drunk!"

Frollo scoffed and patted the nervous horse gently on the side before leading it down the cobblestone street, Jehan following.

"Wait, wait…where are we going again, Claude?" Jehan then asked, nearly tripping over himself.

"To Notre Dame, you twit!"

The young man limply took Frollo's arm. "Come on! How about we take a trip to the Rue de Glatigny and see what lovely goddesses we can find tonight? I'm sure my Isabeau can find you a nice catch! Carpe noctem!"

"Why? So you can humiliate me again?!" he snarled fervidly, hands tightening on the reins as he pulled Romulus down the street and pushing his brother away. "Not on your life! We are going to the church now!"

With his unsteady gait and unfocused eyes, Frollo easily resembled the many vagrants that he had arrested rather than his usual authoritative self. However, it seemed that Jehan had more difficulty walking through the streets of Paris. Romulus nudged his head against his master's shoulder distrustfully, as though knowing that he was inebriated and out of his element. Although Frollo could hold his poison, it had been years since he had set foot in a seedy tavern to have a drink. At least when he drank himself sick, it was in the comfort of his own home, away from what might be unwanted attention.

Perhaps this was a mistake, he inwardly rationalized as he continued down the path towards the cathedral. Walking on unsteady legs, he roughly pulled the reins of his horse.

"I swear, Jehan," the Minister drawled. "If you lead me to anything like a brothel…" Clumsily retrieving the knife at his side, Frollo pointed it at his brother threateningly. "I swear on all that is good, I will slit your throat without another thought!"

Putting up his hands in defense, Jehan smirked with drunken condescension at his brother. "Do…don't worry, I won't. You really need to relax, you know that?" he slurred. "I…I told you we were going to the church and…and that's where we're going! So come on!" Just then Jehan attempted to make haste, only succeeding in tripping over himself and tumbling forward onto the pavement.

Pulling Romulus past the scrambling young man, Frollo shook his head and remarked, "You see what drinking does to you, Jehan? You can barely even walk! Obviously you cannot handle it in such copious amounts."

Finally standing up, Jehan waved his hand nonchalantly as he followed his brother. "Please. You're…you're just as drunk as me. That's why you can't even ride your own damn horse to the church!"

Harshly stopping in his tracks and swaying a bit, Frollo shot an icy glare at the young man. "I'm perfectly capable and I could if I wanted to, I…I just…" Turning his attention back down the street, he could see the towers of the imposing church in the distance, even standing out against the indigo colored night sky. "Church is that way. Follow me," Frollo slurred as staggered forward, lurching Romulus along.

The Minister barely registered the eyes of the few creatures of the night that loitered the streets, gambling, drinking, fighting, or paying for other sinful activities. Vagrants, he thought cynically as they studied him, confused at seeing such a man like the Minister of Justice wobbling about in the streets after dark.

It felt like it had taken a hundred years to reach the town square, the cathedral right across the way. Suddenly it seemed more gargantuan than usual—titan-esque and prepared to strike down any opposers. Frollo was momentarily left in awe as he took in such a sight in his intoxicated state.

Lazily patting Romulus on the shoulder, Frollo harshly pulled him through the square with Jehan following behind.

"Wait, wait," Jehan mumbled. "Why did we come here again?"

"I am to see the hunchback…I must every day," Frollo replied and pointing upward, eyes directing towards the bell tower.

Jehan stopped for a moment and craned his neck back to stare up at the imposing structure, gaping spellbound at it. "Claude, Claude...when did they build this place?"

Ordinarily, Frollo could remember names and dates like a human record book. But right now he could not focus on anything else other than his drunken agenda.

"I don't know—I wasn't there!" he snapped bitterly, his horse throwing back his head in response of his master's outburst.

Reaching the steps, Jehan climbed them to the wooden doors while the Minister fumbled at trying to tie the horse to one of the posts nearby.

Menial task, Frollo inwardly cursed as he struggled to properly secure the reins, Romulus nudging him in the shoulder with his snout. This is for uneducated plebs, not myself.

He barely heard Jehan's weak attempts to push the doors open. Turning around, Frollo smirked as he saw his little brother run and slam his shoulder against the heavy door, hoping it would miraculously open. Knees buckling and gripping his shoulder, Jehan looked up at his brother. "I don't think anyone's home," he drawled as he struggled to regain his balance.

The Minister himself tried to push the door open before slamming his fists against it. "Of course somebody's here—you can't leave a church unattended, you dolt! Some…someone will answer it." Frollo leaned heavily against one of the doors, trying to collect himself.

"What's the Archdeacon going to say when he sees that you're completely sloshed?" Jehan teased.

Sloppily adjusting his skewed hat and trying to keep his expression stern, Frollo replied, "I'm completely fine. I'm not the one falling over himself like the drunken fool he is!"

Jehan gave a crooked smile, as though proud of such an accusation. Suddenly the sound of one of the doors creaking open roused both of their attentions.

Through the crack open, the Archdeacon's wary face peeked out before opening the door to fully face the Minister of Justice.

"Frollo? What are you doing here at this late hour?" he asked severely.

Pushing past the man and staggering unbecomingly into the nave, Frollo answered, "I am here to see the boy." Jehan wobbled forth after him, stupidly looking around the dim interior. Father Augustin's mouth hung agape in shock at the brothers' behaviors.

"Have you two been drinking all night?!" Augustin whispered loudly to prevent their conversation from echoing.

"Just a little," Jehan piped up, swaying back and forth before leaning against his brother.

Augustin narrowed his tired eyes at Frollo who tried to appear sober, shoving Jehan away from him. Of all the mistakes he had known the judge to have made, this was by far the most senseless.

"Claude, what on earth would possess you to do something so asinine? Quasimodo inquired your whereabouts today and I figured that you might have been stuck with more work at the Palace of Justice—not out doing something so immature!"

The Minister scoffed. "Compose yourself, old man. I'm here now, am I not?"

Running a tense hand over his face in annoyance, the Archdeacon glared at the drunken Minister. "I cannot believe you. Leave now and return to the Palace of Justice!"

Frollo's expression turned into an intense scowl at such a challenge. "Am I or am I not the hunchback's guardian? Did you not entrust me to keep the boy as my own?! All you have done is badger me over how to raise him when I should not have to!"

The Archdeacon and Jehan looked alarmed at Frollo's sudden change in attitude, unsure of where he was headed in this exchange.

"I refuse to have you guiding me like some ignorant child!" he growled, face showing the same rabid ferocity as earlier. "Since you think me inadequate of caring for him myself, allow me to remedy that." Frollo suddenly reached again for his dagger, the other men's eyes widening instantly. Turning quickly on his heels, the judge heavily strode forward in the direction of the stairwell.

I am going to finish what I started, he thought maliciously, eyes locked on the stairs as he felt his being shaking with bloodlust. How many times he had imagined life without being bound to the child, he had lost track. All Frollo wanted to do was end it... once and for all.

Without warning, he felt a pair of hands tightly grip his arm, instantly fighting to push them away, not caring who he injured as he flailed the weapon around carelessly.

"Unhand me at once!" he snarled when he felt his other arm be restrained.

"Claude, you're not well!" Augustin protested as Frollo attempted to break free of their grasp, fighting with every bit of energy he had.

"I'm going to do what I should have done that night!" he thundered, hoping that the dagger's blade would find its way to one of the two.

"Calm down!" Jehan pleaded as his brother violently tried to push him away.

"Go to Hell, Jehan!" Frollo's eyes were fire and brimstone as he shoved him hard with his elbow.

Jehan then released him before narrowing his half-unfocused eyes at him. "Sorry about this, Claude."

In that instant, the enraged Minister turned to see his brother raise his fist before feeling a quick blow the side of his head, his vision then turning black.

Chapter Text

Ding…Dong…Ding…Dong…

The sound echoed mercilessly at three different intervals. Why would they not just stop their accursed ringing? If that were not enough, soon afterward, the sound of booms resonated through the aching head of the Minister, who tried desperately in vain to block them out.

What Hell is this?…Have I perished and gone to Hell? Frollo hazily concluded as he tried to ignore these unpleasant sounds. What have I done to deserve this punishment?

Flashes of a dark place and numerous bottles played in his head, instantly disregarding them.

He pleaded internally that the world would just stop its dreadful racket and leave him in peace, or better yet, for the pounding in his head to go away and let him disappear into nothingness—anything to eliminate these torturous sounds.

Immediately after the booms had stopped, Frollo suddenly felt a slight tug at his hair, followed by an ear-splitting crack as he felt a hand fly hard across his face—the sound deafening and pain itself excruciating. After falling back against the pillowy chaperon that lay under his head, it was like being smashed in the head with a rock for the poor Minister. Why could they have not just put the judge out of his suffering, he wondered miserably as the pain resonated throughout his skull.

The groan he emitted only made it worse, his hands clutching to the sides of his head as the pulsating sound of his blood roared in his ears.

"Rise and shine, Minister!" an irritatingly upbeat and taunting voice boomed, the sound unwelcoming to the aching judge.

Straining his eyes to open, Frollo almost immediately closed them after being blinded by the sliver of light that made its way through the small square, iron-barred window above. Focusing, he made out the blurry figure of Jehan standing above him wearing one of his expensive and colorful outfits complete with a feathered pointed cap, as cheerful and alive as ever…not the least bit afflicted in comparison to his brother.

Frollo realized how much his back hurt as he noticed that he had spent the night on the cold stone floor. Angered by such an unwanted awakening, Frollo's first instinct was to kick his brother hard in the leg, Jehan hissing and damning him in response.

"Come on, Claude," Jehan encouraged. "It's morning and you need to get up! I tried to be polite and knocked, but you wouldn't answer."

This boy is the absolute bane of my existence…Jehan's voice did nothing to ease the Minister's headache as the latter tried not to groan when he attempted to sit up, his head instantly spinning. Frollo propped himself on one elbow and quickly clutched the bridge of his nose, trying to collect himself.

Dear Lord, what kind of idiocy did I indulge in? Frollo thought. Rubbing his tired, red eyes he could feel sweat pouring from his forehead before realizing the dryness of his throat.

Suddenly he heard Jehan cackle mercilessly, doubling over. "God, I wish you could see yourself right now—you look terrible!"

No thanks to you, Frollo inwardly cursed. His dark eyes scanned around the small cell in which he resided before they fell on a nearby pail with a wooden ladle inside. Pulling himself forward on shaking arms, he immediately dragged the water bucket towards himself and eagerly drank, quenching his excessive thirst.

Legs shaking, Frollo uneasily rose to his feet, hands steadying him against the stone wall. His neck was stiff and head throbbed even harder as he stood up, wanting to collapse right then and there and surrender to sweet slumber. He glanced at his brother, who shook his head in sadistic amusement as he watched his brother gracelessly try to appear as his usual self; to see the Minister of Justice in such a pathetic state was truly a sight to behold!

"Where…where am I?" Frollo croaked out, his own voice loud in his ears.

"Well," Jehan started. "After you took a little dive, the Archdeacon and I just threw you in one of the old cells in the back of the church. Sorry for having to lay one on you but you were going insane and I had to, Claude."

Frollo could hardly recall what occurred last night; judging by the bruise forming on the side of his head, there was no doubt that his brother had incapacitated him in the former's drunken rage before anything regrettable could be carried out.

"What happened…" he began, his chest tightening by the second. "Last night?" His low voice was slightly scratched as he spoke.

Jehan shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. "We drank, we came here, you went berserk, and now you're here."

Despite not being in the right state of mind, Frollo could instantly tell that his brother was withholding details. Straightening up a bit, he narrowed his dark-circled eyes at the young man and said, "What else happened, Jehan? Tell me at once."

Sighing and darting his cerulean eyes towards the floor, Jehan looked back at his brother and answered in a hushed tone, "You were going to kill Quasimodo."

Frollo's brows furrowed at the statement, his heart getting caught in his throat at the notion of such a thing. Suddenly the Minister's stomach lurched unpleasantly, causing him to dart for some nearby bucket and heaving the remnants of last night's revelry into it. His brother curled his lip at the sight while the Minister coughed roughly as he examined the contents, his face deathly pale. Wiping his mouth, he muttered hoarsely, "What do you mean?" before turning his attention to a nearby basin (no doubt left there at the Archdeacon's insistence), splashing his face with the cold water.

Jehan explained, "A lot of it is kind of fuzzy, but I remember you screaming something like you "shouldn't have to take care of him" and you were "going to do what you should have done" and all that. I don't know, Claude, you need to talk to him."

Frollo sighed ruefully at the thought of having to explain himself, both to Augustin and Quasimodo. Rubbing the back of his sore neck, he couldn't help but wonder aloud, "How on earth are you not crippled by the weight of drink? You had just as much as me —if not more!"

Jehan grinned smugly at the judge. "Please, I've been drinking like that since I was thirteen—I don't suffer from the aftermath anymore!"

Frollo almost wanted to laugh at the recollection of seeing his young teenage brother fighting in the streets with other students, completely wrecked and stupefied from a mere bottle of wine. However, all he felt at the moment was utter self-loathing at his foolishness. His throat still burned from the bile he retched, and more nausea lingered in the pit of his stomach.

"Well," Jehan suddenly piped, clapping his hands together and sending another splitting pain through the Minister's head. "I should be off. Don't forget to talk to Augustin and Quasi and hope the day isn't too demanding!" With a sharp laugh, Jehan spun on his heels and left his brother in the eerie, yet welcoming, solitude of his cell.

God, he did not want to go out there and face the consequences of his actions; he had a history of not exactly making the most prudent decisions when intoxicated already. He could still remember his mother's scolding the first time he had returned home after a night of excess as a young man. Had the sagacious judge learned nothing?

Exhaling deeply and dusting his hat off, Frollo exited the small cell and reluctantly made way in search of the Archdeacon.

X

Quietly rapping at the wooden door, Frollo was greeted with the Archdeacon's voice beckoning him to enter his study. Inside, he found Augustin scribbling down some notes on parchment before turning his eyes upward to meet those of the judge.

"Good morning, Minister," he greeted lightly, noting the circles under Frollo's still-red eyes. "I trust that you acquired some rest?"

Striding forward, Frollo cut straight to the point. "What sort of chaos transpired last night? Why the need for Jehan's little intervention?" he asked demandingly, jaw set in determination.

Augustin simply looked pitifully at the Minister, folding his hands before him wordlessly.

Met with such silence, Frollo continued. "By his account, I tried to "kill" Quasimodo. Care to elaborate?"

"You and your brother arrived at the church in the dead of night demanding that you see Quasimodo. I ordered you to return to the Palace of Justice, given that you were not in the correct state of mind, but you became furious, Claude. The next thing I knew, you were wielding a dagger threatening to murder the boy!" Father Augustin was finding it rather difficult to hide his anger at the judge. "Jehan used violent means to hinder your actions, which I must admit was a crude yet effective way to keep you from carrying out such a deed!"

Frollo averted his gaze away towards the nearby bookshelf, taking a moment for such knowledge to soak in. Had he really attempted to murder his adopted son out of his own drunken stupidity? True, he was never exactly keen on the idea of providing the father-role to the boy—but hating such a position so much it would drive him to kill? It simply seemed too out of character for such a man of discipline and reason like Claude Frollo.

"It was Jehan's fault, not mine!" he suddenly protested. "Had he just left me alone, then I would not have carried on as I did and none of this would have occurred! He was the one who influenced me to partake in excessing myself through drink; therefore, he is to blame."

"You cannot honestly blame your brother for what you did," Augustin retaliated, running his hands over his face in exasperation. "You could have possessed the willpower to resist overindulging, but you did not, Minister. You must take responsibility for your own misdeeds!"

Frollo shut his eyes tight and shakily let out a breath, resting one arm upon one of the nearby shelves. "Say it then."

"What, Claude?"

Frollo gritted his teeth. "That I made a grievous error in judgment; that I endangered the boy's life; that I am unfit to carry out my duty as Minister—every criticism that you wish to deride me with!"

The man could think of a hundred things to use as factors for damnation, but what good would come from that? Augustin sighed. "Claude, I have been trying to help you for years now—you never heeding my advice. At such a point, I can only pray that you make the proper decisions. And judging by your current state, I think that you have suffered enough for your actions. However, I believe that you owe poor Quasimodo an apology for neglecting to see him yesterday. I just hope that the boy did not hear your rant last night, lest he might become more intimidated by the world than he is already."

"I suppose so," the judge replied regretfully. "Then in that case, I should be going. And may this occurrence never be spoken of again." Frollo hastily retreated from the study before he could witness the look of disappointment etched on the Archdeacon's face.

The throbbing in his skull was ebbing away slowly, however, it returned with a terrible dizziness as Frollo made his way up the winding staircase. He tried not to lose any more of his stomach's contents and soldiered forward. The cold air tightening his lungs mixed with lingering nausea made him wish that he could just return to the Palace of Justice and sleep off the rest of the pain…or drop dead. Up and up he ventured from the stone steps to the creaky wooden ones, the stuffy air of the bell tower filling his nostrils, before a familiar voice pierced his eardrums.

"Master!" he heard Quasimodo's small voice cry as he enthusiastically lumbered forward with a crooked smile on his innocent face.

"Quasimodo, please lower your voice," Frollo greeted, trying not to sound too irritated as he rubbed his temple trying to alleviate the returning pain.

Resting on one of the nearby wooden stools, Frollo held the bridge of his nose again trying to stifle the headache. Quasimodo looked on at his master in confusion, who sat with slumped shoulders, not bothering to glance at the boy.

"Master, are you alright?" he asked curiously, uneven teal eyes studying the tired expression worn by his caregiver.

"Yes, I'm fine," Frollo lowly snapped, inwardly thanking the Lord that the boy did not witness him at his weakest earlier that morning.

"You didn't come yesterday. Father Augustin said you were sick."

"That's a polite term for it," he commented under his breath. Frollo tried to collect himself back to his usual demeanor. "Forgive me, my boy, but I am in the worst state possible at the moment."

The judge's words only confused the child. "I thought you weren't going to come back, Master," Quasimodo confessed, looking at the Minister in almost fear.

The weary Minister raised his eyebrows at such a statement. "Is that so?" he asked nonchalantly.

Quasimodo nodded as he stepped closer to his master. "You told me that no one else will like me because of how I look, and I was scared I was gonna be alone." With that, Frollo could see tears escaping from his eyes and down his misshapen face and simply gaped at the child.

For a moment the judge forgot about the dull throbbing in his head as he was somewhat surprised by such words from a child. True, Frollo always assured that he was Quasimodo's only ally in the world, but he never quite given any thought to how much he must truly matter to the boy.

However, soon the shock dissipated as a wicked thought came over the judge. If the boy was this distraught at the notion that without his guardian, he would truly be alone…then there was really no reason to worry of some future act of rebellion against his master.

A sly smirk etching on his face, Frollo then said, "You needn't worry, my boy. I swear that should I not show up to visit, it will be for a good reason. But you understand that occasionally my work requires more of my time and I might not be able to visit as often, correct?" Quasimodo nodding in agreement.

"Then you must trust that I will try and visit here as soon as I can afterwards," he stated smoothly, stern expression softening with feigned sincerity. How comforting it was to know how much loyalty Quasimodo exhibited at such a young age…Like a dog and his master, Frollo thought cruelly.

"But enough of that," the judge suddenly said. "Tell me, my lad, have you eaten at all today?"

"Father Augustin brought me breakfast, Master," the boy smiled. "I know you were too sick."

"Very well then. If that is true, then I suppose I should be on my way while the day is still young." Frollo stood up and smoothed out his black robe, when a question popped into his head. "Quasimodo, did you happen to hear anything…unusual at all last night?" He unknowingly held his breath at the image of Quasimodo seeing his guardian acting like a drunken vagrant, his chest tightening anxiously once again.

The small hunchback rocked back on his heels, eyes traveling to the rafters above in thought. Shaking his head, he answered, "No, Master."

Nodding and exhaling in relief, Frollo quickly and stoically replied, "Good. Not that there was anything of interest, I suppose." He could only imagine Jehan stumbling around the nave, howling with laughter at his brother's expense.

Now that that was cleared up, the judge decided that there was no reason to worry about the events that took place. With a small pat on the boy's red-haired head, Frollo inwardly thanked God that he had enough work to make him forget the previous evening.

Stepping outside, Romulus showed hesitance upon his master's appearance, remembering how he handled the horse with less ease on their way to the church last night.

Frollo chuckled and said, "Don't worry, old man, I've learned my lesson and don't intend to repeat that mistake again," before lifting himself up onto the obsidian steed.

The sun was bright behind clouds and the brisk late winter air blew as the Minister rode through the city. The sun was less harsh now, thankfully, than upon first awakening. Though no one eyed him suspiciously or with reprehension, he inwardly prayed that it would remain that way and there would be no unflattering gossip about last night. Passing by merchants and peddlers, fishers and beggars, mothers and children, Frollo could not help but feel nervous that somebody could have picked up any rumor about the tavern scene last night.

Calm yourself, Frollo reminded himself, eyes shifting left and right. You needn't worry about a thing…no one will dare speak a word of this.

Halfway through his journey back to the Palace of Justice, a boisterous and jovial voice called, "Minister Frollo! La Falourdel's, remember!"

Blood running cold and pulling the reins to a harsh stop, the judge turned his head in the direction of the voice. A large round man, red in the face and brown tunic covered in grime unsteadily walked towards the direction of the Minister, who was now dismounting the horse, jaw tightening.

Pointing a plump finger at the judge, the man greeted him, "I recall seeing you there last night! You and your brother—the devil—you two raised quite a bit of hell!"

The de facto law was that whatever business occurs in a tavern remains so there, not to be aired out to the public. This spoken word agreement, however, seemed to have escaped this misguided soul.

Striding towards the ignorantly laughing buffoon, Frollo gripped the man by his shoulder and pulled him close so that his words might not be heard by any passersby. Fingers digging into the man's thick arm, Frollo spoke in a low voice, "I believe you have me mistaken for someone else."

Mouth agape for a brief moment, the man replied, "No, I know for a fact it was you, Minister, and that brother of yours last night about to tear the whole goddamn place up!"

Eyes quickly glancing over his shoulder and around, Frollo tried again. "I assure you, that it was not myself that you witnessed at whatever degenerate hole that you wallow about in." The judge's dark eyes cast a dangerous presence, warning the man to heed his statement.

"But…I could have sworn that-"

"It would be in your best interests that you promptly forget whatever false images you might have deluded yourself with in such a state. For such a statement made public would be met with dire consequences. Do I make myself clear?"

Foggy eyes darting around trying to make sense of the judge's words, the man instinctively nodded in understanding.

Releasing his boney fingers from the man's flesh, Frollo mounted his horse again, steering back to his destination.

Witless simpleton, he grumbled internally and shaking his head in annoyance.

Never again, Jehan, he thought ruefully as Romulus marched down the cobblestone streets, the Palace of Justice on his sights.

Only did the sight of dozens of legal documents awaiting him on his desk did the Minister finally feel the uneasiness ebb away.

Chapter Text

Five years later…

Old wooden steps creaking beneath him, Frollo listened attentively to the chatter that escaped the bell tower loft above, raising a brow inquisitively of who could possibly be in the company of his adopted son—the church's own bell-ringer was mostly unseen and reclusive anyway. The voice certainly did not belong to the boy, who continued to talk to his stone "friends" even at nine years of age.

"Alright, you rolled a main, so that means you win that one—you nicked it!" The Minister gritted his teeth at the conclusion of who it was. Reaching the top of the stairs, Frollo found his brother kneeling across from Quasimodo, Jehan tossing a pair of dice to the center.

"And what do you think you are doing?" Frollo's voice rumbled suddenly, the boys' attentions jerking around to the approaching judge, gray eyes dark and foreboding and hand tightening on the wicker handle of the basket. Jehan rose to his feet and tried to appear casual and innocent. Quasimodo, in contrast, shrunk in fear, shifting his eyes to the dusty wooden floor. Dark obsidian robes cascaded around the judge and sent the warning of impending danger throughout the young hunchback.

Stepping forward slowly, Frollo kneeled down and grabbed the two bone dice from the floor. "Why do you have these?" He accusingly questioned, holding the dice before Jehan. Smirking lopsidedly, the young man looked at his older brother nonchalantly and uncaringly. Frollo turned his attention to the taciturn hunchback, now standing nervously with his pudgy hands folded and averting looking at his ominous master.

"Quasimodo," Frollo ordered. "For what purpose could you possibly have for possessing gambling equipment?"

"Je…Jehan was showing me a dice game, Master," Quasimodo answered shakily. "It's called Hazard. I didn't think—well, Jehan said that—you…wouldn't mind." His teal eyes moved endlessly around, avoiding eye contact with the Minister, his hands fidgeting anxiously.

Leering at his brother, Frollo then said, "Gambling? You are trying to educate him in the field of needlessly burning through one's allowance, Joannes?"

Scoffing at his brother's use of his real name, Jehan replied, "Don't fret. It's an innocent little dice game—there's nothing wrong with that."

"'Nothing wrong with that'?" The Minister repeated in agitated disbelief. "With the sort of luck that you possess, you are better off teaching bird the Nicene Creed! Besides, I have seen what transpires when you lose—you resort to unethical methods of cheating!"

"Think of gambling as a life skill, Claude: it's an easy way to earn a meal!"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the judge quickly retorted, "Money is the root of all evil, Jehan. And I would greatly appreciate it if you wouldn't breed such heedlessness into Quasimodo."

The scowl he exhibited towards his brother was not new, just darker as the years had gone by. The past five years had done a number on the Minster with the harrowing amount of stress he was constantly under. The circles under his eyes were much darker; the lines in his face had become more visible and embedded; even his hair had begun to thin—his gray locks now shorter.

Jehan looked back at Quasimodo standing idly by listening to the brothers' conversation. "See, Quasi? If anything is the least bit of fun, you can bet that my "sanctimonious" brother will find a way to destroy it in the blink of an eye!"

Sighing in indignation, Frollo glared at Jehan fiercely. "For your information, it just so happens that today I had to correct a man who was found exercising crooked gambling methods. Quasimodo, would you like to know of what becomes of those who follow my brother's example when it comes to these "harmless" games?"

Before the boy could even think of a response, Frollo sat down at the small wooden table, setting down the basket of food and began to recount the events…

X

In the last few years, Judge Frollo had been patrolling the Paris streets less and less given that he now spent more time presiding over his judicial matters in a courtroom. Now he was out on patrol only a few days a week; however, the days had become so mundane that he prayed ardently that he would find more unwitting gypsies to send to the bowels of the Palace of Justice for interrogation. Unfortunately for him, it seemed as though they had gone underground recently.

Dismounting his horse and leading the steed to a nearby watering trough, Frollo scanned the area of bustling peasants pushing and pulling carts, nothing out of the ordinary. Patting Romulus on the side while he drank, the judge sighed at the lack of action. He should have felt accomplished that there was no widespread trouble afflicting his city, but punishing the evil ilk of society filled him with a sense of self-importance. Without such, he would be forced to focus more of his energy on curbing his brother and ward. At this rate, any crime to rear its ugly head would be far preferable to that.

"Come now," he muttered to his horse, leading the reins away. Perhaps there would be a new stack of documents awaiting him in his study, he imagined boredly.

"Come, come! Try your luck! See if you can find which cup hides the pea!"

Turning his head, Frollo was drawn to the source of such a jocular voice. Slinking around the corner of a nearby building with his horse in tow and his hat's red sash swishing behind, Frollo narrowed his eyes at a scraggly-looking gypsy man behind a rotten old wooden crate, before him three wooden cups and a couple of unwitting patrons. The judge's crooked nose cast a shadow as he tried to be discreet, Romulus snorting behind him and antsy to return to their rounds.

He had seen many panhandlers entertain and gamble with the citizens through this seemingly innocent game, but the sight of a gypsy conducting it instantly raised his suspicion, eyeing the man warily.

The first round of the game was how they reeled in their victim, providing the player with a false sense of mastery of the game by allowing them to win the first one. The second round, the gypsy sped up as he shuffled the cups in circles, before asking his customer under which cup the pea lay. Of course the fool would see he chose the right cup again, which would allow the gypsy to make his final offer.

"Double or nothing, sir, for a third round?" the swindler asked, coaxing his patron into setting his coin purse down in confidence, prepared to take his winnings. The observant Minister of Justice did not believe for a second that such an offer could be legitimate from the likes of gypsy. That didn't stop the game from beginning the last round.

Continuing to fool the good people out of their hard-earned wages…Fraudulent gypsy, Frollo thought acrimoniously, ignoring his horse nudging his shoulder.

As if on cue, Frollo instantly caught sight of the split second sleight of hand: a slight lift of the cup, and the gypsy man hid the pea under his hand. Frollo smirked knowingly, seeing that he had finally caught his prey in the act. Ceasing the shuffling, the gypsy waved a hand over the wooden cups and asked, "Which one, sir?" With his unknowing customer's guess, the gypsy slyly revealed to him the absence of the pea, happily taking the man's coin purse in victory.

After the departure of the oblivious robbed man, Frollo emerged from his hiding place pulling his horse along and eyes narrowing at the schemer who giddily counted the coins in his hand.

"The nerve of your kind—deceiving the hardworking man through rigged games to earn a living—it's absolutely despicable!" Frollo's commanding voice shook the surprised gypsy, who instantly stuffed his earnings back into the pouch. "I have tried to eliminate the sin of gambling in this city to no avail. If it weren't enough that such activity thrives, you people have the audacity to encourage such a vice!"

The gypsy put his hands up and painted a cool façade. "Your Honor, if you will, this harmless little game of cups and peas is nothing compared to the games of fixed dice and false cards that people bet their lives on—your people! They are the real culprits that you should be punishing!" he protested.

"Don't you distort the truth!" Frollo fervently retaliated, taking another step closer and staring menacingly at his prey. "I have seen you with my own eyes as you con the ignorant with your underhanded gypsy guile. I have just about reached my capacity of tolerance with allowing you to abuse the empathy of good citizens."

""Tolerance"?" The gypsy repeated almost laughing, baffled at the Minister's word choice. "Is that what you call it? My people are starving and have to resort to street tricks to feed ourselves—all the while avoiding being arrested by your men—and you call that "tolerance"?!"

"Minister Frollo!" The clanking sound of tin footsteps rushing down the cobblestone streets drew as two soldiers rushed forward to their commander.

"Is there a problem, sir?" one asked, both at attention.

"As a matter of fact, there is," Frollo darkly replied, eyes still locked on the gypsy before him. "It would seem that our cunning friend here must be educated on the subject of crime and punishment. Lock him up." With that, the two quickly seized the bewildered gypsy, shackling him tight while he writhed in protest.

"Take him to the Palace of Justice," Frollo ordered, mounting Romulus once again. "We shall see how far my patience can stretch…"

X

"Has it been properly adjusted yet?" Frollo's arms were crossed with impatience as he waited for the demonstration to begin.

Himself and another guard giving the levers one last pull, the scraggly dungeon keeper answered, "Ready on your command, Minister."

"Excellent." Lips turning up into a grim smile, Frollo then called out, "Bring him forward!"

Two soldiers pushed and shoved the gypsy through the wooden doors down into the half-lit dungeon. The man's eyes widened at the sight in the middle of the floor: a wooden frame about nine feet long, rollers at the ends with two knotted ropes each, four handles on the sides centered on the outside of the frame, brownish red splatters staining the structure, the frame itself made up of three large spiked wooden rollers…

The rack…A rather tame method of torture perfected by the English and approved by Louis XI for the Minister of Justice's use as means of administering "justice" and extracting truth.

"Tie him in," the judge said nonchalantly, placing his hands behind his back and schooling his expression.

The gypsy, stunned by the sight, did not notice as Frollo's guards roughly pulled him down to the wooden frame, fastening his chafed wrists and ankles. He winced as the spikes dug savagely into his back.

"This is all for a little street game?!" The gypsy burst out in astonishment, voice quivering in fear as the judge stepped forward, looking down at him maliciously and dangerously.

"As I have stated before," Frollo began coolly. "The city has allowed you and countless others of your kind continue your dishonest methods of gambling. Therefore, one must demonstrate the consequences for these activities, no matter how extreme it may seem. I will not allow my city to fall victim to more gypsy schemes."

The gypsy shook his head in terror and disbelief. "You're mad! Stark raving mad!"

"Am I?" Frollo taunted monotonously, a slight smirk cracking. "I think this will prove to be quite effective. You, and so many others, will learn something from this experience…and perhaps so will I."

The gypsy man shot the Minister a confused expression, not understanding his implication. "What are you talking about?"

Steepling his fingers before him, Frollo answered, "Think for a moment, gypsy: I can have my men rip your limbs from their sockets and let you watch yourself perish, or…you can reveal to me the location of your fabled Court of Miracles and spare yourself such trauma."

Frollo's soldiers nodded and whispered in reverence of the Minister of Justice's cunning. Jaw tightening, the gypsy furrowed his black eyebrows at Frollo, defiantly answering, "Never!"

Glaring at such impertinence, the judge replied, "I see. If that is the decision you make…" With that said, he nodded to each soldier at a lever, the rack creaking as it began to pull.

The gypsy groaned in pain as his thin limbs began to stretch and the spikes scratched against his form, huffing and puffing in agony while the Minister looked on expressionless.

"All of this can end if you would only reveal to us the location of your humble abode," Frollo reminded, the gypsy's eyes darting to him before shutting and resumed screaming. "Very well," said Frollo. "Tighter," the guards obeying and pulling the levers harder.

"Your people will understand the ramifications for their illegal activities, even I must annihilate each and every one of you slowly and painfully," Frollo droned as his prisoner screamed at the top of his lungs, joints beginning to pop and ligaments tearing.

Such inhumanity was so ingrained in the Minister's mind that it was second nature to him. For years, he had had criminals hanged, suspended in cages, locked in pillories, and ripped apart on the very rack. In retrospect, it was nothing in comparison to the punishments he witnessed growing up as exercised by his own father: thumbscrews, quartering, the iron maiden, the boot, the Catherine wheel, stake burnings…If the punishment fits the crime. Unlike his father, Frollo's power did not thrive on bloodthirsty sadism, just a skewed moral compass which gave him a sense of justice instead of funding numerous torture methods for thrill.

"Tighter," his voice resounded as he ordered his men, who gave the levers one last pull.

Snap! Snap!

Without warning, copious amounts blood splattered through the air, staining the stone walls and the armor of the guards. The limbs flopped down against the wooden bed, the gypsy crying out in tormenting pain as his severed arms and legs spewed thick crimson blood.

No one uttered a word; the only sound filling the grim atmosphere were piercing cries of pain and alarm while the prisoner's limbless form still convulsed violently.

"Finish him off," Frollo said, waving his hand and turning to leave. As ordered, one guard approached the dismembered gypsy on the wooden bed and lifted the poniard from his belt, lifting the weapon to his throat. Instantly, the dungeon no longer echoed the bloodcurdling wails, but a quick choking gurgling before dead silence filled the air.

"How unfortunate," Frollo commented unemotionally, grasping the dungeon door handle. "At least there will be more opportunities in the future to uncover the truth. Clean this up!" The Minister strode forward exiting, slamming the heavy door behind him as he ascended back up the ground floor of the Palace of Justice.

X

As the judge sipped from his silver goblet, Jehan and Quasimodo simply gaped at him in shock as they sat across from him, taking in the weight of his story. Setting it down on the beaten wooden table, Frollo directed his attention to his young ward, "The moral of the story, Quasimodo, is that gambling,"—throwing an accusing glance at his brother—"Only leads to a life of misfortune and consequence, as I am certain Jehan here is to demonstrate when his ways finally catch up with him."

Jehan crossed his arms at his brother's slight. "I appreciate your "faith and confidence" over my abilities, but I'll be just fine."

Quasimodo looked at the judge with hesitance, slightly more frightened of his capability as the images formed in his impressionable mind. "So…we shouldn't play Hazard, Master?"

"If you want to live the rest of your days as a penniless gamester—forever a slave to rigged card and dice games that he cannot win, and burning through his allowance in the most wasteful manner possible…then by all means, become living copy of Jehan." Frollo's words were laced with so much contempt and venom, that Quasimodo dared not speak anymore as the brothers exchanged hateful stares, each challenging the other to say something.

Jehan shook his head with a laugh. "You worry too much."

"Believe me, with your recklessness, do not be surprised if one day you end up in shackles, awaiting trial."

Hoisting himself up, Jehan simply said, "Fine, Claude. I won't teach Quasi anymore of these games. In fact, I think I might just head over to my usual stomping grounds today for some fun myself. Maybe a round or two of Merelles, some vachettes—I might even get some good cards at tonight's game! Maybe afterwards, I'll pay a visit to Isabeau or Ambroise—or both!" His brother's face sneered at his innuendo in front of the hunchback child. "After all, I've practically lived on that street since I was sixteen, so good day to the both of you!" Jehan spun on his heels and began to stroll out of the bell tower with a bounce in his step after having just made a mockery of his brother, the Minister.

Frollo's gaze wandered to the wooden table, suddenly noticing a sloppily carved inscription: ANArKH.

"Jehan!" Frollo called, the young man reluctantly stopping and turning around to meet his brother's gaze. "Why have you vandalized the table?"

Jehan shrugged. "I was showing Quasi some basic Greek."

"It means "Fate"!" Quasimodo piped up excitedly, smiling contently in his newfound knowledge.

Turning to Quasimodo, Frollo readily stated, "Do not believe everything Jehan tells you, Quasimodo, for he is not your instructor." Directing his attention back to an impatient Jehan, he said, "You should brush up on your Greek; it means "necessity." You should have studied more." Frollo smirked at his brother's arrogant mistake, the latter rolling his cerulean eyes.

"It's no skin off my back," Jehan quipped, hands on his hips. "Now if you excuse me, I think I'm due for a little ménage à trois with the goddesses of Rue Glatigny!"

The Minister shot his brother a threatening look before he marched down the bell tower steps.

Quasimodo, finally finding his voice after the brothers' heated exchange, suddenly asked, "What's a "ménage à trois," Master?"

Pale cheeks reddening slightly, Frollo hesitantly answered, "Just another wicked act that sinners like my brother indulge in—but never repeat that phrase again!"

Quasimodo flinched before nodding obediently. Frollo rubbed his temple before saying, "Remember Quasimodo, the wicked shall not go unpunished."

Chapter Text

"Aside from Jude the Apostle, we may also pray to Saint Gregory the Miracle Worker." The Minister of Justice and Quasimodo had finished their dinner and the boy had questioned his foster father about the Apostles of the Bible, whose answer became more complex than originally desired as he droned on about sainthood. "Both are the patron saints of lost and impossible causes."

"Good! You're still here!" The all too familiar jovial voice called as he ascended the wooden steps of the bell tower.

"Speaking of which," Frollo muttered irritatedly, turning his attention to his brother reluctantly. "I have already provided you with your allowance this morning; surely you could not have spent every penny in a mere few hours?"

Jehan shrugged his thin shoulders, indifference in his expression while his brother exhaled in disappointment, the negative atmosphere discerned by Quasimodo who sat quietly waiting for the brothers' exchange to finish. Though Frollo never lost his temper around his ward, he was certainly more intimidating when Jehan managed to get under his skin for one thing or another.

"Well I am not giving you anymore," the Minister sternly said, hoping to dissuade the younger from pushing his luck, balling his right hand into a fist. "You know the saying: the borrower becomes the lender's slave."

Snorting at that, Jehan threw his hands up in defeat. "Claude, don't be so stingy!" Frollo cast him a dark look, trying to remain stone-like in his brother's pleas. "Fine. If you refuse to give me money, then I'll find my own way of doing so. However, since I don't possess a trade of any kind, I guess I'll just have to get it through other means. Maybe I'll just join up with the vagabonds…the gypsies."

"Like Hell you will!" Frollo exclaimed with indignation, rising from his seat. "I would sooner have your head served on a platter to Herod and Salome before you even consider aligning yourself with such filth!" Muscles stiffening beneath his robe, Quasimodo momentarily believed that the judge would lunge at his brother right then and there for such a comment. How Jehan was able to speak to the Minister of Justice like this and get away with it was truly astonishing.

Grinning and placing his hands on his hips, Jehan decided to bait his brother further. "Well, what would you suggest I do to earn some money, Your Honor?"

Given the lateness of the day, Frollo decided the last thing he wanted to do was spend an eternity arguing in circles with Jehan over the perpetual topic of money. The tale as old as time continued as he retrieved the coin purse from his pocket and tossed it to his degenerate younger brother, who smiled greedily as thanks.

Sitting back down, Frollo rested his forehead upon his hand, trying to forget his brother's threat of turning nomad. The very notion of it was absolutely outrageous to him: to sully the family name for good by joining up with those he condemned as godless street urchins was something he would not stand for.

There was that word again: Gypsies. Quasimodo had heard his master throughout the years cursing this group under his breath. Frollo had pointed them out in the square a few times as they danced, sang, ate fire, performed palmistry, and whatever else the judge viewed as heathen revelry. Their high spirit and colorful uniquity enchanted the hunchbacked boy's imagination, who watched them with great fascination from the heights of the cathedral with the wind blowing through his red locks. Their clothes of bright blue, green, orange, magenta and everything in between stuck out from the crowds and pavement of grays and browns. There was something so magical about their ways.

Knowing the great contempt that his guardian held for them, however, prevented him from inquiring as to why he despised them so. But with Jehan's comment and Frollo's reaction to such, Quasimodo felt that he just had to ask.

"What happens if Jehan does run off with the…with the gypsies, Master?" His sudden question roused the judge from mulling over his own thoughts. Furrowing his brows, his flint gray eyes looked to the small moon that began peering from behind the night clouds outside, collecting himself.

"Should he ever have the audacity to shun what little teachings that he has retained from his upbringing in favor of their wayward practices…then Jehan would truly be lost." The last part of his answer, Frollo spoke with a trace of melancholy in a hushed voice, eyes downcast upon the small wooden table. Raising his gaze, his cold eyes locked with the innocent blue ones of Quasimodo.

"The gypsies…" he began, his voice regaining its normal vehemence. "Ensnare the common man's childlike captivation, seducing him to do away with his God-given morality in favor of their indecent practices. Instead of making their way as the rest of us do, they prefer to bounce from one location to another, distracting the weak-minded while robbing them at the same time. It is enough of a task that I must try to keep my brother on the path of righteousness, but for him to think of joining them to coast through life…I simply cannot allow it. Do you understand, my boy? I would rather have an irresponsible brother who could still be redeemed in the eyes of God, than have the last trace of our blood gone to become a follower of their vile traditions."

Quasimodo was taken aback by his guardian's words. Frollo hardly every evidenced such love and devotion to his younger brother, even if it was not completely unconditional. Nevertheless, his repulsion for the gypsies was fueled by his love for his brother, as far as the boy could see. No matter how cold and distant Frollo made himself to appear, at least there was some sort of loyalty to another, Jehan.

"But…but they can't be all bad…could they?" Quasimodo asked, remembering their liveliness and colorfulness as they performed in the square for passersby for what little coins they were rewarded before being chased off by local guards.

"Do not be fooled, Quasimodo," Frollo quickly answered. "One gypsy is the same as any other, all with the ultimate goal sapping the good citizens of what little they have—either of coin, or their virtue. In fact, had it not been for some gypsy witch, then perhaps my brother would not have been cursed into leading the life he does."

"A witch?"

"Indeed. A sorceress who used her cunning to deceive me as a young man, acting as though she adored Jehan, all the while I had no idea that she had placed a hex upon him that would shape him into the man he has always been." Frollo recalled how in his youth, he allowed but one gypsy to hold his precious infant brother. All of the misfortune and woe that followed in the years afterward could only be attributed to the power of witchcraft—certainly not by his parenting. "I was fortunate enough that she did not carry off with him into the night, as her kind has been said to do," he continued. "They are wicked to the core and do not forget that."

Quasimodo looked at his master with slight apprehensiveness, pondering over those motley performers and what kind of malice they could possess, as Frollo claimed. He drummed his stubby fingers against the table before asking, "Was…Jehan always like this?"

His voice plaintive and expression stoic, Frollo answered, "I am afraid so. Misbehavior and Jehan go together as naturally as the moon and stars. Whether I was pulling him off some other child before he could rip out their hair, or paying off his tab at one tavern or another. It seems that no matter what, he has no regard to doing anything other than causing trouble and a life of leisure. Although I pray that he will learn maturity and give up his recklessness, and maybe then he can be saved. Recall the parable of the Prodigal Son: even those who have strayed far from the path can still repent and receive salvation."

Questions brewed inside Quasimodo's head as Frollo's words sunk in. "Can gypsies be saved?" Quasimodo was careful with his words, even though his inquiry was sure to awaken Frollo's vicious sentiment.

Frollo was very taken aback by the question. "Well…the Bible teaches that all those who believe can be, but a group so consumed by heathenry and black magic is beyond any sort of salvation and redemption. Which is why we must quell their very existence, before they can bring any further harm to the good souls of Paris."

"But Master, they don't look like they're doing anything…wrong. If Jehan can be saved, then—"

"He is not some infernal gypsy who wanders about trying to entice others with witchcraft and the arts of Hell!" Frollo raised his voice in protest as he defended his profligate brother, his eyes full of fire, but steeling himself from a complete outburst. Seeing Quasimodo shrink back at his feverish response, Frollo breathed and collected himself before adding, "Jehan may be far from a saint, but he has thus far kept from doing anything completely unforgivable, such as his proposal to turn vagabond. One day he will grow up and take responsibility for both his life and his soul, lest he desires not to see the Pearly Gates in the end."

Such a fit of temper was not something that Quasimodo was used to, leaving him uneasy of his master's temperament and slightly afraid. Frollo could see the anxious look on his ward's face and thought it best not to frighten him any further. "Forgive me for raising my voice, Quasimodo," he said composedly. "But…my brother's soul is something that I worry about constantly. I couldn't bear it if he, or even you, fell victim to the gypsies' bewitchment."

Despite the one wart covering his left one, Quasimodo's eyes shone with understanding and adoration for his master, for his dedication for both him and Jehan was without a doubt genuine. "I won't, Master. I promise that I'll never trust a gypsy."

With that said, Frollo rose from his seat, dusting off and smoothing out his black robe. "Very good. Now then," he spoke, his tone softer. "I believe it has grown quite late and the both of us should be retiring for the night." Quasimodo nodded in agreement, lifting himself from his seat and lumbering to his make-shift bed area while his master discarded the used dishware.

Quasimodo sat up while his master knelt down to eye level. They crossed themselves in unison and folded their hands before Frollo's low voice incanted the nightly prayer: "Ángele Dei, qui custos es mei, me tibi ommíssum pietáte supérna, illúmina, custódi, rege et gubérna. Amen."

Making the sign of the cross over themselves again, Frollo stood up and bid his ward good night, lightly patting the boy on his protruding hunch before picking up his hat and turning to leave. Covering himself with the threadbare blanket, Quasimodo suddenly said, "I…I'm sorry about…Jehan, Master."

For a fleeting moment, there was a sadness appearing on the judge's face. Restoring his usual countenance, Frollo quietly replied, "As am I." He proceeded to march down the bell tower steps with a sort of languidness that was quite unlike him.

X

As Romulus trotted through the dark sleeping city, Frollo could not stop thinking about his brother…and the gypsies. Would he really threaten to join up with them now every time the Minister refused to provide him with money to spend on further degeneracy? He couldn't decide which was worse: being the source of Jehan's overindulgence, or allowing him to associate himself with the bane of the Minister's existence to fund such activities himself. Frollo gritted his teeth at his moral dilemma, sickened by both scenarios. He found small comfort in the idea that all in all, Quasimodo would never be allowed to live like Jehan.

Shaking himself from these troubling thoughts, Frollo noted the decreased number of loiterers, thanks to his increased number of night guards. He noted that seldom ever did he or his men encounter gypsies after dark. Retreated back to their fabled haven, the Court of Miracles, no doubt. A spark of anger flared up in the judge as he remembered twisting that gypsy apart to extract the knowledge of its location, such an attempt all in vain.

How difficult must it be to find such a place? After almost a decade of this Herculean pursuit, he had nothing to show for it, his hands tightening on the reins at the thought. Were all of them really so prepared to die by his hand for the sake of their kin's place of refuge?

No matter how many of them must perish…The judge's train of thought was suddenly halted as he heard the nearby sound of…singing. Sweet notes fell softly on his ears, leaving him momentarily winded. Without realizing it, some great force overcame him as he steered his horse to follow the hypnotic tune. Ordinarily, he would have simply ignored it and moved on...but not tonight.

He followed the music to a nearby tavern whose faded old wooden sign hanging above the door once depicted a red bull, announcing itself as La Tête du Taureau. Peering into the grimy window, Frollo could see the whole place alive with peasants…and gypsies. He saw them gathered around with their exotic instruments: a large drum beaten on rhythmically; a couple of large, gourd shaped stringed instruments with short necks; a small pear-shaped one resting on one man's knee and played with a bow. In the center of these performers, he listened as a tall gypsy woman crooned the enchanting lyrics in some foreign tongue while the tavern patrons drank and laughed…

"Ándro birtho zhas,

"Thai mol piyas.

"Amáre lové das,

"Thai mol piyas…"

The Minister found himself frozen in place as he listened, entranced by the strange and romantic tune, mouth stupidly agape. He suddenly forgot of the venomous words he had pronounced to his adopted son condemning them only minutes ago, for even he could not peel himself away from its melodious spell.

"Come keep me warm until morning…"

Frollo closed his eyes as the music filled him with a sense of peace...longing...misery. His chest tightened painfully from the onslaught of emotion. For an instant, it was as though everything ceased to exist, as though he lingered in this moment for an eternity, blissfully listening to such sweet harmony.

"Minister!" Shaken, Frollo felt himself being brought back to reality as he whipped around to a night guard riding down the street towards him, armor clanking loudly.

"What is it?!" The Minister heatedly snarled, trying to regain his composure. He realized that he had been idling in the same shadowy spot for some time, listening to the gypsies' music.

"Sir, we've received reports of a gypsy thief in a brothel on Rue de la Harpe."

"I see. Lead the way then, Lieutenant." Snaps of the reins and the two men sped off on their horses, leaving behind the mesmerizing music and into the night.

It wasn't long before the men reached the brothel, littered with drunk men stumbling in and out. Making a sound of disgust, Frollo leered at this establishment of unbridled licentiousness and wantonness. Had the Church not viewed prostitution as a necessary evil to prevent any "unnatural" forms of lust, he would have it snuffed out completely and destroy every whorehouse in Paris.

"Gypsy thieves, you said?" Frollo asked, examining the place of ill repute.

"Yes, sir. A gypsy stealing from patrons during, um…transactions."

"Typical," the judge muttered under his breath. "Let us go and investigate the matter." Dismounting their horses, Frollo and his lieutenant tied them to the posts outside before entering the building. The Minister cringed at the sight of so many promiscuous women discussing deals with these depraved men. It wasn't long before a finely-dressed older woman adorned with a pearl necklace descended the staircase, stopping before the Minister of Justice and his guard.

Her eyes falling on the austere Minister, she shot him a puzzled expression. "Minister Frollo? I must say that I'm surprised to see a man of your esteem here…although I cannot say the same for your brother."

Brushing the comment aside and schooling his expression, Frollo stiffly replied, "I am only here on official matters."

"Of course. Well, whatever the reason, welcome to Le Lys Rouge."

The inside of Le Lys Rouge was well lit and adorned in red, from the scarlet drapes hung along the grand staircase and the tapestries on its walls. Filling the ground floor were numerous dirty tables cramped with male customers and their female company upon their laps and drinking away. Frollo watched with revulsion when he glanced to the second floor and witnessed men and their escorts filing in and out of the rooms.

"I have heard that there is a gypsy prowler stripping your patrons of their wages," Frollo stated, getting straight to the point, hands behind his back. "Is this true?"

"There is a prowler, Your Honor, but I did not say it was a gypsy," the Madame answered. "Perhaps someone suggested it could have been, but the gypsies who come through are customers just as any other man who enters my establishment."

"One cannot be too trusting with their kind. Your greed prevents you from seeing them for the thieving dogs that they truly are. No doubt it's occurred before on these premises. It would be wise to bar them from your establishment to prevent any further thefts."

The Madame remained unmoved by his utterance of scorn. "How I run my business is of my own accord. Anyone willing to pay is welcome."

Frowning at such impertinence, Frollo saw that he was getting nowhere with this hardened woman. "Then just lead us to whomever claims that there is a thief."

The Madame eyed him warily. "Upstairs. Red-head, Carla. She'll tell you everything."

Giving a curt nod, Frollo motioned for his lieutenant to follow him up the stairs, brushing past idling courtesans. As the Minister and his guard made their way down the dimly-lit second floor scanning about for this so-called Carla, the libidinous atmosphere made Frollo's skin crawl. After all, he had never been a fan of places like Le Lys Rouge.

After a long silence, his soldier finally spoke. "Sir, what if this thief isn't a gypsy as we thought?"

Looking over his shoulder, Frollo sternly answered, "As with all law-breakers, whoever we find to be pilfering customers shall be brought to justice and handled accordingly."

Frollo was suddenly stopped by a round, bald man who grabbed his shoulder. "Judge Frollo! You must help! I have been robbed, I fear by the gypsy in that room!" He pointed a fat finger to one door a couple ones down from where they stood. "And it's not just me! Others claim that they've been pickpocketed tonight as well. Arrest him!"

Brushing the dirt of his shoulder, Frollo nodded, replying, "Worry not, for the man responsible will indeed be punished." Turning his attention back ahead, Frollo stopped as the indicated door unexpectedly swung open, a satiated gypsy man striding out and smoothing out his time-worn blue tunic.

"Seize him!" Frollo instinctively ordered.

Attention snapping towards the Minister and his lackey, the gypsy man did not have time to react, instantly finding himself pinned to the ground. The commotion was quick to grab the attention of every other man and harlot ambling about the corridor.

"Another gypsy plunderer," Frollo taunted as his lieutenant continued to smother their culprit.

"What are you talking about?!" The dark-skinned man bellowed, snorting roughly against the dirty wooden floor as the guard held him tight.

"Oh please, don't play coy. It would make this less painful if you do not. And though I may not be entirely fond of these establishments, the law stands and theft is theft."

"I haven't stolen anything!" His rebuttal earned a swift pull of the hair and face slammed to the ground, yelping painfully in response.

Folding his arms and looking down with antipathy, Frollo continued chide the gypsy. "Is it purely coincidental that when there is a report of thievery, a gypsy just so happens to be soliciting at the very establishment?"

The man's eyes burned with hatred as they locked with the Minister's. Ignoring him, Frollo simply looked to his guard and ordered, "Lock him up." He instantly found himself in shackles, muttering curses as a small line of blood streamed down the side of his face.

Patrons who loitered in the long corridor or who came to watch the spectacle laughed and cheered at the Minister's execution of justice. Smiling to himself as he watched his lieutenant land a hard blow to the gypsy man's gut, Frollo then felt a tap on his shoulder, turning around to find a pale red-haired woman standing behind him.

Cocking an eyebrow at her, he said, "I assume you are Carla. Can I help you?"

Crossing her thin arms, she said, "Minster Frollo, I know that you can't resist booking gypsies on a regular basis, but…that's not the one we caught stealing."

"Excuse me?"

"No, let's just say that I've detained our little thief down the hall." Looking past him, she directed her attention to judge's guard holding the gypsy in place. "Lieutenant Laurent," she greeted flirtatiously, fingers waggling towards him. Frollo rolled his eyes as his lieutenant looked away awkwardly to avoid meeting his superior's gaze.

Frollo studied the gypsy in chains, his ears heating up in slight embarrassment before speaking to her again. "Well, if you have done so, then take us to him."

Giving a small chuckle of condescension, Carla's fingers motioned for the judge to follow her to the far end of the hallway, Frollo motioning his guard to stay put and keep watch over their captive.

Hand on the door handle, the young courtesan looked back at the Minister of Justice, who waited impatiently behind. "I'm sorry that you have to see this, Your Honor, but it's just business." Frollo raised an eyebrow in confusion, hesitant of what she was going to show him.

With a fluid motion of her arm, the young woman swung the door open, Frollo's eyes widening before quickly covering them in exasperation and humiliation. The only thing he could utter was a horrified, "Oh, good lord!"

"Heh heh...Evening, Claude."

In an almost mocking voice, the young woman remarked, "I believe this is yours," her eyes shifting to the center of the room in annoyance as she leaned against the door frame.

Lowering his hand from his eyes, Frollo grimaced heavily as he set his gaze on a most unpleasant sight: Jehan, naked from the waist up, bound by the wrists by an old scarf and tied to one of the bedposts above his curly blond head, smiling nervously at his guests.

Mortified, Frollo sighed in great displeasure before harshly asking the young woman, "What in the world is this?"

"As I told you, Minister: the thief that you're looking for isn't a gypsy. Your bastard brother couldn't pay the full sum—kept saying that he'd come back and pay the rest later. Our policy is cash upfront—all of it—no exceptions. After I told him, I saw him lifting some money off the other customers before trying again!"

Glowering fiercely at his brother, who tried to shake his bounds loose to no avail, Frollo then asked him in disbelief, "Please tell me that she is not serious. What did you do with the money that I gave you earlier?!"

Letting out a small shaky laugh, Jehan answered his brother coolly, "Well, when you hear the dice games calling, you answer them, even if the odds aren't always in your favor…four games in a row."

"So you thought it best to refund yourself by robbing other men?" Frollo crossed his arms sternly, his eyes piercing with scorn.

"I needed to, Claude! What would you have done? Look, just pay her for me, would you?" Jehan tugged on the scarf around his wrists harder, frustrated by the skill with which they were tied.

Frollo glanced back at the silent courtesan still leaning against the door frame, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Well, Minister?" Carla deadpanned. "How will you be paying?"

With a quick look back at his pathetic brother, he asked, "Just to be clear, what would become of him if I decided against compensating for his requested services?"

"Claude!" Jehan exclaimed surprised, blue eyes widening in fear of being abandoned by his brother.

"We'd just throw him down in the cellar and kick him out in the morning," Carla explained plainly. "But he will be banned from Le Lys Rouge."

"Carla, you wouldn't ban me, would you?" Jehan adorned his most charming smile hoping to persuade the woman who remained unmoved.

Rolling his eyes, Frollo reached under his robe to retrieve the spare coin purse he kept for whenever Jehan took the first. "Here." Pushing the money into the woman's hands, Frollo strode forward and pulled the dagger hidden in his sleeve. Swiftly and smoothly, he cut the scarf binding the young man's wrists before picking up the discarded tunic and tossing it back in Jehan's face.

"We are leaving now," he said hotly, not looking at his embarrassment of a brother. Looking back at the stunned young woman, Frollo spoke in a dangerously low voice, "This never happened." She nodded in understanding. Exiting the room, he tried to collect himself as he waited in the hallway, livid anger building up inside him. When Jehan emerged with his haphazardly dressed clothes on, Frollo took hold of his arm and roughly pulled him along.

Unable to break from the judge's vice-like grip, Jehan decided just to vex him out of spite. "So what's next, Claude? You going to throw me in the dungeon again? This was a one-time situation—I swear it will not happen again!"

Ignoring him, Frollo brushed past the onlookers before stopping before his lieutenant, still holding the anxious gypsy. "Take this gypsy back to the Palace of Justice; I will deal with his situation tomorrow."

The soldier looked at the clumsily dressed Jehan and back at the injured gypsy, stammering out, "But-but, sir…if this man wasn't stealing…You-you said that all lawbreakers—"

"Follow your orders, Lieutenant, and I will deal with this one as I shall." His hold on his brother's arm tightened at his indication.

The man looked at his commander in disbelief before escorting the gypsy in chains down the stairs and out of the brothel. Frollo continued to pull Jehan out of the building, not once casting a glance at him and neither of them speaking. Once outside, the judge pulled his brother aside, slamming him against the wall of the building.

"Why is that your rapaciousness must follow me everywhere like a stray?!" Frollo's eyes burned with fury and his fingers dug into Jehan's shoulders mercilessly. "Why is it that the concept of prudence is one that is eternally lost on you?!"

Jehan barely managed to push his seething brother away, shoving him back and rubbing at his shoulder. "Calm down—it's not like I murdered anyone or anything. Lucky thing you showed up too—who knows what would have happened?"

"Listen to me," Frollo said severely, pointing a finger at the young man. "Legally I should be stowing you away in the pits of the Palace and setting up your trial. You were fortunate enough that there is someone else to take the blame for this incident but heed my words, Jehan: There will come a day where your actions will cause irreversible damage, and I will not be there to clean up your mess. At almost twenty-five years, one would think that you would've learned that already! Do you understand?"

"I see. So…would you rather I turn gypsy to do what I want, or let things remain as they are?" Jehan smirked triumphantly, thinking he might bested the Minister of Justice into giving in.

Frollo looked at him as the moonlight shone brightly on his brother's smug features. In a grim voice he replied, "Then I imagine that you would rather try to join a group who would sooner slit your throat, than try to keep the debauchery to a minimum so that I may continue to provide you such funds. Take your pick."

Jehan scratched his head, eyes wandering around the dark streets, unable to think of a rebuttal. "Fine," he conceded reluctantly. "I'll try not to embarrass you too much. And look on the bright side, Claude: you picked up some more gypsy trash and saved your baby brother, so a job well done!" Jehan stretched his arms outwards, jokingly calling for him to engage in a brotherly embrace.

Shooting him a bitter expression and scoffing, Frollo monotonously said to him, "Good night, Jehan. But remember what I have told you. What goes around, comes around." Frollo left his brother as he made his way back to the front of Le Lys Rouge, untying and mounting his horse to set off for home.

With his brother still in earshot, Jehan shouted, "My soul will be just fine!" as the Minister rode off.

Inwardly, Frollo prayed, One can only hope...

Chapter Text

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!"

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.

"Um, 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—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," 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!" He damned. "Of all the spineless things…"

"Good heavens!" 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 and propped 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.

Clearing 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…

Chapter Text

Sunlight peeked through the clouds, shining brightly over the city, and a mob gathered in front of Notre Dame. The ever-thrilling execution stage had been erected in the square, a wooden chopping block centered. The citizens crowded eagerly to watch the grisly spectacle with the Minister of Justice standing high and mighty above the sea of his small-minded audience.

Parisians hurled their insults and curses as the judge motioned for his men to bring forth the shackled prisoner, who only stared coldly and expressionlessly at the Minister and out towards the spectators. Frollo expected tears and incoherent utterances of repent, but the man only exhibited stoicism, serving to annoy him.

As he dressed himself earlier that morning, Frollo examined the new scars that now adorned his shoulder and side, gripping the small brown scapular hanging around his neck as a surge of anger overcame him. He saw the blank expression of his attacker in his mind, hatred making him grit his teeth.

Nobody humiliated the Minister of Justice without facing the consequences.

Now he stood powerfully above the masses, a scroll of parchment in hand with the sentence written on. What he should have relished in with vindictive pride was now replaced with sole desire for bloody vengeance. Unfurling the scroll, Frollo cast a sideways glance at the still gypsy, stone-faced and ready to be martyred.

Frollo read the charges to the city, deadly baritone resonating authoritatively. Attempted assassination of a public official…Fingers clenching around the parchment and igniting the crowd's scorn and boos, some going as far as to fling garbage at the Minister's prisoner.

Frollo gestured to his henchmen, who shoved the gypsy man forward to his knees, pressing his face against the chopping block. A black-hooded executioner stepped forward, cradling a heavy axe in his gloved hands while the gypsy man still showed no signs of remorse, even as the crowded rained rotten food upon him. With one nod from the judge, the axe swung high, sunlight beaming off its perfectly sharpened blade…

X

"Sir, the actions of one gypsy shouldn't be grounds for oppressing the entire Romani population!" The Captain protested as he stood in the Minister's study while the latter shuffled through numerous parchment pieces.

Not bothering to look up at the rough-faced soldier, Frollo answered, "The people seem to agree with my decision. I have handled the gypsies' banal crimes for years and now the reality of them has finally come to the public's full attention. And besides, Captain, I have the support of the King on my side—His Majesty himself sees these people for what they are as well. Remember that those gypsies brought this upon themselves! It only takes one to worsen it for the rest. That assassination attempt was the key to getting Louis's permission to keep them down on the social food chain."

Spring was drawing close to summer and the Minister had worked diligently in creating propaganda against the gypsies of Paris, fueled by the calamity of the incident in front of the cathedral. Penning letters to King Louis expressing his concern over the danger posed to the city by so-called "lawless heathens," he purported that the only rational way of curbing the problem was too enact stricter laws, further limiting what little freedoms they already were allowed in Paris. Given Frollo's nearly immaculate judicial record, he did not have to wait long for Louis's response on the issue. With full regal support, the judge began writing up new mandates restricting the actions of the city's gypsy population.

"I can't believe he is actually allowing this," Captain Gerard commented, mostly to himself but not going unheard by the judge.

Locking eyes with the man, Frollo grimly asked, "Does the fact that they have no regard for the law mean anything to you, Captain? Do I have to remind you that our duty granted by our country is to execute the law against those who violate it? Does the fact that that gypsy tried to murder your superior on the very steps of Our Lady—in front of witnesses—mean nothing to you? I will do what is necessary to prevent something as inconceivably foolish as this from happening again, whether or not it seems moral in your eyes. You will not stand idly by and allow for such crimes to be committed simply because of a difference in ethical opinion. Are we clear?"

Fighting the urge not to bash the judge's head into the stone wall, the reluctant Captain mechanically answered, "Yes, Your Honor."

"Good," Frollo said, hoping that there would be no further protests from his second-in-command. "Remember your place, Captain."

The man's face was stone-like, holding back curses. "And once we evict them from their homes, where do you suggest that they go?" The impertinent Captain inquired boldly.

"Well they pride themselves on being nomadic, do they not?" Frollo replied. "Finding another hole to dwell in will certainly not be a problem for them. As long as they are not in the way and threatening the livelihoods of hard-working citizens, then it is of no real concern of mine."

Captain Gerard showed great apprehension towards his employer's attitude, not at all in agreement with the decision. He could only bite his tongue while his expression betrayed him, showing the uneasiness with his orders.

"Oh, please, don't act so noble," Frollo taunted when he saw his Captain's look of concern etched on his rugged face. "You knew damn well what was in store when you took this position."

"I didn't think displacing masses of people because of some prejudice would be part of it."

Frollo's hand tensed on the quill. "I am beginning to question where your loyalties lie. For your sake I hope that you will not use these personal morals of yours to justify doing something, let us say, rash." Something about the soldier's constant questions and impassioned words against the Minister's orders did not sit well with him. "After all," Frollo mocked. "It would be quite a shame to lose an effective Captain with such a gleaming record, wouldn't it? Especially since the consequences for treachery are quite severe."

The judge rose from his seat. Gray eyes burning into the Captain's, Frollo icily responded, "Just do your job." Handing Gerard a scroll of parchment, he then said, "You and your men's orders for today: clear the Left Bank of the Seine of beggars, vagrants, entertainers—any gypsy you come across. After we have driven those underground, we may begin to clear the Right Bank, then outwards to the rest of the city."

Before he could start his crusade, Frollo ordered his men to give notice to the citizens of an official announcement. Opening the doors of the Palace of Justice and walking down some steps, he studied the intrigued and confused faces of his subjects, who wondered to each other what was so pressing that the judge called the city for an announcement.

"People of Paris!" Frollo thundered. "Give the recent insubordinate and destructive behavior carried out by the city's Romani, or "gypsy", population, I am obligated to do everything in my power to ensure the safety of our citizens. They are the poisonous root preventing Paris from flourishing to its full potential—and to survive, a poison must be extracted…"

Frollo's words stirred the people. Some were already quite fearful that the city was grave danger if the Minister of Justice himself was almost murdered by a mere gypsy beggar. His words offered assurance to those in doubt of the protection and well-being of their city, and with an unwavering leader like Claude Frollo at the helm, perhaps all there was to do was give him their complete support. The Parisians cheered, rejoicing and wondering what the judge had up his sleeve, and eager to see their city safe once again.

The days marched on as Frollo's agenda was put to work as he rallied his men to "clean up" the city of stray gypsies, the support of the citizens fueling him. However, King Louis had written his guidelines for Frollo's actions, which noted that stray gypsies or those residing in cars in the city were to be pushed to the outskirts of Paris, while the few living in proper lodging as other citizens would be allowed to stay where they were.

However, many were not fortunate to be simply ejected from their dwellings. Frollo had ordered countless to be apprehended for trespassing, vagrancy, soliciting, and every other crime he could find as means of arrest.

He watched impassively as his men tore countless innocent Roma from the streets, being ordered to leave and cease performing or face arrest. Some wept and pleaded that the Minister show clemency and not force them from their homes. There were those brave enough to defy judicial orders and refused to comply, cursing and spitting at the city guards until they were met with shackles and, occasionally, violent reactions.

Day after day, Frollo would sit atop Romulus and watch as one caravan after another somberly tow its way out of the city and into the country. Under the Minister of Justice's orders, the gypsies found themselves uprooted and even more penniless than before.

X

"You've really gone off the deep end with this gypsy stuff, you know that?" Jehan's voice interrupted.

Frollo and Quasimodo looked up from the book they carefully studied as they sat across from each other at the small table, seeing the third member of their de facto family tread up the wooden steps. "All of a sudden the whole city seems to not to trust them anymore—not even letting them near their stands and carts! Well, you know… the ones who are left in the city, at least. What did you do?" Jehan asked, eyebrow arched.

A sly grin stretching his thin lips, Frollo answered, "The people have finally decided to listen to reason, realizing the pestilence they are to the city and deciding to take charge." Quasimodo, not interested in listening to what he assumed would be an oncoming brotherly bickering, put his climbing skills to use and disappeared up into the rafters.

"You turned all of Paris against them? You've really used that knife thing to your advantage, haven't you?"

"It was not as though such animosity hadn't already existed; that little incident just brought the threat that they pose to the light."

"I thought it might be your doing when I was walking over here and saw a couple of them getting pelted with rocks and garbage," Jehan remarked. "Turns out, that old woman with the fish cart has a pretty good arm—got some gypsy kid right between the eyes!"

"I don't encourage such crass behavior, but I can't keep the people from doing what they will to their kind," Frollo smugly retaliated, ignoring his own flagrant hypocrisy.

"I'm no bureaucrat or lawyer, but this character assassination seems a little harsh, don't you think? I'm sure if you want to stamp out crime there's probably a simpler way of doing that. After all, there's more than one way to skin a cat, Claude."

"Thank you for the political advice, but I believe I am more than capable of containing the situation without it."

Jehan simply shook his head and scoffed at his brother's statement. "If you say so. You may walk around with a chip on your shoulder, but your issues with gypsies are none of my business."

"Correct. Now then, what do you want, and also..." Frollo gestured to the bag hanging over his Jehan's shoulder. "Why are you carrying this around?"

Removing the canvas haversack from his shoulder, Jehan carefully emptied out its contents onto the wooden table before his brother and hunchback, who swiftly climbed down to rejoin his master at ground-level. Out of the bag spilled coins of gold and silver, jewelry from brooches to necklaces, even a dagger or two in their finely crafted leather sheaths. Quasimodo's eyes gleamed with fascination while Frollo's shone with astonishment and suspicion, all the while Jehan smiled contently. "Feeling charitable today, I suppose," he answered.

Quasimodo busied himself with sifting through the various treasures while Frollo inspected a coin himself, surprised to find that it was not counterfeit. Pursing his lips and looking up at Jehan, the judge incredulously asked, "Pray tell, little brother …How did you acquire such a bounty?"

Placing his hand on his brother's rigid shoulder, Jehan answered, "Does it really matter, Claude? You wanted me to earn money on my own, and I found a job that pays well—very well, actually!"

"A job? I wasn't aware that such a word was even in your vocabulary," Frollo sardonically commented in disbelief. "What kind of work did you find that you are actually willing to do?"

"That's for me to know. What do you care?"

Quickly grabbing his wrist and pulling him aside, Frollo looked unyieldingly at him. In a low, threatening voice he explained, "I care because if you earned this money through means that are not aligned with the law, then the consequences will be quite unforgiving."

Snatching back his hand, Jehan lowly replied, "It's under control. No one is getting hurt and the people I work with know what they're doing. These things were given up willingly—I didn't steal it!"

"You'll have to forgive my inquiry. When someone who failed every examination from grammar school to university and suddenly finds work under an unnamed trade, one cannot help but grow a tad bit suspicious," Frollo drawled sarcastically.

"Oh, well I'm sorry I didn't make it to the clergy or become a merchant—or even some penniless poet!"

"What poet?" Quasimodo asked as he stepped forward between the brothers.

Blowing a sound of indignation, Jehan answered, "Just some failed troubadour who Claude took under his wing ages ago."

"His name was Pierre Gringoire, and yes, he was a pupil of mine for some time," Frollo elaborated. "A little older than Jehan by about a decade or so, and a local vagrant of humble name. At first meeting, he was just as my brother here: absolutely helpless. He couldn't find a trade that suited him, preferring to write poetry and plays. I saw scholastic potential in him and offered to teach him some of my expertise: letters, classics and such. As I recall, he took greatly to the works of Cicero."

Quasimodo's dark blue eyes shifted from his master to the disgruntled-looking younger Frollo and back again. "What happened to Pierre, Master?"

Bitterly, Jehan spoke up, "Yes, let's revisit what happened to good-old Pierre!"

Expression twisting in annoyance, the Minister looked down at Quasimodo and replied, "Last I heard, Pierre had left Paris in hopes of performing his tragedies for the masses all over the world."

"So he probably ended up dead under a bridge somewhere, using those scripts of his plays as bandages!" Jehan commented cynically. "He was the worst, Quasimodo! Always walking around as though he was some Italian poet—acting like his work would change the world."

"Maybe so," Frollo replied coolly. "But he had a strong devotion to learning. A quality that has sadly been lost on others."

"Well, I've found a line of work that's a little more profitable than writing plays—plays that the townspeople would rather pelt with eggs than watch, if you recall that particular festival."

"But is it legitimate? The last thing I want to see filed in a report would be regarding some seedy street business that my brother has gotten tangled up with yet again."

Irritatedly, Jehan glowered at his older brother. "Would you stop worrying—I swear, one of these days you're going to just keel over in the middle of your courtroom! Claude, if anything goes wrong, it's taken care of. It's nothing to lose any sleep over, got it?"

Crossing his arms sternly, Frollo kept his same unbending self against Jehan's assurance. Despite such words, the Minister could not help but sense that his brother's operation was nothing more than some underhanded scheme of criminal nature. His experience as a bureaucrat had rewarded him the gift of detecting deceit in others, especially one as dishonest as Jehan.

"Tell you what," Jehan piped up, clapping his hands together. "I said I was feeling charitable, so take whatever you want from my earnings today! Quasimodo, you too!" A smile stretched over the boy's face as he went back over to the pile of riches, eagerly trying to pick something out, Jehan right behind him.

Frollo only frowned at Jehan's sudden sense of giving, still not entirely convinced over the validity of his brother's work. "Just take something, Claude," Jehan said stubbornly, irked at his brother's staunch demeanor.

Not indulging his brother's bribery, he remarked, "For your sake, Jehan, I hope that you know what you are doing."

"I told you already, it's under control. If worst comes to worst, I'll handle it."

"Or come running to me," the judge retorted bitingly.

"What's this?" Quasimodo asked suddenly, holding up a silver coin. Frollo examined it, one side a bearded man with the words Tron Dux Nicolas, the other side showing a winged lion.

"Venetian currency, most likely the doge's new policy," the judge commented, handing it back to Quasimodo.

"Can I have this?" he asked, holding a simple gold cross on a chain about the size of his hand, Jehan nodding in response.

"Food for thought, Jehan," Frollo interjected. "If this does indeed turn out to be an unlawful business that you are a part of, remember that you will not only have to answer to me, but also to your higher power: He who made man's mouth and sight, and can just as easily take it away, just as I can take away your life."

Jehan ignored Frollo's threatening, stone-like expression. "I know, I know—I've heard it all before. Now I have to get back to work, so I'll see you later!" Jehan swept the rest of his riches back into his bag before slinging it over his shoulder. "Enjoy!" As the Minister and Quasimodo watched as Jehan strode off, Frollo was not quite convinced of what his brother told him.

"So where do you think Jehan works, Master?" Quasimodo inquired, less suspecting than the judge, hand clutching the golden ornament.

"An excellent question, given that he has limited education and skill. Unfortunately, I cannot say but if there's any hope, it is nothing questionable. At this rate he'll need more than confession to atone for his deeds."

X

"What do you propose we do about the dungeons, Minister?" The Captain once again stood in the center of the judge's study late one evening, inquiring about the further course of action to be taken. "The gypsies who weren't exiled to the outskirts have been arrested, but now the dungeons are vastly overcrowded."

"You needn't worry about something so trivial," Frollo nonchalantly answered, as he scribbled down the last few notes of the day. "I will see to it that every one of them is given a trial and proper punishment for their actions."

"Sir, it's not livable down there! There are too many people cramped in each cell, there's hardly any ventilation or light, and some of those people need immediate care. We must do something, quickly before there's an outbreak of sickness—or even violence!"

"All in good time, Captain. I will oversee such matters as soon as I can. Now, it is late so you may take your leave."

For a moment the Captain of the Guard just stood there, expression defiant against his leader. Frollo in turn looked up at the soldier, hissing out a commanding and warning, "Good day, Captain." With that, the man reluctantly turned and exited the judge's study.

Frollo rose from his seat, cracking his knuckles as he stretched his arms forward. Relieved to be done with the monotonous work of the day, he strode over to one of the nearby bookcases and taking a thick volume form it. He flipped through the pages of the little dated but still interesting Travels of Marco Polo, seating himself back into his desk chair.

A few minutes later a knock at the door roused the Minister from his reading. "Enter," he ordered, marking his place in the book and setting it down.

The young valet entered, bowing respectfully. "Minister Frollo, a message has arrived."

Frollo took the scroll and sent the boy away, eyes skimming through the document. A message from the Bishop of Orleans: An academic conference to be held at the University of Orleans, he read, eyebrows rising. It had been quite a while since the judge had attended such an event, the last few years having been more hectic than necessary, in doing so, preventing him from participating.

Frollo pondered it momentarily. To escape the grueling demands of his everyday duties in exchange for some invigorating, educated discussions with his fellow learned men would certainly serve for a much needed break. To gather with his peers and discuss law, theology, politics, medicine—it was not as simple to find someone discuss such subjects with in Paris.

The Captain can handle things on his own, Quasimodo will be fine, and Jehan has his own affairs to see to, he mused optimistically. Why not take a trip to Orleans? The date indicated that the gathering was to take place in just a few days, plenty of time to plan.

Chapter Text

"Now, my boy, there is something that we need to discuss," Frollo said, corking the bottle of wine back up.

"What is it, Master?" Quasimodo asked, clearing the table of plates and cups as they had just finished lunch and an afternoon lesson after Sunday morning Mass.

As the boy put the tableware back away, Frollo answered, "It seems that I am being called away to attend a conference out in Orleans—a symposium—which will be held in a few days. The Bishop there will be housing myself and the other officials at his personal palace. I leave tomorrow morning and will return next week."

"What's a symposium?" the boy asked inquisitively.

"It is a gathering of high-ranking, learned men such as myself to discuss an assortment of subjects. And given that it will be held in Orleans, no doubt the topic will be predominantly about law." Somehow it seemed trivial to mention its university was where the Minister acquired his civil law degree.

Quasimodo blinked at the Minister, bewildered. "So…You won't be here? I won't see you until next week, Master?"

"It's only a few days, Quasimodo. I've already discussed it with Father Augustin and you'll be in good care, no need to fret. Besides, this is a very important meeting for me, and it's been years since I last attended such an event to speak to my old peers."

Quasimodo's expression was crestfallen, almost forlorn as he gripped the edge of his brown tunic. Looking back up at Frollo, he then said, "Okay, Master, I understand. What will I do then?"

"I trust that you and your studies will not fall behind in my absence, correct? And that you will keep this bell tower from falling into disarray?"

"Oh no, Master, of course not! I mean, yes! Um…I'll do my best. What will I be studying while you're gone?" Quasimodo inquired compliantly.

"I want you to study the parables of Christ. I trust the Archdeacon will enlist your assistance in the church's maintenance." The boy affirmed the judge's orders, Frollo lightly ruffling the boy's red hair. "Very good. Now then, I have work to finish before I leave so I must be on my way. But I will be back this evening to deliver some supplies for the next few days."

Back at the Palace of Justice, Frollo had given his staff their orders for the days to come, not wanting his household to fall into disorder while he was gone. He also informed his soldiers that Captain Gerard would be in full command. "And if I return to any discord or slack among my battalions," he commanded to his troops perfectly lined up outside the Palace. "There shall be severe retribution…"

Later that evening, as Frollo sat down for supper with the boy, he reminded Quasimodo to keep up on his academics and for the Archdeacon to keep watch over him.

"Promise that while I'm gone, you will behave—and if Jehan happens to show up here, do not let him talk you into doing something foolish. Do I make myself clear, Quasimodo?" Frollo asked as he cleaned up their dining ware.

"I promise," Quasimodo said. "Be safe, Master!"

X

The next morning, Frollo was finishing up the last of his notes for the Captain to read, leaving them neatly arranged on his desk before throwing the satchel of clothes over his shoulder and heading outside, the morning air greeting him warmly. As soon as the coach lurched forward, Frollo watched from the small window as Notre Dame disappeared into the distance, a smile stretching across his grim face to finally be on his way out of Paris.

Some might have enjoyed taking in the scenery of the countryside, but not the Minister, who preferred studying a few old books that had long been neglected during his time in office. After hours of reading with the minimal sunlight that made it through the window, Frollo could see the walls of the city coming into view, closing Chronica Regni Gothorum and taking in the landscape.

After two and a half days of travel, at last: the revered city of Orleans, where the infamous Joan of Arc was executed for simply dressing as a man because she wanted to fight for her country against the English. As a boy, the Minster recalled his father recounting his witnessing of her execution in the city of Rouen, tied to a stake and burnt before the world for her supposed heresy.

Once inside the city, Frollo instantly felt the pressures that weighed heavily on his shoulders be lifted off. He scrutinized the daily life of the people of Orleans going about their business, sneering at the sight of gypsies freely performing without the local authorities interfering. Given that Orleans was smaller the Paris, it didn't take long to arrive the Bishop's palace on the east side of the Loire River, only a street north of the Saint-Croix Cathedral.

The coach entered through the gates, the palace's footmen nodding respectfully. Exiting the vehicle and arranging his hat, Frollo was instantly met by a young man, whom he assumed was the Bishop's valet, parchment and quill in hand. "Name?" the man asked instantly.

"Claude Frollo, Minister of Justice, Paris," the judge answered monotonously, hands behind his back.

"Ah, yes. Here we are." The young valet ticked the name off of the parchment. "Welcome to Orleans, Minister. I take it you had no trouble on your journey here?"

"As smooth as one could hope," Frollo clipped, not one for idle chitchat.

"Very good, sir. His Eminence, Bishop Dimont, is currently seeing to some matter regarding the church, but he sends his regards. He promises to welcome his guests tonight at supper. So please, allow us to give you the grand tour and show you to your room."

Gesturing forward with his hand, Frollo replied, "Lead the way." He followed the young footman through the palace doors, whose portal above was adorned with the image of Saint Michael.

Once inside the foyer, Frollo studied a triptych decorating one of the walls, which depicted a bright and graphic Second Coming. An unsubtle reminder of the fate of one's soul, lest any visitors conjured up any unscrupulous ideas while inside the Bishop's home.

The valet clapped his hands, a young maid instantly entering and curtsying before him and the Minister. "Sonia, would you be so kind as to show Minister Frollo to his room?"

"Of course," she answered, her tone docile. "Right this way, Minister." Taking the satchel he handed to her, she strode across the foyer with the judge on her heels. Leading him up the grand staircase, she quickly said, "You will be staying on the third floor, Minister. It is where the Bishop houses visitors, so you will be neighbors with his other guests. Tomorrow morning after breakfast, the Bishop has arranged for you and the others to be escorted to the University. "

Frollo admired the clean and pristine atmosphere of the Bishop's home. Its intricate paintings on the walls and vaulted ceilings, the concrete newels of the staircase decorated with regal-looking lions, and tapestries and coat of arms hanging prominently to remind its guests of the owner's background and status. As a high-ranking man of the clergy, there was without a doubt that no expense was spared in the palace's design.

Walking down the third floor's long corridor, Sonia stopped at the end of the hall, retrieving a key from her apron and unlocking the door. Entering the room with Minister behind her, she rested his luggage on the grand bed. "Here we are, Minister. Supper will be served in about two hours and Bishop Dimont has given his guests permission to explore his library on the second floor. His Eminence hopes that you find your stay comfortable." With that, the young maid handed over the key, bowed, and left the Minister to his room.

Frollo studied the ornate guestroom, which was quite luxurious in comparison to any of those found in the Palace of Justice. On top one of the room's small tables was a bowl filled with fresh looking yellow plums. Its fine tapestries and imported furniture gave a sense of life in comparison to its guest, who radiated darkness and somberness.

Removing his hat and throwing it carelessly to the bed, Frollo took one of the plums from the bowl and walked lithely towards the great window. Taking a bite from the sweet fruit, the Minister examined the serene city of Orleans, for the first time in a long time feeling lighthearted.

X

Quasimodo scribbled over the old wax tablet he used for practicing letters. Without the Minister, he found himself endlessly drawing what he hoped looked like one of his gargoyle friends when he unexpectedly heard the sound of frantic footsteps hurrying up the south tower steps. Leaping to his feet, he hid himself behind one of the wooden pillars. His master wasn't due back for a few days, so the boy waited to see who was brave enough to enter his domain through the neglected stairwell.

Bursting through the door was Jehan, sweating profusely and out of breath, haversack over his shoulder and a large book under his arm. His blue eyes darted around the space of the bell tower, jumping when he discovered Quasimodo hiding from and eyeing his uninvited guest, red hair falling over his face.

"Afternoon, Quasi," the young man coughed, trying to appear casual and straightening up. Clearing his throat and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, Jehan asked, "By any chance, is, uh…is my brother around?" He cocked his head back and forth, looking for any trace of the Minister.

"No, he went away to somewhere called Orleans, I think," the boy answered, stepping toward Jehan, curious what he was up to this time.

"Really?" Jehan looked relieved at the information. "Interesting…Well, he needed a vacation anyway—he always seems a little too tense, if you ask me. Do you happen to know when he'll be back?"

"Well, he said in a few days."

"Alright, good then." Jehan kneeled, meeting the boy at eye-level, book resting on his knee. "I need a favor from you, Quasimodo. Can you do that?"

Blinking at him, Quasimodo shyly answered, "Um…I think so. What is it?"

Taking the thick book into his hand, Jehan explained, "I need to hide some things because there are some people who, let's say, really want to get their hands on them. So, if I leave them here, you need to promise me that you won't tell anyone where they are…especially Claude if he comes back early or the Archdeacon. Do you understand?"

Studying the large brown leather-bound book and the bag bulging with more loot, no doubt, Quasimodo felt an uncertainty wash over him. "You want me to lie to my master?"

"Not lie, per se," Jehan answered, not entirely confidant in his own words. "Just don't mention it at all, so you're really not lying, you're just not going to bring it up…ever. Got it? What my brother doesn't know won't hurt you, or more importantly, me."

Quasimodo wanted to reject Jehan's request, seeing as it would probably be better to leave him to handle his "people" on his own, and it would not risk getting into trouble with the Minister of Justice later on. However, his good nature reminded him of the countless times Frollo had relented in giving into his brother's requests for money and help, no matter how reluctant. Family seemed to be a core part of the world his master had created for him. If he said no to Jehan, he'd never forgive himself…

After a long-suffering sigh, Quasimodo answered, "Okay." Nodding, he prayed that he was making the right decision. "You can hide your things in one of the old broom closets. There's one behind the Joseph statue." He pointed across the way towards the indicated statue, Jehan scurrying towards it and jiggling the knob trying to open it, cursing under his breath when it wouldn't budge. Limping towards the frustrated man, Quasimodo opened the small door with ease, much to Jehan's astonishment.

Kneeling down and taking the haversack from his shoulder, Jehan began to remove from it fine silver, small purses that jingled with coins, and other treasures while Quasimodo looked on with inquisitiveness. Eyeing the book, the boy asked the distracted Jehan, "What book is that?"

Jehan glanced back at him, a frantic look in his blue eyes. "Never mind that! It's top secret, so don't go snooping around with it."

Quasimodo shrunk back, nodding his head, afraid to inquire further about the mysterious text. He then asked, "If these people you're hiding from want to steal from you, why don't you just ask your brother for help?"

Jehan scoffed as he inspected the items he arranged on the floor. "Please, if I went to him for help on this, he'd never let me hear the end of it."

"But he's Minister of Justice, right? He'll just throw your friends in prison and you'll be safe."

Jehan chuckled nervously. "It'd really be best if we don't tell him anything about my situation—Not because I'm afraid of him or anything—it's just…we really shouldn't trouble him with this little issue that I can resolve with my friends. And in case you haven't noticed, Claude has a tendency to fly off the handle about things, even when a problem isn't as bad as it seems. Just don't tell him anything!"

Quasimodo timidly nodded his head, Jehan standing up and looking inside the bag, counting the number of items left in. "This should be enough," he muttered, folding the flap over and hiding the sack's contents. "Not a word to my brother, right? And keep that book safe!"

The boy glanced at the mysterious book lying adjacent to the rest of Jehan's contraband. "But what if he does ask—what if he finds this stuff, Jehan?" Quasimodo asked, gesturing to the arrangement of loot inside the broom closet.

Brushing his curls back, Jehan sighed then answered, "Think like me, Quasi. Push comes to shove, what magic three-word phrase would I use on Claude? One that's sure to take his attention away from the matter at hand?"

The boy shrugged his uneven shoulders. "Um…'I need money'?"

"Don't be cheeky. No," Jehan deadpanned with an unamused frown. "Just say, 'I don't know'. The less you know, the safer you are."

Hands shakily clutching at his face, Quasimodo agitatedly responded, "But I do know, and now I'm lying to him!"

With a swing of his arm, Jehan shut the broom closet door, ignoring the hunchback's anxiety. "Out of sight, out of mind—it's that simple. Just do as I say and you'll be fine. You know, someday you're going to have to learn how to stop listening to every word my brother tells you. Now, I have to go sort out some business in town and I'll be back later, probably tomorrow. Remember what I said—I'm counting on you!" With that, Jehan quickly scampered off, leaving Quasimodo in silent solitude.

Fighting the urge to take a peek at the mysterious book, his mind riddled with questions, Quasimodo reminded himself that there were cells to be swept.

X

"Well Maimonides says that one can find contentment without the presence of God—one only has to set limits for themselves!" A portly red-faced magistrate in bright gold and teal barked.

"Do you not recall the words of Thomas Aquinas?" Frollo protested, surrounded by his peers and arguing over the words of theologians, mystics, and other revered names in one of the University's great halls. The next day could not come quick enough, the Minister eager to speak with his old associates. The previous evening was properly fueled with speak of each other's cities and accomplishments, drinks provided by the Bishop. Frollo received exceptional praise for his recent efforts against the gypsies from other envious magistrates.

"Without proper religion, one falls to the basest desires, and, therefore, will never truly be happy in life," the Minister bit back. "Aquinas wrote that carnal pleasures could never substitute for the love of God! It's as if you've never even read his work!"

"One cannot rely on faith alone—even Rashi wrote that it only takes enough willpower to overcome temptation! He wrote that holiness is derived from libidinous discipline, and that the most difficult temptation to control is caused by the greatest sin. Unlike Ramban, who believed all sins are equal."

"Which is just ridiculous!" Frollo retorted, waving a ringed hand. "Aquinas went into great detail in defining the weight of sins—therefore, all sins are not equal."

Despite the intense and impassioned debates he found himself in, Frollo had not felt so alive and content in such a long time. To be discussing such fascinating subjects with others was like a breath of fresh air. No gypsies to be cleared from the streets, no whining brother asking for help, no exaggerated caricatures of him drawn on building walls in charcoal.

In this great hall, surrounded by men of high esteem, away from the pressures of Paris…it was quite vitalizing.

Frollo heatedly continued, "But what he wrote that is most interesting is—"

"Enough God-talk, Frollo!" A voice boomed, a large judge dressed in red clapping him on the back. "Why not something from days past, say…alchemy? I hear you're quite familiar with the subject!"

The surrounding magistrates laughed, nodding and chattering in agreement. Forcing a jocular smile, Frollo absolutely hated when others brought up his past dabbling in alchemy—the subject being one of the few areas from which he yielded no success.

Gritting his teeth at their inquisitiveness and prodding, Frollo stiffly replied to the man, "A word of advice, Basile: after over twenty years, a joke can become very exhausted and is no longer funny. Besides, are we simply going to ignore that King Henry was possibly murdered? And by orders of his own son."

"That country is run by over-ambitious tyrants!" said one judge. "They can't decide who should rule their people, yet they have the time to war with France for well over a century!"

"Thank God for Charles and Louis or we'd be English colonies right about now," said another.

Frollo felt relief that his abrupt discussion of politics could avert the embarrassing topic of his alchemic background. Besides, condemning the English Crown always seemed to bring bureaucrats together, the magistrates continuing to discuss the historic bitterness between the two countries.

"We are a resilient country," Frollo stated lightheartedly. "I firmly believe that our good King will be able to take Calais back from the English in due time."

"On another note, Claude," one round, red-faced judge broke. "How is your brother? I recall the last time I was in Paris, you had your hands tied because of him. Remember the mess he made because he was found in Catherine Messier's bedchambers? Her husband wanted to put you both in the ground!"

The laughter of his peers ridiculing him enraged the judge, who could not lose his temper at the risk of bruising his image. Clearing his throat, he collected himself, trying to keep from lashing out. "As a matter of fact, Jehan is finding his way. I ordered him to stop his childish nature and mature, and he has taken my advice to heart. Now he has found employment in the city and doesn't bother me for an allowance as he did before. I have faith that he is finally learning how to be a responsible adult and put his trouble-making ways behind him."

X

"Bad news: you have to hide me!"

Quasimodo looked down to the moonlit loft where he could barely make out the silhouette of a fidgety Jehan pressing the stairwell door shut.

"What happened?" Quasimodo asked, leaping down from one of the rafters.

"It turns out, my "friends" are a little more pissed off than I thought," Jehan answered, barricading the bell tower door shut with a nearby barrel. "They're waiting outside the church right now, so I'm going to have to hide here until they leave. Shouldn't be more than an hour—that's no trouble, is it, Quasi?"

"Umm…No, it's fine," the boy answered. "But the evening bells will be ringing soon."

Jehan waved his hand. "Ah, they don't bother me. What's there to drink around here?" The young man brushed past Quasimodo and treaded up the wooden steps to the boy's loft. Instinctively, Jehan began raiding the beaten wooden cabinet, emerging with a smooth green bottle. "Ha! So here's where Claude keeps the good stuff!" The curly-haired young man then took a hearty swig from the bottle.

Without warning, the loft rung with the heavy tolls from the bells above, Jehan and the boy swiftly covering their ears. When the resonation finally died down, Jehan crudely remarked, "Jesus, how do you live with that?!" Before Quasimodo could stutter out his answer, Jehan quickly responded, "Never mind. You know, I've always wondered, Quasi, who rings the bells?"

Quasimodo's eyes instinctively traveled upwards towards the bells. "His name is Igor," he answered. "He lives in the other tower and doesn't like to be bothered. Master says when he first brought me here, Igor moved out of the south tower to the north. He says he's a "hermit"."

"Hmm." Jehan chewed on the information, looking around the dark little nest. "My brother's kind of mental for sticking you in here, but who am I say? I should go downstairs soon and check if my "friends" are still out there."

"Wait!" Quasimodo grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Can…can you stay here tonight, Jehan?"

Jehan whipped around, stunned by the question. "Really? You're always up here by yourself—what do you need me for?"

Quasimodo's eyes darted away, shrugging. "I…I miss my master. I miss talking to him."

Jehan laughed a little in disbelief. "Who'd miss that?"

"I know you don't get along," Quasimodo reflected. "But he's the one who raised me and teaches me and isn't afraid of me like other people would be. So...I miss him."

Jehan looked at the sincerity in the boy's misshapen face, biting back any sarcastic comments about his brother and understanding. True, he could safely return to his lodging in about an hour or so, the thugs outside would grow bored anyway…but Jehan could not help but feel pity towards his adopted nephew. Rubbing his chin and examining the dark vast space above his head where the bells were hidden in blackness, he sighed. Reluctantly, he replied, "Alright. If you want me to, I'll hang around here tonight."

Quasimodo gave him a small but grateful smile. Stepping towards him, he beamed, "Great! You'll get used to the other bells—just cover your ears."

Looking back at the shadows above, Jehan wrinkled his nose remembering the dreaded sound. "Fine, sure. Um…where will I sleep?"

Quasimodo waved him forward, leading him to a few barrels near his own sleeping quarters, grabbing a few blankets that the Archdeacon left folded on top in case of a bitter cold night. Handing them to Jehan, the boy answered, "Anywhere, really."

Jehan shrugged, walking across the way and setting up under a few broken statues and gargoyles. Laying back, hands locked under his head, he commented, "I've slept in worse."

"Like what?" Quasimodo asked, covering himself in his blankets and looking over at Jehan.

Jehan chuckled. "I can't tell you the number of times Claude kicked me awake because I fell asleep in an alley on the way out of La Falourdel's or some other Godforsaken tavern. Nothing better than waking up in a pile of rotten cabbages with your brother screaming at you to get up!"

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Quasimodo looked down at the dusty floor before him before looking back across to Jehan. "Has…has he always been like that? He doesn't laugh, and he barely smiles—he's always so serious."

"Yeah, miserable bastard, my big brother," Jehan laughed, Quasimodo not liking his colorful language. "My whole life he's always been a bit of a stick in the mud. He's not one for gambling, drinking, or anything fun—it's work, work, work with him. But that's what Frollo men do—from what I've gathered—we either dedicate ourselves to work, or other things we love."

"So he only loves his work?" the boy surmised.

Jehan looked over at the boy, his contemplative expression concealed by the darkness. "I guess…to tell you the truth, Quasi, I don't know if Claude has ever really loved anything or anyone—I mean, the man thinks he's above everyone like he's King David. And he doesn't tell me anything about his life, so it's anyone's guess where his hang-ups come from."

Quasimodo chewed on this information for a moment. "Do you ever ask him?"

Jehan's eyebrows rose. "Ask him about what?"

"About his life. He told me your parents died when you were little—do you ever ask him about your family?" Quasimodo could just barely remember asking the Minister the parts of a family at four years old when the man began reading the Bible to him.

Jehan glanced over at the boy's hunchbacked silhouette, blinking at the boy's inquisitiveness, taken aback greatly by his question. "Well…no, not really. I never…really asked. I guess I never really cared because Claude or someone else has always been the one taking care of me, and it didn't seem important to ask about some dead family members. And I have the feeling that asking him about that stuff might open up Pandora's Box. But I guess in a strange, twisted way…maybe Claude does have a heart and cares about some people and he just doesn't like showing it. Maybe there's a chance he's not just made of stone like we think he is and his heart's only buried under a lot of marble and pessimism."

Quasimodo could see his master's stoic countenance in his mind, his protective nature of his brother striking him in particular. Always having money for Jehan, vowing to keep the city safe from criminals, and shielding the boy from the cruelty of the outside world. "So he really does care about us?"

"I think so," Jehan answered confidently. "Claude may be an angry, stone-cold tyrant, but I think deep down he gives a damn about the both of us. But if you ask me, he needs a woman!"

Quasimodo was surprised by Jehan's sentiment, especially in contrast to the young man's usually crass nature. Maybe under his cold, collected demeanor, the Minister did love his family…

"So how do you think he's doing at that meeting thing he's at?" Quasimodo asked, changing the tune of their conversation.

"His symposium? He's told me about those things: it's a bunch of old men sitting around talking about law and philosophy and all that other jargon," Jehan remarked sardonically. "I know Claude's a bit of a wet blanket, but I'm sure even he's probably bored to tears surrounded by nothing but bureaucrats right now."

X

"…so the second nun tells the priest, 'I got into a fight with another nun'. The priest blessed her and told her to go drink some holy water," one bald minister told, as the night had been filled with blue humored jokes and anecdotes. "The third nun laughed harder than anyone else; and the priest asked her what her sin was…she tells the priest, 'I pissed in the holy water!'"

The sitting room occupied with magistrates filled with boisterous laughter at such a tale. The day's academic conference had concluded hours ago as dusk approached and the Bishop's guests were returned to his palace, where they kept their discussions alive and fueled by wine. Frollo sat in the circle of cushioned chairs with his peers, refraining from drinking at the rate of his peers and keeping his wits sharp as he listened to their words. Even he could not help but occasionally chuckle at a few less than respectable tales told by some men. It was certainly better than staying in the suffocating bubble that was Paris, only spending his downtime with the boy or his brother.

"I have one!" One judge with long pointed nose and lanky hair piped up. "There was a man who went from being a deacon to working at the royal treasury, but he was a corrupt man: he was stealing sheep that belonged to the church of Saint Julian—essentially stealing from a dead saint! And the shepherds notice that the sheep have gone missing, thinking that Julian's ghost is eating them. And one day, the deacon-banker takes a bad fall in front of Julian's tomb and couldn't get back up on his feet. When his servants found him lying there, they ask, 'What are you doing on the ground? You never take this long to pray?'"

The men erupted in red-faced laughter, Frollo shaking his head that such blasphemy could still be quite humorous. How surprising that aside from the hours' worth of discussion, the usually-tense judge could find himself relaxed even with these off-colored stories.

The balding judge looked to Frollo and said, "What about you, Claude? You've been silent almost the whole night—very unlike you! Care to jump in? I'm sure even you have a tale that could match anything said tonight."

"Not particularly," Frollo evenly answered, taking a drink from the cup at hand. His fellow judges groaned at his stoic nature, especially proving earlier that he was as sharp as ever in an academic debate.

"Well, we've already spent the day talking about your areas of expertise," the barrel-chested judge in red, Basile, retorted. "Put aside everything about law and theology for once and see if you can talk about something else!"

Eyes of his fellow magistrates on him, Frollo looked down at his cup of wine. "Very well, if you insist," he said, his mind deciding on a less sacrilegious approach, given that he had heard enough stories from his men and his brother. Placing the glass on the small table on his side, he sat up straight and spoke. "There is a man on his deathbed, surrounded by his wife and four children. Three of them are strong, healthy, what have you…but the youngest is the runt, of sorts. 'Wife,' the man says to the woman. 'Assure me that the youngest child really is mine. I want to know the truth before I die, and I will forgive you…' His wife says, 'Of course he is. I swear on my mother's grave that you are his father.' After she says this, the man dies happy that she told him. After he passes, the wife says to herself, 'Thank goodness he didn't ask about the other three'."

The Minister's story was met with approving laughter, a grin touching his thin lips, happy that his obligations were not plaguing his mind for once.

"I knew you had a sense of humor, Claude!" the bald judge commented, leaning over and patting Frollo on the back. "It's just hidden under all that cynicism!"

While his peers laughed, Frollo looked out one of the room's windows and noticing how late it had become. "Well, gentlemen, it has been an invigorating day of discussion, but I should be retiring for the night, seeing as there is another day for such conversation."

"Hold it!" Basile stopped him. "We've been telling these stories all night and catching up, yet you've barely said a word. Some of us haven't seen you in ages, Claude. So why don't you tell us more about how you've been keeping Paris in check?"

The other men nodded their heads, Frollo knowing that he was cornered now and it would be pointless to try and leave now. "Well," he began calmly. "What is there to tell? I do everything in my power to expunge any evil that tries to root itself in my city, just as you all do with your respective homes." Nervously but trying to remain impassive, Frollo reached again for his glass, sipping the wine and hoping that would be enough to appease his fellow learned men.

The lanky-haired minister suddenly spoke up. "What's this we heard about you having a son now?"

Frollo coughed, nearly choking on his drink, eyes widening at such an inquiry. Shakily taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth, he asked, "How…how did you happen upon that information?" He had tried so ardently to keep from the whole of Paris from discovering his guardianship of Quasimodo—but if his fellow bureaucrats learned of this, there was no concealing the truth any longer.

The same inquisitive judge answered, "Apparently Louis told one of his advisors, who told some of the proctors, who told a few ministers…you know how news can travel, Claude."

"Is it true that it looks nothing like a child, but something reptilian?" the bald judge pried curiously. "I heard it could easily pass for a cathedral gargoyle!"

"Enough!" Frollo ordered, his deep voice silencing the room of judges. "It seems rather pointless to try and hide the truth any longer, so I will tell you…Yes, I did adopt a child—a deformed one at that—only to serve as penance of sorts. Penance for what—the details are not important. But I have had him baptized and have vowed to raise him as a son."

For a moment, the sitting room was dead quiet, only the sound of crackling firewood filling the atmosphere. Frollo waited uneasily for someone to speak, having nothing more to say himself, locking his fingers before him and listening to the silence, his heart hammering in his chest.

Abruptly, the big-chested judge in red remarked, "You should have just sent the boy to a monastery—give them a few guilders and they'll start cutting his hair into a tonsure before he's even in the door! Believe me, Claude, I've got three bastard sons—all of them sent away to live with monks."

"I've sent away two boys to the church and a girl to the nunnery," the bald one commented.

"Three to the monastery, two to nunnery," the lanky-haired, long-nosed one added.

Frollo studied the placid expressions they bore, even at admitting the deeds stemmed from their licentiousness, a sense of disgust filling him. "My self-imposed penance would not cease at sending the boy away," he curtly clipped. "I may not have wanted to care for him, but I have my responsibility and I intend to complete the task given to me."

Stricken silent by Frollo's words of denouncement, once again the room was silent, almost in shame. Frollo rose from his seat, smoothing out his robes. "As I have stated before: it's been a rewarding day of stimulating discussion, but it is quite late. Gentlemen." Giving a small nod, Frollo took the opportunity and left his fellow magistrates, stepping into the corridor and striding towards his chambers.

Absent-mindedly brushing back his hair, Frollo wondered how Quasimodo was faring without him there. Hopefully Father Augustin was keeping his end of the bargain and checking in on the boy to see that he was not up to any trouble. Speaking of trouble, he thought. Jehan is the one you should be worrying about. If there was any hope, the young man was not stirring up any problems in his absence and his "job" was keeping him busy.

And the gypsies…he mused, unlocking the door and entering his chambers. Removing his judicial robes, he continued to think. The Captain will keep them alive until you return—then you may resume cleansing the city of them…After all, he was trustworthy enough, despite his numerous protests against the Minister's policies against them. He was an able soldier and impressive leader.

X

With a loud clank the iron-barred door swung open, its swarthy tired occupants cowering together in the farthest corner, darkness surrounding them. They expected a horde of the Minister's soldiers telling them that their trials awaited, but were surprised that instead it was only one soldier.

Shadows concealing the tall brawny soldier, key in hand, his familiar voice commanded, "Follow me. There's another entryway in the back of the Palace past the stables—I'll help you escape through there, but you have to stay close and quiet!"

X

The sound of the morning bells resonating for the city to hear, Quasimodo quickly sat up and covered his ears. Once they stopped ringing, the hunchback looked over towards the broken statues across the way from him, Jehan absent. He glanced around, only silence as he listened and searched for any sign of the younger Frollo.

Getting up, the boy routinely washed his face at the nearby water basin and fixed his red hair using the water's reflection as a mirror. Lumbering towards one of the grimacing gargoyles, Quasimodo asked his stone friend, "Did you see where Jehan went?"

Silence continued to pervade the bell tower, not unfamiliar to the boy. "Maybe it was finally safe for him to go out," Quasimodo mused. Turning to another one of his stone figures he said, "I hope he's alright—he seemed really afraid to go see his friends yesterday."

Looking around to the motionless statue pieces and broken gargoyles, Quasimodo chirped, "I'm going to go downstairs and see if Father Augustin needs any help."

After hopping down the spiral staircase, Quasimodo was welcome by the cool air in the church's nave, stopping suddenly when he saw something in front of the doors. Squinting and focusing his ill-matched eyes, Quasimodo could see a mop of curly blond hair peering through one of the church's door opened just enough to let in a smidgen of sunlight.

Tiptoeing towards the unaware Jehan who sat crouched, peering through the barely ajar door, Quasimodo looked over the man's riotous curls and trying to see what he staring out to. "What are we looking at?" the boy suddenly asked.

A startled Jehan jumped at the boy's voice, quickly shutting the door and pressing a finger to his lips. Standing up and opening the church door again just slightly, Jehan's blue eyes looked out into the square again, his actions confusing Quasimodo. "I'm just checking to see if my "friends" are still out there waiting for me," he quickly explained, pushing the boy away from the doors. Jehan sighed, eyes wandering over the large atmosphere of the empty nave and aimlessly sauntering through. "Damn…I guess I'm stuck here until Claude gets back from Orleans. I doubt he'll be thrilled when I tell him that I have a few more people who want to do away with me."

"At least you can claim sanctuary," Quasimodo piped up, teal eyes darting over the black and white tiled floor before following Jehan who turned to amble back up the stairwell.

Jehan laughed. "Yeah, I remember when I was twelve and broke a window from Doctor Aveline's house," he mused as he and the boy winded up to the bell tower. "As soon as Claude found out, I made a beeline for Notre Dame screaming, 'Sanctuary!' Imagine my disappointment when he burst through the door and dragged me out of the church, telling me that when I claim sanctuary it doesn't count!"

Quasimodo found no difficulty picturing the young man being yelled at by his perpetually-irked brother. Upon reaching the bell tower, Jehan instantly dropped himself down on one of the wooden benches, a sullen expression adorning his face.

"I'm going outside," Quasimodo said, lumbering out into the sunlight. Jehan craned his neck, curiously following the boy, who climbed onto a parapet and dropped down.

"Quasimodo!" Jehan cried, leaping to his feet and rushing outside. Gripping the ledge, he looked down, stunned to see the misshapen boy nonchalantly hanging by one hand onto a water spout. "What…What are you doing?!" he asked the boy, who nimbly climbed back up over the ledge.

"I learned how to climb the rafters, so I'm learning how to climb the cathedral walls," the boy answered, eyes wandering over the cityscape. "Master doesn't mind. He just doesn't want me to get hurt."

"You're kidding, really?" Jehan asked, interested.

"It's true!" Quasimodo grinned. "Watch this!" The boy leaped back over the ledge, Jehan watching intently as the boy dropped and climbed down, landing before the trio of sculptures and ornate round window below. "See? It's easy!" Quasimodo called, looking up at his adopted uncle.

When the boy climbed back up to Jehan, the young man cast an astonished look at the boy. "Well I'll be damned! I'm impressed, Quasi. Soon all of Paris is going to see you climbing around like a monkey."

Walking back inside, Quasimodo spoke up, "You never told me: why are you afraid of going outside to see your friends?"

"Uh, it's complicated," Jehan answered, rubbing the back of his neck. "But if you really want to know…they want to "talk" to me over some money issues. Remember, it's nothing you need to go telling my brother about."

"Maybe talk to them," Quasimodo suggested. "That's what the Archdeacon says: to talk problems through instead of violence. Have you tried that?"

Jehan snorted at this. "Let's just say that we're beyond talking things through," he darkly replied. "At this point, all the only way they might want to talk is with their fists."

"Do you remember the story of David and Goliath?" Quasimodo asked, Jehan stopping and looking down at the misshapen boy. "He was smaller and not as powerful, but he took a few stones and defeated Goliath the giant."

"So you think I should try to be David and take the risk?" Jehan asked, half-jesting, trying to contain his laughter. "Even if it means getting beaten to a pulp?"

Shrugging his small lopsided shoulders, he replied, "You could try, or wait for the Master to come back and help you."

A revelation suddenly struck Jehan: If he stayed marooned here in Notre Dame, Claude would no doubt find out about his operation…something he would rather avoid. If Jehan could reason with his "friends", then maybe, just maybe, he could keep from this issue escalating even further—the last thing he wanted was Claude getting involved in his business…and what a business it was…

"You know what? You're right!" Jehan told the boy, inside dreading the harsh reality of his situation, a false smile etching over his face.

Quasimodo beamed, someone taking his words into consideration for the first time in his young life. "I…I am?" he asked, his good eye widening.

"Yeah, of course," Jehan coolly replied, placing a hand on the boy's hunch. "What can I say—you're a bright boy and you've inspired me to take responsibility into my own hands. Besides, Claude doesn't deserve to get mixed up in my affairs, right? So I'll go and sort things out, and we won't tell my brother about this little mess, will we?"

Quasimodo smiled and shook his head. Giving the boy a thumbs up, Jehan brushed past him and headed towards the wooden steps. "Smart boy! I should go nip this thing in the bud before things get really bad. Besides, Claude's coming back soon, and you want to make sure everything's spick and span, right?"

Quasimodo nodded, Jehan marching down the stairs. Shutting the stairwell door behind him, his fake smile instantly faded. Running a hand over the length of his face, the young man muttered under his breath, "Dammit…"

Trudging back through the nave with his heart thrumming speedily in his heart, Jehan pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the sunlight. A few steps into the bustling square, he glanced around, searching for any traces of his associates. Suddenly, he felt his thin arms enclosed, himself being dragged away.

"Miss us?" Jehan looked up to a large warty-faced man, his other arm locked by a tall square-jawed one.

Jehan laughed timidly, feet threatening to trip as they swiftly pulled him along. "Hey, boys! I was just coming to look for you! Um…how much did you say I owe you?"

X

Back into the cesspool that we call home, Frollo reflected as his coach rolled through the gates of Paris, his soldiers welcoming him back dutifully.

He stepped out of the vehicle before the Palace, eyes narrowing when he saw a familiar-looking curly-haired young man marching down the steps. Satchel on his shoulder and book in hand, Frollo quickly asked, "What are you doing here?"

Jehan looked at his brother, walking down the last step. "Claude, nice to see you too. I was just checking to see if you were back yet." Jehan averted his blue-eyed gaze from his brother, turning his head aside.

Frollo raised an eyebrow at the boy's strange manner. Grabbing Jehan by the jaw and turning his face to the side, the judge's eyes widened: Jehan's once-cherubic countenance was sporting a bruise around his left eye. Rolling his own eyes, Frollo coldly asked, "What happened?" releasing the boy's jaw from his firm grip.

"Um…tavern fight. You know what happens after a few drinks," Jehan lied, hollowly chuckling. "How was the trip? And what's that?" he asked, pointing to the book in his brother's hand.

"The symposium was just fine, refreshing actually. Overall quite enjoyable until Minister Chaucer suggested inviting a few strumpets into the Bishop's home, so he won't be attending any future academic events. And this," Frollo showed him the black-covered book, entitled Liber Diversarum Arcium. "This is for Quasimodo. I picked this is up for him during my time there. I figure the boy might enjoy learning something creative to pass the time—after all, 'Idle hands are the Devil's workshop'. Anyway, I should look in on the Captain's reports, but I trust the city was no trouble in my absence."

After bidding goodbye to his brother and pushing through the Palace doors, Frollo breathed in the familiar scent of his abode of stone walls, happy to be back in his sanctuary. Though mentally exhausted from the symposium, the judge knew there was work to be done and to take time to unwind would be most counterproductive. Upon entering his study, Frollo gazed out the window to the face of Notre Dame staring back at him. Touching the stone wall, he wondered how Quasimodo had fared without him in the few days he was gone, promising himself that he would go to visit his ward later in the day.

Placing his hat on his desk and taking a seat, Frollo rubbed his tired eyes once he saw the reports filed over the days. Automatically he skimmed through the numerous accounts of thefts, disputes, fights and what not. One parchment piece seized his attention, brows furrowing in surprise by what he read: …mass exodus of Romani persons…At least over a hundred Roma had fled Paris during the time he had been away, slightly disheartening the Minister as he would have enjoyed being the one to do so.

Speaking of gypsies, he thought. He had a whole dungeon packed with them, meaning there were trials and executions to be arranged at the earliest. Best to see how many are to be dealt with. He would need a headcount and the rest of the day would probably be confined to the courtroom. Rising from his seat, Frollo decided it would best to seek out the Captain and inquire about this large gypsy flight.

Strangely, Frollo had not seen Captain Gerard since arriving back in Paris. Usually he would have been standing in the Minister's study, summarizing the state of the city. Striding through the corridor, Frollo stopped two guards making their rounds, feeling something was amiss.

"Do either of you know the whereabouts of the Captain?" Frollo asked firmly, hands locking behind his back.

The two exchanged unsure glances before one answered, "We haven't seen him today, Minister. He's probably out making his rounds."

"What exceptional work this is," the judge caustically remarked. "It is assuring to know that my men are on top of such things—such as knowing where their leaders are." Waving them away, Frollo thought that perhaps this now-elusive Captain could be found in the dungeons.

Unlocking the dungeon door, Frollo stopped and listened. He was not greeted by the echoing sound of tired and pained groans and cries. Striding deeper into the belly of the Palace, Frollo turned towards the first cell…

"What?!" he cried, gray eyes widening. The cell, once occupied by some fifteen gypsies, was now empty! Rushing down the corridors, he was horrified that every cell that once contained a mass of them was empty. Anger bubbled up inside him—it was though every gypsy had vanished!

"Lieutenant!" His voice boomed, a bumbling soldier rushing to his commander at the ready.

"Sir?" The man asked, trembling under his armor upon seeing the rage twisting the judge's face.

"Explain to me why that when I left Paris, there were near a hundred gypsies lining these cells, and in the blink of an eye, they've disappeared?!"

"Um, Minister…" the soldier stammered. "You gave Captain Gerard complete control while you were gone. A few days ago, he told us all to clear out of the Palace and said that you'd have us punished for insubordination—he was the only one here. And he gave us orders to stay out of the dungeons."

"And where is he now?" Frollo icily asked, his breathing labored, a vein bulging in his temple.

"I…I think the Captain skipped town—nobody's seen him since that night!"

"You are telling me that my Captain of the Guard released every gypsy here, and then fled Paris?" Frollo asked in a low voice, his fists shaking at his sides.

"I-I think so, Minister."

Without warning, Frollo's chest tightened and he could only hear a loud ringing in his ears. Fingers yanking at his gray hair, a resonating and harrowing cry escaped from the top of his lungs, resounding throughout the empty dungeons.

Chapter Text

The months rolled by and the Minister found that any attempts to locate the former Captain were utterly fruitless. Out of ferocious anger, Frollo ordered just about every soldier who was on duty that faithful night to be lashed as punishment. Over the months, he went through more changes in Captain of the Guard than any of Minister of Justice in the last century, many he had found it to be utterly inept and not up to par at as leader. He had spent many a day pounding his fist against his desk at numerous reports on temporary captains' shortcomings, refusing to stand for any negligence of the city's safety.

After a few letters to numerous ministers and magistrates, the judge had finally found a replacement for the once revered Captain Gerard: a brutal man with a booming voice and shared hatred of gypsies, Captain Alexandre Leroux. A man heavily scarred across the face and with a taste for the blood, and whose combat record included English defeats at the battles at Bordeaux and Castillon. The knowledge that a man so seasoned by war now led his soldiers offered some comfort to the high-strung Minister.

Winter had arrived and he was glad to be rid of such a turbulent year. Luckily for the people of Paris, there was no snow, only the chilling cold. Riding through the city, there were scratched voices and harsh coughs around every corner. At least Quasimodo was not around such a suffering crowd to be exposed to the winter bug.

X

"And let us remember that Advent is a time of not only fasting and repentance, but also one of charity," the Archdeacon preached over the shivering congregation gathered for Sunday morning Mass. "And while the virtue of charity goes unheeded by many throughout the year, I pray that many will bring themselves to practice it more tangibly as we celebrate the birth of Christ, Our Lord."

Frollo kept his near frozen hands folded in his lap as he listened to the man drone on. Like many others, he found himself more irritable during this time of year with the traditional fasting rearing its head.

"Amen," he muttered in synch with the rest of Notre Dame's worshippers when the day's Mass finally came to a close. While the rest of the citizens filed out of the cathedral, eager to get back to their own homes and warm themselves by their hearths, the Minister waited until the place had been cleared.

Standing up and smoothing out his black robe, Frollo made headway towards the bell tower staircase, but not before stopping at the church's wooden alms box. From his coin purse he took a few deniers and dropped them into the container before heading towards the spiral staircase.

Up in the bell tower, Frollo folded his arms across his chest remembering how much colder it was up there. The boy was staring down at the cold lackadaisical city through the stone balustrades, nonchalantly braving the biting winter wind.

"Quasimodo," Frollo greeted, the chilly air allowing him to see his breath when he spoke. The boy looked over his shoulder. "Come along. This time of year, you might as well learn some history about this cathedral." The judge figured that he might as well take the opportunity to use the empty space to teach the boy.

Getting to his feet, Quasimodo wordlessly approached his master, but without the usual bounce in his step. The hunchbacked boy sniffled, wiping his nose into his shirt sleeve, the Minister curling his lip at the action.

Trudging down the bell tower steps, Frollo spoke. "Notre Dame has a long rich history, Quasimodo—one story after another dwelling among these stone walls. Of some of its more violent history, one particularly interesting event was the wolves of Paris incident. Are you familiar with the tale?" Looking over his shoulder, the sullen boy slowly trailed behind him, shaking his head in response.

Ignoring the strange silence emitted by his ward, Frollo carried on. "It was the winter of 1450, and a bitter one at that. The forests on the outskirts of the city were depleted of prey, and as a result, a horde of wolves had found their way into Paris.

"The story goes that the pack had breached the dilapidated walls of the city, and once they did, they managed to kill at least forty citizens. Astounding, to say the least, considering that the people even graced the pack's leader with the name "Courtaud" –legend telling us the leader was missing part of its tail, or something of the sort.

"Anyhow, the group of brave souls managed to lure the pack into the square of the city—in front of Notre Dame herself. And how did they eradicate the nuisance of such beasts you might ask?"

Quasimodo's expression was tired, as though he was not even there, barely listening. He merely stared back at his master as his answer as they strolled through the frigid empty nave, lumbering on as if he were half-asleep.

"The citizens greeted them by raining spears and stones on them," Frollo replied, his icy fingers locking together before him as he marched on. "But this church has seen darker times as well."

As the Minister proceeded in telling the history of the English occupation of France, Quasimodo's motion became even more sluggard as he followed his master through the church, arms hanging limply by his side, blue eyes glazing over the black and white tiled floor.

"…after a crushing defeat, Paris was captured by England," Frollo droned on, granite eyes taking in the windows of holy figures in reverance. "December 1431, almost forty years to the day, Henry VI declared himself King of France in this very cathedral—humiliating and sickening to say the least. But at least under King Charles VII, we were able to free ourselves from English rule, which has rewarded him with the appropriate nickname of Charles "the Victorious"."

Frollo looked down to the lumbering hunchbacked boy at his side, who was much slower in his usual gait. Quasimodo had been utterly silent as the Minister gave his lengthy history lesson. "Dear boy," Frollo began, pausing for a moment and raising an eyebrow at him. "You seem quite lethargic today. Have you been getting enough rest?"

Quasimodo roughly coughed into the crook of his elbow before looking up at his guardian, his face flushed red. "Master, I don't feel well," the boy tiredly stated, his eyes glassy.

Brushing back some red hair from his face, Frollo pressed the back of his hand against his forehead, surprised by the intensity of heat radiating from the boy's face. "A fever—dear Lord, it might be the influenza as well. Come, best you rest now and try to keep this illness from worsening."

Coughing violently into his sleeve, Quasimodo was steered out of the nave and towards the spiral stairwell. Frollo gently pushed him along up the steps until the boy suddenly halted in the middle of the staircase, his bowed legs buckling under him and holding himself up on shaking arms.

"What is it?" Frollo asked concerned, bending down to try and help him up.

Coughing again and clutching at his stomach, Quasimodo muttered wearily, "Everything hurts." With a sudden wheeze, the boy collapsed.

"Quasimodo!" Frollo cried, bending down and inspecting the boy's empty half-lidded expression. He sat the boy up, Quasimodo going limp in the judge's grasp. Thinking quickly, the Minister lifted the boy up and hoisted him onto his shoulder. With a grunt, Frollo vigilantly carried the boy up the spiral staircase and up to the bell tower.

Frollo carefully placed the boy down on his sleeping mat. He scrutinized the boy's fatigued misshapen face, which was miserable to look up, the illness eating away at him. Standing up, Frollo uttered, "I am going to get help, my boy—don't worry!"

Black robe and red sash whipping behind him, Frollo rushed out of the bell tower and back down the stairs. Gliding through the corridors, he stopped before the door of the Archdeacon's study, harshly banging on the wooden door.

"Frollo, what's the matter?" Father Augustin greeted, opening the door to a shaken Minister of Justice.

"Quasimodo has fallen ill," he quickly answered. "I need clean cold water immediately. He has a high fever along with influenza—how in God's name could he even catch something like this?!"

"Don't worry, Claude," the Archdeacon reassured, leading the judge down the corridor. "We will do everything in our power to help him!"

The two men made their way to the church's kitchens where various friars and nuns were busy preparing meals for the weekly alms. Augustin handed Frollo various supplies: a wooden bucket, linen rag, wine bottle, and wooden cup. Glancing at the bucket in his hand, Frollo asked, "Why the need for this?"

"You said the boy was running the flu; trust me, Claude, you will need it," the Archdeacon answered. "I will take the water upstairs for you."

Frollo nodded, suddenly hearing a rough airy cough behind. Craning his neck around, he narrowed his eyes at a nearby friar coughing harshly into his elbow, the sound very reminiscent of Quasimodo.

"Go back to the bell tower and check on Quasimodo, I will be there with the water shortly," the Archdeacon said, Frollo taking his leave instantly.

Back in the bell tower, Frollo rushed to the boy's side, who looked as though he hadn't moved at all. Snapping his fingers in front of the boy's face, he asked, "Quasimodo, can you hear me?"

Had it not been for the rising and falling of the boy's curved back, the judge would have assumed he was dead. Feeling his forehead again, it felt as if Quasimodo's temperature had risen, burning the Minister's hand.

"Claude!" Frollo whipped his attention back, seeing the Archdeacon enter the boy's loft with a cauldron. "Here you are," he said, placing it next to the Minister. Filling the wooden cup with enough water, Frollo then poured some of the wine in before setting it aside. Soaking the linen rag in the cauldron, he then pressed it to Quasimodo's forehead, whose face was now red as a beet.

"I should procure some supplies from the apothecary," Frollo suggested, looking up at the Archdeacon looming above him.

"I understand, Minister. Go and hurry back. I will look after him until you return."

"And make sure he drinks something," Frollo instructed, raising the cup of watered down wine. "No doubt the fever could dehydrate him. I will return as soon as possible."

With that Frollo swiftly exited the bell tower and the cathedral. Outside, as he mounted atop his steed, he suddenly heard someone call, "Claude!"

Turning his attention around, he shook his head as Jehan jogged towards him, his face worried. "There's something I need to discuss with you!" he urgently told the judge.

"It's going to have to wait until later, Jehan," Frollo snapped. "I have an errand to run and I can't deal with your nonsense at the moment." Snapping the reins, Romulus took off down the cobblestone streets, leaving the younger Frollo in the dust.

The winter wind nipped his face as the Minister rode through the city en route to Rue de Bièvre over on the left bank. Stopping before a building with a sign depicting a mortar and pestle, Frollo tied up his horse and stepped into the facility.

Inside the dark shop, Frollo studied the vials and jars of herbs and liquids lining the shelves, then the numerous mortars and set of scales cluttering the countertop. Emerging from the back storage room was a tall pale man with a long white beard, dusting his hands off. "Minister Frollo!" he greeted, bowing respectfully. "How can I be of service today?"

"My charge has fallen ill," Frollo stated. "Influenza with a high fever, so for that I will need…" He looked over the inventory on the shelves, recalling his education in the science of herbs. "A few ounces of ground coriander for the fever…No doubt he'll experience stomach pain, so some mint as well. Hildegard recommended cinnamon for the flu, so I suppose I will take a few ounces of that as well."

As the white-haired apothecary measured and packed the amount, he commented, "My lord, if I may be so bold, a combination of influenza and fever is a deadly one; it is highly unlikely that a person can recover from something as severe as that."

"I will do what I must to treat it," Frollo bit back, cold flint eyes boring into the withered old man.

"As you wish, Minister. But if you are looking to use cinnamon as a flu remedy, might I suggest honey as well? A combination of both is commonly used for it."

"I have heard of such a thing. Honey as well then."

Scribbling the amount and prices down in the record book before him, the old man said, "For you, Minister, two deniers, considering honey is scarce during the cold season."

Reaching under his robe and rummaging through the coin purse, Frollo paid the man before striding out with the supplies in hand.

X

"How is he?" Frollo asked as soon as he climbed up the wooden steps to the bell tower, vials of ingredients in his hands. Throwing his hat aside on the table, his eyes rested on Quasimodo who was barely sitting up with the help of the Archdeacon.

Father Augustin looked up at the approaching Minister. "Quasimodo was quite dehydrated but he managed to drink the water you left."

Frollo studied the boy's sickly countenance which was still incredibly fatigued. "I've purchased the supplies necessary so I will take it from here, Father."

The man rose, nodding at the judge and laying the boy back down. "We'll prepare more water downstairs for you later, Claude," he said before brushing past Frollo and making his way out.

Behind him, Quasimodo coughed violently, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. With some difficulty, Quasimodo raised one hand and pointed away, continuing to cough. Frollo redirected his attention to where the boy motioned, eyes falling on the wooden bucket given to him earlier.

Grabbing it, the judge came to the boy's side and rested it beside Quasimodo. There was a pause on the boy's sullen face, Frollo instantly detecting something wrong. Suddenly the boy lurched forward into the bucket, a retching sound echoing from the container, startling the judge for a moment.

Getting to his feet, Frollo looked down at the boy, hunched over with his red head still lingering inside the bucket as he held it securely to his chest. "I will back shortly, Quasimodo," he stated, receiving only a nauseated groan from the boy before heading back downstairs.

Exiting the kitchen with a pitcher of water and more linen rags at hand, Frollo exhaled as the stress began taking its toll on him in the form of another terrible headache. When he returned, Quasimodo still hugged the wooden bucket weakly in his arms, resting his face against the rim and looking up at his guardian through half-lidded eyes. Frollo quickly poured some wine into the small wooden cup before diluting it with water.

"Drink up, my boy," Frollo instructed, lowering himself and pouring the drink into the boy's mouth, some water dribbling down his chin. Frollo wiped the boy's face, which was still bright red. After soaking another linen cloth in the cauldron of cold water and wringing it out, Frollo pressed it again to Quasimodo's forehead.

"Keep this here," Frollo directed. "It will help the fever go down." Sluggishly, Quasimodo lowered himself back again his pillow, his illness crippling him back to sleep.

"Claude!" A familiar voice piped up, Frollo cursing under his breath as he saw Jehan coming into view, lowering the hood of his fur-lined robe and tipping his cap. "Brother, I need to talk to you-"

"Jehan, I am not sure if you can see, but this is not the most ideal time!" Frollo spitefully stated as his brother took note of the current state of the bell tower.

"I wanted to speak to you earlier, but you took off," Jehan retorted. "What's going on here?"

"Quasimodo has contracted the flu, and I am seeing to it that he gets well. So I am not particularly interested in what you have to say at the moment. First, I must give him the medicine from the apothecary, then I must dispose of this," Frollo said, pointing to the sick-filled bucket. "And most likely put him in tepid water to subdue the fever. And I still have work to oversee back at the Palace."

"Busy day, I see. You know, Claude, if you need a doctor, I can ask Robin to stop by. He'll reduce the bill for friends and family—which includes his best friend," Jehan commented, pointing to himself. "And his best friend's brother, who just so happens to be Minister of Justice."

"I appreciate the offer, but that won't be necessary. I may not be a doctor, but I have enough knowledge of medicine to take care of the boy on my own."

"If you say so. Anyway, there's still, uh…something I need to talk to you about," Jehan said, following his brother who took the wooden bucket to the table.

Casting Jehan an irritated glance, Frollo curtly replied, "Well I am very busy at the moment." Taking the vials from the pouch beneath his robe, the Minister began pouring out the cinnamon and honey into the wooden cup.

As Frollo began to mix the syrupy concoction together, Jehan continued, "Look, it's really nothing, so if you would lend an ear for a second..."

Picking up a spoon, Frollo bent down and nudged the boy awake, feeding the tired child the mixture. "It is said that this will help the flu," he gently told Quasimodo, whose unfocused teal eyes barely glanced at Jehan. "And hopefully this will stay down."

"So…if I could just talk to you for a moment?" Jehan asked again, hands folded behind his back and eyes nervously going back and forth between his brother and the floorboards. "Then I'll get out of your hair and you can get back to playing nursemaid."

Scowling at his brother, the judge acridly answered, "Not. Now!"

Solemnly nodding, Jehan replied, "Alright then, later."

"Thank you," Frollo said, exasperated. Taking the filled bucket in his hands, he said, "Now if you don't mind, I have my own concerns."

After Jehan left, Frollo spent a great deal of time trying to get Quasimodo to take his medicine. The poor boy could not even eat with the fever weakening his muscles, Frollo resorting to crushing up the mint leaves and sprinkling them into a cup of water. Quasimodo's muscles prevented him from sitting up on his own, resulting in the Minister having to steady him while he fed him. The boy would have easily fallen forward under his large hunch had his guardian not held him up by his shoulder.

Quasimodo continued to cough as he slept, Frollo regularly pressing the cold compress to his forehead. It still burned the judge's hand when he checked the boy's forehead, Frollo knowing that the fever had to be taken care of immediately.

"Minister, the water is prepared," the Archdeacon informed him, surprised that the judge had lingered on so long to care for the boy. Kneeling down, Frollo carefully gathered the hunchbacked child in his arms, once again hoisting the boy over his shoulder and following the Archdeacon downstairs.

Frollo struggled to keep himself steady as he cautiously took one step at a time down the spiral staircase, clutching the boy's misshapen figure to him as he carried him. Father Augustin guided him through the cathedral corridors and down more stairs until arriving to the cells where the church's priests and nuns resided. Augustin led the Minister and child to Notre Dame's washroom, a large wooden tub in the center of the cell, only filled with a few inches of water.

Placing Quasimodo's limp form on the nearby wooden bench, Frollo stretched his arm and asked, "Is it lukewarm? I cannot risk him catching pneumonia if the water is too cold!"

"It is," Augustin evenly replied. "See for yourself."

Dipping his fingers into the water, Frollo nodded in approval of its temperature.

"I'll go fetch you some supplies," the Archdeacon said, marching out of the washroom.

Frollo turned back to his bleary-eyed ward, the boy's red hair falling messily over his face.

"Quasimodo," Frollo spoke, trying not to sound frantic as he gingerly sat the boy up. "Quasimodo, we need to bring the fever down immediately, so we must use more water. Do you understand?"

Weary teal eyes looked up at his usually stern master, whose grim countenance had softened for once, Quasimodo weakly nodded.

"Can you lift your arms, my boy? Even slightly?" Frollo asked, his voice colored with worry.

With difficulty, Quasimodo barely lifted his plump arms. The Minister struggled somewhat, but managed to remove the boy's tunic, placing him in the wooden tub. Grabbing a clean linen rag and rolling up his robe and shirt sleeves, Frollo soaked the rag in the lukewarm water and carefully doused the boy's crooked back.

Much to the Minister's relief, Quasimodo's face began returning to its usual color. One of the church's nuns appeared with a stack of fresh linens and dry clothes for the boy, Frollo thanking her as she exited the washroom.

"Are you able to stand up?" Frollo asked him, checking to make sure he was not shivering.

Eyes more focused now, Quasimodo looked up at his master. In a small, raspy voice he answered, "I think so." Clutching to the judge's arm and the rim of the wooden tub, the hunchback uneasily stood up, Frollo lifting him up and sitting him down on the nearby bench.

After helping his charge dry off, lest he catch cold, Frollo helped the boy ease new clothes back on. "Come," the judge said, once again gathering the boy in his arms and carrying him back up the stairs to the bell tower. Along the way, Frollo could feel the boy nodding off in his arms.

Before the judge could carry his charge back up to the bell tower, the same nun from earlier reappeared before him. "Minister Frollo," she addressed. "Given the boy's current condition, it might be best if he stayed in one of the back cells while he recovers."

Looking down at the boy nestled in his arms, Frollo looked back at her and nodded compliantly. "You might be right. Very well, show me to it."

In the back cell, Frollo placed the boy down on the wooden pallet, Quasimodo still drained and asleep. After covering him with his blanket, Frollo rested his weary bones on a stray wooden stool from the corner of the small cell. He sat there keeping watch over the boy, constantly checking the temperature in his forehead.

X

Frollo sat slumped forward, resting his forehead against his hand while the boy still slept, not stirring once. The Minister let out a tired sigh—he had been Notre Dame for hours now watching over Quasimodo even though he longed to return and finish the amount of work left at the Palace. He shifted and leaned back against the cold stone wall and folding his hands in his lap, irked for his own lack of productivity today.

Then again, he thought to himself. You couldn't very much let the boy die, could you?

Still, now that Quasimodo was sleeping soundly and the fever reduced, Frollo still wanted to spring from these seemingly closing walls and return to his home.

Suddenly a knock at the door tore him from his seat and swiftly answering it. Standing in the corridor was the Archdeacon and a handful of the church's clergy members, the judge's chaperon cradled in Augustin's hand.

The Archdeacon spoke. "Minister, if you wish, we will look after Quasimodo for the time being. You've been here for hours and-"

"Thank goodness," Frollo gratefully expressed, taking his hat from the man. "Keep the boy in check, for my day is far from over and heaven knows how much work is waiting for me. Good day."

As fast as he could, the judge exited the suffocating cathedral, welcoming the icy winter air that breezed past his face. He sped his horse away from Paris's center of piety and back towards its home of justice.

When Frollo arrived back to his study, he was utterly dismayed when he looked up the stack of documents greeting him on his desk. Running his hand over the length of his face, he slammed the door behind and got to work.

X

By the time he had signed the last document, night had already covered the city. Staring out his study window towards Notre Dame, the bells began to toll the hour. In that moment, Frollo wondered the state of Quasimodo's health. He was exhausted beyond belief and was reluctant to ride off to the cathedral now.

I will check on him first thing tomorrow morning, he told himself, rising from his seat and stretching his stiff neck, his back cramped as well from his hunched position for the last few hours. Frollo trudged out of his study down the corridor and up the stairs to his chambers, massaging the back of his neck.

Once inside his room, the judge ungracefully collapsed flat on his back onto the large bed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He exhaled heavily, enjoying the comforting silence filling the room as his taut muscles minutely relaxed.

Peace at last, he thought, his mind beginning to lull itself to sleep, which was still addled with court case after court case. Of course there was also the sense of worry over Quasimodo's well-being, Frollo reminding himself that the boy was in good hands and that his fever was falling when he left him. But now, to put aside all those worries and regain his depleted energy…

A furious knock at the door roused the Minister before could get some much needed rest, tearing himself from the bed with an aggravated groan. Pulling the door open, a skittish-looking Jehan stood there, nervously glancing from the corridor to his brother.

He had stood up too quickly and was blinded by the hallway torch light. Blinking his vision back to normal from black, Frollo grimaced at his younger brother. His voice tiredly rumbled, "Whatever this is about, can it wait until morning?"

"It really can't!" Jehan replied, his body twitchy. "It's urgent and I need your help now! Please!"

Leaning against the doorframe and blinking himself awake, Frollo answered, "Jehan, I am extremely exhausted, so whatever dilemma you have entangled yourself with, it is going to have to wait until tomorrow."

Before the judge could close the door on him, the young man quickly halted him. "Claude, remember when I said I had to speak with you earlier?" he asked, gripping the judge's shoulder.

"What did you do now?" he growled, furrowing his brow. No good could come from this boy if he was here of all hours asking for his brother's time.

"To put it lightly…woman troubles," Jehan hesitantly answered. "So to speak."

Frollo raised an eyebrow at him, not interested in the least in some verbal dance to retrieve an answer from his brother.

"Alright, alright…There's a certain Basque woman who claims that I…sort of, might have…fathered her children," Jehan gripped the back of his neck uneasily.

Chapter Text

"What?!" Frollo asked, eyes widening in disbelief now that his brother's statement snapped him awake. "Jehan, I am in no mood for practical jokes!" he warned, trying to hide the evident worry.

"This isn't a joke," Jehan said, uncharacteristically serious. "She's crazy, Claude!"

"Meaning…?" the Minister growled, digging his fingers into his brother's shoulders. His hands shook Jehan, praying that this was just some late-night prank. After the day he had just had, the last thing he wanted to deal with was Jehan's mischief.

Pushing his brother away from him, Jehan replied, "Meaning…she's here right now—and she wants to speak with you. So, we should probably continue this little discussion in your office." Without a moment to process his statement, Jehan pulled him out of the doorway and to his study.

"Why on earth does this woman wish to speak to me if her issues lie with you?" Frollo asked as the two entered the room still it by the fireplace, the judge igniting the study's candles and illuminating it from complete darkness. Outside, small droplets of rain began bouncing against the glass windows.

Jehan gave a weak smile. "Well, um…I might have let it slip that my brother is Minister of Justice, so…"

Frollo rubbed his temple irritably, seating himself at his desk. "I am not interested in getting involved in a dispute over some child's paternity right now."

"Actually, it's a pair of twins—but there's no way anyone can prove they're mine," Jehan retorted, an unsure laugh escaping from him. "And besides, you have the power—just have her locked up and forget that I ever mentioned this. That's practically a hobby for you!"

Was Jehan really that simple-minded, the Minister wondered. "I am not an emperor—I cannot wield my power around carelessly for you all the time." Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, startling the younger brother. Frollo bit back, "You are almost twenty-six years old and you need to learn how to confront your own problems like a man!" Stepping forth and pulling Jehan away from the entrance, he opened the door.

Standing in the doorway was a short ebony-haired woman with dark black eyes and a threadbare cloak thrown over her shoulders. She held the hands of two small, curly-haired, blond children—a boy and girl—about four or five years old, both with dark gray eyes. Had it not been for a striking facial resemblance to their mother at hand, the two looked just like Jehan.

Frollo's eyes grew as his studied the three before shooting an accusatory glower at the anxious Jehan. The latter nervously gripped at his riotous curls as he averted his blue eyes away to the flagstone floor, trilling his lips in annoyance.

"What was that about not being able to prove anything?" Frollo mocked, trying to hide his anger. "Care to explain?" he bitingly asked, his jaw clenching tightly.

Without waiting for Jehan's response, Frollo waved them into his study. The woman warily gazed at Jehan, who backed away to take cover behind the judge. One might be able to hear a pin drop, the room was rendered still with awkwardness as the brothers and trio eyed each other carefully.

Frollo decided to break the silence. "Well, I believe introductions are in order, aren't they? Jehan?" he said, pulling his brother harshly forward by the arm. "If you'd please."

"Um…well, Claude, this is Pomona," he indicated to the woman who looked at him condemningly. "Remember about five years ago when Robin and a few friends and I went to Saint-Jean-de-Luz for Easter? We met there and…I guess I must have left more there than I thought." He finally locked eyes with the woman with a bit of apprehension. "Pomona, this is my brother, Claude—el juez de Paris."

Pomona barely regarded the Minister of Justice while her children, however, studied him intently. Frollo noticed the small boy hide his face when he locked eyes with the fearsome judge, who noticed that their eyes were identical to his own.

"So it's true, then?" Frollo asked, narrowing his stormy gray orbs at Jehan. "You sired these children?" Jehan, in turn, pursed his lips and wrung his hands with no idea of what to say.

The judge approached the distrustful-looking Pomona, whose two cherubic twins hid behind her. "How old are they?" he calmly asked her, saving the rest of his anger for Jehan.

She blinked at him, looking somewhat intimidated as she squeezed her children's hands tighter. She uttered out, "They're four."

Oh, for the love of God…Frollo looked back at Jehan, brows raised. "Any more excuses?"

Jehan opened and closed his mouth, no words finding their way out. Shamefully he looked away off to some far-off corner of the study, away from their damning eyes.

"Jehan," Pomona gently addressed, the young man reluctantly meeting her dark eyes as he shifted nervously in his spot. "These are your children: your son, Joseba, and your daughter, Izara."

Jehan examined the two blond children, their flinty gray eyes taking in their long-lost father. The boy still hid behind his short mother while the girl smiled at the young man. Jehan's mouth opened and closed but no words were heard. Frollo noticed his brother's expression momentarily soften as he stood there paralyzed, unable to speak.

The brothers saw the young girl, Izara, tug at her mother's hand. "Nire aita?" she asked as she pointed at him, the language vaguely familiar to Jehan. The woman nodded her head, her dark eyes indicating to him.

The others stayed still as the girl approached Jehan, silver eyes meeting cerulean as her sweet face studied him. Unexpectedly, she spoke up, "Papa?"

The judge saw Jehan pale at the girl's word, his balance wavering as his knees began to buckle under him. Instinctively, Frollo grabbed him by the shoulders, little Izara recoiling back and instinctively taking hold of her mother.

"Would you all excuse us for a moment?" Frollo grumbled to the stunned woman, trying to steady Jehan and reaching for the keys on his desk. "Um…itxaron, mesedez. We'll be back momentarily."

He dragged Jehan out of the study and into the hallway, locking the door behind him. Frollo pushed him into the large vacant room, which was occupied by a sole fireplace and a few wooden benches along its stone walls. The moonlight pouring through the large windows illuminated the empty space and made the sculptures of saints high on the walls look utterly ghostly.

Letting go of Jehan, Frollo heatedly commanded, "You have one minute to explain to me why this little paramour of yours is here. What does she want from us?! Is it money?"

Running his hands over his face, Jehan sputtered out, "I don't know! One minute I was at the Bull's Head having a drink with Robin, and the next she's standing in front of me saying how happy she was to see me. I heard her mention something like "casarnos"—and I know my Spanish might be a little rusty, but I sure as hell can figure out what that means! "Casarnos" means "get married"!"

Frollo felt himself short of breath as he was taken aback his statement, trying to collect himself. Reeling and pacing, he stammered, "Wait a moment…you honestly think that she wants to marry you?"

"What do you think?!" the young man snapped. "A woman that I met on a trip years ago shows up and says that her kids are mine—why else would she be here?! It's either that or money—or both! When I met her in Saint-Jean, she was just some virgin daughter of some rich fisherman. Let's just say the days of Easter turned into a few weeks, and, well…things moved very fast between us. She was just supposed to be another conquest—I never intended for this to happen."

"Of course, you never intend for anything to happen," the judge sarcastically countered, tightly clasping his hands together. "Everything you do seems to be an accident, and never thought out. That is your perhaps your greatest fault: you never think!"

"Calm down! For every problem, there's a solution, right?" the young man asked with weakened hope. Inside, Jehan was being consumed by panic—very unlike the usual haphazardness he was so prone to.

Sitting down on one of the polished wooden benches, Frollo rested against its backing, sighing heavily. "I am at a loss for words right now," he expressed, beaten. "So you admit that those children are indeed yours?"

Jehan rubbed the back of his neck, the weight of the situation crushing him. While he was skilled in the art of spinning his trouble into less than it was, now he was truly without an excuse. "There's no denying it…I-I think they are. You saw them—those kids are a spitting image of me."

"How do you want to go about this then?" his brother asked, completely drained as he crossed his arms over his chest. Frollo wished that this issue could have presented itself on a less mentally taxing day, feeling himself devoid of most of his energy. Uncharacteristically, his shoulders slumped as he awaited Jehan's answer.

"I don't know," Jehan worriedly uttered, hands trembling violently. "What should I do? You're always the one telling me what to do!"

"And look how well you have heeded my advice!" Frollo threw his hands up in exasperation and leaning forward. "The problems you have brought to me in the past have been miniscule in comparison to this. You hold a woman and her children's lives in the palm of your hands, for God's sake!"

Jehan paced around in a circle, rubbing his hands agitatedly. "Please!" he choked out. "Can't you just handle this?"

"Do you have any idea of the matters that I am already preoccupied with? This is your cross to bear, Jehan. You fathered those children, so you must be the one to make this right."

"So you think I should marry Pomona?" he asked, his heart leaping into his throat. "I barely know her!"

For a moment Frollo sat silently, hanging his head and considering the situation. Fatigued and unexpectedly, the Minister shrugged, hands clasping before him. Truly, he did not want to deal with this now—or ever. The reality of Jehan as a father was beginning to feel more like some sick joke by God, and more than he might be able to bear.

"If that is what you feel is right," he answered vaguely, only wanting to return to bed. "I'm sure I do not need to remind you that those children are not pure in the eyes of God unless you marry their mother."

"Spare me the platitudes! You need to help me with this, Claude—I don't want to get married!"

The Minister only glared back at him, wordlessly condemning him. Without waiting for his brother's answer, Jehan asked, "How about I just take day to think it over before I make a decision?"

"Absolutely not!" the Minister snapped, astounded that he would even ask that. His blood boiled that even in the greatest of crises Jehan would not find the ability to rise to the occasion over his own mess. "You are going to fix this now!"

Jehan continued to pace around again in unrest, his chest heaving from his ragged breaths. "Dammit! I really don't know what to do, Claude." He locked his fingers in his blond curls as his mind raced for any idea that might save him.

"Well, make haste and find a solution already," Frollo deadpanned, his eyes feeling heavy and muscles ever tense.

"My God, are you really so selfish that you're just going to hang me out to dry like this? That you're going to abandon your brother in his time of need?" Jehan inwardly prayed that Claude would fall for the same old tactic he had used numerous times to trick him into forgiving his countless faults. The brotherly obligation card had hardly failed yet, and hopefully this time would be no different.

"Don't try me!" Frollo barked, pointing a finger at the boy. "Have I not been there every step of the way, picking you up every time you've fallen? Was I not there to offer my help for every instance of mayhem that you managed to stir up? Don't you dare call me selfish after all the trouble you've forced me to suffer through over these years! I did not create this dilemma—you did, as always!"

Jehan scowled at the judge, angrily pounding a fist against his palm hearing Claude's bitter but true words. Panic grew in the young man's core as he feared that this might be one mess that his brother would not save him from.

"On one hand, I could marry her, leave Paris and go back to Saint-Jean-de-Luz," Jehan unpleasantly reasoned. "I'm sure that's why she came all the way here in the first place. But if I don't, she might go around telling the whole damn city about those kids. What will my friends think when they hear I have a couple of bastards from Basque country? What happens if that news gets out?! She might get that boss of hers to hunt me down! What are we going to do?!"

Irked, Frollo vehemently retorted, "Similar to how you announced the news about Quasimodo to the whole of Paris after I specifically asked you to keep it between us? Well now the tables have turned! 'An eye for an eye,' remember? I should just let you get roped into an empty marriage with a woman who's more of a drink-addled memory than save you again, given all the good that you've done for me!"

Pausing, Jehan turned back to the judge. He shot his older brother a dark, menacing look. "You'd really do that?" he grimly asked. "Well let me tell you something, dear brother…if you turn your back on this, I swear I will bring you down with me. You want to keep your precious image intact, but think of how it'll look when your little brother is marrying some woman who had his children out of wedlock. You'll be ridiculed by your friends on the council and disgraced even more by the people of this city."

Frollo smirked, finding Jehan's attempt to reason with him pathetic. "I have always managed to maintain my reputation. I have endured nothing but humiliation because of you, but the people know better than to challenge my authority."

Jehan snorted. "You don't think they'll begin to doubt you? They'll see that you couldn't even control your own brother, so how can you even manage to keep their city safe?"

Frollo straightened up, maintaining his stoic self as he refused to waver. "I have been Minister of Justice for eight years now—I believe I've long quelled any doubts that the common folk might have about my ability to keep a city. Besides, the public know that you are a lost cause, forever prancing with the Devil himself. And that is between you and the Lord." With every weak threat Jehan threw at him, Claude felt more assured that leaving the boy to his own chaos might be the best decision he could make.

Clenching his fists, Jehan glowered hatefully at the judge. Inching forward, he warningly began, "I didn't want to have to play this card, but you leave me no choice…If you back out on me now, so help me God I will go to Notre Dame, march up to the bell tower, and I'll tell Quasimodo about you waving a knife and wanting to kill him after too many drinks a few years back."

The Minister reared up and violently grabbed Jehan by the front of his shirt. "Treacherous snake! We swore never to speak of that again!"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, I suppose," Jehan mocked, a dastardly edge in his voice that surprised even the Minister.

"He'll never believe you!" Frollo protested, shaking his head. "The boy knows what a heel you are, and even he isn't so trustful of you that he would accept as that as fact."

"He will. You're not the only one he cares about and I'll tell him everything I know about you, Claude—whether you think he'll believe it or not! I'll tell him, he'll pass it along to someone or another in that church, and before you know it, everyone in Paris will see you as some murderous drunkard—not a man of God at all! And not only that," Jehan added, a devilish grin stretching over his lips. "I'll be glad to share the story of your little escapade with that Spanish whore with a few of my friends at the tavern. I'm sure Paris would love to hear about the "chaste" Minister Frollo going for a little romp with some harlot! And that you're just as weak and base as the rest of us! You'll never have their respect again, and they'll know you for the hypocrite you are!"

The Minister was stunned by Jehan's malevolence—coercing him into doing his bidding. Brows furrowing at Jehan's dramatics, Frollo realized that his brother was dead serious about his threat. "Nobody will believe a word out of some drunk gambler's mouth!" Frollo shook Jehan harshly, the rage making him wish he could stomp the boy into the ground for all the trouble he had stirred up.

"I'm your brother! I know you better than anyone!" Jehan laughed despite the whiplash from his rattling. He fiercely pushed Claude away and swiped, "You'll be ruined—just like me!"

Frollo's fingers curled into fists, fighting the urge to destroy his idiot of a brother. "I don't need the approval of underlings—what do I care whether or not you tell them?"

"Because you don't want to be seen as weak," Jehan sharply clipped, his observation stinging the Minister. "You need their respect, and if they don't you know you'll lose control. And if there's anything I know about you, Claude, it's that everything needs to go your way. And if there's even a trace of doubt, you're going to break."

Frollo stared agape at the young man, astounded by his cunning. For years Jehan had been merely an immature thorn in his side, and now he exposed himself for the devious—but perhaps clever—well of potential intelligence.

As much as he hated to admit it, there was truth in Jehan's words. The Minister thrived on the fear and respect his subjects harbored for him; if they saw so much as an inch of weakness, he risked his whole web of influence falling apart. What good was a Minister of Justice without the heavy hand of intimidation hanging over Paris's head?

Frollo's fingers circled his temples in distress. His voice rumbled, "Amazing—if only you could have harnessed this kind of passion into your schoolwork, maybe we wouldn't be in the situation!"

"I think we're well past that discussion," Jehan snapped, gripping the judge by the tense shoulder. "The problem at hand—unless you're ready to be an uncle, we need to think of a solution!"

Frollo leered at this contemptible young man, gone from groveling to blackmail in a matter of seconds to save his own skin. "After everything that I've endured, a little upturn from the public would be a small price to pay for this woman to drag you away to the chapel to be married."

Jehan's eyes widened at this and his fingers dug into his brother's arms tighter. "Claude, please!" he sorrowfully begged, his voice breaking. "Help me and I promise I'll never tell a soul anything about you—I swear!"

Frollo violently shoved him away. "You'll have to think of a much more sound argument if you want me to assist you yet again." He turned back around to face the darkened city outside the Palace windows, the exhaustion never letting up.

"Wha-what about this," Jehan began pitifully. "If you help me now…then I swear, with God as my witness, I will never ask you to bail me out again."

Frollo let out a mirthless laugh, doubt coloring his voice as he spoke. "Jehan, you have spun me that yarn countless times—why should now be any different? So that you may continue to shun my guidance?"

Jehan ran his trembling hands down his face, feeling himself crumbling. "I…I really think that…" A choked noise escaped him as he looked as though his legs were about to give out yet again. "I might have really made a mess. And I need your help…please…One last time."

Frollo thought hard about this as he heavily sat back down. It was true, Jehan had already brought him enough mortification for his behavior, but this…this was too much even for the seasoned judge. And Jehan barely knew the woman—and unlike many people of their class, they wouldn't be marrying for status or wealth. The judge would be laughed at and sneered at by his peers, the rest of the nobility, possibly even the King. What if his shameful actions became known to the public? Truly respect would be sapped away from his city like a leech. And if Jehan told Quasimodo of the Minister's sins, the boy might never revere him as his guardian. Where would that leave the state of his penance promised all those years ago?

But what wounded him greatly was seeing how distraught Jehan was now as threw out any attempt to convince him to help. How swiftly he turned from using guilt, blackmail, and shameless begging as to garner his brother's help. Was it possible that after all these years, Jehan was at last learning that there were consequences to his insipid actions?

Frollo couldn't also help but pity those two children who would only gain some unreliable lout for a father, should their mother have her way. They would be better off without him, he cynically thought.

He sighed in defeat as a tremendous headache pounded away in his head. Cocking an eyebrow, Frollo asked him, "The absolute last time, correct?"

Jehan's eyes sparkled with hope. "The last time!" He reiterated. "I promise, any trouble I might run into, I'll handle it myself—just, please, help me!"

Quite a conundrum, Frollo mused, rubbing the back of his stiff neck. But not without a solution…

"Are you sure you do not wish to marry her? Those are your children," Frollo asked yet again, testing the seriousness of his brother's decision.

Jehan's eyes fell on the giant iron cross above the fireplace. Looking back at his older brother who patiently waited for an answer, the young man replied, "I'm not a family man, Claude, let alone want to get married. How did you decide to become a father?"

Frollo almost laughed as he remembered how little Jehan actually knew of the details of his life. "I was thrown into it as a test of faith. I did not have a choice, but you do."

Jehan gazed sadly from the flagstones and back to his brother. "I just…I just can't."

Frollo could not help but feel disappointment at the young man's honesty. He might have possessed the treachery of a man, but Jehan still maintained the fortitude of a child. Nodding, his cold eyes met those of Jehan's. The judge rose from his seat and smoothed out his black robe. "If that is your decision," he began. "Then I have an idea."

Jehan's eye glimmered with hope in his brother's dark, calculating mind. Was there any doubt that he could conjure up a solution so promptly? Jehan gleamed in relief, locking his arms around his brother gratefully. "Thank you, thank you, Claude!" He chirped, nearly tearing up at his brother's clemency.

"You're a good man!" Unexpectedly Jehan kissed the Minister on the cheek, eliciting a disgusted frown from him. "What's the plan?" Jehan piped up, hands on his hips.

"First of all, don't ever do that again," Frollo swiped, wiping at his cheek. "Second, wait here." He promptly strode toward the door, somehow more tired than when he was awoken earlier.

"Why? What are you-" Before Jehan could finish his question, Frollo had shut and locked the door behind him, leaving his brother trapped inside.

Outside, the Minister took a moment to catch his breath as he leaned against the icy cold wall, stifling a yawn. He listened to the rain now beating down harshly against the windowpanes. It then registered with him that in a few moments he would be casting out the few traces of family they had in the world. He wished that he could just send his brother away to learn a few things of responsibility by means of taking care of those children.

You cannot forsake your own flesh and blood, he mentally reminded himself. No matter how selfish their decisions might be.

But when has he ever helped me in my time of need? He bitterly countered. All he lives to do is humiliate me!

Did not the law of Moses tell you not to hate your brother in your heart?

But I don't hate him—he has just never stopped trying my patience. Honestly, sometimes he is worse than those infernal gypsies!

"…But if anyone does not provide for his relatives…he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever…"

Then by that logic, he should be taking charge of this situation, not me!

He groaned in annoyance as he argued in circles with himself and rubbed at his tired eyes. He agitatedly smoothed back his hair and noticed how more silver locks clung to his hand, a sure sign of his perpetual anxiety.

Well…his inner voice spoke up. What are you waiting for? Your brother's bastard family won't forsake themselves.

He had to go about this carefully now and trust his judicial instincts in his next move as he began unlocking his office door, guilt settling like a rock in his stomach.

Despite how tired he was, he had to present himself as austere and collected as possible, breezing back into his study as if his and Jehan's fates didn't hang in the balance.

Inside the small Basque woman held her son in her lap while her daughter inspected the dusty books lining the study's shelves. Even Frollo couldn't believe how much the children resembled Jehan, and here he was, trying to do away with them.

When the judge entered the room, silence once again fell over the space with the only sound coming from the drizzling rain outside. The little girl Izara gazed up at him, but not in dread like so many, while her brother clung to his mother fearfully. Pomona eyed the Minister cautiously as he lithely sat back down at his desk.

Clearing his throat, Frollo began. "Shall we? On behalf of my dear little brother," he cursed. "I will handle this little affair personally."

"But where is Jehan?" Pomona's subdued voice held obvious suspicion.

"As much as that boy would like to believe he is sly as a fox, he would prefer that I be the one to fix his dilemma again, like the coward he is." Frollo did nothing to hide the disdain he held for his brother. "Please don't touch that!" he ordered the small girl trying to open an ornately decorated box made of bone on one the shelves, her large gray eyes boring into his.

The young woman let out a joyless chuckle. "He's not man enough to face me?"

"Surprisingly not." Poor little wench, Frollo thought to himself darkly. She has no idea what she has gotten herself mixed up in with that boy. "Let's not waste each other's time: why did you seek out Jehan?"

Before answering, Pomona lifted her son out of lap. She whispered something to him and gently patted him to go play with his sister. "My children need their father," she said lowly, folding her delicate hands in her lap. "They wanted to meet him, and…I couldn't let them live without knowing who he is."

Leaning forward and steepling his fingers together, Frollo replied, "You'll have to excuse me but I have my suspicions. Explain to me when and where you met Jehan." One of his first instincts was to see whether or not their stories matched up.

"Well," Pomona began, quickly looking over her shoulder to check on her twins. "I was living in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, a very nice town near Spain. About five years ago, it was Eastertime and many students flock to the town for celebrations. My father made a large living off of fishing and offered his home to a few of the students visiting…and one of those students was Jehan Frollo. Of course, my father warned them all to stay away from me. But Jehan managed to steal a few hidden moments, and he was so charming-"

"I don't need every detail," Frollo quickly interrupted, disgust causing his lip to curl. "Please just skip ahead."

"Some weeks after the celebrations ended, I began having strange symptoms: I felt sick for most of the days and thought nothing of it. But…after a few months, I began showing." Shyly, she wrapped her worn cloak tighter around her frame. "Truth be told, Your Honor, I had never been with a man before Jehan. And I hadn't after him, so I knew it could only be his."

"And your family allowed you to have the children?" Frollo inquired, his voice low.

"My parents confined me to our home," Pomona continued sorrowfully. "They thought I would bring shame if our neighbors found out I was pregnant. I had the children, but my mother and father agreed that they couldn't allow me to live with them anymore—not with two illegitimate children. They said I was a whore and had no place in society, much less their home. So…they cast me out and I was alone with my son and daughter."

Frollo just faintly remembered Jehan strolling into his study, rambling on with story after story of his Eastertime antics upon returning from Saint-Jean. The whole time never aware of the damage he had left in his wake.

The young woman continued her story. "I found work as a servant to a moneylender's family in Bayonne; the mistress is a very good woman and took pity on us. And about a year later, the master of the house found new work in Bordeaux, so that's where we followed."

Frollo thought carefully about his next question, asking, "Then answer me this: what brought you to Paris? Surely a mere servant does not up and abandon her master's home solely in hopes of finding her children's father."

Tucking a strand of her black hair behind her ear, Pomona answered, "Mistress Boudier is very devout in her beliefs, Your Honor, and she desperately wanted to make the pilgrimage to Saint-Chapelle and Notre Dame. She wants to see the Crown of Thorns more than anything and encouraged a handful of us to accompany her. She and the master are guests to one of the city's money lenders—I believe his name is Cormier."

It stung the Minister, for the same man was known for pestering him over the years for Jehan's personal finances. If there was any doubt in his mind about this woman before, he was becoming more inclined to believe her now.

"Is your mistress aware of your intentions here in Paris?" Frollo evenly asked, an inkling of fear settling in his chest. "To track down the father of your children?"

Pomona rubbed her hands together nervously. "I simply explained to her that there are personal matters to attend to here, but I did not tell her about Jehan."

"And what do you see in your future with Jehan as their father?" Frollo's brows knit together, fearing for his brother.

The young woman nervously smoothed out her skirt. "I…I was hopeful that if Jehan met his children, perhaps…" Her voice was pained and she momentarily glanced back at the towheaded children whispering among themselves. "Perhaps he might find it in his heart to be a part of their lives. That he might consider settling down and helping me raise them."

Frollo pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to sympathize with this stranger anymore. But in his heart he knew that Jehan would never take such a step for another. "Unfortunately, I must be the bearer of bad tidings," he said hollowly, folding his hands neatly before him. "I can assure you that my brother will never accept the role of being the father to your children."

Pomona's eyes widened with shock and froze at such words. "No, no," she muttered. "He will—if he just spoke to them, he'd-"

"He won't," Frollo deadpanned, his expression never changing. "He is hardly a man, let alone fit to be a father. He lacks the ability to offer guidance, or protection, or even loyalty. I have an adopted son of my own and understand what goes into raising a child. Jehan would not be able to endure a moment of that kind of responsibility."

Frollo noticed the children turning their head toward the distressed sound of their mother's gasping words. Trying to avert their attention, he lowered his voice as he grimly spoke. "Consider this: my brother spends his time drinking and gambling more than anything. He will never provide for you, or even be the least bit concerned with your children's well-being. He has barely any regard for the extensive hardships that I have faced for him. In short, he is far from the man you pray he might be."

She shook her head in disbelief, eyes filled with anguish. "No…Jehan will—he will," she desperately tried to assure herself. "If I could only speak to him-"

"I believe he has made a decision already." He couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for this small family resurfacing. Frollo studied how the twins captured the same fascination that Jehan once held as they continued to study his office, feeling his heart sink once more. He remembered when Jehan was as young and curious as these two. But the shy little boy reminded him of Quasimodo, careful to avoid the dark gaze of the Minister.

"Your Honor, let me speak to him, please," she begged, her hands clasping prayer-like.

As much as Frollo wanted to put this dilemma to rest already, he couldn't help but figure that perhaps he should grant her this one request. Maybe Jehan might have a change of heart, he prayed.

"Very well," he said, rising from his seat. Crossing past the curly-haired children towards the door, Frollo stopped to remark to the young woman, "But I promise that that boy will not change his mind."

"Please, just let me speak to him," she repeated, tears welling in her eyes.

With a curt nod, Frollo exited and made his way back to the dark chamber where Jehan sat and waited. The boy cradled his head in his hands, resembling a beggar with nothing left to call his own. Hearing his brother enter, Jehan perked up with hope.

"Did you do it?" he asked, jittery still. "Did you get rid of her?"

The Minister frowned heavily as he thought of those poor children as he studied Jehan's nearly identical bright countenance. "I think you should come with me."

"Why?"

"She still holds a glimmer of hope that you will give yourself to her, and I think you should be there when I dash it to pieces before her," the judge joylessly answered.

Scratching his head uncomfortably, Jehan weakly began, "Yeah…I really don't think it's a good idea for me to-"

"I am destroying a woman's life for you—the least you can do is to face her like a man." His words were cold as stone and blatantly accusatory.

Huffing, Jehan muttered out, "Fine, but I'm not going back on this."

"Agreed. But before we go, there is something else we should discuss."

X

When the brothers returned to the Minister's study, Pomona remained seated across from Frollo's chair, speaking in hushed tones with her little ones.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," Jehan greeted as brother closed the door behind him, trying to mask his uneasiness. "We had some things to sort out."

"Which, I believe, we should attend to immediately," Frollo added, taking a seat.

Distrustfully eyeing the two, Pomona protectively held her children as they clung to her arms. Their identical eyes seemed to plead for mercy from the Minister and his brother.

Claude's heart still panged with disappointment in Jehan's choice of action regarding the matter. These children looked just like his little brother, but it meant nothing to the respective father. His children, his decision, he firmly reminded himself. Your nephew and niece…

Frollo kept his stoic demeanor intact while Jehan stood behind his brother like a shadow. "Now then, Pomona," he began, clearing his throat. "Tell Jehan what it is you seek from him."

When the children returned to inspecting the Minister's study, Pomona answered, "Joseba and Izara are your children, Jehan, and they need their father." She cast a tired glance at the nervous little man hiding behind the judge and shyly looking away.

"Do you wish to marry him? To legitimize your children?" Frollo inquired in an even tone, folding his jeweled hands together.

"Possibly," she answered, the brothers raising their eyebrows at her. She looked over her shoulder to see the two children talking amongst themselves and pointing the artifacts decorating the Minister's study walls. "I hope that Jehan will be the father that they need, and to be a part of their lives."

"I can't just pack up and move to Saint-Jean—my whole life is in Paris!" Jehan protested, Frollo raising a hand and shushing him.

"We could stay here, in Paris," Pomona suggested, Jehan paling at the notion. "That way you could be close to them. I could find work here in the city."

"Well of course we cannot ignore the fact that Jehan sired your children, but," Frollo said, catching an uneasy Jehan fidgeting out of the corner of his eye. "I am sorry to say that we cannot keep these children here in Paris; you must take them away. As I previously stated, Jehan would be the worst father-figure for them. Therefore, it would be best for everyone if we would make it so that this never occurred."

Pomona's jaw dropped at the judge's words, indifference coloring his tone while her heart sank. "But…" she began, shocked. "They wanted to meet their father—you want them to just forget that? How will they grow without one?"

Jehan turned away from her damning eyes, absent-mindedly gazing out one of the windows to the rain-soaked city. He glanced back over to the fair-haired twins, so rosy-cheeked and innocent that it almost made his heart swell. Despite what they were doing, he could not help but feel the weight of guilt sting him as it did his brother.

"It would not be proper for us to send you away without some sort of restitution for your trouble," Frollo diplomatically pointed. Taking the key-ring and unlocking a desk drawer, the judge pulled out a coin-purse, which jingled heavily in his hand before setting it before her.

"You want to bribe me to stay away, bastardo?" the young woman accused, her tone sharp.

"The money we are giving you is compensation, to help you somewhat with your children." Turning slightly and studying Jehan, Frollo could see his brother's despondent expression. "And if you wish, we can provide them with a proper educational environment, specifically, that of the Church. Your son, Joseba…he would be sent to a monastery, while Izara would be sent to a nunnery. There they will be cared for and taught to be proper Christians—we, of course, will provide the means to send them."

Pomona's eyes shone with indignation, which now forced her voice to raise. "You expect me to just send my children away? Jehan! You would abandon your own children?!"

Jehan paid her no heed, much to the heartache of the woman sitting across from his brother. Even Claude could not help but feel somewhat dismayed at his brother's failure to jump in and take accountability at the last chance.

"They're your children," Jehan flatly replied with his back still facing her. "Not mine."

"They need you, Jehan!" Behind her, the twins instantly came to her side, assuringly gripping her hands.

"Well I sure as hell can't provide for a whole family!" the young man bluntly said, trying to suppress the shaking of his thin legs.

The Minister spoke up. "This is an incredibly generous offer. You may accept the money for the sake of your children and be on your way…or I can have my men drag you out and throw them to the farthest foundlings' bed in Paris."

"Jehan, please!" Pomona cried with pleading eyes. "What about our time in Saint-Jean-"

"That was years ago!" Jehan fiercely countered, facing her with the same kind of madness etched on his face that was more typical of his brother. He reminded Claude of himself in his unyielding nature, refusing to be toyed with.

"This is our final offer," Frollo sternly addressed. "You may take the money and your children back home, allow me to send them to religious orders, or worse. And, if you attempt to spread this news, I will personally have you arrested and have them thrown to the streets. Choose wisely."

X

Heavy drops of rain mercilessly pelted the city as the brothers stood at the top of the Palace of Justice's stairs. They watched from the entrance as the young woman's figure strode away as she pulled her two children along. For a brief moment, it looked as though the little girl turned around to take a final look at the two before being yanked away by her mother. Suddenly Jehan felt sorrow wrench at his heart as they disappeared into the darkness of Paris's streets.

Pushing the doors shut, the sound echoing throughout the foyer, the Minister turned to his brother. "Well," the judge said hollowly. "Another crisis averted. Good night, Pilate."

Rubbing at his eyes and making his way up the staircase, Frollo felt relieved that now he could finally retire for the evening. However, glancing over his shoulder, he noticed how Jehan had not moved from his spot, staring blankly at the door.

"What is it now?" Frollo asked, exhaustion pulling at his muscles. He inwardly prayed that his brother wasn't going to encourage a night of celebratory drinks, as he usually did after Claude successfully did away with one or another of his problems. "I assumed you would have been overjoyed to have the matter settled."

There was an unfamiliar chapfallen expression drawn over Jehan's usually grinning face. Distraughtly looking back at his brother, the younger meekly asked, "What did we just do?"

"We had a choice to make, so now we will just go about our days as if it never happened," the Minister indifferently replied, his shoulders beginning to slump with fatigue. "This was by far one of the most troublesome Gordian knots I have thus far encountered."

"'Gordian knot'?"

"A complex problem with a simple solution; in this case, our futures and my position could have compromised greatly because of you. And all it took was a few coins to prevent any misfortune from befalling us. Bear in mind, however, that if you have any doubts regarding what just happened, I did not make this choice—you did. And remember that you will never come to me to solve your crises again."

Jehan was frozen, the same muddled expression never changing. "I…I can't…"

Frollo was tired of his brother's catatonic stupidity as he lingered there. "Go off and indulge yourself in wine and women, as always, and you will forget that this ever occurred. Now if there will be no further interruptions, I have had a very long day and I am going to bed."

While the Minister made his way back to his bedchambers, Jehan remained paralyzed in the foyer with a lifeless look on his face.

Chapter Text

The wooden door groaned from its ancient hinges as the Minister entered the old cell, finding Quasimodo still sleeping soundly upon the wooden pallet. Frollo inched closer, noticing the boy was still sweating profusely.

Suddenly Quasimodo let out a hollow cough, indicating that he still had some way to go before he fully recovered. Frollo raked his fingers over his steely hair in agitation. Good God, why now? he thought frustratedly.

He had to send a message to his Captain that he would be absent from court to oversee his ward's further condition. It irked him to think he would lose another day of productivity, but his annoyance waned almost instantly when he looked at Quasimodo, still sapped from his illness.

He couldn't help but feel sympathy for the boy as he dabbed his forehead with a wet cloth and woke him to feed him regularly.

As he sat in the corner, keeping watch over the boy, Frollo felt his mind become distracted as it repeatedly circled back to the previous night. Crossing his arms over his chest, he remembered how convoluted and quickly the situation had escalated—as if years of his brother's constant mayhem had not prepared him for something of this magnitude.

Confusion etched on everyone's face wondering what decision Jehan might make. In one night, he had managed to lose any shred of respect that Claude might still harbor for him…Here he sat, tending to his own accidental charge, and yet Jehan allowed himself to relinquish his own paternal responsibilities.

"Master?" a small voice weakly whispered out. Straightening up, Frollo looked over to see his ward stir from his ill slumber. The boy was still very pale and sad to look upon, his crooked eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Hello, my boy" Frollo evenly greeted, folding his hands in his lap. "I see that you are somewhat better than yesterday, a very good sign indeed."

Quasimodo nodded, pulling his covers over his small frame tighter as he began to doze off. Suddenly he snapped himself awake, remembering his guardian was still there and how it would be deemed impolite to do so. Sleepily, the boy asked "How's Jehan, Master? Is he in trouble?"

"Hardly," Frollo bitterly answered, leaning back in his seat. "For all the madness he creates, he always manages to walk away scot-free. And, of course, I am always the one to carry the weight of his sins."

"What…what happened?" the boy sounded exhausted, his red hair falling over his face lankily.

"Never you mind," Frollo softly answered, seeing that he obviously needed his rest. "Just a bit of…family disputes, shall we say. But enough of that; you must rest, Quasimodo."

The boy nodded his head and tiredly rubbed at his good eye. "Yes, sir." Frollo knew he should have stayed longer, but he knew that he still needed to get some work done today. He would return the next day to check in on the hunchback. He bid the boy farewell and left.

The Minister exited the stairwell with the same dejected frown as when he first entered. He was loathe to return to the Palace of Justice so soon after the last day and a half of headaches he was subjected to. Frollo decided that a few silent minutes to himself in the church's pews might ease his mind some.

Dutifully kneeling and crossing himself, Frollo clasped his hands in prayer as he mechanically went through his thanks to God. He was ever grateful that in the middle of the day, the church was empty and void of others who might disturb him. Then resting his elbows against the wooden pew, the judge circled his temples with his fingers as he could feel yet another headache taking effect.

His muddled mind had seldom given him any reprieve as he thought back to his and Jehan's interaction last night. He detested the nagging guilt that churned at his insides as he pictured those children's confused and disappointed faces—remnants of Jehan's recklessness. He should consider himself so fortunate, he thought grimly as he rested his head against his now folded arms. We just narrowly avoided an unwanted scandal and legal madness, no thanks to that boy, as always.

It was foolish to think that Jehan would keep his word of never seeking his brother's help again, but at least he had the decency to offer some pathetic groveling when asking Claude. But even that was not enough to make the Minister forgive him so easily.

No matter what, he cynically thought. He will always be nothing but a boy…

"Minister," a familiar voice softly greeted, one that he most definitely did not want to hear now of all times.

Biting back a swipe of irritation, Frollo straightened up to face the Archdeacon approaching him. "Father," the judge flatly addressed, offering a small nod.

"I'm happy to see you are so dutiful in keeping watch over Quasimodo during this awful ailment." Augustin beamed a prideful smile, almost as if in amazement of the Minister's supposed compassion.

Barely hiding the iciness in his voice, Frollo replied, "It's not as though I can allow him to succumb to his sickness. What good is a penance if the subject of such perishes under one's watch? I have already failed in rearing my brother—I don’t need the death of the hunchback as grounds for further punishment."

Augustin scrutinized the man, noticing the exhausted and uncharacteristic slump of his usually straight shoulders. "Claude, is there something you wish to discuss?"

Tiredly Frollo rubbed at his eyes as he felt as if the weight of the world crushed him, like an insect under a workman's boot. "Of course not. It is simply another matter concerning Jehan—the vain attempts to make him grow up."

"Ah, I can only imagine what antics he has found himself in now." Augustin considered the poor boy upstairs, and how he would not want that innocent soul to be subject to his master's ever escalating fury. Taking note of the darkness surrounding said man, the Archdeacon carefully offered, "This is a safe place; if you wish to speak about what it is that plagues you, I will listen."

Any other day Frollo would have easily brushed off the Archdeacon's proposal to lend an ear. Today, however, he was so twisted in anger that he allowed himself to be less surly towards his former mentor. Hesitantly Frollo recounted the story of yesterday's debacle, Augustin listening patiently and never interjecting.

"She was much too prideful to accept the money we had offered her," Frollo weaved, his fingers continuing to curl. "She agreed to take her children and never seek out our family again. But the minute she left, Jehan finally understood what he had just forced me to do. Where he is now, I have no idea, but I have no doubt that he's resumed his carousing, making mischief wherever he can."

At last the Archdeacon finally spoke, his voice gentle. "When you say that Jehan finally understood, do you mean he might have felt something over this woman? Pity, perhaps?"

"Guilt is a more accurate summation. Immediately after she left, he had the gall to question what he had just done."

The Archdeacon's eyes seemed to brighten. "It sounds as though he is maturing."

"Were you not listening?" Frollo asked indignantly, trying to keep from raising his voice. "He had one moment to prove himself a man and take charge, only to coerce me into taking it into my own hands. How on earth is that "maturing"?"

"Late as it may be, Jehan is finally taking into account how his actions affect others. If he seemed to show remorse, it may show that he sees their impact on you as well."

"So you believe I should be grateful that he pulled me into his idiocy yet again?" Frollo tested.

"Think about it," Augustin reasoned, looking away to the stained-glass windows above them. "You of all people know how guilt can sway a person—is your brother not past due in learning such a lesson? And if history has taught us anything, it is that remorse has the power to bring us back to the light, especially after being lost in the darkness for so long. Or have you forgotten the parable of the Prodigal Son already?"

Irritability evident, Frollo answered, "No, I have not."

"I promise you, Jehan will find his way, especially after facing an obstacle like this."

"At least I was able to spare those children that pathetic excuse for a father," Frollo clipped, absently toying with the rings on his fingers. "Jehan can hardly care for himself; he'd be more than inept in caring for those poor children."

"You might be underestimating your brother." Father Augustin knew that in a discussion with the Minister, it was wise to keep his tone as neutral as possible as to avoid any more unwanted conflict.

"I don't think that's possible," Frollo pointed, a humorless scowl contorting his expression. "With every idiotic thing he does, he manages to outdo himself at every turn, and lose any respect I have left for him. Even calling him an imbecile is too great a compliment."

"Claude, have you ever considered what might happen should you leave your brother to fend for himself?"

"He would end up dead before dawn." Despite the caustic tone, it still pained the Minister to even think of the horrors that Jehan could have suffered without the help of his brother.

"Perhaps," Augustin agreed. "Or perhaps he might have the potential to do the right thing if it’s the only solution. And it might just be for the better."

Frollo's silence urged the man to continue his theory. "Remember what the Good Book tells us about children: those who love their children love them enough to give them the proper discipline."

"Then by that verse I suppose the Lord might believe I hate my brother for sparing the rod. I swear, if I hadn't promised our mother that I would do everything to put him on the straight and narrow, I would have left him to suffer at the hands of the world ages ago." To remember that solemn oath he had given his mother when Jehan was born made him momentarily wistful—it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Tapping his long fingers against the edge of the pew, a dismayed grimace adorned Frollo's gaunt face. He certainly felt no comfort when his own gaze traveled up to the colorful saints adorned above him.

"Perish the thought," the Archdeacon reassured the crestfallen judge. "Claude, I know you love your brother, but you mustn't lose hope in him. I know your constant intervening comes from a good place, but it might be time to let him learn from his mistakes. And you should also keep in mind that you have your own child to look after. The Lord knows that Quasimodo only wants your guidance and love."

Frollo's dark lips couldn't help twisting in disgust at the reminder of extending even a smidgen of affection to the poor hunchback. Snidely, he remarked, "My compassion only runs so deep."

Tiredly, the Archdeacon sighed, not at all surprised by the answer he received. Trying to mask his own disappointment, he added, "I truly believe you might be happier if you tried to be more than the boy's guardian, and rather his father."

Frollo could only shift his eyes away, choosing to hide behind his tightly folded hands. The perpetual battle between him and whatever sanity he had left was continuing to weigh him down like a boulder.

Frollo continued. "A father will continue to fail and is bound to his children; a guardian has the ability to keep his ward at a reasonable distance. Personally, I prefer the second notion."

There was suddenly something that did not sit well with the Archdeacon as he continued to study the tense expression over the judge's face. "Pardon me for asking this, but are you referring to Jehan's inability to be a father…or is it possible that you carry doubt in your own facilities?"

The judge could feel his blood boil and readied himself for a heated verbal defense. He would not take such a slight by a man of God in His own house. "Of course not!" he hissed, rising up from the pew. "I'm certain that I have proven that I am more than capable in maintaining the city and Quasimodo. The fact of the matter is that Jehan possesses a level of childishness so exceedingly high, that he knows that he cannot survive without me."

"Do you truly believe that he is hopeless?" Augustin countered, his voice never straying from its even volume. "Would Jehan have been such a terrible father if he had been forced to take charge of his children?"

"Undoubtedly. He would have fled at the first trial of parenthood and never looked back. He probably would have led that family straight to ruin, unable to discipline them or care for them."

"And if this exact situation were to arise again, what would you rather him do?"

Frollo shook his head. Just imagining more bastard children begotten by Jehan was enough to tighten his chest. Chillingly, he answered, "I would rather he suffer for what he's done. And I have sworn that this was the very last time that I would lend him my help."

Even Father Augustin was astounded that the Minister would wish something so malicious on his once beloved brother.

Frollo coldly added, "You said it yourself: not sparing the rod is the only way to ensure proper behavior. I refused to teach him as a child, and now he seems to be repaying me in kind. A person understands the ways of the world when they have endured its wrath, and Jehan has surely never had to endure anything that I have."

Steepling his hands together, the Archdeacon noted, "Careful, Claude. With words as hateful as those your tone sounds very close to someone else."

Frollo instantly averted his eyes to the cold tiled floor, clenching the pew behind him. "My father might have been strict, but I would never have thrust my woes unto him. He made it painfully clear that if I was foolish enough to create trouble for myself, then I would surely pay the price." Anxiety rose as he saw in his mind the very man he reluctantly spoke of.

"But one must wonder," the judge mused heavily, a new look of defeat making its way to his face. Still refusing to look up to the Archdeacon, Frollo said thoughtfully, "At what point does a man become his father?"

Augustin's brows rose in astonishment. "Do you fear that you have become him?" he inquired delicately.

Frollo nearly wanted to laugh, every thought in his mind arguing with each other. "On the contrary—I know that I am nothing like him. If I could emulate just a fraction of control over Jehan as my father held over me, I’d never have to put up with such nonsense."

"I admit, your father was stern, to say the least," Augustin mulled as he remembered that daunting man—the Minister of Justice who showed no mercy to wrongdoers, or even his own son. "But he was also a man in need of more empathy in his heart."

"Or perhaps he had the correct mentality," Frollo replied, now considering every hardship that that man had forced him to endure. He had spent his life fearing and resenting his father, but now he found himself questioning if the man was actually in the right. He did help in making you the man you are today, his mind pointed.

The judge continued. "One cannot show weakness in front of their children, lest they become a fool to their spawn's will. And I will not be seen as such by Jehan any longer. As of today, he will have to rely on himself and his wits should he find himself in trouble."

"Claude, I am not implying that you cut your ties with him. Only to consider what you have at stake before you entangle yourself in yet another mess."

"I know, I know. It just pains me to think that it has taken so many years for me to finally force him to take responsibility." Frollo thought back on the countless dilemmas that Jehan managed to force his brother to handle. And now his charge lay above them, sickly and unsightly, in desperate need of his help.

"Have I…" The Minister shamefully looked back up at the Archdeacon, eyes wan. "Have I failed in caring for the two?" His shoulders again slouched in defeat.

In that moment Father Augustin thought that the judge looked just as he did as a boy, seeking guidance in his otherwise grim world. "”Failed”, no," he coolly answered. "Though you seem confused on how to go about it. You have doubts like all men at one point or another, but you must not let that deter you from trying."

Frollo rubbed the back of his neck as his headache pounded heavily, tiring him even more. "Jehan was correct," he lowly remarked, not even meeting the priest's gaze. "There are some people in this world who are not meant to parent…And I believe that I am one of those select. Perhaps it is time to reconsider my priorities."

Augustin shot a look of confusion at the judge's cryptic words. "And what do you mean by that?"

Frollo finally straightened, chaperon in hand. He hollowly met the light brown eyes of the Archdeacon and answered, "I think it would be in the best interests of all of us if I part ways with Quasimodo."

Unsurprisingly, Augustin's eyes grew wide with disbelief. He lowered his voice and shakenly replied, "You must be joking—have you forgotten your penance?"

"I will find another way to redeem my soul since you hold that it’s never too late to do so. After everything that's ensued because of the boy's mother, I believe that nine years' worth of guardianship is more than enough as payment."

"Precisely—only nine years and he is still a child who needs you. Your penance is not yet complete!"

Irked, Frollo quickly bit back, "And what if I write to the King and procure funds to make repairs to the church? Would God not view that as an appropriate offering?"

"The Lord does not bargain and you know that." The Archdeacon fought to prevent becoming livid at the Minister's selfishness, and he especially didn't want to see young Quasimodo orphaned once again by the same man.

Frollo spitefully thought back to seeing his own father dropping pennies into Notre Dame's collection box every Sunday. The man had reminded his son that any sin could be erased at the right price.

"Don’t be so quick to make such a rash decision," Augustin pleaded. "Do not give up on the boy—he needs you!"

"As does Paris," Frollo's tone remained unchanged. "Maybe the Lord sees that the time has come for me to separate myself from the boy, devote myself entirely to the city again. He has already shown the way to remove myself from Jehan's madness."

"If you abandon Quasimodo now, you can consider your atonement incomplete."

"It can't be done!" Frollo suddenly spat, his gray eyes frantic as he leaned exhaustedly against the wooden pew beside him, chest heaving. Suddenly his taut frame began to shake. "I am torn between my obligation to the boy, the city, and Jehan. God knows teaching him has all been in vain—who’s to say that I won't fail in my other endeavors?" Anxiously, the judge gripped at his hair as he attempted to steady himself.

It was truly unsettling to see a man so reserved crumble, especially in a place so simultaneously peaceful and intimidating. Frollo clutched at his chest as he took in sharp breaths, distress coloring his face deathly pale.

Afraid the judge might fly into a fit of rage, Augustin spoke up. "What you need is patience, and God will grant you the strength to overcome these obstacles."

"Patience is of little help at this point," Frollo snapped. "I don't even care for the boy—the most logical solution would be for the two of us to part ways." He felt as though the Archdeacon's eyes burned into him with harsh condemnation, as if they damned him with the most loathsome of words, Coward…

The judge knew that he must have looked painfully weak in front of this man of God, but he could feel himself breaking apart with every passing moment.

"Claude," Augustin pleaded, inching toward him with his own hands folded. "I beg you, do not abandon Quasimodo. If this is a matter of doubt, consider this: it is possible to learn to love him, but you must keep your heart open. After everything that your brother has put you through, you can extend that same courtesy to your own ward." Frollo felt himself become sick with grief as he listened to the man's words of wisdom. Augustin continued. "You can still be a good father, and to do that, you can start by being the man you wanted your own to be. And you might be happier in doing so."

It made the Minister's skin prickle to know how much the Archdeacon knew about him and the past abuses at the hands of his father. Frollo knew in his heart that he could only care so much about his charge, and that he might never embrace him as his own. After all, it was his own father who reminded him that showing such emotions was a sure sign of weakness.

Detachedly, Frollo finally responded, "I suppose for the sake of my soul…it would be wise to complete the task the Lord has charged me with."

Augustin breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness," he muttered. "I'm proud of you, Claude."

Despite this, the judge was quick to coldly remind the man, "But I am not obligated to love the boy. I will try and show more compassion, but that is all I can offer."

X

"And you saw to it that my brother is already gone?" Frollo immediately inquired from one guard upon returning to the Palace of Justice. The rain outside had lightened tremendously after the storm last night.

"Actually, sir, he hasn't left," the man answered, following the judge's strides. "He locked himself in one of the chambers and refuses to let anyone in."

"Is that so? Well I'm sure I can reason with him," Frollo replied, trying to hide his annoyance as he shook some rain from his robe. Could this boy not take a hint? What would make him believe that I'd give him any hospitality after the little stunt he pulled?

At the Minister's request, he was led through the Palace before being brought to Jehan's room. Taking the key-ring and unlocking the door, Frollo was immediately met with a strained voice crying out, "I told you to go away!"

Never faltering, Frollo drifted forward into the chambers where his eyes fell upon the miserable wretch balled up in the middle of his bed. Sarcastically, the judge quipped, "Well, forgive me for I didn't receive the notice."

Jehan sat up as soon as he recognized his brother's voice, roughly wiping at his eyes. Frollo noticed the younger’s clothes were rumpled, evidencing that he had hardly left his bed. The pelting of rain drops against the window pane tested the silence between them.

"Why are you still here?" the judge coldly inquired, crossing his arms. "One would think that there is a tavern questioning your whereabouts right about now." Frollo could barely make out the sullen expression on his brother's face in the dark chambers. Jehan didn't move, merely slumping as he peered up at Claude.

"Don't tell me you are still lamenting about them," the judge callously said. "For pity's sake, it's water under the bridge now—it's past time to forget about the whole ordeal and move on."

"But I can't!" Jehan cried, sitting up and facing his brother. "Claude, I feel terrible about those kids. I-I can't stop thinking about them…how I just let them go."

The judge covered his hand over his eyes in exasperation, shaking his head. "Why is this so difficult for you to accept?" he sharply asked, his voice rising. "Those people were practically a horde of strangers to you!"

"You don't get it." Jehan drew his knees to his chest, his expression pitiful and his eyes red and puffy. It was foreign to see him so wracked about something of this nature, as it was more expected to see him broken about the amount of money in his purse.

"I think I do well enough," Claude countered. "You had one opportune moment to step forth and take charge for your actions—and your own flesh and blood at that—and did exactly the opposite. I can see how that might upset a person."

"But you of all people wouldn't know how it feels," Jehan distraughtly replied, tangling his fingers in his blond curls. "Finding out somebody had your children, and never having the chance to know them…You don't have any kids by blood, you just have Quasimodo, so I don't expect you to understand." Tears escaped from his bright blue eyes as he pleaded.

This bout of pity was grating on the Minister's nerves. To prevent himself from an outburst, he promptly folded his hands before him and evenly responded, "You are correct, but that is only because I have never had the luxury of someone aiding me at every turn. I have always had to accept accountability for my actions. As for Quasimodo, he is still my responsibility as if he were my own. How I personally feel towards the boy is irrelevant."

"You never wish that sometimes you had children of your own?" Jehan asked, sniffling.

Frollo was almost baffled by such stupidity. "No. You and Quasimodo are enough," the Minister deadpanned.

"But those kids were my family!" Jehan's eyes began to shed more tears, trying to choke back a sob. "We shouldn't have done this!"

"Then why didn't you step forward and do the right thing?!" Claude wanted to reach over and beat the life out of this pathetic little man.

Jehan mumbled some incoherent answer, irritating his brother further. "I can't…Not with my life—the chaos—all of it. My lifestyle has no place for kids."

Claude's face twisted to an expression of indignation. "And do you think my own life was in need of children when I became Quasimodo's guardian—it wasn't! But I forced myself to do what needed to be done. I have obligations that you will never need to worry about, and yet I found the ability to do what was right!"

"I ruined those kids, Claude!"

"That's enough!" the man venomously snapped. At last Claude was done with this bemoaning. He marched closer and gripped his brother by his shoulders.

"Listen to me!" he dangerously growled, slate-gray eyes narrowing. "You put them out of your mind this instant! They were nothing to you—they will always be nothing to you! They are not your family, do you understand? I am your only blood—I am all that you have in this world. The sooner you realize that, the better!"

Jehan blinked at his brother's words, jaw trembling. It shook him that he could be so unfeeling towards something so personal. After years of giving his pity, it seemed as though Claude was finally spent. "But I…"

Before Jehan could finish saying anything, Claude menacingly ordered, "Repeat after me: they are nothing to us." He continued to tighten his grip on Jehan and his threatening gaze never left the boy's eyes. Even now he was forced to comfort his brother as a sniveling wreck, attempting to make him grow up.

For a moment Jehan just sat there, looking back to the apathetic grimace on Claude's face. His heart felt so heavy with guilt that he couldn't find the strength to repeat these pitiless words, even as his brother's fingers gripped savagely into his shoulders.

"Say it!" Claude thundered fiercely, shaking his brother with rage. As much as he wanted to throttle this idiot of a brother, he restrained himself to only this iron-like grip.

Jehan could feel more stinging tears running down his cheeks, now embarrassed that Claude looked upon him in this sorry state. Hollowly, he muttered out, "They're nothing to us."

"And…?"

"And they'll always be nothing to us." If he was unhappy before, Jehan was absolutely devastated now as the bleak words left his lips. The bereft feeling led him to ignore the bruises left by his brother's fingers in his arms.

Claude finally released him, grumbling, "Good. Now that we understand each other, we will forget this little episode and carry on, correct?"

The boy vacantly looked down at the darkened floor, not acknowledging the Minister. Numbly, Jehan agreed, "Right."

Frollo couldn't help but roll his eyes at his brother, who tried to keep his tears from escaping anymore. "To wear one's heart on their sleeve is a dangerous thing, you know," the judge darkly commented as he headed toward the door. "You will only allow others to trick and manipulate you in doing so. I suggest that you lock those feeble emotions down now, and learn to suppress them before anything like this ever happens again. In fact, you should have learned such a skill years ago."

Before he could turn to leave, Jehan's voice suddenly croaked out, "When did you become so cold? And unfeeling?" There was a sense of accusation in his voice, but at the same time he was truly curious.

Frollo's brows drew together as he looked back at Jehan, still slumped forward. The judge was visibly taken aback by such a question, stopping to ponder an appropriate answer. His younger brother, in turn, scrutinized him, waiting for an answer. In all their years together, Jehan had hardly ever been interested in his older brother's personal life, and now this?

"Have you always been so heartless?" Jehan added, a greater edge in his tone.

In a most grim voice, Claude answered, "I have always been cold; it is more prudent to do away with such trivial things like emotions. That is how you stay alive."

Jehan let out a choked laugh, although there was no humor in it at all. "So that's all that matters?" he tested, a little surprised by Claude's words. "Looking out for yourself?"

Placing his hands behind his back, Frollo unwaveringly answered, "It is called survival, yes. Do you believe that I have accomplished everything in life by sheer dumb luck, or by bending to the wills of others?"

"What—"every man for himself"?"

"Absolutely," Claude affirmed, casually dusting his robe. "I learned at a young age that the world is a merciless place devoid of any sympathy. One learns that life is determined to topple you down, and what matters is choosing whether or not to stand back up. You must learn to keep fighting for yourself, no matter the cost. Show any weakness and you'll be eaten alive like common prey. And personally, I prefer that to my heart being at the mercy of another."

Jehan ran one of his hands through his blond hair, sniffling again. "Have you ever loved anyone?"

Frollo gritted his teeth, wishing that Jehan hadn't asked him such a thing. Quickly, he instead replied, "I think we've indulged in enough mindless prattle for the day. You may stay the night, but I want you out by tomorrow morning." He left without another word.

X

Pushing his study door open, Frollo instantly noticed a slumped figure lazed about in the chair before his desk. He recognized the blond curls and rolled his eyes in irritation. He coldly greeted, "Why are you still here? I swear, Jehan, I will have you dragged out if I must."

Jehan straightened up and locked eyes with the Minister, blue orbs surrounded by dark tired circles. "You were right," the young man croaked out as Claude sat down opposite him. "I shouldn't have forced you into this mess. I-I ruined that woman and those kids' lives. I made you help me when you didn't need to, and…I'm sorry."

Frollo had bitten back any more harsh reprimand once Jehan offered his own words of remorse. Seeing the defeat etched on Jehan's once cherubic face convinced him that such sentiment might be true.

Please, he's obviously trying to manipulate you, he mentally warned himself. Sternly, he replied, "Spare me the theatrics. I've cleaned up enough of your messes to know that you have no regret for anything that you've done, let alone this."

"I'm serious, Claude," Jehan weakly bit back, leaning forward on his brother's desk. "I should have handled this whole issue by myself instead of pushing you to take care of it. And I'll keep my promise and take care of myself."

Reclining back and folding his hands in front of him, Frollo raised a brow in doubt. "I've known you long enough to know that you don’t intend to honor your word."

The young man rose from his seat, his posture not as confident as usual. "I swore that if I run into trouble, I'd handle it, and I will."

Claude still wasn't completely convinced at this immediate turnaround. It wasn't unlike Jehan to use his charm into swaying his brother into forgiving him, even in the most trying of times. Skeptical, he carefully questioned, "Is that so? And why the sudden change of heart? You have been offering me false promises of bettering yourself for years—why should now be any different?"

Jehan averted his eyes shamefully to the gray flagstones beneath his feet. When he found the courage to face Claude again, he defeatedly answered, "Because last night I realized that you've been acting like a father to me for years, and I should've started treating you as my brother a long time ago."

The Minister was at a loss for words. He simply focused on Jehan and let him continue his confession.

Jehan sighed heavily, regret in his voice as he went on. "You were right: I should have acted like a man and handled things better. I guess…I suppose that's the difference between us: you have the ability to act as a father, and I didn't want to do the same for Pomona's children. And I feel terrible for what I made you do."

Claude found himself stupefied by this uncharacteristic tenderness. In all their years, their dynamic seemed to consist solely of guilt, resentment, and abuse. In his mind the judge could still see those small faces, so identical to their father.

"The point is," Jehan uttered, brushing some hair back. "I had no right to make you do it—you've been saving my neck my whole life, and it's time for me to look out for myself. I mean, you have a kid to look after too—the last thing you need is me pulling you into another mess."

A brief moment of heavy silence passed between the two brothers, both lost in their own contemplative thoughts. Jehan himself felt his insides continuing to churn with agonizing guilt while Claude mulled over these heartful words.

Straightening his back, the Minister spoke up. "You really have never seen me as your brother? That is why you've taken advantage of my kindness all these years?"

Jehan shrugged. "Well, it's not that surprising—you've always been the one teaching me, defending me, screaming at me. And when Pomona said that she wanted me to help raise those kids. I…I knew that there was no way that I could do it."

Claude raised his eyebrows in surprise. Jehan had always touted himself as a man who never backed away from a challenge and thrived on chaos. It was something to hear him admit such a crippling fear which started to make the judge more inclined to believe in this change.

"I know I've never made it easy on you, and I didn't want to go through that," the young man added.

It was true: in all his efforts to keep Jehan out of trouble, Claude had ill-prepared him for the harsh realities of his misdeeds. And years of mocking his brother for being an adopted father must have secretly instilled fear in Jehan over the prospect of parenthood.

Claude mirthlessly chuckled, resting his head against the back of his chair. "I have been much too tolerant of your misbehavior," he replied, casting a grave expression to the boy. "Heaven knows that if you forced your own father to endure such an ordeal, he would have shown no mercy whatsoever."

"Really? How do you think he would have taken this?"

Flatly, the Minister answered, "He would have crushed you like a mere insect. He had no patience for foolishness, and your actions would have had you thrown to the wolves without a second thought."

Jehan's eyes widened, suddenly thankful for his brother's leniency. "I take it he wasn't as sensitive about these issues as you?"

Claude glared sourly at him, sitting up. "Let me remind you of something: when our parents passed on, I swore to God that I would do everything in my power to protect you. I could have easily left you on the steps of some chapel and washed my hands of the deed. But I chose to care for you because you are my brother. Our father felt no obligation to ever lend me a helping hand."

"You didn't learn everything from him, did you?"

"You should count your blessings that he didn't raise you—he could be downright ruthless should you be seen as weak. Do you know what he did to me when I was merely six years old?"

X

"Oh, for God's sake, you're crying?" The Minister of Justice taunted, rearing up from his seat in the parlor. He stormed toward his young son, who instantly recoiled.

Claude couldn't help the tears that managed to escape his eyes. "No, I'm not—I'm not crying, Father, please!" Suddenly the sound of thunder rattled the house, shaking its old windows. The poor boy couldn't prevent a terrified cry escaping his throat as he clasped his small hands over his ears.

"You're crying over a little thunder?" his father tested, gripping Claude by the arm. "How can you be a man if you can't even brave something as small as a thunderstorm?" He yanked his son out of the parlor roughly. "Come with me!" he ordered, dragging the frightened boy away. Rain continued to pelt against the windowpanes harshly.

His wife, while timid, quickly followed the Minister. "Nicolas, what are you doing?" she asked, worry causing her voice to shake.

He pulled his squirming son through the house, wife in tow. "Unless somebody has died, you have no reason to cry!" he bellowed at the boy, dragging him through the kitchen.

Nicolas's iron-like clasp and another booming crack of thunder petrified Claude. Without warning, his father pushed through the back door of the kitchen leading to the courtyard outside. Rain poured down on him and his father as the latter yanked him aside. Mud squished under Claude's feet and his black hair stuck to his face, a mixture of rain and tears nearly blinding him.

Once again Claude's mother cried out for answers, hanging onto the doorway in her hysteria. "What are you doing?!"

Clutching at his small son's shoulders, the Minister blared, "No son of mine is going to be made a fool of by a little noise in the sky! You're going to learn that thunder is nothing to be afraid of—you are going to stand out here until you aren't afraid of it anymore!"

Claude felt as though his arms were going numb by his father's deathly grip. He squeezed his eyes shut as another clap of thunder fell on his ears, all the while shaking like a leaf. "I have to stay out here?!" he reaffirmed, eyes wide in shock.

"Nicolas!" his mother called, evidently beside herself. "He's only six!"

"Stay out of this!" he barked, finally releasing Claude and sending the boy slipping back. He turned his harsh expression back toward his son. "You will learn to be a man, even if it is the last thing I do!"

Claude staggered up, trying not to slip back into the mud. "But I don't want—" he pleaded.

"The thunder is not going to kill you! Now stay out here and face your fear like a man!" Nicolas marched back into the great manor and shut the door forcefully, the heavy lock slamming back into place.

Claude wrapped his arms around his thin frame as the rain poured down on him mercilessly, trying to keep his teeth from chattering by gritting them tightly. Lightning rippled across the night sky followed by more loud crashes of thunder. The sound was murderous on his ears, but the only thing he could do now was wait for it to pass. His chest heaved as he stumbled through the slippery mud toward the tall oak on the other side of the yard. Seating himself against the trunk, Claude shivered as the rain seeped into his clothes and tears continued to roll down his cheeks.

X

The young man was visibly shaken, always uncomfortable when his brother shared a small tidbit of his past with him. He tried to lighten the gloomy atmosphere. "Maybe you're just a natural at the paternal role," Jehan remarked, placing his hands on his hips as he attempted to regain his old demeanor. "God knows you've always managed to protect me and Quasi. Some of us aren't meant to be parents—you might be, considering you're the responsible one."

"Well, it isn't as though I had much of a choice in becoming a surrogate father to you or the boy," Claude darkly stated, tapping his fingers against his armrest.

"You're still the closest thing we've got, so thanks for that. But those kids…they made me realize that you won't always be there to save me."

The judge nodded solemnly, gradually accepting Jehan's words. Perhaps this whole mishap was a small blessing in disguise. "Still," Claude morosely began. "I suppose we are saddled with each other, aren't we? If that is God's plan, who are we to argue with His will?"

"We're all we've got," Jehan added, a lopsided smile just barely stretching over his lips. "But hopefully not like Cain and Abel."

As if his antics haven't been taxing enough all these years, Claude bitterly thought.

"I'm glad we've reached an understanding," Jehan perked up. "I've got some things to take care of in the city, so I should be on my way." Before he could take his leave, Jehan turned back towards his brother, still planted at his desk. "Thank you again, Claude."

The Minister raised his hand to him. "You're welcome. But remember: this was the last time. I expect you to honor your word."

"Of course." Jehan threw his cloak around his shoulder and promptly left.

X

The next day Frollo returned to Notre Dame, to which he found Quasimodo at his table, busying himself with a little drawing on his wax tablet. "I take it you are feeling better, my boy?" Frollo inquired as he entered the bell tower, a basket of food in hand.

Quasimodo smiled and approached the austere man. "Oh, yes, Master! Much better!"

"I'm happy to see you've made such a swift recovery. I may have neglected some of my work, but a small sacrifice to make for your well-being," he smoothly drawled, extracting a grateful nod from the boy. Setting the basket down, Frollo took out an apple and handed it to the boy. "And we should thank the Lord that such an illness did not take you."

"Of course—praise be to God!" Quasimodo piped up. "A-and thank you, sir!"

The two sat and ate, Frollo always pensive. Suddenly, he spoke. "Do you realize how fortunate you are to have me as your guardian, Quasimodo?"

The boy quickly swallowed the fruit in his mouth. "Y-yes, Master, always."

Frollo decided that it was time to remind the boy of his power. "Especially after I saved you from the savagery of the townsfolk when you were just an infant. I still shudder to think of what they might have done to you had I not intervened. Never forget that they would have murdered you in cold blood."

Quasimodo's lips turned downwards, his expression crestfallen. "Why…why are you telling me this?" he asked carefully.

"Let us just say that certain events in the last few days should make us grateful for the ones we have in our lives. Although, some are more burdensome than others."

Chapter Text

For days now, the Minister had imposed on himself a new penance, specifically denying himself proper nourishment. He settled for a penitent diet of water, bread, and prayer in an effort to purge the sin. It certainly kept his mind from circling back to his anger with Jehan, though he didn't feel completely relieved of this whole ordeal with his brother. The discussion days ago with Augustin had rattled the judge a bit more than he would like to admit. Frollo had accepted that despite his brother's promise of maturity, the latter would suffer for casting out his own bastard children. He concluded that it would be up to him to ensure the safety of his little brother's soul once more, despite the pain and exhaustion it brought over him. Images of those young and innocent little faces continue to appear in his mind, sickening him to his very core.

Over the following few days, the Minister continued to occupy his attention with work and caring for the boy. Today he was relieved that Quasimodo had regained his strength in his master's care. Frollo himself, on the other hand, did not feel as strong as he usually did. Lately, in fact, he had been plagued by coughing fits and aches that became incredibly disruptive to his court sessions. Nevertheless, he merely brushed it off as some nuisance caused by the late winter air and nothing more.

"Drink," Frollo ordered as he handed the boy yet another cup of tea concocted of elderberry, courtesy of the cathedral's kitchens. "The sickness may have passed but we must ensure that it stays away." He noted again, followed by a hollow cough. He continued to ignore the pain in his stomach that had been gnawing away at him for days.

Quasimodo finished the drink and looked up gratefully at his guardian. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Truthfully, he enjoyed being able to see the Minister more often, despite Quasimodo feeling back to his old self once again. Though the boy had noticed that his master had been coughing more than ever in the last day or two. Given how much the man had been put through taking care of him, Quasimodo was hesitant to ask.

"Very good," Frollo said evenly, a rough cough suddenly racking his chest as he quickly covered it into the crook of his arm. "Now then, have you—" Once more, the cursed coughs escaped him, this time repeatedly and louder. Composing himself, he continued. "Have you reviewed our Hebrew lesson?"

Quasimodo studied his master cautiously, noting the shaking in the man's shoulders during this coughing fit. Despite his concern, the boy decided to keep quiet and dutifully found his little wax tablet and stylus. He now sat across from the Minister and waited for his lesson, all the while the latter's face became incredibly flushed when he finally subdued the coughing. Frollo promptly rattled off instructions for the boy to write out a few letters, meanwhile noticing his shoulder muscles beginning to feel tighter and heavier.

The Minister was sure that having not seen his brother for the last few days would come as a relief, but all he had found were chills and tiredness. Jehan's family debacle coupled with treating Quasimodo's illness, he figured, was simply stress aggravating him. But these meddlesome coughs and pains implied something more…something worse.

"Aleph, bet, gimel—one, two, and three, right, Master?" Quasimodo asked carefully, raising his work a little. Even the boy noticed that his guardian did not seem entirely engaged with the assignment.

Hollowly and barely offering a glance, Frollo merely answered, "Yes, indeed." Another cough escaped. "Now…" He cleared his throat, disgusted with himself. "What about the next…four letters?"

While Quasimodo demonstrated his proficiency in letters by drawing out another rough sketch over his tablet, the Minister found himself increasingly distracted: while a headache made its way over him, he also began to feel increasingly hot and bothered by more unrelenting coughs.

"How was that?" the boy asked unsurely, unnerved by the bright color in his master's countenance.

"Ve…very good," the Minister sputtered out, his breaths becoming shallow. "Excellent work, my boy."

Quasimodo carefully studied his guardian, as it was terribly unlike man to be hunched over and heaving. "Master," he squeaked out, turning his head to meet those gray glassy eyes opposite him. He couldn't stop his curiosity anymore and just had to ask, "Are you…are you feeling alright?"

"Just marvelous!" Frollo snapped, his rough voice icy and face twisted miserably. Tiredly he dragged a hand over his face in exhaustion. Quasimodo recoiled and noticed that the Minister's frame shook, very uncharacteristic of the stone-like man.

"Forgive me, Quasimodo," the Minister breathed out, dabbing some sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "I'm a bit, um…out of sorts at the moment." As his chest heaved, he pitifully felt as though he was being weighed down by a dozen stones.

"Should I get Father Augustin?" the boy asked, leaping down from his seat.

Frollo waved a hand frantically, dismissing the idea. "No, don't bother him—it's merely a slight cough and it will pass." Unfortunately, his words were followed a sharp cough and wheeze, sickening the man himself.

He wavered a bit as he stood up and gathered his hat in hand. After releasing another harsh cough into the crook of his elbow, Frollo staggered towards the stairs. "No, I-I believe I should go home and…" His words were punctuated by sick, shallow breaths. "And rest." As he trudged down the steps lethargically, Frollo balanced himself by holding onto the wooden beams flanking them.

"Are you sure?" the boy piped as he hopped down after his guardian. "He might have something to help you feel better—"

"I assure you, Quasimodo, it is nothing you need to worry about." While the judge hoped his words could put the boy's mind at ease, Frollo could feel his muscles tightening as the illness was taking hold. Upon reaching the top of the winding stairwell, the idea of the spinning descent suddenly unleashed a dizzying sensation and caused his stomach to churn. How on earth did you manage to get up here in the first place? He mentally bemoaned, hand clutching at his burning forehead.

Quasimodo watched his master, who stood motionless and steadying himself against the stone doorway. The boy was concerned that he might tumble forward down the seemingly endless winding stairs. He wanted the judge to refrain from pushing himself and risk injury in such a state. Quasimodo raised a finger, hoping to ask his master to please rest, but quickly stopped himself in fear of the man chiding him.

Despite the pounding headache and tension all over his being, Frollo forced himself down the stairs. He knew that the image of holding himself against the icy stone wall easily resembled a drunkard, but the heavy exhaustion prevented him from caring much anyway.

"Master, please be careful!" Quasimodo cried as he continued to follow his sluggish guardian.

"I've told you already, boy: you needn't worry about me," the Minister rumbled with another wave of his hand, his voice without any of its usual might. But dear Lord, if you send me falling down these steps as my fate, so be it, he dismally prayed, lumbering down the stairwell further.

It seemed like an eternity before the pair reached the bottom of the stairs and back into the church nave. "I don't think you'll have to worry about me falling in here, Quasimodo," Frollo observed, forcing himself to give the boy a light pat on the head. Despite the fraught air pervading Notre Dame, Frollo felt his skin continue to burn.

In a voice that was barely a mutter, the judge again said, "I should be going. I…I will return tomorrow, as usual."

"I-I hope you feel better, Master," Quasimodo earnestly offered, hating to see the man so defeated.

Frollo gave a tired nod and rubbed the back of his tender neck. "Of course. If Jehan stops by, tell him I am indisposed." Quasimodo responded with a confused tilt of his head, his master bluntly answering, "Tell him that I'm far too busy—and I can't be bothered with him. Now, I will be on my way…" Another violent cough pushed its way out of his lungs once more. After I catch my breath, he thought and now noticing his forehead positively burning. The judge dragged himself over towards one of the stone columns and balanced himself against it, his free hand clutching at his heaving chest.

"Master, I…I'm going to get help," Quasimodo announced, swiftly hopping away and leaving the Minister wheezing.

The man could barely croak out a breathy protest. Frollo tugged at the stiff collar as it felt like a snake constricting itself around his throat. All the while his body continued to burn underneath his heavy black robe. Pull yourself together! He scolded himself, trying to ignore how much his whole being ached.

With the rest of his remaining energy, Frollo pulled himself across the nave and headed for the front doors. Perhaps his workload waiting at the Palace of Justice might help in distracting him from his pain and fatigue. Get back to the Palace and everything else will fall into place, he tried to console himself. However, he felt his energy suddenly sapped and needed to rest against the cold stone wall, just short of escaping through those old wooden doors. But the pounding in his head only grew more powerful…Just need a moment…

Frollo was suddenly shaken from his exhaustion as a hand gripped at his shoulder, causing him to instinctively flinch away and stumble back some. Through bleary eyes, he found Quasimodo had indeed returned with the Archdeacon beside him. "Minister, Quasimodo tells me that you're feeling unwell," Augustin addressed, his countenance sympathetic as he studied the judge's weakened expression. "Although he might've made light of it, just a tad."

Frollo offered a scowl to his adversary as he tried to regain his regal composure. "He has greatly exaggerated my condition; a mere cough is nothing to fret over. I must be leaving anyway as I…" Another harsh cough escaped in perfect time, undermining the judge's words.

Quasimodo clutched at the Archdeacon's arm, ill at ease as he watched his guardian almost crumble under this newfound sickness. Frollo, in turn, continued to heave and wiped at his face that was now beaded with sweat.

"I don't think you should be so quick to rush back to work in your condition," Augustin pointed, taking the judge's shoulder once again, encouraging him to reconsider.

Frollo promptly batted the man's hand away, huffing, "Nonsense. It will pass and I can—" Once again a cough broke though, threatening to buckle his knees.

"I think you should rest here, Claude. You know there are cells where you can recuperate."

Frollo looked down at his agitated ward. Quasimodo then said, his voice soft and cautious, "Y-you should, Master. You need to rest." The Minister suddenly felt agitated by their pleading eyes on him, detesting the pity on their faces.

He shook his head (instantly regretting it) and breezed past the pair back towards the door. His voice was even weaker when he spoke and his head was spinning. "I have work to do," he muttered hazily. It took a great amount of effort for him to push open Notre Dame's doors, ignoring the now distorted words beseeching him to remain in the cathedral.

Outside the wind began to pick up, replacing the feverish burning with terrible chills and forcing him to wrap his cloak tighter around him. Just as he had with the doors, the mundane task of unhitching his horse from the post outside took shaking hands and unfocused eyes. Frollo leaned a bit against the great black beast momentarily to regain his strength. His body threatened to give up as he forced himself to mount up on the horse, another raspy cough escaping to compliment the effort.

It was with every ounce of his remaining energy that Frollo forced himself to keep upright as the horse trotted along. Words by passing Parisians or patrol guards were muddled and the winding streets were disjointed in his vision. His gaunt face still burned and his body trembled, making him fear that he might just fall out of the saddle into the muddy street. Even Romulus detected a change in his rider and shook his head harshly, making his black mane fly about.

Frollo inwardly prayed thanks when his horse arrived at the Palace and wordlessly handed off the reins to the stablehand. Inside, he fought back the urge to vomit as a handful of clerks suddenly surrounded him with hands filled with books, scrolls, and inquiries. A horrible cacophony rose from their battling voices and was worse than any trumpet to be blown on Judgment Day.

"Minister, these scrolls need your seal and signature!"

"Sir, we cannot delay this trial any further!"

"I have man filing a repeat claim and is asking for a session!"

How he wanted to rush off and shut himself into his chambers, away from this noise. The Minister ran a hand over his clammy face and attempted to steady himself, knowing full well that such an idea was now impossible. Forcing a collected demeanor, Frollo steadily announced, "Gentlemen, if you would follow me to my study, I would be glad to answer all of your questions." The clerks and scribes trailed after him, making him mentally curse them as their dissonance continued to make his head pound.

X

The hours ticked on slowly, which only exasperated the Minister as he struggled to stay alert. The simple task of stamping scrolls and signing his name required more energy than anything he had done in a long while. Trying to discuss judicial matters was constantly punctuated with harsh, wheezing coughs. It pained him to delay more trials to preside over, knowing he was in no state to be overseeing any cases. The glaring orange sun was close to setting when he was able to sign and seal the last of these pesky documents.

"Thank you again, Minister," a young clerk chirped, closing up one of his many ledgers. "Apologies but we weren't expecting today to be busier than usual."

The judge rose from his desk, albeit with difficulty. Strained and trying to mask his tiredness, Frollo flatly clipped, "Neither was I." He could feel heat rushing to his forehead and prayed the low light would hide his sickly appearance.

The clerk placed a hand on the study door handle and glanced back at the Minister. "Well, I suppose we should brace ourselves: the rest of the week is likely to be just as mad. Good evening, sir."

Frollo merely offered a nod and sent off the young man. At the thud of the door closing, he promptly collapsed onto his desk, resting his head in his arms. Lord, he dolefully prayed, fingers gripping into his arms. Why today of all days do you plague me like this?

You can blame the boy, his mind grimly offered as it fought off the ruthless headache, followed by more coughing. He did this to you—after all your mercy and kindness. Why couldn't it have been Jehan? Before he knew it, exhaustion had shrouded over him into a heavy slumber.

When he finally woke, Frollo scanned over the dark study, which was barely lit by the wax stubs that were once candles surrounding him. Outside it was already night, and he noticed stiffness in his neck from his awkward sleeping position. Reluctantly, he tore himself away from his desk and stretched out his sore neck, deciding to retire to his chambers.

Out in the corridor, the air was frigid and the chills quickly returned. Frollo crossed his arms over his chest as he attempted to fight off the cold, comforted by the thought of the privacy of his own chambers to ride out this sickness. He was relieved that the hallways offered scant light from the sconces on the wall, as he was certain any more would allow for a migraine to take hold.

Once inside his chamber, Frollo quickly shed his robe as the feverish heat began to make his skin boil again. He began shaking and attempted to keep himself standing by holding onto one of the beams of his bed. His head spun again and he felt his legs grow weak, instantly followed by a lurching sensation in his stomach and throat. The Minister lumbered forward and grabbed for a nearby chamber pot, regurgitating and wiping his mouth with a remorseful groan. Drained, and his mind foggy, he was disgusted at the sight of himself becoming incapacitated.

Frollo fumbled around until his hands wrapped around a bottle of wine he had stored away in one of the chests. Uncorking it, he took a hearty swig as he prayed it might offer some reprieve after emptying the contents of his stomach. Shouldn't have wine when fasting…you'll have to fast even more…His feverish inner voice nagged him. What's a bit more penance anyway?

With intense lethargy, Frollo struggled to remove his boots and clothes, only sated when he could crawl into the plush comfort of his bed. He pulled his linen sheet tightly around him as his frame continued to tremble. He could feel his face becoming hotter and perspiring, all the while the headache pounded at the front of his skull like a hammer on steel.

You'll feel better tomorrow, he tried to console himself, followed by another cough racking his chest.

X

A cloud of boisterous laughter barged through the tavern door with Jehan leading the way with his posse in tow. In his hand he jangled a heavy pouch whose sound was clinking victoriously with coins. "Not too shabby on today's work, so have a round on me, gentlemen!" Jehan giddily announced and making his way to the bar counter. Such generosity was met with affable pats on the shoulder and grateful thanks as the barkeep filled mugs for them all.

"It's a shame though," one of Jehan's fellows remarked, leaning heavily against the counter and swirling his mug of beer around. "We could've made a lot more had you been there."

Jehan huffed before taking a long swig of his own drink. "I told you already—I had some personal business that needed tending to. So why don't you just drink and try to relax."

"Fine." While still bitter, he still offered a clink of their mugs as a small sign of goodwill. Almost instantly everyone was absorbed in conversations and laughter, jovial after another day of moneymaking. True to form, Jehan found that the emotional turmoil days ago could be easily remedied by old habits; nothing that plenty of drinks and the company of painted women couldn't fix. He readily ordered some celebratory wine to accompany their lonely jug of beer.

"I can't believe we were able to get all of it out to market so quickly," Jehan's friend remarked, filling his wine cup from the worn earthen jug.

"Considering I had to haggle with old bastard to no end—it's a miracle if I ever saw one." Jehan threw back his drink and let the cheap wine course down his throat with ease. "But we turned a profit! And we already have another order from Rheims, but I'll see if I can't get a good deal out of him."

Jehan's associate gave an understanding nod and kept his shifty eyes scanning over tavern. "So, what was this "personal business" that was so important?" the man inquired, keeping his eyes away in trying to mask his curiosity.

"Nothing pleasant." Jehan awkwardly scratched his head and pointed for the bar maid to top off his cup.

"And your brother took care of it? Cleaned it up again for you?"

"As per usual. But I might need to watch my step around Claude right now; I promised him I wouldn't drag him into any more madness." Jehan shook his head morosely at the idea of his protector finally sheathing his figurative sword, no longer at Jehan's beck and call. "And I have no idea how I'm supposed to that."

"What—you intend make good on that?" His other friend pointed, having been eavesdropping and turning towards their leader. "Just keep your head low and pray that he'll forget you even promised such a thing!"

"Not a terrible idea." Their third man agreed, nudging Jehan in the ribs encouragingly.

"Not "terrible", but probably not realistic," Jehan noted, pushing his drink aside. "Claude's got a sharp memory—and I mean dangerously sharp. Then again…" He tapped his fingers as he considered his options carefully. "I've broken so many promises to him, what's one more?" With this, he offered a wicked chuckle.

"Just like a pie crust, your promises," one noted with a smug grin.

"How's that?"

"Easy to make and easy to break!" The comment earned boisterous laughter from each of them, Jehan included.

"And he still has no idea how you're making your way?" one asked, flashing his teeth in a devious smile. "He never asks why you've stopped asking him for money?"

"He doesn't ask, and I'd like to keep it that way," Jehan answered confidently and gave an amused snort. "He wouldn't know what's going on if it walked up and punched him in his big, crooked nose."

Their third man raised a point. "With the amount of money that you're funneling to keep it quiet, it shouldn't come as a surprise that he hasn't found out."

Jehan nodded, picking up his nearly empty cup again and raising it to his lips. "I love my brother, but I'd also love to see the look on his face if he ever found out about our little operation. But knowing Claude, he'd probably murder me right then and there."

"Well, until he does, no reason not to celebrate now. Here's to our continued success!" His friend lifted the earthenware jug and guzzled down the remaining wine, his sputtering easily getting another laugh from Jehan and a few other bar patrons.

Jehan and his compatriots threw themselves into the raucous activity of the tavern, sharing their cheer in buying drinks for weary travelers and local drunks. Within minutes the entire tavern was red-faced and warm with mirth as beer and wine flowed freely, Jehan at the helm as he encouraged more drinks. As he continued to shell out his earnings, he welcomed the inebriated adulation from these barflies.

He and his friends were now occupied with a few busty young women pressed against them, persistently offering their services to the trio. Jehan was making teasing chit-chat and letting one run her hands through his hair when some passing words caught his attention: "Looks like Paris might be getting a new Minister of Justice!"

Jehan's attention snapped up at a couple of strangers nearby from where he heard such a comment, his brows drawing together curiously. Brushing the girl aside, Jehan quickly strode towards the little mass of drinkers huddled together in the corner. "Excuse me gentlemen," Jehan interrupted, trying not to seem too eager. "What's, um…what's all this chatter I hear about a new Minister?"

The group exchanged some apprehensive glances before their supposed leader spoke up. "Well, I was just at Notre Dame—I had a few prayers to send—and the cathedral was buzzing! What I heard is that apparently he fell ill—just out of the blue! Can you believe it? Judge Frollo: always healthy as a horse, now he's got one foot in the grave. So you tell me that we're not due for a new Minister if he's collapsing in the church?"

It suddenly felt as though a weight dropped in Jehan's stomach at these words, causing him to take a nervous step backwards. Silently, he shuffled back towards the table where his friends sat, ignoring the surrounding the noise of happy drunks. He didn't even look at his pals and the smiling trollops in their laps sharing their drinks. One of Jehan's friends looked up at him and slurred, "Why do you look so down? You need another beer?"

Jehan shook his head and picked up his cloak he had left draped over his seat. Slinging it over his shoulder, he mumbled out, "I have to go."

"Go?" asked the other, shifting his eyes back and forth between Jehan and the lady in front of him. "We just got here—where are you off to?"

"I have to go see my brother." Jehan's distracted words were barely heard as he marched out of the tavern, fighting to keep himself from stumbling. Outside, Jehan's unsteady vision glanced up and down the black streets, deciding which way to go. Instinctively, his hand clutched at the dagger hanging at his belt, ready for action. With a deep breath, he set off down the streets towards the Palace of Justice, planning on staying close to the surrounding buildings and their shadows. He was confident that he knew the way back well enough that he could get there, despite being a little plastered.

His trip might have been marred with some stumbling, but the young man was grateful that he was able to avoid any unwanted attention when the Palace lay across the square, now before him. Through the darkness he could still recognize a few guards posted outside, spears and pikes in hand and torches making their armor glint. Jehan trudged forward until he was standing before a tall and imposing guard before the countless steps of his brother's home.

"Nobody gets in," the guard brusquely stated, sizing up the drunk young man.

"Yeah, well, Minister Frollo is my brother, so step aside and let me see him," Jehan ordered, puffing his chest out to appear clear-headed. Another guard was passing by with a torch in hand, holding it out to see what the exchange was about. Jehan turned and snapped, "Hey! Tell this walking oak tree to move—Minister Frollo is my brother!"

The second guard sighed wearily, letting his chin fall to his chest in irritation. To his associate, he remarked, "I wish it weren't but it's the honest-to-God truth." He thumbed towards the unembarrassed first guard and commented to Jehan, "New guy."

Jehan simply gave a sound of mild amusement. "And you're both worth every penny Claude's paying you." Arrogantly he brushed past them without a second glance. Still buzzed, he ambled up the seemingly endless steps to the Palace's front doors, cursing the effort it took. Once inside, he was stunned to see a mass of servants clustered together, their voices mingling and a myriad of expressions on their faces. As he strolled past them, the staff seemed to either not notice him or simply ignored him, not bothered by the Minister's brother at all. He was quickly disturbed by the snippets of their conversations he caught as he breezed past them:

"I saw him lying there—he looks like death."

"It's just odd to see him like this—the sickness took him just like that!"

"Well, I might just find somewhere else to work if he keels over. Judge Frollo's always been good to us."

"Maybe the next Minister might be an improvement!"

"Yeah? And maybe he might be some fat fool who'll whip us like animals."

Under his breath, Jehan muttered, "Jesus." He was becoming even more concerned about his brother, who had just seen him days before, the man ever sharp and resilient. He continued to navigate the icy corridors and considered something: he had never seen his brother fall ill. Blackout drunk, once; crushed by stress and anxiety—yes, many times—but sick? Never.

Coming upon the chamber door, he was met with a thin servant woman exiting, at her hip a basin with damp linen rags. "Oh!" he cried, trying to get her attention. He snapped his fingers as he tried to recall her name. "I want to say…Elise?" His awkward expression prayed that he guessed correctly.

"Violette." She corrected him sternly as she closed the door behind her. "Years of serving your brother would have allowed you to learn at least a few of our names."

"Inconsequential." Unbothered by her comment, he continued to pry. "How's Claude? Word is that he's a little under the weather."

The beaten down woman sighed and looked away, resting the silver basin against her stomach. With a solemn air, she answered, "Yes, he's not feeling very well. So it might serve you well to let him recover in private. No good can come from disturbing him."

"I'm his brother—I should see him. So why don't you go do your job and I'll check in on him, alright?" He gave her a brash wave of his hand, in hopes that she would leave him be. "How do I know you're not waiting for him to croak to try and make off with the valuables?" Even the young man knew this was a preposterous accusation, but he wouldn't be spoken to in such a way by his brother's staff.

The woman glowered at him. Even in the dark hallway, the irritation on her face at his entitlement was evident. "The man is running a fever and a terrible cough; I'm making sure he's taken care of. But good luck trying to coax any money out of him in this state."

"Wouldn't dream of it." With that, Jehan brushed past the distrustful woman and slunk through into his brother's chamber, promptly shutting the door behind him. Inside was a haunting and dangerous air surrounding him as he stepped in.

A few candles were lit, which kept the room almost cavernous, and a single window was cracked open to let in the crisp winter air. Jehan let his eyes adjust and focused on the four-poster bed where a dark figure lay exposed. His brother hated curtains: he said that they made one vulnerable in the event of an attack. When Jehan pressed him on whether it might make it easier for the attacker, Claude rebutted that at least the attacker would be just as visible and make for a fair fight.

Meekly, the young man barely raised his voice. "Claude?" He was met with no answer and decided to approach the bed. Jehan began to regret his decision as he drew closer, especially after having made a show of needing to see Claude immediately. He gulped and looked hard at this silhouette, blanching at the sight: Claude lay still and was bright red, his chest rising and falling heavily while ragged breaths escaped, and sweat covering his half-naked body.

"Claude?" Jehan repeated, a little louder this time. "It's me." He stepped back a bit when his brother opened his eyes, those gray orbs glazed and unfocused.

Claude's voice was gravelly and raw. "I hope you're Death in the guise of my brother." He instantly turned his head away and coughed hoarsely, earning a sneer from Jehan.

"We'd both be so fortunate if that were the case." Jehan leaned casually against a beam of the bed, looking awkwardly at his ghastly brother. "What happened? You were right as rain just a few days ago."

Claude coughed again. "It was the boy," the judge cursed, eyes now tightening shut. "He did this to me." His face was damp with sweat, no doubt the fever having yet to break.

"Well, you look like you're about to cross the river Styx."

"And I feel like it," Claude bemoaned, shifting uncomfortably. His eyes looked emptily at the sheet hanging over his head, as though looking past it to a higher power. "I think my time has come."

Jehan laughed. "Don't be so dramatic—it's a fever, for God's sake."

"Then why do I feel as though I'm at Death's door?"

"Now you match how you look," the younger jested, offering a twisted smile. That quickly dissipated when another cough racked Claude's chest and slight pity settled in Jehan's stomach. "Are you even eating?" he inquired, stepping back a little.

Claude answered slowly, "Bread and water…once a day…for days now." He now wrapped the linen sheet tighter around himself as he began shaking again.

"Why the hell would you do that?" Jehan incredulously snapped. "No wonder you're wasting away!"

"Fasting…" The Minister's gaze drifted every which way, unfocused. "Trying to atone for you."

The young man snorted tauntingly. "There's nothing to atone for though."

Claude's head rolled forward and his dark eyes found his little brother, which instantly unnerved Jehan. "What you did to that woman and her children," the judge rasped, his tone venomous. "I'm not going to Heaven marked by your sin."

"But we already took care of that—water under the bridge, remember?"

Claude's eyelids began to droop once more. "It's not enough," he said almost under his breath and letting his head fall back against his pillow.

Jehan shook his head in disbelief, and a bit of amusement. "Dramatic," he repeated disdainfully. "Just eat something and rest, then you might start to feel better." The comment seemed to be lost on the older brother, who now seemed to be fading back into unconsciousness. "Claude?" Jehan snapped his fingers trying to bring his brother back.

Claude's eyes fluttered open and did not bother to look at his brother. "People die from fevers everyday," he morbidly said and another cough escaped. "I need last rites."

"You're not dying." Jehan's patience was wearing thin. "It's a fever and cough—just say a prayer or two to Saint Andrew and rest. Why don't I tell one of your servants to bring you some actual food so you can—"

Without warning, Claude gripped Jehan by the front of his cloak and yanked him closer. His glassy gray eyes pierced Jehan's own bright blue ones. "I need you to go and get a priest," the judge hissed through clenched teeth. "Or Augustin—someone from the church. I must have absolution!"

Jehan pushed Claude's hand away from him. "I'm not going all the way to Notre Dame and dragging him down here just because you're too stubborn to eat. Why don't I just come back in a couple days and see how are you then?"

"I might not have "a couple days"!" Claude snarled, quickly covering his mouth and coughing. After collecting himself from such a fit, he breathed out, "Humor me: dying or not, just get a priest for me."

Jehan ran a hand over his curls as he considered it. With great frustration, he relented. "If I bring a priest, will it really put you at ease?"

"It will." That short bit of strength was quickly replaced with exhaustion as Claude sank back deeper.

"Even though you're not dying?"

The elder brother cocked his head back toward Jehan and cast him a wan expression of almost pleading. "Just go." Annoyed to be so inconvenienced, Jehan offered a few curses under his breath before exiting his brother's chamber and slamming the door behind him.

X

"In the middle of the damn night," Jehan muttered, now reluctantly more sober as he pounded his fist against the huge front door of the cathedral. He impatiently tapped his fingers against his crossed arms as he waited for someone to answer. Should have just gone back to the tavern and told Claude nobody at Notre Dame would answer, he mused as he tried to stop himself from shivering. He shook his head at the missed opportunity, teeth now chattering.

It felt like an eternity before the door was opened by a wide-eyed priest holding up a candlestick. "Master Jehan," the priest addressed, evidently confused and looking around to find nobody else. "What, uh…it's quite late. Is there something wrong?"

Jehan sighed with apathy. "My brother thinks he's on the verge of dying so he wants somebody to administer last rites. Is there any chance the Archdeacon might be able to drop in? Hell, even you could do it."

"The Archdeacon has already retired for the night, and I hardly think this is the time to give last rites to a man that isn't dying." The priest was about the shut the door before Jehan stuck out his boot to stall it.

"Would a few deniers change your mind?" The young man offered, raising his brows at the man.

"Let me fetch my cloak." The small priest disappeared and returned, quickly matching Jehan's pace as they set off towards the Palace of Justice.

Upon arriving, the two quickly brushed past the guards and headed for the judge's room. Leading with a lantern borrowed from the priest, Jehan pointedly said, "You'll have to excuse my brother: he gets a little cough in his throat and thinks he's going to the Pearly Gates. And apparently he thinks it's a good idea to keep fasting even after getting sick. So I suppose he won't eat even after you absolve him."

The priest's eyes wandered with great curiosity around the Palace of Justice and grunted a sound of acknowledgment. "Forgive me for asking, but what sin is his fasting for?"

Jehan briefly considered admitting that it was his own bout of sins and not Claude's, but forced the idea out of his mind. He cleared his throat and flatly answered, "Who knows what goes on in his head?" Reaching said brother's chamber, Jehan promptly ushered in the timid priest and followed behind.

Chapter Text

"Claude, good news: I found you a priest," Jehan announced, brushing back his blond curls as he strode back into the chamber. His brother moaned in pain as a response. Resting the lantern on the small nightstand, Jehan sarcastically replied, "You're welcome."

"It's Father Albert, Your Honor," the priest chimed, lowering his hood and stepping closer to the bed. "Your brother mentioned something about last rites?"

"Step to it, Father!" Jehan brusquely said as he pulled the priest closer. "The sooner you get this done, the sooner you'll get your money."

"Right." The priest stepped forward cautiously and gave a small gasp at the perspiring Minister. Turning to Jehan, who lazily reclined in one of his brother's chairs, the man asked, "You're certain he isn't dying?"

Jehan waved his question away with nonchalance. "I'm sure. Just go through the lines, hear a few confessions—you know what to do."

Claude again opened his tired eyes and looked to the priest standing at his side. The light from the lantern made his angular features look more haunting and menacing than ever, fueling the priest's anxiety. Claude then cast his sights over on his brother, hollowly asking, "You didn't bring Augustin?"

"Dying men can't be picky," Jehan irritably retorted, resting a leg over his knee. The young man noticed the wine bottle on the adjacent table but was visibly disappointed to find it empty. "I did what you asked so you owe this man money for his trouble. Or maybe we should just drag you to some chapel and you can pray away the sickness. Maybe touching some relics will help," Jehan mocked though eliciting no reaction from his brother. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and said, "Father, if you would."

The priest cut in, "Minister, if you please, sick as you may be, I don't think you have cause for Viaticum. Are you sure that we can't send for a doctor?"

"I can send someone to fetch Robin," Jehan suggested, despite his brother's stubbornness. "You know as well as I do he's a damn good doctor." True enough, Jehan had taken full advantage of Robin Poussepain's skills as a physician for some years now, and was always grateful to receive treatment at a friend's discount.

With tired eyes straining at the lantern light, Claude flatly answered, "Why bother? No…I fear this is the end."

Albert tried once more. "Sir, your brother here thinks that it's only a light fever and you have no reason to believe that—"

"I want him out!" Claude bit, rolling his head away from the man. Even in his current state, he would not make his confessions in front of his meddlesome little brother. Roughly, he cried out, "Jehan—leave!" The priest in turn looked back to Jehan, the former's expression stumped. The young man huffed, rising from his seat and heading back towards the chamber door. Hearing the door shut, Claude breathed heavily and said, "Father, I can feel my time coming to an end. Do what you must."

"Well…Jehan's told me you've been fasting for some days—well, more than the usual Advent fasting. So I believe we may consider that part of your last penance. But any other sins that may have gone unheard, you must confess to them now."

Though his mind was cloudy, Claude still reasoned that practically every sin he committed had gone absolved, albeit by Augustin. His chest heaved and he drew a sharp breath. "There is one great transgression. I want to confess…about that night." He shivered and clutched at the linen sheets tighter.

"What night would that be?"

"The night I found Quasimodo." Oh, that night was crystal clear and every image stung him to his very core, even after all these years.

A brief glimpse of disinterest etched at the priest's face as he began searching the contents of the leather pouch at his side. "We know the story, Minister: you found the boy abandoned by his mother and took him into your care."

Claude shook his head weakly and barely opened his eyes. "No…A lie…all lies." The priest offered a puzzled and intrigued expression as he let the judge continue. The Minister's voice rumbled low as he recounted that night, brief clarity breaking through. "Gypsies were being smuggled into the city, through the river…I was patrolling the streets and the guards caught them. One woman among them, carrying something in her arms. She wouldn't hand it over. I believed they were stolen goods and chased her down…" Claude broke from the story to cough, the hoarse sound echoing through the shadowy chamber. "She tried to claim sanctuary at Notre Dame, but I caught her…" He lifted a hand, covering his eyes as the shame resurfaced. Those brief, crucial moments played over again in his mind, setting his teeth on edge. "I kicked her down the steps and grabbed the bundle she was carrying…and it was a child. She broke her neck and died, and I was left holding the boy…No…not a boy…" His voice was icy and resentful now. Gazing up at the linen canopy hanging over him, he continued. "A monster. And I almost did what anyone would have…" He stalled in his story, less lucid for a moment.

"What did you almost do?" Father Albert pried, brows drawn together in captivation. "Tell me."

Claude hazily carried on. "I almost threw him down a well—to send him back to the Devil…but he stopped me."

"Who stopped you?" The priest hung onto his every word and stooped lower to hear. "The Devil?"

Offering a couple of coughs, Claude scathingly answered, "Augustin. He saw everything and demanded I take the child, to raise it as my own…that it would be my penance…and I told Quasimodo he was left abandoned, left on a foundlings' bed."

The priest stood dumbfounded, at a loss of what could be said. His bulging eyes darted around like those of a bird as the words weighed heavily on his ears.

Claude broke the silence once more, his tone low and defeated. "I never wanted to be saddled with caring for a child…and not one so…hideous…misshapen—cursed. But it was the only way…The only way to atone—to save my soul." He turned and looked emptily at the priest beside him. "I won't go to Hell for another—not the boy, and certainly not Jehan. But I pray I've done right by them…" His head turned away as another cough racked his chest.

A grave silence pervaded the chamber as Albert grappled with what to say. "That's…" The priest was terribly shaken by such a confession, squeezing the little crucifix hanging around his neck. "That's quite a confession, Minister. But…I-I will absolve you, and you are forgiven."

Forgiven, that word rang clear as day to the sickly Minister, who breathed a ragged sigh of relief. After all, would the Archdeacon have offered such clemency? Augustin may have been there to witness the tragedy, but never once had the Minister offered any confession of responsibility for the incident. He had managed to skirt around confessing to it for so long, eventually Augustin must have simply forgotten and the matter disappeared.

The priest opened up the leather pouch at his side, pulling out an ornate silver pyx containing communion wafer. He rattled the usual blessing, "Jesus Christ is food for our journey; He calls us to the heavenly table." Claude took the wafer from the man, even though his mouth was uncomfortably dry. The communion wine from the flask at hand burned his throat as he choked it down. Finally, Father Albert said, "May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life."

Silence pressed on the pair as Albert anointed sacred oil over the Minister's forehead and hands. With some more focus, Claude breathed out, "He can't know—Quasimodo…he can't."

The priest was evidently befuddled as he put his effects away. "Sir, the boy has a right to know, doesn't he?"

Unexpectedly, the judge gripped him by the shoulder pleadingly, such effort requiring more strength and energy than he cared to use. With severity, he replied, "Not until after I've drawn my last breath." He turned away to cough once more. "Dead and buried, then he may know."

"Can I assume that the Archdeacon will be "blessed" with telling the boy?"

Claude let go of the man's shoulder, tension pulsating across his body from such a small bout of energy. "Yes. I trust no one else with the task."

"At least your brother will step in as Quasimodo's guardian, worst comes to worst," Albert tried to reassure him, shifting nervously in his spot adjacent.

Claude shook his head. "Devil take him," he heartlessly cursed. Such sentiment was punctuated with another rough cough. "No…he can't be a father to his own children—he won't care for the boy."

Albert's brows knitted together again in confusion. "What children? Your brother has…?"

Claude rubbed tiredly at his eyes as he fought to stay conscious. Those two cherubic faces of his brother's spawn appeared in his mind again, along with another sharp pang of guilt piercing his heart. "Cast them out like they were Adam and Eve themselves. His sins…always my shoulders."

The priest shook his tonsured head. "No, Minister, you don't have to carry those sins."

"He will never pay for them…I always have." Claude drew his sheet tight around his frame once more and shivered, cursing the window that was still propped open.

"I can assure you that your brother's grievances will not be marked as yours in the next life," Albert added, his hands folded devoutly.

"He can't be trusted, and he won't take Quasimodo. He would rather destroy himself than care for anyone else."

The priest paused and chewed on the Minister's words, even more rattled now. "Then where will he go?" he asked. "Quasimodo, I mean."

The judge wiped at his damp forehead and fought through an awful headache that returned with a new and intense strength. "I've vowed a stipend to the church…to keep him in the event of my passing."

"A stipend? Well, hopefully not more than your brother will inherit, I'm sure."

Claude's dark gray eyes shot open, though unfocused and not bothering to look at the priest by his side. "No…" he croaked, feeling his face becoming hotter by the minute. "He won't see a penny."

Father Albert was once again lost for words, stroking his chin in thought. After an uncomfortable pause, he replied, "Minister, you're very unwell and probably delirious. Surely you don't mean that."

"Nothing," Claude hatefully bit, making sure that his point was not lost on the priest. Weakly, he waved for the man to come closer, to which the small man reluctantly obliged. Uncharacteristically, he grasped the priest by the front of his robe with fierceness. With newfound strength and clarity, Claude spat, "He squandered everything I gave him—and everything my father left him. I practically crawled through Hell itself for him, time and time again! He besmirched our reputation." His grip on the priest slacked only minutely as the judge endured another coughing fit, much to Albert's discomfort. His tone became more venomous as he uttered, "He is the black mark on our name. He…deserves…nothing!" With that, he uncurled his tight fingers from the priest's black robe.

The bug-eyed priest stepped back and smoothed out his robe, scrutinizing the flushed Minister. As if on cue, Claude's head fell back and he went silent once more. The rising and falling of his chest reassured the priest that the judge hadn't keeled over just yet. Albert glanced over his shoulder to notice that Jehan had never left the room as instructed. Instead, the young man leaned against the wall, fraught with cold and his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Peeling himself away, Jehan hung his head pensively and gripped the door handle. Without returning the priest's gaze, he flatly remarked, "Money's on the table there." His quick footsteps disappeared down the corridor, leaving the priest alone with the Minister.

Claude seemed to have not noticed the sound as he didn't stir. "I blame myself," he rumbled, conscious again feeling his burning forehead with the back of his hand. "I promised my mother I'd do anything for him…my own youthful folly. I was so assured that I could keep such a promise."

"Sir, you did what any devoted sibling would have done."

Claude turned his attention back to the man, steely gray eyes filled with remorse. Lucidity was all but gone as the next words poured from his lips, no consideration that they should have stayed in the recesses of his heart. "I should have been here, guiding him…not in Orleans at the University. Or I should have taken him with me. I didn't see him for months at a time, and sometimes…sometimes he wouldn't recognize me." In his mind's eye he could see the long dusty road headed up to the mill where Jehan was raised. How he would toss his travel bag aside and sweep his little brother into his arms once he arrived back in Paris for a few days. Jehan's eyes widened with confusion at this stranger of a brother holding onto him, with Claude needing to reintroduce himself a handful of times. "Jehan, it's me—Claude," he greeted, beaming at little Jehan. "Your brother, remember?" His smile disappeared and his heart broke as the small boy turned and ran back to the wet nurse, hiding behind her legs. The golden-locked child covered his face as if it could shield him from this lanky young man with cold gray eyes and sharp features.

"But I had to," Claude intoned. "Had to ensure we had a future."

"You might be overthinking this," the priest raised, this long-winded confession making him more than uncomfortable now. "Jehan is still the product of his own actions and decisions. He cannot be forced to repent." Father Albert was conflicted on whether to tell the Minister that his brother had heard the entire exchange. After all, the man thought he was dying—he didn't need to know that his wayward brother had probably left to his old revelries again, and was now armed with these new, incriminating confessions. "The only thing we can do for him is pray."

He is beyond saving, Claude bleakly thought to himself, his eyes stinging harshly as newfound tears attempted to fall. Discreetly, he wiped them away before the priest could notice.

Unsure of what to do next, Albert began to make haste to leave. But Claude's hand shot up, a finger pointed as he attempted to get the man's attention once more. "I killed his father too," the judge hollowly stated, bleary eyes set on the priest. "Quasimodo's."

"What?" Father Albert lowered himself again, the judge's new revelation keeping him frozen in place again. "Sir, you must be…you can't be serious?"

Another cough echoed and Claude nodded in confirmation. "He tried to kill me… I stabbed him, he died…in the dungeon, like so many." His mind flashed back to that day: The man's hands wrapped around the Minister's throat, the stink of the dungeon filling his nostrils, desperately flailing his hand to reach for his dagger. How he watched the gypsy man slump over, clutching at the stab wound at his side as the life rapidly seeped out of him.

The priest held an exasperated hand over his mouth, trying to process the images of bloodshed. "I…I," Albert stammered out, now even more disturbed. "Sir, I don't know how I could possibly absolve that. What happened with the boy's mother was an accident. But that…" He studied the specter-like face of the Minister illuminated by the lantern light, now resembling the grotesques covering Notre Dame. "That can only be described as murder, and you know mortal sins are the straight path to damnation."

"Then absolve me!" Claude pleaded, aches rippling across his entire body. With another ragged breath, he countered, "Mortal sins can be forgiven. If you would just do such…"

The priest rubbed at the back of his neck, mulling it over. "I-I don't…I'm not sure. I don't know if I can forgive such a thing. Even trying to drown Quasimodo is cutting it dangerously close—thank God for Augustin. But to willingly kill a man? I'm sorry, Your Honor, but I cannot absolve that."

"I didn't mean to kill him!" Claude protested sharply before another coughing fit. Even in his state, he was remiss to admit that he only visited the gypsy man in the dungeon to mock him about Quasimodo. That he wanted to torture the man with the knowledge that he would never see his son again, and that the boy's mother died in trying to save him. "I was defending myself."

"And did you offer any kind of penance for it?"

Claude again stared blankly at the tester hanging above him. He remembered: he ordered his men to dispose of the body, probably in some paupers' grave, no ceremony or mourning—as if it never happened. "He would have killed me if I hadn't stopped him," he tiredly pointed.

The priest was positively baffled. Claude's refusal to answer the question was not lost on the man. "I'm sorry, Minister. I simply can't."

Claude reached again for the man's shoulder, shallow breaths escaping. "I'll increase the stipend," he pleaded, eyes watering more. "I swear I will leave a sizable donation to the church if you forgive it."

Albert turned the leather pouch in his hands and shook his head. "You're describing the sale of indulgences, sir. We at Notre Dame are in no such business."

"Ten pieces of silver," Claude begged, hanging onto this last shred of hope at absolution as he gripped tighter at the man's habit. Dignity forsaken, even now he knew he must have resembled the Prodigal Son: on his knees and begging for his father's mercy, crushed under the weight of his own sins. "To you, Father. Forgive me and you will be rewarded."

The priest rose and prepared to leave. "You will have to answer to God for this sin. Goodbye, Your Honor. I pray you feel better."

"Twenty pieces!" Claude pulled himself up with every ounce of remaining strength, determined not to be left with this stain on his soul. He pointed to a wooden chest resting nearby and rasped out, "In there—it shall be yours, Father, if you grant me this last pardon." Coughs broke through once more. Resigned, he added, "My time is nearing, and I must have forgiveness—please."

The priest took a beat as he scanned through the darkness for said chest. "Twenty?" he tested, licking his lips at the prospect of such a bribe.

"Twenty—all yours." Just as he had always been taught: every man—no matter what title—had his price.

Albert turned his attention back to the judge, whose eyes were wide with hope now. "You are forgiven." He quickly made the sign of the cross above Claude's face, the blessing spoken with such speed it seemed like an afterthought.

With a heavy sigh of relief, Claude turned and sank back against his pillow, feeling himself fading out of consciousness. As his exhaustion set in, the priest scurried away to dig out the silver promised to him before slinking out of the chamber.

X

With a taut wave of his arm, Jehan swung the tavern door open and stomped into the warm taproom. He wordlessly shoved past the ambling drunkards and scanned around for the friends he abandoned earlier. A bemused frown covered his expression and his shoulders slumped as they seemed to carry some invisible yoke.

"Jehan!" The young man pointed his head in the direction of the voice, relieved to see one of his mates waving him over to the group. "Took you long enough—we thought you were gone for the night," his friend remarked, pushing a cup of beer to the young Frollo.

Jehan swiftly drained his drink and motioned for his friend to refill it. "I should never have left in the first place," he commented darkly and sipped his next round. His eyes looked down the long table and noticed an unfamiliar face: a young gypsy man in a purple cap and short goatee sat at the end, exchanging words with Jehan's friends.

"Who's this?" Jehan asked, pointing to said gypsy.

His accomplice answered, "You'll love him: he does puppet shows and really has it out for your brother. Made a little toy that looks just like him—down to the nose and everything!" The man laughed and Jehan returned it with an amused smirk. Curious, Jehan got up and made his way to the end of the table where the gypsy man sat.

"Scoot down," Jehan ordered his friend at the end. Taking his friend's place, the young man now faced the gypsy, who offered a mischievous smile. "I don't think we've been properly introduced," he greeted. Extending his hand, he announced, "Jehan Frollo."

"Jehan du Moulin? Oh, everyone knows you," the gypsy replied amicably as he shook his hand. "Clopin Trouillefou. Nice to meet you."

"So what's this about a puppet that's modeled after my brother?"

Clopin shrugged easily. "Well, the judge couldn't find a good enough reason to stop me from using it, so…" The gypsy man reached to the pouch at his side and pulled out said puppet, whose toothy sneer resulted in Jehan nearly spitting out his beer in raucous laughter.

"You made that?" he asked with a wide grin, followed by half-choking coughs.

"With my own two hands. And what can I say? Some of the things your dear old brother says and does make good material for my shows." Clopin motioned the hand puppet to give a little wave, making Jehan laugh once more from the absurdity.

Jehan wiped his mouth gracelessly. "Really? Let me guess: all the usual guff about "evil gypsies" and "vice and sin"?"

"It practically writes itself!" Clopin and the young man shared in their laughter, toasting each other with numerous cups of beer.

"Well, I might just have to stop by and see the show for myself. Anyone with enough of a death wish to mock my bastard of a brother is alright by me."

One of Jehan's many friends chimed in, "I take it things with you two didn't go smoothly?"

Jehan's smile quickly dissipated, choosing to guzzle down his drink in hand. "He thinks he's dying, but he's just overreacting to a little cough."

"And that's why you're fuming? He might not be the only one prone to overreacting."

Jehan wagged a finger. "Oh, no…it's much more than that. Turns out he's a stingy, skinflint liar who thinks his only family isn't worth a damn!" His bitter words were punctuated with a loud slam of his palm against the table. The young man then reached over toward the jug of beer in the center of the table and refilled his cup.

He almost coughed from the beer he gulped down without pause. He turned back toward Clopin across from him. "I got a story for you, if you need any more material for your shows," he began to slur and flashed him a devilish grin.

Clopin offered a doubtful smirk. "And what would that be?"

"It's a good one about my dear brother Claude." Jehan looked to his friends, now gathered around. "Who wants a heartwarming story about our "beloved" Minister of Justice?"

"Sure, we'd love to hear you gripe about your brother for the umpteenth time!" One sarcastically answered, waving away the idea.

"Come on now," Jehan encouraged, a diabolical gleam now twinkling in his eyes. "Anybody curious as to how he ended up caring for the little beast in Notre Dame?"

That same friend rolled his eyes. "'Abandoned on the steps of the church, Claude took him in'—we know. Christ alive, Jehan, if you're going to gossip like some fishwoman, at least bring us some new stories."

"Oh, you don't understand. What I'm bringing you gentlemen is…something a bit more damning." Jehan let the cryptic words hang in the air dramatically. Seeing his associates barely stir, he prattled on. "Apparently the story of my brother's so-called goodwill isn't all we thought to be."

"That brother of yours is colder than a witch's kiss in the middle of winter," Clopin cursed, taking a sip of his own beer.

"No argument here. But apparently, that's not how he came to be Quasimodo's guardian. With God as my witness, he told me himself—straight from the horse's mouth! So…who wants to hear?"

"And what do you have to gain from airing out your brother's secrets?" Distrust now colored the gypsy man's countenance: mocking the Minister was one thing, but palling around with his little brother was a dangerous game. Steepling his fingers together, his dark eyes bore into the young man's face as he waited for the answer.

Jehan fumed with renewed anger and stared down at his drink in hand. "He's messing with my inheritance, and he needs to be taken down a peg. The man is a miser: hoards his money and decides that when he bites the dust that I don't see any of it. What kind of game is he playing at?!"

One of his friends cut in with, "You don't think it has anything to do with you pissing away every coin he's thrown at you?"

Jehan landed a hard punch to the man's arm. "I'm his only family—that should count for something. Can you believe he'd rather give those sheep at Notre Dame more money than his own flesh and blood? And that's just to look after his deformed little minion—the poor kid he didn't even want!"

"What, did he get strong-armed into being a father?" His friend asked as he rubbed at his sore arm.

"Gather round, gentlemen!" Jehan waved for them to turn attention towards him. With great flare and deviousness, he began. "And allow me to regale to you a most fascinating tale…"

X

Frollo could barely open his eyes as the exhaustion pulled at his muscles, making it feel as though a million tiny weights under his skin were keeping him pinned down; to pull the sheet around himself tighter took a painstaking amount of effort. He felt himself caught between feverish dreams and the harsh reality outside and his mind began to ramble…

Muscles tight…tight like a tree trunk…Visions clouded his mind of deciduous trees outside and the ivy vines climbing up the courtyard walls. Trees, he hazily mused, squeezing his eyes tighter as his head throbbed. The family tree—ours—covered in lesions…rot traveled down to the trunk…let it wither and die…and why? Because of your brother…

Frollo coughed again, the pain pulsating throughout his chest and stomach cramping. Voicelessly, he mouthed, His fault. Jehan's smug and conniving grin flashed in his mind. Two curly-haired children appeared before him, eyes blue and pleading. What were their names again? Izara and Joseba…

An unforgiving voice bellowed, "You will be a fugitive and wanderer on the earth…" Shunned like Cain, his mind repeated, heavy and merciless as steel.

How that little girl looked up to his brother, delighted to finally meet her father…thrown back to the streets alongside her family with a few coins, to boot. It sickened him then and it sickened him now. And did Jehan care? Perhaps a day's worth of tears, as he recalled Jehan's face that was red with heartbreak and remorse. He's probably forgotten about them already. Likely up to his ears in drink and cheap whores by now.

His mind continued to wander, and he thought of his long-dead parents. You'll be seeing them soon enough. The idea repulsed him; hopefully he wouldn't run into his father in Heaven. God willing he was turned over to the Devil himself. Nineteen years with that man was enough—it there's any justice, you won't have to spend the rest of eternity with him.

And soon you will die alone, and that's the way it should be… No Jehan, no Quasimodo, nobody—the ultimate autonomy. He wasn't going to die in someone's arms like those poor wretches at the Hotel-Dieu, or like some helpless babe in its mother's arms. On his own, with nobody's sorry looks or help. Behind these dark musings, the headache continued to throb relentlessly against his skull. He didn't even notice the knock at his chamber door, or the footsteps that followed.

"Minister?" a low feminine voice addressed carefully. "It's Violette." In her arms she carried a tray consisting of a small water basin, linen rag, and a cup emitting steam.

Frollo turned, empty eyes fixed high above him. With as much strength as he could, his hoarse voice tiredly asked, "Are they gone?"

The woman rested the tray of materials on the nightstand beside him. "Yes sir. Your brother and the priest left long ago. If I may…?" She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead, which was still very hot to the touch. "I think the fever's about to break, my lord." She dampened the clean rag in the basin and gently applied it to his forehead, making him shudder. "Will you reconsider sending for Doctor Poussepain?"

Frollo briefly looked up, barely seeing the servant helping him. "I've had last rites," he murmured, squeezing his eyes as water seeped into them. He gripped at the small brown scapular hanging around his neck like the spiritual shield it was.

"If I may be so bold, I hardly think they're necessary, sir." She continued to cool her master's burning face. "Best to rest another day or two." Discarding the damp rag, she now reached for the hot mug. "But I beg you drink this."

Frollo struggled to focus on the figure hovering over him. "What is it?" he asked groggily, his eyes still glassy.

"Sage tea; it'll help with the cough." With great care, she raised the hot mug to the judge's lips. Even in his drained state, the judge propped himself up with great effort and took the concoction from her hand. The steaming drink burned as it coursed down his throat.

The young woman Violette gathered up her materials. "Are you sure I can't light the fire for you, sir?" she offered dutifully. "At least to fend off the cold."

Truly the last thing the long-suffering judge wanted was to have this migraine exacerbated by light, even though the chills still plagued him. Dizzily, he rambled, "Let the darkness come…the final one." He was perspiring heavily again and her voice sounded far away. "I've had Viaticum…I'm ready for the Lord to take me."

She shook her head at his dramatics. "Rest up, sir." She was about to take her leave when the judge raised his hand, making her freeze.

"Wait," he rasped, barely looking at her. The woman quickly averted her eyes, either out of respect or fear. Coughing aside, Frollo then asked, "Why…why all…this?" His hand lazily waved at the tray now back in her grip.

Nervously, she cleared her throat. "You're a good master, sir. Many of us owe our livelihoods to you, and…and we pray that you recover."

"I think I'm past that," he deadpanned, his chest tightening again. "I will see Saint Peter soon."

The young woman shifted uneasily at her employer's ramblings. "I won't keep you. I-I should return to my duties—"

"I should have told that priest more," he muttered absently. His eyes were empty as their gaze flittered around the tapestry and ceiling above. So many regrets, he lamented inside.

"Well, um…that's between you and the Lord, sir." She began to inch away from the delirious Minister.

"I should have told him everything." He wiped limply at his damp brow, pushing aside silver hairs plastered to his forehead.

At a loss of what to do, the young lady merely offered a stilted response. "Please rest, Minister. You'll feel better if you do." With that, she awkwardly excused herself, leaving the judge with his own muddled thoughts.

Frollo didn't hear the door close as the servant woman exited. Once again, his mind began to spew more incoherent musings. So many things… you will have to answer to them once you cross over. One of his hands balled into a tight fist that shook, whether from the chills returning or bitter regret, there was no way to tell.

The tiredness was making his head foggy once again and his tense muscles relax. His sick mind echoed, But now you can die knowing that: you were a good master of the house. His breathing shallowed again and his eyes barely fluttered open, looking into darkness. But were you a good man? His mind asked pathetically.

God will soon decide, he thought, now letting the darkness of sleep blanket him once more.

Chapter Text

Quasimodo rounded the corner to peer into the cathedral kitchen where various friarsand nuns were hard at work preparing breakfast. The boy was careful not to get caught underfoot or disturb them, happy just to admire the care that went into their work. One nun noticed the hunchbacked child and wordlessly handed him a bowl of morning porridge, smiling encouragingly at him to take it. Given that his master hadn't been to Notre Dame in some two or three days, the church staff had taken it upon themselves to see to the boy's care. Offering a mumble of thanks, Quasimodo skipped off to eat his breakfast somewhere secluded, as usual. Perhaps not the bell tower since winter made it especially drafty.

He settled down at the bottom of the staircase that spiraled up towards the bell tower, where he was able to overlook the entire nave, as well as keep a vigilant eye on the door in case of worshippers. Given how early it was, no parishioners would be here for some time. The winter dreariness prevented any morning light from creeping in and made the cathedral almost crypt-like, especially with the frigid cold settling over the place.

"Well tell me you didn't indulge him," a low voice broke the silence as it rounded a corner coming towards Quasimodo's place.

"The man fully believed he was dying—was I just supposed to ignore that plea?" Another voice sharply retorted.

"Well, was he, in fact, dying?" Quasimodo now identified the voice of the Archdeacon. The boy's ears now perked up, curious to know which churchgoer was the subject of such gossip.

"I thought Jehan was exaggerating," the other man recounted solemnly. "I know Frollo isn't one for histrionics, but…you should have seen him, Father: the man was lying there, beet-red with a fever! If I hadn't seen it for myself, I wouldn't have believed it. All I'm saying is to not be surprised if a new Minister of Justice is announced soon."

The boy's stomach lurched violently at the implication. Under his breath, Quasimodo muttered, "Dying?" He couldn't resist the nagging curiosity anymore. Casting aside the bowl of porridge, he leaped to his feet and ran around towards the pair of men speaking nearby. Urgently, he pushed his way into the conversation and piped up, "What happened to Master Frollo?!"

The priest opposite Augustin was Father Albert, whose countenance was grave and subdued. The Archdeacon gingerly patted the boy on his protruding hunch, trying to offer some encouragement. "Quasimodo," he began softly. "Father Albert here was simply saying that the Minister is still bedridden and sick, that's all. But he's resting up back at the Palace."

""Bedridden", nothing," Albert swiped, tucking his hands within his habit sleeves. "The man has one foot in the grave—he's dying."

The boy stepped back a little, pressing his hands to his misshapen face in horror. Suddenly his head began to spin as the priest's cutting words wrenched at his heart. The very idea of seeing his guardian laid out in a wooden coffin made his lip tremble with terror. "My master's dying?!"

"It appears so, son," the priest bluntly answered, eyes flickering away. "The man refuses to send for a doctor. He'd rather just lie down and die like an animal in the street."

The Archdeacon shot the man an accusatory look. "Based on what you've told me, Albert, it sounds like a simple fever. I've known Claude for many, many years now and I can assure you, Quasimodo, a fever is not going to do him in."

"Then explain why even he thinks his time is at an end?" Albert coldly offered, not even looking at the petrified boy. "And why he thought it was so urgent to receive last rites? Had me listen to his confessions and give him Viaticum. He's as good as gone anyway, looking all sickly like that."

Quasimodo clutched at the Archdeacon's wrist. "Did I do this?! Did I kill my master?!" His dark blue eyes were now watering at the very idea. "What do we do?"

Augustin's eyes bounced between the teary-eyed boy and surly priest. "I…I'm sure Minister Frollo is well underway to making a recovery." He noted the boy sniffling and rubbing at his eye, almost ashamed of his tears. Father Albert, in turn, offered a dismal expression and shake of his head to his superior. With understanding, Augustin sighed in concession. "But…" He now crouched beside the hunchbacked child and schooled his expression. "Just in case there's an inkling of truth to it, you must be ready to accept it if he does not recover."

Quasimodo now shook his head frantically. "No," he breathed, averting his gaze from the Archdeacon's. "No, he-he'll get better—I know he will!" The last half of this hopeful statement he almost directed at Albert. "He can't die!"

Augustin's countenance was now more foreboding. "Still, my boy, know that it is always a possibility. Quasimodo, sad as it is, people often die of the fever or whatever illness your master has of his chest. It's the way of the world."

"But-but I got better really quick. Can't he do it too?"

"He's a strong man, I admit, but if the Lord sees that it is his time…" the Archdeacon couldn't bring himself to offer such a bleak statement to the boy. "A fever and a little cough take more people than you think. We will continue to offer our prayers, but I'm sorry to say that his fate is in God's hands. If it's part of His plan…" He spread his hands wide, indicating that the matter truly was out of their control.

Father Albert finally spoke up again. "At least he received the Anointing of the Sick and absolution, so he's prepared to enter God's kingdom. And, um…" He ran a hand over his head in thought. "You don't need to worry if your master dies, son. It turns out that Frollo's promised enough money to keep you here in the event of his death." Such news did little to ease the boy, who now fought a sob from racking his chest.

"We arranged that years ago," Augustin added.

"Yes, well, the man had, um…much to say in his last confession."

Augustin frowned at him. "And you know as well as I do that the words between confessor and clergy are sacred and confidential."

The other man's dark eyes jumped from the Archdeacon to Quasimodo, slight pity in his expression. With bitterness in his voice, he simply said, "Yes, of course, Father."

Rising to his feet now, the Archdeacon steered the boy away from the grim priest. "As I've said: all we can do right now, my boy, is pray," he soothed. Quasimodo looked absolutely terrified, wringing his hands together. "But I promise I'll go and see the Minister later."

X

Frollo cracked open his eyes, finding himself still surrounded by near complete darkness. At the end of his chamber a line of blinding sunlight seeped in through the curtains, indicating it was afternoon. Coupled with a seemingly endless headache that was pent on staying right here with him, he was less than eager to get out of bed. After gaining a bit of consciousness he took note that his muscles were considerably less tense than last time he checked.

Wait, his hazy mind piped up, rubbing at his eyes. What day is it? What time is it? Frollo pressed a hand to his forehead and found his hair plastered with sweat, but thankfully not hot to the touch anymore. Dragging his hands over his face, the judge noticed there was a considerable amount of scratchy stubble that had grown. With much effort, and still exhausted, he lifted himself up and listened as joints stiffly cracked as he stretched. He coughed a little and found that his throat was not as scratchy or irritable anymore.

Heavily and by rote, he washed his face in the basin and threw on a black robe. He tried in vain to recollect what happened in the last day or so. Truthfully, he couldn't even tell how long he had been out, though his stubble indicated it been longer than he had preferred.

Jehan stopped by, he suddenly remembered, though the image was fuzzy. Surely he had been there, ever ready to mock his older brother even in such a state. But what else? He had some odd suspicion that someone else had visited—a friend of Jehan's maybe?

Frollo ambled through the Palace corridors as he tried to get his bearings. Looking over one of the balustrades, he observed that a handful of clerks downstairs were still hard at work while the staff made their own rounds. Before long he found himself down in the Palace kitchen, where the women were busy chopping vegetables and kneading dough. A young woman was ladling a steaming liquid into a cup when she noticed the austere Minister standing in the doorway, looking positively haggard. Quickly she and her compatriots stopped and bowed to their employer.

"As you were," the judge rumbled, forcing his ever-regal composure despite still slumping with tiredness.

"Minister." The young woman handed him the hot drink. "You seem in better health today."

Frollo looked down at the concoction, recognizing its scent as sage and thyme tea and evenly commenting, "God willing." He sipped at the drink, finding relief as it warmed his dry throat. "By any chance, did my brother come by?" He asked her, trying to remember the last few hazy days.

The lady Violette resumed her food preparation, answering dutifully, "About two days ago, sir. He came by to check on you and returned later with a priest."

"A priest?"

"Yes sir. But he didn't say much and left after your brother did."

Frollo's brow creased, wishing he could remember what he said to whichever church brother had come by. "Did you happen to catch a name for the priest that was here?"

The woman shook her head as she expertly diced the vegetables at hand. "Sorry, sir, but one monk looks the same as another. Maybe a word with Jehan might help."

The judge raised an eyebrow at her words. "So…he simply left the priest here? What, back to the tavern, I suppose?"

"He did, but he looked a little rattled. Perhaps the man said something to upset him, who can say?"

Another woman chirped up, looking up from the ball of dough at hand, "Minister, can we fix you something to eat? You've barely eaten in days and we can have it out in a few minutes."

Frollo muttered a decline to the invitation, his mind distracted as he tried to piece together what had happened. Absently, he sat down on one of the lone wooden stools and leaned against the scarred wooden counter, racking his brain and barely sipping at the tea in hand. "Have I really been incapacitated for what, two days?" he wondered aloud to his staff, still focused on their work.

Violette placed a steaming bowl of broth before the gaunt judge. "Oh no, Minister," she answered, then sweeping vegetables into the cauldron boiling over the great kitchen fire. "It must have been four days by now."

"Four?!" Frollo repeated, aghast. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead as he envisioned the stacks of legal work probably covering his desk—how many trials were postponed, or letters waited for his correspondence? Quasimodo, his mind raised, brow furrowing. The boy probably thought he was dead already without a guardian to make his daily visits.

The woman placing the dough into the oven now chimed in. "Sir, you were in no state to be working—you were sick as a dog! We were afraid that the fever might take you."

Resting his head against his fist, Frollo remembered: barely getting back to the Palace of Justice and forcing himself to resume his work as though nothing was amiss. He couldn't even focus on the food in front of him, despite the twisting hunger that pained his stomach.

Violette stoked the fire in the hearth and quipped, "The Archdeacon came by as well: he wanted to ensure that you were, well, forgive me, sir, but…still alive."

The judge brushed a hand over his mussed silver hair. Four days, his aching mind repeated before finishing off the cooling tea. Tapping his fingers against the countertop, he lowly remarked, "I suppose then….I should make an effort to stop by Notre Dame soon."

The second cook dusting off the flour from her hands and took his empty cup before remarking, "Surely another day of rest won't hurt you, Minister."

Frollo offered her a steely look before retorting, "I think I've rested more than enough, considering the work I've allowed to amass in my absence. Besides, this business with the men of Notre Dame should be seen to immediately." He took the bowl of hot broth back to his chambers, where he began to prepare himself properly to resume work.

X

The Captain reared his horse to meet the Minister in front of the Palace of Justice, a dour look casting over the former but still obediently saluting. "Sir," he coolly greeted. "Good to see you back on your feet. Hope you had a nice few days of rest."

Frollo offered a glare, holding the reins of his horse tighter. "Quite a rest: incapacitated and feeling as though I were in Hell itself." After being confined to bed for the last few days, some brisk air was much needed. After all, that paperwork would still be there when he returned.

"At any rate, hope you haven't lost any of your step." The comment earned some low words from the Minister—something about not losing any speed when it comes to finding replacements for his officers. The Captain cleared his throat before adding, "There's, uh…there's something you should take a look at, just a little ways off from Notre Dame."

"Captain, I have a laundry list of things that need my attention," the judge coldly replied, ready to leave the cagey soldier in the dust. "A bit more elaboration might be useful before I decide to waste my time on it."

"Well, it's a gypsy, sir. He's put on a show that's…let's say less than flattering."

The Minister's dark lips pressed in a line, unamused. "Speak plainly or I'm leaving."

"I think it's best if you see for yourself."

The judge's eyes rolled skyward and he gripped Romulus's reins. "Very well, but this better have grounds for diverting me from my route."

The Captain offered a humorless smile and began to lead the judge away. "Oh, trust me, sir: I think you'll be more than interested."

As he steered his horse through the streets, Frollo noted the looks of surprise the locals cast him. Some seemed pleasantly surprised to see the Minister of Justice back to his normal duties, while others blanched as they feared witnessing a ghost in his place. While usually he could brush off their jeers and looks, he could not help but be perturbed by their constant whispering aside and hurrying away. Something simply felt…off.

Frollo and the officer traversed through the Paris alleyways until coming upon a brightly painted caravan sitting in a small square, clustered townhouses towering around. Before it sat a group of children whose eyes were fixed unbrokenly to the caravan window propped open. Frollo fixed his gaze ahead and noticed a young gypsy man adorned in bright garments and a purple mask. He recognized the gypsy as a local puppeteer he had had a run-in or two with, but no charges had ever stuck. The young man was protected and regarded as simply a nuisance, but legal nonetheless. Frollo brought his horse to a stop and turned to the Captain aside, remarking, "This is what you dragged me away for: some insipid children's show? Captain, I've tried to arrest this man but, by law, his so-called "art" has no grounds for it."

"So you've seen his shows?"

Frollo sneered, adjusting his chaperon. "Yes, and the people seem to enjoy them and regard them as harmless, so my hands are tied."

The Captain knowingly smirked, an expression that did not sit well with the judge. The former leaned casually on the front of his saddle, adding, "Sir, perhaps if you just take a stroll over there and have a listen, you might find his show very interesting." Frollo, in turn, remained stoic and unyielding. "I promise you, this show might pique your interest."

"If it means you can focus on more pressing matters," Frollo swiped as he dismounted his horse and handed the reins over. "Then very well. I'll go and have an inspection." Removing his hat and pulling up his cloak hood, he meandered toward the caravan and rounded it. He stayed behind the wooden vehicle and out of sight of the puppeteer and his audience. Frollo listened closely as the gypsy's voice rose above the gasps and laughs from the children seated.

"The saints filled him with terror, and the gargoyles reminded him of the Hell he fears most! 'What must I do?' Frollo asked the Archdeacon. And the Archdeacon told him, 'Care for the child and raise it as your own'. Frollo almost refused such penance before he was reminded of his immortal soul. He knew he'd be doomed if he refused. So, he agreed to raise the boy, but only if he could live in Notre Dame–in the bell tower—never to be seen by anyone."

Frollo felt his blood flush from his face and his knees almost buckle under him. It was like the very wind was knocked out of him. Suddenly it felt as though the very ground was swaying, ready to cave in under him. He quickly turned and rested heavily against the side of the caravan, trying to regain his composure despite his heart threatening to leap from his chest. What did he just say? His terrified mind raised and now feeling his chest squeezing tightly.

The puppeteer continued, "And the misshapen child still lives there, cursed with a terrible name that means "Half-formed": Quasimodo."

The astonished gasps of the child audience cemented that he had indeed heard correctly: the incident of the night was for all to hear. Frollo instantly wanted to come around and put the gypsy storyteller in a headlock—wring the life out of him like an old rag and leave him in the streets. His fingertips curled tightly as he envisioned more ways to hurt this man, and make sure he never told another tale again.

But let him finish his little story first, he scornfully thought to himself, nostrils flaring like an angered bull.

"Now remember, children," the puppeteer continued brightly. "Don't go looking for the hunchback child—don't even go near that bell tower. The last thing you all want is Judge Frollo throwing any of you down a well!" The juvenile audience members laughed and squealed mirthfully, while their array of questions and comments melded together into one high-pitched mess of sound. Behind the wooden vehicle Frollo waited with burning impatience, positively shaking.

It seemed like forever before the children finally dispersed, leaving the gypsy man alone. He began to collapse the awning above the window before it was halted by the firm hand of the Minister of Justice, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. The gypsy jumped back, his eyes wide to find the severe judge before him. "Oh—Minister Frollo!" he greeted shakily, putting up a protective hand in front of him. "What, uh—what brings you out here? Feeling better? I heard you were a little worse for wear and—"

"Get out here," Frollo ordered like some irate parent to a child, his tone dangerous. His stormy eyes never broke from the squirrely gypsy man. The judge noticed how he tossed aside whatever puppet he held into a corner and shifted nervously.

"Oh, I think we can discuss things well enough like this," the young man drawled, putting his hands behind his back.

"Step out or I'll drag you out!"

It was with the greatest reluctance that he exited the caravan. Adjusting his feathered cap casually, he simply uttered, "How can I help you, judge?"

Frollo's lips turned up in a crooked smile. "Our paths have crossed before," he began, his stone-gray eyes fiery and vengeful as he sized up the young man. "Remind me your name."

The gypsy pursed his lips bitterly. "Clopin," he answered begrudgingly and looking away.

In a flash Frollo seized him by the front of his shirt and pushed him up against the caravan door. "What in God's name do you think you're doing?!" he hissed, his fingers tightening their grip as they pressed against Clopin's throat. "Slander against a public official is a punishable offense, and I promise those charges will stick!"

"It's not slander if it's true!" The pressed gypsy retorted smartly, his hands locked over the judge's wrists as he tried to free himself. He was unpleasantly surprised at the Minister's strength.

He couldn't know that—no way on earth could he know that! Frollo's mind desperately countered. "No, it isn't! Filling the city's ears with your lies—you damn gypsy! I swear I'll have your head for this!"

"Well, I'm inclined to believe it. You think anybody's ever believed you taking in some monster-child willingly? What—"out of the goodness of your heart"? Please! We all know that wasn't true."

The Minister shook his head, eyes frantic. "How could you possibly know …?" The words slipped before he could stop himself.

Clopin scowled. "What—you think I was there that night? I'm just telling the story I picked up, and from a reliable enough source, no less."

""Reliable source"? Who in the right mind would even think about spreading such lies?" He shook the man harshly. "Tell me!"

"My source tells me that this little tale comes straight from the top…" Clopin cocked his head aside, the gold hoop in his ear catching the scant light. He grinned with sadistic amusement and answered, "You."

The Minister blinked, his expression dumbfounded. Frollo's eyes darted around, trying to recall something from the last few days that might offer a clue. "Lies," he bit, his teeth bared animalistically, never slacking on his hold over the man's shirt.

"You ought to be more careful about who you spill your guts to, Minister." With that, Clopin let out a hearty guffaw, much to the disdain of the judge. "You never know who's got a big mouth and a score to settle with you!" Having enough of this and without thinking, Frollo landed a swift punch to the laughing gypsy, who immediately doubled over and wheezed.

"Who?" Frollo demanded, indignant. The gypsy man barely looked up at him as he attempted to catch his breath, his face turning bright red. Frollo shook his hand out, as his rings had sent a shock through his arm with that punch. "Who?!"

"I'm not a rat," the young man coughed. "I don't know how many people you might have told this story to…but if I were you, I'd start making a list. I'm just the messenger."

Frollo dragged his hand over his face in thought again, his eyes wide. Who knew how many children had already heard the story, who could have told their parents, who would tell their friends and colleagues—the whole ugly truth for all of Paris to know! Turning back to the gypsy, his low voice warned, "This isn't over, you wretched little cur."

The gypsy man stood up finally, clutching at his abdomen. "Yeah, I'd expect nothing less."

Frollo spun and left his young adversary in the dust, hurriedly mounting back up on his horse. Beside him sat his Captain, who eyed his superior carefully like one would any mad person raving in the street. "Orders, sir?" He simply asked, noting the gypsy man doubled over from afar.

The Minister stared ahead, his eyes empty as the whole interaction replayed in his mind. What could be done? It wasn't as though he could take back the story from every person's ears. "Have you seen many people—even children—coming by and hearing this story?"

The Captain shrugged. "From what I've gathered, people are telling the story even in the taverns, the Latin Quarter, the sentry gates. I'm sorry, sir, but it's everywhere."

"I must go to Notre Dame at once."

X

Frollo pushed through the church door with newly found might, making its crashing echo throughout. The attending brothers spun around to see the Minister making his way in, baffled that he was back among the living. His shifty gray eyes bounced around, trying in vain to locate the Archdeacon. He briskly strode throughout the nave and searched for that figure in white before realizing the man was not here.

Search everywhere, he ordered himself, making haste for Augustin's study. He restrained himself before he could kick down the door, forcing himself to knock and wait to be invited in. He held his hat tightly in his hand as he tried to keep himself steady.

The Archdeacon sat across from another nameless friar, sending him away and promising to finish their conversation later. "Claude, nice to see you," Augustin greeted pleasantly and waving him to have a seat. "It's good to see you back in better spirits. Poor Quasimodo was worried to death about you and—"

"Did you come by the Palace of Justice?" Frollo inquired without waiting, his whole being tense and eyes piercing.

The Archdeacon blinked at the tactlessness. Leaning back in his rickety armchair, he evenly answered, "Yes, I did. Yesterday actually. However, your staff informed me that you were still on the mend and resting. I was hoping you'd be in good enough health to speak. That wasn't the case, so I left."

Frollo shifted uncomfortably in his seat, continuing trying to piece together those feverish memories. He decided to cut to the chase. "We didn't speak?"

Augustin shook his head and spread his hands to indicate that was the end of the story. "Your brother did come by and sent for a priest a few days before. I had already retired for the night so Father Albert stepped in."

"Why on Earth would I send for a priest?" The memory was faint and fuzzy: he recalled that Jehan had appeared and they talked—About what though?—but everything after that was incomprehensible.

"Albert said that you wanted someone to provide last rites."

"Last rites…?" Frollo groaned, pressing a hand over his eyes in aggravation. Oh God, how humiliating, he condemned himself, wrinkling his nose at the notion. Did he really send for a priest? Had he really overreacted to a bout of sickness? Confessing to a man he had seldom spoken to—last rites!

"Where is he?!" He barked in realization and now leaping to his feet. "I need to speak to him."

"Claude, the man has his own matters to attend to," the Archdeacon countered, his tone even but frustrating to the Minister. "You can speak to him later, but I think you should go and see Quasimodo. That boy's been a wreck and it'll do him some good to see you back on your feet."

"Later. But I need to find Albert immediately—Quasimodo can wait." Frollo couldn't get out of this space fast enough, barely even hearing Augustin's mild reproach. Ignoring the Archdeacon, he slammed the study door behind him as he set off on his next hunt.

He had uncaringly interrupted the work of numerous church brothers trying to find this Father Albert, each one shrugging his shoulders or offering no help whatsoever.

"I believe he might be clearing weeds outside the cathedral, Your Honor," a brother offered, finally putting the judge on the right path. "If not, you might try in some of the gardens out back. If you can't find him, I'm sorry to say that he might not be back until tomorrow." Frollo muttered some half-hearted thanks before setting off towards one of the doors off to the side of the nave.

Now we can finally get some godforsaken answers! His mind prattled. His jaw was tight and he ignored the light tension still pulling at a few muscles. When I find that loud-mouthed fool, he's going to be regret ever setting foot in my home…

"Master!" Without warning, Frollo felt the edge of his heavy robe pulled, stopping him dead in his tracks and nearly making him trip. In his preoccupation, his expression was abysmal when he turned to find Quasimodo latching onto him. "You're alive!" the boy chirped, looking up at his guardian with misty eyes.

Frollo quickly collected himself and adjusted his hat, deciding he would save his fury for the elusive priest. "It would appear so," he distractedly replied and gently removed the boy's grasp on him. "I apologize for letting you worry, my boy. I didn't plan on being crippled by a mere fever."

Worry painted the hunchback's expression once more. "Father Albert and the Archdeacon said that people die from fevers all the time an-and that you were going to die."

"So I've heard." Panic suddenly coursed through the judge. "But tell me, Quasimodo: what else did this Father Albert tell you?"

Quasimodo wiped at his crooked eyes and sniffled. "He went to see you to give you a last Eucharist. And that you promised the church money to keep me here if you…if you died."

Frollo paled at the boy's words, blankly staring ahead as he thought about how much he must have confessed to. He recalled a conversation years ago with Augustin making such arrangements if circumstances ever became dire. That was true…and the fact that another party was aware of this made his skin prickle. He suddenly feared that he could have blabbed a number of private things to this stranger of a priest.

Frollo knelt down to the boy's eye level, placing his taut hands lightly on his shoulders. "Quasimodo," he forced his tone to remain calm despite the urgency of the situation. "Listen to me: I need you to tell me everything you might have heard from Father Albert. Or anything strange you might have heard around Notre Dame."

Quasimodo looked puzzled at his master's request. "B-but, Master, that's all I heard."

Frollo pulled him closer, his eyes displaying something severe. "Think, boy. Was there anything—anything—that Albert or anybody might have said to you while I was sick?"

The boy found himself slightly frightened by the sternness of his guardian's tone. He noticed how ashen the Minister was today, disturbing him more. "Honest, I didn't hear anything. He just said you had a lot to confess."

There was more, the judge concluded. Rising to his feet, Frollo casually smoothed out his robe before telling the boy, "I think I should go have a word with this Father Albert."

"W-what about our lesson today, sir?" The boy's face was now bereft as his guardian began to skulk away once more, this time towards the south transept under Saint Stephen's portal.

"Oh, we'll have plenty of time for that. Right now, it's pertinent that I speak to the man."

Chapter Text

Outside, Frollo searched all along the southern face of the cathedral for this priest. The brisk air struck him with the faint stench of the Seine and whipped the sash of his hat around his face. Where is this man? His eyes scanned every which way before he noticed something a few yards from him: a stooped figure swinging something around, obviously hard at work. Dry dead leaves crunched under his boots as he paced swiftly towards the man, vehemence in the judge's expression.

The man was evidently a clergyman, evidenced by his tonsured head that was coated with sweat. In his hand he wielded an aged wooden scythe whose blade was slightly dulled and chipped, and putting in twice-fold the energy of a decent tool to clear the weeds around Notre Dame. The Minister could hear muttered curses under the man's breath as he approached.

"Father Albert?" Frollo addressed coolly, causing the man to jolt out of his task.

Whipping around, the wide-eyed priest stepped back and gripped the scythe tighter in his blistered hands. "Minister Frollo. How, um…how nice to see you back," he stammered out.

Frollo smirked, his eyes calculative. Folding his hands now, he began, "I was hoping I might run into you. There are a few things I wish to discuss with you, if you'd be so kind."

Albert stepped back once more. Unblinking, he skittishly replied, "Oh, well, that-that's all well and good, Your Honor, but… I have so many things to do today. Perhaps another time?"

Frollo stepped towards him now, placing his hands behind his back and attempting to look less threatening. He kept the false smile plastered across his face and leered at the priest. "Come now, it won't take but a moment."

Albert tried not to be so obvious as his gaze scoured around, in hopes of someone appearing and offering him an escape. "On second thought, I think I was supposed to go and speak with, um, Augustin about…something," he replied cautiously, unwilling to let go of the garden tool.

Trying to mask his irritation, the judge decided on a new approach. With restraint, Frollo lightly placed his hands on the man's shoulders as a sign of amicability, despite the repulsion he felt in his fingertips. Instinctively Albert raised the scythe higher, as if it could ward off the Minister. "Father, please," Frollo evenly said, schooling his expression. "This is a…rather personal matter—one that I may only discuss with you. If you'd please…"

Father Albert gulped, unnerved by the Minister's off-putting calmness. "I…I don't think I'm the one to—"

"As a man of God, I implore you." Frollo's eyes were fierce despite his pleas, his fingers clutching harder into the man's shoulders.

"Very well," Albert weakly answered and reluctantly placed the old scythe down on the grass. "Wha-what can I help you with?"

Frollo released him and waved for him to follow. Strolling along the side of the cathedral, the former answered, "I was hoping you'd confirm some suspicions I have."

"Of what?" Albert tucked his hands into the sleeves of his habit and tried to keep a protective arm's length from the judge.

"Father, I know I've been unwell for the last few days. To have lost precious time to illness is nothing short of embarrassing."

"Oh, you mustn't be so hard on yourself. No one man is untouchable from sickness—it happens to the best of us."

"Yes. That being said…" Frollo stopped and turn to face the fidgety priest. "I understand that my own illness made me, well, let's say less than rational—a bit non compos mentis. Can you attest to that?"

The priest chewed on his bottom lip, eyes minutely darting away and back. "No more than any other man."

"But incapacitated enough to call for your services in the dead of night, correct?"

"Your Honor…" Albert tugged at the collar of his habit, considering his words. Carefully, he answered, "Jehan was only trying to comply with your wishes. In your state, you truly believed the end was near and I was, um…happy to oblige."

Frollo nodded, clenching his fist tighter behind his back. He took a step closer, looming over the priest and never breaking his knowing stare. "Let me be blunt then: I know I asked you to hear my confession and give me last rites."

"Well, yes, as is typical for most people who are approaching death."

The judge's expression was now turned down and evocative of a wolf, with any trace of cordiality now gone. "What was said?" Frollo pressed.

The priest scratched at his chin in thought. "Uh, nothing too serious. I-I wouldn't worry too much, if I were you, my lord—" In a flash, the priest found the front of his black robe gripped in the hands of the Minister of Justice once again.

"Tell me!" Frollo spat, staring down his aquiline nose at the pale little man. He had just about enough of the man skirting around the issue. "What did I confess to?!"

Albert blubbered out that such confessions were of little meaning, begging the judge to release him. It was only when Frollo shook him and demanded an answer once more did the priest begin to talk. "Alright, alright then! You wanted last rites but I asked you to confess your sins first. But sir, I promise you, you won't like what I have to tell you."

"Now!" Frollo shook the man again, making sure he saw stars.

"You told me…" The priest's breaths were ragged and he tried to tear Frollo's grip off him. He lowered his voice and glanced around for any eavesdroppers. With a gulp, he answered, "That you are responsible for the deaths of Quasimodo's family."

Frollo's eyes again widened with horror as his fears were cemented, now making his countenance paler than Death itself. "No…" He shook his head at the very implication. "No, no—tha-that's nonsense."

"You told me everything, Your Honor: his mother dying on the steps of our church; killing his father in the Palace's dungeons." His brow furrowed deeply, severely adding, "Trying to drown the poor boy."

"No…" Frollo repeated in barely a whisper. With trembling fingers the judge released the frightened man, stepping back and feeling himself instantly go numb. He couldn't possibly know that, he denied, his mind now reeling violently. More to himself, he mumbled out, "There's no way you could know…"

"You told me everything," Albert reiterated, stumbling back and protectively putting his arms up. "And I absolved you before you could meet the Lord."

"Absolved"? Frollo's mind repeated, suddenly recalling more. He forced the vague memory back to the front of his mind: of looking up at the priest and exchanging incoherent words, and something about the nearby chest wherein he kept money set aside for emergencies.

"You…" he began, looking off absently as he tried to collect himself. Frollo continued, his breaths becoming shallow. "Absolved me…in exchange for something. What was it? A few deniers? A gold piece?"

Albert unsurely crossed his arms over himself. "Oh, well…details are not important."

"Silver, perhaps?" The Minister tested. Albert opened and closed his mouth awkwardly, trying to conjure up some excuse. "How much?" Frollo demanded, again nearing him.

"What's a few pieces graciously bestowed to a church brother?"

"How much?" The Minister repeated, with more venom in his tone.

Begrudgingly and covering his mouth slightly, the priest answered, "Twenty pieces."

Frollo's hand itched to strike this shaking little man. The audacity, he mentally fumed, his vision misting red. "That money was nothing more than ill-gotten gains!" he bellowed, his hands cramping as they remained curled and anchored at his sides.

"But a donation nonetheless!"

Frollo wanted to spit at the man. "Wretched lowlife!" the judge cursed, his eyes now viper-like. "Taken a man's confession to line your own purse. And I know your kind: probably long gone and spent on drink and women!" The notion of the priest, drunk and spilling the Minister's sins to crowds in the local taverns, filled him with hellish fury.

"Now wait just a moment, Minister—you asked me to hear your confession; you wanted absolution; and you offered that little bribe. Who does the fault lie with?"

Without thinking, Frollo once again grabbed the priest and pulled him forward. "Then tell me you put that money directly into the collection box—and that you didn't fritter it all away!" When the priest wavered in his answer, Frollo icily responded, "God help you. I should tell the Archdeacon—or put you on the pillory for the sale of indulgences!" Unwittingly, the Minister raised a fist to the man's chin, indicating the severity of such transgressions.

"You-you wouldn't dare hurt a man of the cloth! You do that and you've as good as reserved your place in Hell! Now I ask you, Your Honor: do you want that on your conscience?"

The Minister froze at the man's words, his damning expression never letting up. God in Heaven, he's right, he mentally conceded. Frollo again released the man, hissing out, "Horrid little thief—you're no better than any common pickpocket!"

Albert glared defensively at the judge. "Well, you so much as lay another hand on me…and you'll be paying a greater price to have that absolved." Frollo glowered at him and shallow breaths escaped the now smug expression on Albert's face. "Now if you'll excuse me." Albert picked up the neglected scythe and walked off to resume his chores, leaving the Minister stewing.

Frollo's fist shook at his side, longing to land a punch to the man's face but was held back by his warning: lashing out at the priest would require more penance than he was ready to give. With his shoulders taut, the Minister slunk back into the cathedral.

Inside, he rested against a stone column as he attempted to gather himself. His head spun as the weight of this whole situation sent him reeling. Removing his hat, the judge scratched uneasily at his head as he pondered what he could possibly do next.

There's no way Quasimodo could possibly know…he reassured himself, feeling his face burn up again. He could practically hear his heartbeat pounding away in his ears. It was only a matter of time before this newfound gossip made its way into Notre Dame. Sooner or later, he knew that someone's loose lips would retell the whole story to the boy, rendering the Minister's penance void.

There must be a way to prevent the boy from learning about this. But how could one stop the flow of this gossip? Frollo stalled for another few minutes, the cogs in his head turning as he raced to find a solution.

X

"Are you feeling better?" The boy asked, his smile broad and revealing his crooked teeth.

"Much," Frollo answered flatly as he strolled into the bell tower, barely sharing a glance at his ward. Despite only a few days passing, somehow it felt like an eternity as he scanned over the messy loft. Wordlessly, he removed his hat and sat down at the beaten table, his expression harrowing and forlorn.

Quasimodo scrutinized his guardian's expression and came to his side. "Master, is…is something wrong?"

The judge's granite eyes locked into those innocent blue ones, indicating something ominous. "Oh, this Advent season, my boy," he drawled out, folding his hands before him.

"What about it?"

"How could this time of year—when we should be celebrating the birth of the Lord—be filled with such hideousness of men's souls?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just today alone, I've seen more wickedness than I care to admit. Lies spilling from the common folks' lips like sickness. Evil, not from their hands, but words…Words, indeed, are weapons in themselves."

"What kind of lies, Master?"

Frollo shook his head. "They're much too awful. I couldn't allow you to hear such wretched things—they would only sicken you, dear boy. Oh, the world seems to grow darker and more sinister every day, and it pains me to think of you at its mercy."

Quasimodo stared up at his father-figure, confused and captivated. His expression begged the man to continue this cryptic rambling. The judge spoke. "I can hardly find the strength to tell you this, Quasimodo, but…these terrible lies can all be traced to the most unlikely culprit…"

The deafening pause hung momentarily over the two, before Quasimodo pried. "Who?"

Frollo sighed deeply, his expression sorrowful as he rubbed at his tired eyes. "It pains me—absolutely pains me, boy. The people of this city have been fed lies by a priest—and a priest of Notre Dame's merit, at that. And would you like me to tell you who is at fault?" Quasimodo nodded frantically, enthralled by his master's words. "It was that conniving man, Father Albert."

The boy blinked at this, recalling their brief interaction only days ago. "But…he told me you were sick, and he wasn't lying about that."

"And did you not tell me that the man said I was knocking at Death's door? That I was about to die?"

"Well…yes, he did…"

"And was that true?"

"N-no, it wasn't."

Frollo offered a humorless smile. "Oh, Quasimodo. The man's lying is a sickness, and he is out there deceiving good people, despite being a man of God."

"But what is he telling them?"

"It's much too colorful for an innocent child's ears, but believe me, they're terrible things."

Quasimodo scratched his red hair, trying to make sense of this. "So…what happens to liars?"

The Minister's eyes looked skyward, feigning contemplation. "Oh, the Lord will see to it. Mark my words, my boy: that man will be punished for his wrongdoings, in this world and the next. But understand what I've been telling you for years: the world out there is cruel. If it can corrupt a man of the cloth, think of what it would do to a poor, defenseless child like yourself."

The very image of devilish specters roaming the streets outside the cathedral made the boy's skin crawl, causing him to recoil a bit in fear.

"His lies have infected the people's minds like a plague," his guardian morosely carried on. "You cannot trust anyone outside this tower, Quasimodo. Only myself and perhaps the Archdeacon, but remember that I do this for your own good. Their lies and evil will poison you…and destroy you."

"What about Jehan?"

Frollo frowned at the question. "Jehan is a fool, which can be just as dangerous as a liar: a fool isn't wise enough to distinguish sins. And he will commit evil if he's bought a convincing enough lie and unaware of its weight. And remember this about my brother: he can't account for his own sins anyway. And I think he is far beyond saving."

The boy knew his master despised recounting Jehan's shortcomings, so he decided to circle the conversation back. "So…Father Albert is going to get hurt?"

The judge paused before he delivered his foreboding answer. "I predict he will be punished appropriately for deceiving Paris. And especially during this great holiday. But…we'll just have to see how the Lord sees fit."

He left Notre Dame with a minimal sense of ease—That should keep the boy under your control…at least for a while, he considered. How simple it was to fool a child. But that still left the issue of the chattering priest.

The head of the snake must be cut off…

Chapter Text

Frollo returned to the Palace of Justice still marked with a terrible sense of vulnerability: it was though all of Paris had been granted a peek into his soul, with his sins on display like some roadshow attraction. He tried to ignore their judgmental eyes and muffled sneers, but these reactions left him feeling exposed and positively naked. The perception by his public was different from Quasimodo’s: he was loathe to admit that he needed their fear and respect. Crossing the threshold inside, he hopelessly wished that these doors could seal him away from the fallout of his confessions. Pathetically, he rested his forehead against the door, wondering if the plan he concocted would indeed stop this spread of gossip.

A lanky young clerk approached him, not even noting the shaken expression on his superior’s face. “Minister, just so you know, every one of your fiefs have received the items for their Advent celebrations. They each sent in a small donation as thanks—”

“Fascinating, all of it,” Frollo brushed him away, barely listening as he set his eyes to one of the halls out of the foyer, this one leading to the dungeons. Pushing the young man aside, the judge curtly remarked, “I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

With purpose, Frollo strode down the dungeon stairs and into the inky blackness. Arriving, the judge grabbed one of the soldiers standing guard. “Who do we have that’s been charged with assault—not murder—assault?”

“Oh, we’ve got a few, sir,” the guard assured, leading his commanding officer deeper into the cells. He led the Minister to a cell full of nameless crooks pacing aimlessly like animals in their pen. The guard pointed to a hulking man leaning up against the wall, mindlessly staring up at the ceiling. “You—Eyebrow Scar—come here!” he barked.

The man in name obliged, taken aback to see the Minister of Justice separated by the iron bars. “What now?” he clipped.

“Who did you get arrested for beating up on? Some farmer…?” the guard tested.

The criminal boredly answered, “A bookkeeper in the Latin Quarter. I wasn’t trying to kill him, I just wanted to send a message.”

“How badly was the man beaten?” Frollo then asked, stepping closer to study the man. His encyclopedic mind quickly recalled the man’s record that had been recounted in court.

The criminal ignored the jeers of his cellmates behind him. “Oh, he was fine. Not like I crippled him or anything. He’s still taking names and money, so all things considered, he’s the real criminal—still out and roaming the streets.”

He’ll do, the judge mused, smirking. “Well,” Frollo began airily. “As it seems, your case has been overturned. You’re free to go.”

“What?!” the soldier aside raised, incredulous.

“He’s free to go,” Frollo firmly repeated. “Release him.”

“But, sir, he assaulted a man—”

“Now.”

The soldier offered a bewildered look to the Minister before following his orders, dragging the criminal out roughly. Per Frollo’s orders, the convicted man was escorted upstairs to one of the vacant chambers.

Excusing the guard, Frollo found himself alone with the criminal still in manacles. Lithely circling the man, the judge spoke. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? You have a record: numerous counts of assaults and brawling, don’t you?”

The man sniffed. “Paris is an unforgiving place, Your Honor.”

“Indeed. And let us pretend, for a moment, that these events were not all circumstantial to bad luck or retaliation…you’re a man who is not afraid to hurt another, correct?”

“If someone needs a beating, I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”

Frollo noted to himself, Good answer. “Any family in the city?” he asked, locking his fingers before him.

“Not no more.”

“So, if you were to simply…” Frollo shrugged. “Disappear from Paris, there would be none to mourn you?”

The criminal shook his head, carefully keeping his eyes on the judge. “I suppose not.”

Just to send a message, Frollo’s mind echoed as he examined the filthy man. The Minister smiled to himself, looking out the high window towards the silhouette of Notre Dame in the distance. After a brief pause, he enigmatically pondered aloud, “Who’s to say it’s too late for new beginnings?”

The man offered a puzzled look as a response. Frollo once again stepped closer to the man. “I have a proposition for you…”

X

“Did you spend all that silver already?” a priest asked his compatriot as they both slipped out of the cathedral. The biting cold blanketing the city indicated that snow was afoot.

“Oh, I still have a few pieces left,” Albert answered, smiling giddily. “Going to Glatigny tonight to see Jolie. You?”

“I owe some boys across the river a card game. I swear I’m going to win back my savings tonight!”

Albert laughed. “If you say so, Dom. See you in the morning.” With that, the two church brothers departed from each other in search of their respective revelries.

Father Albert crept through the Paris alleys with his hood up as usual. The remaining silver coins graciously donated by the Minister of Justice jingled in his coin purse, indicating they wouldn’t go to waste. He passed a row of shops that housed members of the pottery guild, from painters to sculptors, when he was suddenly overcome with an odd feeling…something that sent a shiver down his spine.

Ignoring it, he continued to slink past houses, now positive he heard someone else’s footsteps trailing behind him. He tried to throw off this stalker by rounding through another alley but still heard them getting closer. He hurried, a bead of sweat trickling down his brow as he attempted to outrun them.

“I’m a man of the Church!” he warned, trembling. Before he could react, the priest found himself pinned under a large assailant, who landed an unforgiving blow to his stomach. The attacker quickly gripped Albert’s throat in a strong bear-like hand. Before the priest could even fight back, he was blinded as the attacker punched him square in the jaw. Barely holding onto consciousness, Albert found himself in a rain of endless kicks and stomps. He could offer no pleas of mercy or prayers, only coughs, cries, and wheezes as the large man made sure he stayed down. It wasn’t long before Albert blacked out and lay helplessly on the side of the street like some drunkard, while a few pieces of silver spilled out of the leather purse.

X

“The nerve of some people!”

“Nearly beating a priest to death—there’s a special place in Hell for something like that!”

The next Sunday morning Mass was filled with whispers: people trying to piece together what happened to Father Albert. The word was that he had been unexpectedly attacked the other night while visiting a sick parishioner and left just barely alive. Now he was being nursed by Notre Dame’s infirmarians, though the severity of his injuries now left his caretakers less than hopeful. Father Augustin asked the people of Paris to pray for the man’s health and that the attacker be brought to justice.

The Minister found it quite easy to suppress his smile of triumph as he listened. However, after Mass Frollo found himself cornered by frazzled nobles, anger and terror plastered on their faces. Their questions were nearly identical to each other, all meshing into a whirlwind of anguish.

“How are we supposed to feel safe knowing that a madman is out there, roughing up men of God?”

“Where were the guards? Every street is crawling with them and they still couldn’t protect a priest?”

Frollo tried to spin the event and attempted to appear stoic. “No good Christian could have done such a heinous thing. I think we may all deduce who is at fault for the attack…” Even in this house of God, he found no qualms in damning another, especially his preferred scapegoat. The Parisians murmured and nodded in agreement as they understood their Minister’s meaning, some still gasping in surprise.

“Perhaps we should all be more vigilant this Advent season around gypsies. The fact that they didn’t kill Father Albert is a miracle.” Despite his firm rhetoric, Frollo still found himself assaulted with endless queries about Paris’s safety during this holy season. Still…all this damage control was a small price to pay to keep the priest from spreading the story.

X

Quasimodo had come to inspect Albert’s condition in Notre Dame’s infirmary. The boy stood beside one of the many monks trading shifts to keep watch over the injured man, now applying salves to his cuts and unsightly bruises. The Archdeacon had discouraged Quasimodo from inspecting the priest’s injuries, as Augustin feared it might be too much for the boy’s constitution. The sight of Albert swollen and battered was enough to nauseate the poor boy, as he had never seen such trauma before. He had never imagined the human body could swell up and become so discolored, which easily made him want to cry.

"Is he going to be alright?” he inquired, stark horror etched on his face.

“Who can say?” the monk beside him hollowly answered as he finished up and ushered the boy out. “The poor man was beaten within an inch of his life—people don’t just recover and go back to their life as normal.”

“But why would someone hurt a priest?” Quasimodo’s face was filled with a myriad of emotions: shock, disgust, puzzlement, sadness.

The lanky monk shrugged. His dark brown eyes were almost black like an animal’s and just as emotionless. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? Poor Albert never hurt a soul, and as soon as he has a little meeting with Minister Frollo, this happens. Curious, isn’t it?”

Quasimodo blinked at him. He knew his master had forbidden him from speaking to this monk, Brother Dominique, but the boy was just too curious for his own good. “What do you…?”

“Maybe it’s a coincidence.” Dominque’s tone was even and nonchalant but implicating of something more sinister. “Although…Claude’s been walking around with a chip on his shoulder as long as anyone can remember.”

Quasimodo blinked at this, surprised that this monk would even suggest a thing about his guardian. “But Master Frollo says that hurting a church brother is instant damnation.”

“Well, I still wouldn’t put it past him. I know what he’s capable of.” Quasimodo offered another puzzled look to the man, silently asking for him to elaborate. “Oh, we went to school together as boys. I’ve seen him scrap his way through a few fights…”

“Dom!” The monk and boy spun on their heels to see the Minister of Justice barreling towards them in a blur of black velvet. Frollo instantly pulled the boy away from him, tucking Quasimodo behind. “That’s enough!” he sternly ordered the monk.

The other man grinned with mockery, well aware of the Minister’s restraints. “Would it really kill you to at least address me as Brother Dominique?”

Without answering, Frollo turned to his ward. “Quasimodo, go to the bell tower right now. I’ll be with you shortly.” The boy nodded and retreated. Unbeknownst to the Minister, Quasi kept silent as he rounded the corner of the hall, stopping to eavesdrop on the discussion.

“I know what you’re doing,” Frollo began sharply, stepping closer to the monk who remained immovable. “Don’t you dare implicate me in front of the boy. And I have already told you to keep away from him.”

The monk named Dom leaned easily against the wall behind him, folding his hands before himself and twiddling his thumbs. “Claude, all I said is that Albert’s attack is timed oddly close with your little confrontation with him.” He noted the judge’s aghast look. “Yes, he told us that you threatened him outside—and after he gave you Extreme Unction.”

Frollo narrowed his eyes at the smug man—one of his old childhood tormentors. “I wasn’t the one who beat him to a pulp! But I wouldn’t put it past those infernal gypsies—godless as they are—they have no respect for the clergy.”

The monk sneered and nodded, patronizing the judge. “Gypsies, of course. Strange, though, what happened to him, isn’t it? Attacked on the street, just out of the blue.”

“Random acts of violence are all too common in this world,” Frollo deflected, eyes briefly glancing to the locked door behind the monk.

“Oh yes, and I’m sure your hands are exceedingly clean.” The other man’s eyes seemed to pierce the judge with expertise. “What happened, Claude? Wishing you were the one taking the confessions, not making them? Old bitterness get the better of you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I didn’t lay a hand on him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Dom raised his hands, as if to show he had nothing to hide. “Never. It’s just that…” He cast his cold eyes aside, needling his old schoolmate.

“Out with it then,” Frollo challenged him, now mere inches away.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that, well…Albert kept to himself, never hurt anyone…he takes your confession once and gets the living daylight beaten out of him the next day? Seems a little coincidental, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Life is marred with coincidences.”

“I suppose it is.” A new damning look came over the monk and all humor suddenly vanished. “I’m not the only one who believes you had something to do with it, Claude.”

Frollo remained unwavering. “Then your suspicions are gravely misplaced."

The monk continued, his sneer not letting up. "Did you forget your commandments when you got expelled? Do you know what it means to "bear false witness"?"

As though the men here are inclined to follow it, Frollo spitefully thought. "Are you using your position to mislead others now, including my ward?” The judge accused, feeling his blood boil as he wanted to throttle this clergyman.

Dom arched a brow at him. “Is that what you’ve told yourself?”

“I know very well how easily led astray many of you are.”

“All these years and you still have no respect for the cloth,” Dom clipped, his tone oily.

“Not so much the cloth I have a lack of respect for, rather the man donning it—one who I believe makes a mockery of the station.”

Dom grinned once more, satisfied with the Minister’s resentment. “Sour grapes, Claude.”

The Aesopian reference was not lost on the judge, whose nostrils flared with hatred. “Don’t try me. I can make you very sorry for crossing me.”

Dom shrugged. “And end up like poor Albert? I wouldn’t dream of it, old friend.”

Frollo stepped back, never breaking eye contact. “Stay away from the boy, Dom. And I’m warning you: don’t you dare conspire against me.”

“Whatever you say, Minister.” The judge in name turned and began to walk away when Dom offered one last comment. “Keep in mind that Albert probably isn’t long for this world: he might just succumb to his wounds if they don’t heal soon.”

Frollo stopped in his tracks and barely turned his head. Emotionlessly, he remarked, “Then I hope he goes to the Lord with a clear conscience.” He excused himself and left the monk with those hollow words.

Around the corner he was surprised to find Quasimodo scurrying away before ordering the boy to halt immediately. The Minister’s expression was almost scathing as he asked, “Were you listening to my private conversation with Dominique?”

Quasimodo looked around the bleak corridor, trying to keep from meeting his master’s gaze. “I just…I wanted to know what happened with Father Albert.”

“Is that so?” Frollo quickly tempered himself, as he could not blame Quasimodo for his curiosity. “Well, it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with anymore, my boy. His fate is in God’s hands now.”

“Brother Dominique couldn’t tell me why someone would hurt a priest.”

Frollo waved for the boy to follow him back to the bell tower. With sternness, he replied, “There are horrible people in this world who will harm another for mere pleasure—priest, peasant, it’s all the same to them. A title means nothing to a remorseless criminal.”

A new query now raise in Quasimodo's mind after the monk's cutting words. "What did he mean by you being "expelled"? Expelled from what?" 

Frollo laid a reassuring hand on the boy’s hunch as they walked back towards the direction of the stairwell. "It's not important."

X

Exiting the cathedral, Frollo was met with a man’s chirpy voice. “Finally! My God—I knew you were here for morning Mass, but I didn’t think you’d be hanging around until the evening one.” The judge turned to find his brother ambling about, smoothing his colorful fur-lined robe.

“And you never come at all,” the Minister snarked as he stepped toward Jehan and replaced his chaperon. He pulled his black cloak tighter around him and noticed that small snowflakes were beginning to fall. With disinterest, Frollo asked, “What do you want?”

“Oh, I was in the area. And I wanted to see the damage they did on that priest.” Jehan casually spit off to the side, earning a disapproving sneer from his brother. “Bad business, isn’t it? Everyone’s talking about it.”

Frollo’s eyes zipped around before pulling Jehan aside, wary of passersby milling about in the square. “That man got exactly what he had coming to him,” he said enigmatically.

Jehan drew his brows together, scrutinizing his brother’s expression as he deduced the implication. “Claude, you didn’t…did you?”

Frollo steepled his fingers together, his face placid. “I did what needed to be done. Perhaps next time he’ll think twice before exposing another man’s sins to the world.”

“What, were you that embarrassed he heard your last confession?”

Frollo blinked at the young man. “You honestly don’t know?” Jehan shook his head. “Not only did that Father Albert take my confession, but it can be surmised that he aired it to the whole of Paris.”

“That’s what you think happened?”

“He’s the only one who could have heard it. How else could it be explained?”

Jehan simply nodded, masking his relief that his brother had reasoned this whole mess could be blamed on some innocent clergyman. Evenly, he replied, “Hard to believe a priest would do such a thing. Well anyway, word has it that the poor man might be pushing up daisies soon.”

The Minister stepped back, his expression unchanging. “It seems that is the nature of things, and it’s out of our control.” Offering his brother a small bow, Frollo left and made his way back to the judicial coach out front.

Chapter Text

“Eighty-six! I thought the old buzzard would never die!” a grizzled magistrate clipped as the group of officials drank.

The Paris nobility had gathered for a banquet after the funeral for the city’s bishop Guillaume Chartier. At his age it was deemed a divine miracle to have lived so long, even if his last days were plagued with terrible rheumatics and phlegm. With such a long reign behind him, it seemed as though the whole of Paris had gathered to watch his procession before being laid to rest. Despite the spring overcast, a single beam of sunlight broke through the clouds on the ceremony, leading many to testify to the bishop’s holiness. Already the month of May carried an air of auspiciousness and warning.

Frollo shot his associate a sour look at his words. “His Grace is barely cold; perhaps you should refrain from such disrespect so soon,” he shamed. He absolutely detested these gatherings, what with the artificial smiles and words, especially when they were held at the Palace of Justice. Everyone knew why they gathered here: to eat and drink on the Minister’s account, and possibly debase themselves with other nobles.

The Minister suffered to listen to these pompous citizens, pretending as though they were as holy as the man they buried. Truly the only sincere words he had heard so far were from Father Augustin, who made a rare appearance here at the Palace.

“A wise man,” he intoned, crestfallen. “The very man who ordained me when I took holy orders.”

“Wise, but at times overconfident,” another magistrate offered and flashed a conniving grin. “After all, it takes a bit of foolishness to go toe to toe with the King.”

“But for a noble cause,” Frollo countered, glancing aside to Augustin. “His Majesty conceded to overstepping in that whole mess of a bishops' election.”

“Very well—call it bravery, if you like.”

The first magistrate added, “Let’s pray that the death of a man of God won’t mean more to follow. After all, death comes in threes, don't they?”

Frollo could not mask his ire at the brashness of some of these men. “We should all be so hopeful, Jean-Marc.” With that, he slunk away past throngs of blustering nobles back upstairs to his study. Outside the door was a messenger boy, eyes wide as he greeted the grim-faced Minister of Justice.

Sardonically, Frollo greeted, “I pray you bring me news that will steal me away from my guests.”

“A message from Orleans, sir.” The young man thrust the letter forward and was instructed to wait downstairs.

Reclined in his desk chair, Frollo began to read.

Dear Claude,

Forgive my lack of correspondence in the last few years, but it is not due to a lack of interest, merely professional conflicts. To hear that you earned the title of Paris’s Minister of Justice fills me with pride to call you my former pupil.

With more grim news, it pains me to say that I fear I am in my last days. I have been struck with an illness that has plagued me for weeks and I see no end in sight, other than a pine box.

I beseech you to grant this old man one last favor: I would be delighted to speak with you one last time before I leave this world. I know the trek from Paris to Orleans is a task in itself, but it would bring me great peace to see you again. If not, a simple letter would bring me as much joy.

I pray to hear from you soon, my boy.

Your brother in Orleans academia,

Paul Cuvier, Juris Doctor

“Cuvier?” Frollo’s low voice murmured out as his fingers curled around the letter. He was instantly struck with a pang of worry for his former teacher. He began to pace about his office as the ominous words rang in his head.

He had to go, he must. After all, where would he be without the guidance of Orleans’s famous civil law teacher? Of course he would have to make arrangements quickly for his absence, as who knew how long Cuvier had left.

Frollo didn’t even hear the door creak open, but was stirred from his thoughts at the familiar and lively voice greeting, “I had a feeling you’d end up hiding up here.” In strode Jehan with a pair of goblets in his hands. Handing one to his brother, he remarked, “You look like you just got a bit of bad news. What’s eating you?”

The judge took a deep gulp of his drink, a new sorrow hanging over him. “I must go to Orleans,” he answered somberly.

“Orleans? Who died?”

Frollo cast him an icy look and instantly wanted to cuff him in the back of the head. “Nobody, not yet anyway. But I owe it to the man who sent me this letter to go and see him.”

“That’s a three-day trip, just to get there!” Jehan’s blue eyes went wide with bafflement. “Who the hell is so important you’d drop everything just to go to Orleans for?”

A mournful sigh escaped his brother. “A very admirable man, one who had a tremendous influence on me.”

Plopping down in an empty chair, Jehan glugged some more wine and asked, “Then why have I never heard of him?”

The judge scoffed. “If you can’t be bothered with the most important names of Western civilization, I doubt you’d care about one of my old teachers.”

“Fair point. So are you going to pay your last respects to him?”

“It seems that way.” Frollo brushed a hand over his hair, not quite thrilled at the idea of going back to his old stomping grounds.

Jehan drew his brows at his brother. “What's wrong? It’s not as though you haven't seen a dying person before.”

“Seldom ever is it somebody I knew personally." What he wasn’t going to reveal is that he worried of arriving too late—what if Cuvier was dead by the time he arrived in the city?

“Well, if it turns into a funeral, remember that they're a great place for one-night stands,” Jehan noted with a mischievous smile, trying to lighten the mood.  “I’ve comforted my fair share of grieving women. They call it “widow’s fire” for a reason, Claude.”

Frollo’s lips curled at the words, amazed that the boy could find a way to turn a depressing event into something so lewd. “Lechery is the last thing on my mind, especially under these circumstances.”

“Don’t be so quick to judge. Grief does funny things to people: something about putting a man in the ground really gets their horses going.”

“I’m going to say my farewells to a mentor, not spread seed unnecessarily.”

Jehan merely shrugged. “Alright, then. Go and say goodbye, give your regards, and come home. Easy enough.”

Frollo hung his head at the notion and a heaviness settled in his heart, not even hearing his brother anymore. With a few mumbled words, he sent Jehan out and began to compose his response for the messenger.

Later that night, the Minister lay awake and was troubled by dear memories of his teacher while under his tutelage. How passionate Cuvier was about civil law and of his persistence for his student to pursue it. Frollo fondly recalled that at the time, it seemed as though Cuvier was the only person in the world who seemed to believe he was capable of more.

You must go, he reminded himself as though it were even a question.

X

“What’s in Orleans?” Quasimodo asked before stuffing a bread roll into his mouth.

“The University,” Frollo guardedly answered, barely touching his own food. “Specifically, a man who taught civil law when I was a student.”

“Did he die?”

The Minister gripped at the chaperon sitting in his lap. “No, not yet. But it seems imperative that I see him soon, before he’s called back to the Lord. His illness is far too progressive, and he isn’t long for this world.”

“He can’t get better? You did, Master.”

The judge glanced at the green orb of a ring, a token of his accomplishment at the University. “I doubt it. He seems to have accepted his fate, so there’s no use bemoaning a lack of remedy.” He remembered discussing ancient contracts and kings with the man, who never seemed jaded at the subject matter. Always able to inspire curiosity and inquiry among his students.

Still interested, the boy continued. “When did you last see him? You never talk about Orleans, Master.”

“Not in a very long time…” Frollo tried to hide his embarrassment. “Not since I graduated, actually.” He could see Cuvier’s joyous smile as he wished him good luck as the young man prepared to return to Paris, his master’s degree signed and stamped. The master reminded him to write back, and that he would always be welcome in Orleans.

That Paul, he thought, forlorn. Somehow both always an optimist but still grounded. Always offering fatherly wisdom and encouragement to his students, wanting them to gain as much as they could from their learning. But he also remembered Cuvier advising him that while education was a wonderful thing, the young man should always be mindful of his humanity, and of the things in life that nourish the soul, like friendship and love.

Cuvier was the father-figure he needed in his most turbulent time.

“I should have kept in touch,” Frollo let slip in barely a murmur. It was certainly too late now. Suddenly he felt as though his chest was tightening and his breaths shallowed. Without warning, he tore himself away from his seat and trudged towards the bell tower steps.

He barely glanced over his shoulder and hastily sputtered out, “Forgive me, my boy, but I need to go—I must make the proper arrangements.” As he trudged down the winding steps, Frollo cursed the errant tear running down his cheek.

X

The three-day journey was one that only became more harrowing with each passing mile. At each inn Frollo simply sat on the edge of his bed and stared blankly at the straw-covered floors. He could not shake the mounting terror that held him tightly and made him almost regret this trip in the first place. The judge prayed endlessly that his old mentor could forgive him for the lack of contact over the years. Did Cuvier have some last damning words for him—to call him an ingrate for taking his education and leaving with barely a goodbye?

I suppose we will soon find out, he thought grimly.

It was only when the city gates of Orleans came into view did the Minister impulsively think, It isn’t too late to turn back around. Of course, that would be the cowardly thing to do. After getting situated with his lodging, Frollo steered a horse provided by the inn in the familiar direction of Cuvier’s house, hoping the man was still living there.

Arriving, he studied the large timber-framed house with nostalgia and mapped out the interior in his mind. It’s too late now, he thought with finality as he knocked.

“The family has been expecting you,” the maid flatly said as she ushered Frollo through the house and up the stairs. “The master was quite delighted that you responded.” She stopped before the ornate grand door at the end of the hall and knocked, to which a low and muffled voice called her in. Reappearing, she swung it open and motioned for Frollo to step forward. With a thundering heart and shaking legs, he did so.

Inside, he stepped carefully toward the grand bed where a pale figure lay. Beside him sat a woman, downcast and taking notes.

Frollo blanched at the sight: the man was frail and pallid; once lively and bright brown eyes were dull and almost empty; long white curls flanked his gaunt face; and a low rasping sound emitted from him as he breathed. However, when the man cast his gaze at the Minister approaching him, his tired eyes seemed to light up.

With a weak smile, the man Cuvier commented, “So, time hasn’t been kind to you either, has it?” A wheezing laugh erupted from him, making the woman at his side smirk.

Frollo himself could not help but smile at the man’s humor, something he hadn’t realized that he missed. Respectfully, he removed his hat and stepped closer.

“Oh, keep the hat on or don’t—they haven’t put me in a box just yet,” Cuvier added, breaking to cough aside. “I’m glad you made it, my boy.” Catching his breath, the old man pointed to the silent woman. “Claude, you remember my daughter, Laura?”

The two regarded each other with respectful nods. “Nice to see you again, Claude,” she warmly greeted. The woman wasn’t more than four or five years younger than the judge, with sharp blue eyes and long brown curls tied up. Frollo remembered she didn’t look much different from his days here in Orleans. Her soft features were a welcome sight opposed to her ailing father.

Cuvier spoke again. “My dear, would you mind leaving us to speak? We have some things to discuss.” The woman Laura nodded and offered Frollo another welcoming smile as she left the men alone.

The judge tried not to stare pitifully at his former teacher. “It's good to see you again, Paul,” he greeted affably.

“And you, son. It’s been much too long.”

Stiltedly, Frollo asked, “How, um…how are you?”

Cuvier regarded the grim air about them. “I'll be honest with you: things could be better.” True to form, the old man had to chuckle at his own misfortune.

“No doubt. And Laura looks well.”

“Yes, she’s been helping me write my final letters. The only one of my children who didn’t squander their mental faculties. You can see I’m no good for quills and such anymore.” Cuvier motioned for his pupil to sit.

“I was afraid you would decline my invitation,” he rumbled, barely looking at the Minister.

“It is the very least I can do.” With a brief and heavy pause, Frollo nervously began to twist his signet ring. “So, then…was there anything in particular you wished to discuss with me? Your letter implied that it was of great urgency.”

Cuvier waved a bony hand at him. “I just wanted to have a last talk or two with you, my boy. Of all my students, you were one of my greatest success stories. You know I’m proud to be your mentor.”

Frollo clasped his hands together tightly now. The remorseful words were acrid as they lingered on his tongue. “I…I wish I hadn’t allowed myself to fall out of touch. You deserved better than that after all you did for me.”

The old man looked wistful. “Ah, not as though I could force you to. You needed to go and make a name for yourself. Imagine my surprise to hear that you ended up in your father’s old position. I never would have thought you of all people would strive for that role.”

“It was God’s plan for me.” Frollo could vividly remember begging his Paris instructors to send letters of recommendation so that he may be admitted to the University here. Cuvier was more than ecstatic to see the young man had decided to undergo civil law courses after begging him to do so.

His mentor scrutinized him, humor suddenly evaporating. “Claude,” he began sternly, earning an apprehensive look from the Minister next to him. “Would you please tell me now, why did you relent to civil law? You were so determined for a career in canon law...so why did you change your mind in the end?”

Frollo’s eyes darted around the chamber and noted the sparse décor. “I fell out of interest with it. I decided I didn't want a life of keeping records for archbishops.”

Cuvier continued to stare. “Son, I have very little time left here on earth. Whatever you tell me, I will be taking with me to the grave sooner rather than later.” The judge cast him a doubtful look, not willing to indulge his old friend. “I taught you everything I knew. I ask that you could at least grant me one more request: the truth. Why did you really switch to civil law?”

Frollo rubbed nervously at his neck. Perhaps he did owe his mentor that, especially after offering his hospitality during his first time in the city. “Very well,” he said begrudgingly. “I turned to civil law because…” More bitter words fought to stay hidden away, but he forced them out. “Because of a woman.”

Cuvier’s pale brows rose, not quite believing him. “A woman?” Frollo nodded shamefully and averted his eyes. “Well, what happened?”

The Minister prayed that Cuvier’s daughter would reenter and offer him an escape from this inquiry. “I realized that the only way I could protect others from her kind was to become a vessel of law. I was…unfortunate, to say the least, in falling for her guile.”

“Her “kind”? What was she: Jewess, Ottoman, Slav…?”

Frollo clenched his fist that rested on his knee, glancing at the red rhombus jewel. “Gypsy, regretfully.”

The old mentor’s eyes looked up, thoughtful, as he let the revelation sink in. “You know, I remember when you first came to the city, you were just shocked to see we had no Roma people. Though we reversed those edicts some years after.”

“Yes, and I learned firsthand that they are agents of the Devil. And I alone must be the one to protect others from their malice.”

Cuvier coughed loudly aside. Dejectedly, he mused, “All these years and I thought you wanted to learn because I made quite a case for civil law.” A new cloud of sadness now covered the old man. “If I had known it was some damn fool revenge mission, I would’ve asked you to reconsider. I would’ve asked that you forgive this woman instead of weaponizing my curriculum.”

The judge’s lips turned down. “Yes, but let’s not forget that my father sent me to you so that I wouldn’t protest his new edict, backed by the King, mind you. He didn’t want me voicing my concerns, so he sent me here under the guise of “expanding my horizons”.”

Cuvier's brow furrowed, intrigued. “And what edict would that be?”

Frollo was quickly remiss to explain his father and King Charles's expulsion of the Roma people. How the edict in name cost the young man his dearest friend…the very woman who drove him to settling on his new area of study.

He expertly lied, “It’s been so long that I can’t remember.”

Cuvier only muttered, “Still, Claude…”

Frollo’s sharp features contorted into a vengeful scowl. “Well, then tell me, Paul: why were you so determined to turn me to civil law over my original canon?”

“Because I believed you would be properly challenged, and that you would succeed!” He coughed again and brushed some limp curls out of his face.

Frollo's dark lips formed a crooked smile. “So you didn’t want to laud me as a part of your collection of alumni? Show me off as your proud accomplishment?” he bitterly tested.

“I thought you might do great things with it. We need more intelligent men writing our laws, and I believed you might be one of them. Your talents would’ve been wasted on canon.”

“Then have I disappointed you?” Frollo almost didn’t want an answer and forced himself to look upon the man.

“No…no, of course not.” Cuvier’s somberness remained. “Claude, I don’t want you believing I used your achievements for my own vanity, I didn’t. I truly did push you to civil because I saw an untapped potential in you. As a man of education, it’s my duty to help my students pursue that. Let me ask: are you satisfied with your position? Would you be as happy if you pursued a career in canon?”

Frollo thought of the never-ending quibbling among citizens, the necessary reports and documents, settling disputes in the courtroom—one headache after another.

But he loved it. The power, the respect, the comfort, the challenges. All of it.

After a beat of contemplative silence—only broken by Cuvier’s rasping breaths and intervals of coughing—Frollo finally answered, “You’re quite adept at hiding your lamp under a bushel when it comes to rhetoric, Paul.” Cuvier once again smiled at the judge’s wry answer. The Minister added, “It would be insulting to you if I said that my position didn’t bring me some contentment. And I couldn’t have achieved it without your mentorship.”

“Tight-lipped and careful, just like your father.”

Frollo sighed and emptily looked about the various depictions of saints adorning the chamber.

Cuvier steered the conversation. “So…if you credit your decision to a woman, it begs the question: did you ever settle down? I heard tattles from friends that you became a father. Indulge me, then.”

Frollo shuddered, grateful the heavy robe concealed such. “Simple adoption, he’s not my spawn.”

“Still, what’s his name?”

“Quasimodo,” he answered with spite. “I named him for what he is.”

Cuvier cocked his head a bit. “Dare I ask?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“Any wife?”

“None. I can’t be bothered with such trifles.”

Cuvier nodded with lethargy. “‘It is not good for a man to be alone’, that’s why Adam was gifted a wife. You’re not a deviant now, are you, son?”

“Of course not! I simply find it’s more productive to be celibate.”

His mentor looked like he wanted to laugh again. Scratching at his stubbly face, he commented, “You know, when you enrolled here, Laura was actually quite taken with you.”

Frollo vaguely remembered that during his first trip here she was away visiting family in the country, by Cuvier’s account. He didn’t actually meet Laura until some two years later when he enrolled at the school.

Cuvier prattled on. “I admit, I had some worries about you having the same appetites as other young men. I didn’t want my daughter having to be sent away because of some fling gone wrong on your part.”

Frollo shook his head, not quite believing the old man.

“Ironically enough,” Cuvier added, a new spark in his eyes. “After a year or so, I began to pray that eventually you might come and ask me for Laura’s hand.”

“I can’t say I would have made her very happy as a husband. I find I’m only invigorated by work,” Frollo replied hollowly.

Cuvier offered a doubtful look at him. “Well, in any case, I hope you find happiness somewhere, Claude. I pray you find the right woman.”

“I highly doubt the right one exists.”

“My boy, you can’t stake all your frustrations on one woman who hurt you—for goodness’ sake, that’s life!”

“It was a sign, Paul: a sign that her race is untrustworthy and detrimental to our world.”

“And by the sound of it, you punish out of revenge and hatred than out of obligation to the law.”

The judge’s nostrils flared with growing anger. “It’s all necessary. All in accordance with God’s plan.”

“Claude…” Cuvier said and, with great effort, pulled himself up a little. His friendly brown eyes were accusing as they locked with the Minister’s own. “There is a great difference between law and justice. Never lose sight of that.”

“I assure you, I understand that quite well.”

Cuvier’s expression softened a bit. “I hope so.” He reclined heavily back again, exhausted. “Your father was a fool not to see your talent. But if it means anything, he would have been proud to see you now… personally, I would be proud to call you my son.” Frollo offered only a restrained smile, despite his heart swelling with his own pride.

The two men continued to catch up before a new coughing fit racked Cuvier’s chest, prompting him to ask Frollo to excuse him as this discussion left him drained.

Frollo could feel his breaths shallow again as he exited the chamber, ordering himself to contain any grand display of emotion. He felt as if his head were spinning after seeing his former mentor and took a moment to collect himself.

“He has his good days,” the composed voice of a woman stirred him. From a nearby chamber emerged Cuvier’s daughter, her expression indiscernible.

“I suppose I’m so fortunate then,” Frollo replied vacantly and noticing his hands were trembling.

“You’re white as a sheet. Come, let’s get something for those nerves.” Laura ushered him to follow her downstairs to the house’s main sitting room, where she dutifully ordered a servant to fetch them some wine.

As he drank, Frollo couldn’t help but notice how little the house had changed since he first came here at a mere seventeen years old. More memories of the past were dredging up: how he sat here with a few other students and discussed various writings with Cuvier, or how he would sit here and meditate after a long day of cataloging in the man’s personal library.

“I hope you know how much it means to him that you came here,” Laura remarked, studying the man across. “You look as though you have your own doubts.”

Frollo could feel the muscles in his back tightening as Cuvier’s weak form reappeared in his mind. “It’s not that. It's...it's simply an awful image,” he began. “To see a man I’ve greatly respected be reduced to a shell of himself.” He gulped down more wine and welcomed the warmth in his gut.

“Take comfort that he’s long accepted it and already received his last rites. My own children still haven’t completely accepted that their grandfather will be leaving us soon.”

“And have you, yourself, come to terms with it?”

Laura averted her bright blue eyes. “I’ve already buried my mother when I was a girl. I’m blessed to have had my father here as long as I have. Do you remember when you bid your parents farewell?”

“As though it were yesterday.” In his mind’s eye Frollo could still see the family house being emptied of plague-ridden furniture, and the somber service at Notre Dame as the nobility came to pay their respects to his parents. Nineteen years old and head of the household, all alone, sans baby Jehan. “It’s far from a pleasant experience.”

Laura’s smile wasn’t one of comfort, just resignation. “Father had the foresight to arrange his burial himself. He says now it’s just waiting for the final sands to fall through the hourglass.”

“Pragmatic as always, that Paul.”

“May I ask where you’re staying?”

“An inn nearby. Quite clean and accommodating.”

“Would you not consider staying here in my family’s house?” There was a hopeful look in her eyes as they lingered on the Minister.

Frollo shifted uncomfortably again. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, he answered diplomatically, “I thank you for the offer, but perhaps what your father needs now is the company of his family, first and foremost. This was a wonderful opportunity to reconnect, but I should leave in the next day or two.”

“Claude…” Laura rose from her seat and stepped closer to him. “Please don’t hurry back to Paris so soon. This is…it would mean a great deal to me, and my father, if you stayed for a few days.” She noted the pondering expression on his sharp features. “You won’t even need to stay here, if it pleases you.”

Frollo considered it. While seeing his former teacher so sick pained him, perhaps he did owe it to Cuvier and his daughter if he stayed here a little longer.

“Very well,” he said finally, standing to meet her gaze. “I will stay.”

Laura’s eyes shimmered a bit, no doubt from tears threatening to escape. “Thank you, Claude. Truly. Oh, and welcome back to Orleans.”

Chapter Text

“Charmolue said that?” Frollo asked, amused.

“Honest to God,” Cuvier answered. “He said he couldn’t remember the last time he found a public official so tight with the purse strings as you. Also said that if you weren’t so anchored in Paris, he’d have recommended you as the next royal proctor.”

Frollo had dutifully returned to his mentor's home and was more than pleased to continue catching up. However, he still worked to keep many details to himself, especially after revealing so much yesterday. Despite the Minister's best efforts, his teacher was able to see right through his guardedness. 

Cuvier wiped some sweat from his brow. “Still reluctant to show your hand, aren’t you? You always did pride yourself on your ability to temper your emotions."

"And it's served me well thus far," Frollo clipped.

"It's not healthy to stifle them, keep them in a box as you do. I still think it would serve you well to find a woman to settle down with. You don’t want to spend your last years with a gaping hole that a wife could have filled.”

The judge fought to keep himself from rolling his eyes, as to not insult the man. Beating a dead horse, indeed, he thought, irritably. “I think I’m more than settled into the life of a bachelor, Paul. I told you that it allows me more focus.”

“It’s never too late,” Cuvier raised, a glint in his eyes. “Just you wait and see.”

“I have no time for family.”

“Ah, very well, if you say so. I hope that, at least, you show your son some kindness, even if he isn’t your flesh and blood.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Frollo grumbled, folding his hands in his lap. Cuvier’s awful rasping filled the air and the judge was sorely reminded of the former’s long-gone liveliness.

The Minister had been tormented by a needling question for days, one that he had never asked anyone before. With hesitance, he inquired. “Paul…are you afraid?”

Cuvier narrowed his eyes at his friend. “What, of dying?”

The judge felt foolish at the question—like some child in need of consolation. Still, he nodded in response.

His mentor looked up meditatively. “Sometimes, and sometimes not...but I have faith.”

“But you still fear it?”

“Of course. I've done my share of awful things, especially during the war. And I’ve tried to atone and seek forgiveness, like anyone else. But maybe I’ll be shown mercy when I cross that threshold…and maybe I’ll get to see my wife and sons again. I suppose that’s the best any of us can do.”

“So it seems.” Frollo briefly wished that it were some other poor reprobate suffering, rather than this humble and brilliant man.

A new light suddenly shone in Cuvier’s eyes. “See the nightstand right here?” He pointed to the furniture piece on the other side of the bed. “Open it up and find the key in there.” The Minister did so and held it up with raised eyebrows. “Head down to the old library if you’re feeling nostalgic.”

Frollo toyed with the smooth, iron key. “I’m not very fond of nostalgia.”

“Well, you came all this way just to have a few words, didn’t you? It might be good for you.”

Cuvier coughed and spat aside, his breaths wheezing. Frollo couldn’t stop a fleeting scowl of disgust that shone across his face. His mentor noticed and remarked, “I know, nothing like sage advice from a dying man.”

“Paul, I-I meant no disrespect, I—”

The man laughed faintly. “I jest with you, Claude. Why don’t you go and get some air. No sense in sitting here, risking the miasma getting you. And send Laura in. I still have some dictations to get through. But we’ll talk more soon, my boy.”

Even the stroll around Orleans’s sloping streets did little to comfort the Minister. All he could fixate on was the fear that Cuvier still held some ill will towards his former student, waiting for the right moment to unleash his bitter words. But then again…would Cuvier really call him here if he didn’t want to bury the hatchet between them? After all, the words exchanged were amiable and comforting.

Frollo decided that he had to hear it for himself: You will go back and ask Paul for forgiveness, even if you have to beg for it like some wretch.

Upon his return that evening, Laura greeted him with somberness and he instantly noticed the sound of young voices filling the house. “You’ll have to forgive them,” she remarked, leading him again into the main parlor past a couple of agitated teenagers who likely just arrived. “No father and a dying grandfather, they can be quite temperamental.”

“Believe me, I understand the yoke of parenthood,” Frollo replied, narrowly avoiding being knocked down by a coltish, young boy.

“How is he—your father, of course?” he asked smoothly, removing his chaperon and sitting across from her.

Laura shrugged, tucking a stray lock of brown curls back behind her ear. “He’s been resting. Everything just takes so much out of him now that he’ll sleep throughout the day if he needs to. I suppose I should have someone check up on him.” She called another servant and ordered her to do so.

“I haven’t seen him with an energy like this in a long time,” she noted. “I should thank you again.”

“Please, I’ve done nothing but exchange a few pleasant words with the man.” Frollo’s heartbeat thrummed nervously as he went through the penitent words in his head.

“You don’t know what it means to see the few former students he’s called,” Laura added. “You and a handful of others seem to have been his professional pride.”

“Still, that shouldn’t compare to his own family.”

Laura ran a finger along the rim of her cup, thinking. “Claude, I had three brothers and none of them died in very dignified ways. Look at them: death by pox, bar fight, gored in a hunting accident. His star pupils were the sons he truly wanted.”

“That’s…” Frollo smoothed back some hair, perplexed. “That’s quite an honor, I should say. He’s one of the few men on this earth whose opinion I value.”

“It’s a shame that we didn’t see you much after you graduated. We all missed your company.”

“Yes, well…I’ve been told I’m not much in the way of “company”.”

Suddenly the servant appeared in the doorway, her face stricken and pale.

“What happened?” Laura piped up, rising.

“The…” the little woman squeaked out. “The master is dead.”

For a fleeting second, one could hear a pin drop before Laura’s face twisted in horror and she hurried past the maid and up the stairs. The group of children rushed after, their voices a cacophony as they cried over each other.

Frollo, on the other hand, remained frozen in his seat as he felt his blood run cold. He didn’t even notice how he trembled, his hands gripping tightly at the armrests.

Ignoring the maid's offer to fetch him a drink, he mechanically began to wander through the familiar halls of the house. He barely even registered the anguished cries from up on the second story, both from Cuvier’s daughter and her children. In a daze, he shuffled out to the humble, little garden on the side of the house, planting himself down on the smooth, stone bench. Even the thick and swampy humidity could not move him as the emotion tore through.

Paul is gone, a voice in his mind said, matter-of-factly. A man who had come to be a father-figure during his time at the University here…was dead.

You should have told him as much, another voice scolded.

Frollo hardly noticed the miniscule rain droplets pelting him. Overwhelmed, a sob tore from the Minister’s chest, making him hang his head and powerlessly let the tears stream down his cheeks.

X

“He was a wonderful teacher. Never got hung up on being called “Doctor”, either.”

“Paul inspired me more than any other man at the University.”

“Orleans has truly lost a brilliant son.”

Frollo scanned around the ground floor of Cuvier’s house, which was filled with strangers all singing the dead man’s praises. While the judge half-heartedly greeted old acquaintances, it was of little comfort. He, himself, had barely said a word since his mentor died about two days ago, weeping to himself back in the privacy of his inn. Even the weather seemed to be in mourning, as puffy clouds of humidity covered the sky. Yesterday he stood statuesquely over the bridge above the Loire, trying to alleviate the inner pain and ignoring the sprinkle of hot, intermittent raindrops.

Dreams continued to bedevil him with images of Cuvier and his grand lectures. And his dejected mind screamed prayers that his teacher might forgive him in death. All these things left him cursing himself for being overcome by such fierce emotion.

He couldn’t help but feel a tad bit guilty, responsible even. As though he hastened his teacher’s passing. Perhaps Cuvier would have had a few more days, or even weeks, had his student not shown back up. Voices of reprimand rang in his head endlessly, only adding to his misery. 

After everything he did for you, you forgot him as easily as a cold. And why? Because of your own godforsaken pride—too wrapped up in your own affairs that you forgot the man who guided you through your degrees. He gave you a job when you came here in search of a new future, when you didn’t have so much as a denier to your name!

Cuvier’s confidence, his warmth, his passion for study…it was as though it meant nothing, Frollo thought severely. And dead men can’t offer forgiveness.

But is it not better to have seen him and offer that small kindness, than to have written him off? His inner voice reasoned. Frollo again had slunk away from the milling throngs of mourners and headed towards the familiar backroom, taking the rusty key Paul gave him and unlocking the door.

Within, he was slammed with a new wave of memories at the sight of the famous library, so dear to Paul. As he glazed over the rows of shelves stocked with books, Frollo recalled the first time he stepped in here. It was Cuvier’s final attempt to convince him to transfer: he promised the young man that he would have access to it only if he would take up civil law under his tutelage.

Frollo numbly sat down in one of the wooden chairs and looked around this great refuge for study. The usual smells of parchment, ink, and wax filled his nose. He could still remember logging every title into a careful system as he oversaw the library as a student, and Paul thoroughly impressed at the young man’s attention to detail.

“Orleans would simply love to call you an alumnus,” Paul assured, without a sliver of falsity in his voice.

In his mind he could see Paul leaning against his lectern, recounting Justinian’s laws in mellifluous Latin while his students scribbled notes. How he was more than happy to discuss the day’s lessons with his students after class, creating a small crowd outside the lecture hall building. Claude's father may have called the man a fool, but Cuvier's charisma made them all flock to him like moths to a flame.

Paul, I’m sorry, Frollo lamented inside. Again, he could feel tears pushing their way into the corners of his eyes and roughly wiped them away. A storm of memories turned in a tumult, making his head ache fiercely. Before he knew it, he seemed to have nodded off.

He was here in the library, which was as neat and pristine as ever. Sunlight beamed in through the windows over the polished oak desks. There was only one chair, the back facing him. He rounded it and found Paul sitting and staring peacefully into space, smiling contently. He looked as spry as the day the two met, with his light brown curls neatly clipped and eyes as sharp as ever. 

Paul looked up at his student with evenness. Unexpectedly, he began to ask the cutting questions the Minister had tried to avoid:

“Why didn’t you write? Why didn’t you visit? I would have come to Paris if you had asked.”

“Paul, I’m sorry…”

A shoulder roused him awake, making him jump. It took him a moment to recognize the face partially hidden by a veil. “I thought I noticed you already gone,” Laura solemnly greeted, pulling a shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Apologies,” Frollo said hurriedly and rose, shakily brushing his black robe smooth. “I-I should be on my way.”

She waved for him to follow. “Don’t leave just yet, come.”

Back inside, the house’s guests had vacated and left the place empty. “Where are your children?” Frollo asked, scanning for the taciturn youths.

Laura poured a couple of cups of wine. “Oh, they all decided to go and cause trouble with their friends. I suppose it’s their way of grieving.”

“And your staff?” Frollo tossed his hat aside and took the cup.

“They wanted to honor my father with their own celebratory drinks, and who would I be to say no? He'd want his friends and family to celebrate him.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer mourning in private?” Frollo tested, drawing his brows as he studied her. “I could easily retire back to my inn…”

“Claude, please.” Laura’s expression turned down. “I just…I don't want to be alone right now.”

 “I understand.” He nodded and sipped at his wine.

“It’s funny, almost…when my mother died, I was surrounded by family and friends,” she began pensively, taking a seat and motioning him to do the same. “So why am I now left to mourn him alone?” Her red-rimmed blue eyes flitted around, indicating the emptiness of the house. “I know, people came to pay their respects, but… How did you cope when your parents passed?”

He frowned heavily as he remembered those dark few days. “It pains me to say that I didn’t handle it with much grace.”

“Meaning…?”

“I drank,” he admitted with a resigned sigh. He recalled the pain of his parents' funerals and overseeing the estate, only remedied by a wineskin at his side.

Laura nodded. “My brothers are all dead, my children can’t be bothered to sit and weep with me, of course my husband is long gone.”

A new curiosity spurred the judge to ask, “What happened to him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Laura drew a longing sigh. “Pneumonia from his travels. About six years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She drank deeply. “My father encouraged me to find a replacement husband, but…you know men need to be persuaded to take up with a widow. They need the right incentive.” Frollo cocked a brow at her, detecting something sinful. “The right price of a dower,” she answered his silent question, smirking. “It’s better just to keep rule over my father’s estate and split it between the children.”

The Minister listened, though with waning interest as talk of dowries and inheritances always bored him.

“Thank you again, for staying,” Laura reiterated, tenderness in her expression.

“I owe it to you and your family.”

They sat in a meditative silence for a minute before Laura spoke again, this time with a new playfulness. “My father didn’t tell you about my, shall we say, fascination with you as a girl, did he?”

Frollo schooled his expression, not wanting either of them to be embarrassed. “He alluded to it, though briefly. Nothing that warrants blushing.”

“But I suppose there’s no harm in speaking of it now,” she teased, refilling both their glasses. “When you came to Orleans, I was so…taken with you.”

“So I have heard.” He now regretted not leaving earlier.

“Oh, don’t look so embarrassed. It was a simple little girlish infatuation, and it’s not as though you ever paid me any mind.” Laura’s face reddened and she laughed at the memory. “Every Sunday I would ask Father, ‘Is Claude joining us?’ But you, being too involved with your studies, never so much as glanced at me. And nobody could ever get you out of the library anyway!”

Even Frollo couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea of himself as a young man, ever oblivious to any young lady’s attention. “I doubt your father would’ve been pleased if I noticed even in the slightest,” he remarked, drinking again.

She matched his pace, then added, “No, to him you were always a perfect gentleman. Even if he wanted to, he had too much respect for you to push you towards his only daughter.”

Frollo had to concede that his respect for Cuvier only grew at this information. In a smooth voice, he murmured, “I’ll miss that man.”

Laura moved to the seat next to him. “Then…let us toast to him.” She topped off both of their cups before raising hers. “To my father, Paul Cuvier: a great man who loved his family, his God, and always looked to share in his knowledge.”

“A man who wanted only the best from his pupils,” Frollo gravely praised as he and Laura clinked their glasses. “He shall be missed…dearly.” Before any more sentimentality could break through, he downed more of the bitter drink.

With more wine, he and Laura began to reminisce about Cuvier and the old days in Orleans. Faces reddened and laughter reverberated off the parlor walls, as even the Minister couldn’t help but share in the woman’s good nature. Despite his previous words to Paul, nostalgia now seemed preferable to sorrow.

With hazy eyes, Laura leaned closer to him. “My father wasn’t the only one who missed you, Claude.”

Frollo’s dark lips turned into a crooked smile. “I suppose I missed this city more than I realized.” Under his heavy robe he could feel himself flush with heat.

Laura smiled before crying out, “Oh! I want to show you something!” She encouraged him to follow her upstairs, both of them disoriented. This time she led him into a chamber where books were stacked and resembled stalagmites, and the desk was strewn with parchment slips. She began to light the candles around the room, which made the judge feel hotter just looking at the small flames.

“Paul’s study?” Frollo observed, swaying a bit as he took in the enclave.

Laura nodded, waving him closer to the desk where she picked through some papers. “Look, look here,” she slurred, pointing to the script.

Frollo studied the finely drawn curls of the words, though in his state he could barely read it. “What…what is it?”

Laura leaned closer to him again. “He made me write your letter about five times because he wanted to find the right words.” Frollo looked down at her, aghast and simply touched at the effort. “He didn’t want you to come here out of guilt, or-or thinking this was a pleasant affair.” She then gripped his arm tenderly. “He didn’t want to force you to… he wanted you to come because you wanted to.”

“That…” Frollo couldn’t stop an amused chuckle. That brilliant bastard, he admired. I suppose no better time than when he had one foot in the grave. The judge could feel himself coming undone again thinking of the coffin being carried out of the cathedral. As if on cue, the light sprinkle outside had transcended into a drizzle, beaning rhythmically against the windowpane.

He couldn’t help but slump down on the edge of the late man’s desk and his hands instinctively clasped together. “He told me…” he murmured, barely audible over the rain’s rhythm. “That I didn’t have to limit myself to being a clerk.”

“Clerk? Please! You should be the one telling them what to write, what to do!” Paul bellowed. “Study harder, Claude! Be a lawyer, be a judge—you won’t be satisfied as a mere clerk. I thought you enjoyed a challenge?”

His countenance took on a new gauntness. With a heavy heart, Frollo admitted, “I should have come here sooner.” Laura looked up at him, eyes dazed. “I…I wish I hadn’t waited until he was dying. For God’s sake, he helped me find a new career.” Again, his mind echoed apologies to his teacher. He pinched the bridge of his nose attempting to hide the tears that snuck up on him.

Whether it was the wine’s doing, or simply loss, he was suddenly glad to have someone to share that pain with him, especially with Laura’s hand on his arm. He looked reluctantly at her, and she also seemed to be fighting to stay collected.

“Oh, Claude,” she began softly, inching closer to him. “He…” Her voice broke and a series of whimpers escaped. She gripped at his shoulder, making him stiffen despite his disorientation. “He missed you,” she choked out, her own shoulders shaking. “He missed you so much.”

Frollo’s regret only intensified as he watched her break. Something in him wanted to offer some comforting words, but what could he say?

Without warning, he nearly fell back as the woman threw her arms around his neck, sobs echoing throughout the study. Ignoring the drunk numbness, he limply patted her on the back and let her cry.

He remembered how it seemed like kismet that Cuvier appeared at his parents’ funerals, and how he encouraged the young man to leave Paris in search of new education. But even before that, Cuvier still offered a consoling embrace and some sympathetic words.

A grim and stoic voice suddenly intoned in his mind, You will never have Paul's forgiveness now.

It was as though something had snapped—as though the floodgates had been opened, allowing for a torrent to rush through. Overcome with anguish, he gripped at Laura’s back as he stifled his own sob. Perhaps you shouldn’t have come at all, a nagging and cynical inner voice chided. How on earth could he possibly atone for his mistreatment of his friend and mentor?

After some minutes of rough cries and sniffles, the two finally calmed themselves.  “Maybe,” he mumbled with a shuddering breath. “Maybe you should get some rest. Per…perhaps we both should.” He could feel himself weighed down by drink and his eyelids growing heavy.

With her sobs finally contained, Frollo let Laura guide him down the corridor to her chamber, albeit with some stumbling. “I should…I should leave,” he slurred, leaning against the post of her large bed where she sat down. “Long day.”

Laura slumped over and limply took his hand, weakly pulling him. “Claude,” she drawled, eyes unfocused. “Stay…please.”

A faint crash of thunder bellowed over their heads, neither of them acknowledging it. He would have easily said no if it weren’t for the stomach-churning guilt that refused to let up, even with all that wine. Frollo weakly nodded and sat down next to her, letting the distraught woman rest her weary head on his shoulder. For some time, the inebriated two sat quietly and listened to the beat of raindrops against the roof.

Not knowing how much time had passed, Frollo turned and could only say the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry…to both you and your father. If I could, I would have—”

He was silenced as Laura pulled him towards her and kissed him deeply. After a moment he finally broke away and stared at her, shaken to see unmovable heartache in her eyes, so vulnerable and bereft. In any other instance he would’ve cursed such impropriety and stormed off, but under this dangerous combination of sorrow and drink, he was positively stupefied.

Chapter Text

Without thinking, the Minister reciprocated her fervor and kissed her back, first on her lips then down to her neck. Hearing her gasp with approval, he reached a hand down to her curvaceous waist. In this frenzy of pure lust, their kiss was rough and sloppy, interjected with heady moans and gasps.

Laura held him closer and pulled him down onto the bed, letting him cover her. Claude released the locks from her traditional veil of mourning and tangled his spindly fingers in her brown curls. He tugged at her hair, dragging his lips across her craned neck.

“Stay with me,” Laura whispered, gripping at his back. “Just for tonight.”

Claude, with his head still swimming, barely heard her. Why could he not come to his senses? It was like some new and foreign entity was guiding him, making him move with blind desire. The questions disappeared just as quickly and he focused solely on her libidinous sounds. He dully sensed a stirring in his loins as he continued his ministrations.

With bleary eyes, he looked again at Laura beneath him and couldn’t believe he had never noticed such simple beauty. Widow and mother or not, he found himself wanting more, especially when she drew her legs up around him.

“I always thought you were so handsome,” she cooed, running her hands over his silver hair.

Claude continued to say nothing and began to kiss her chest. These desires had lay dormant for years, now he hungered for more…And what harm could possibly befall him if he stayed? She wasn’t likely to have another child, which dashed the possibility of any seed of his being left for her to raise. And it had been years since he had known a woman’s touch.

Why couldn’t he stop himself? Something about her warm embrace and need to be consoled was anchoring him here.

Claude sat up and undid the buttons of his robe with fumbling fingers, fighting through the wobbly vision. Laura looked up at him with lascivious eyes and began to untie the strings of her fine velvet dress. Tunic torn away, he then roughly pulled off his rings and set them aside. Laura had shimmied out of the elegant clothing and was left only in her shift and she drew him closer. Claude hooked an arm around her to kiss her again, their tongues mingling with each other as they moved their mouths.

“Just stay the night,” she repeated breathily. “Don’t you want this too?”

Perhaps…he owed it to Paul to comfort her? Could it be that Laura’s desire for him was Paul’s spirit, offering him forgiveness through her? As though her desire would free him from any sense of responsibility for Paul’s death.

The idea of surrendering to a night of mindless pleasure was tantalizing, as he hazily imagined her legs wrapped around his waist. “Yes…” he mumbled into her skin, never breaking from it.

Without warning, Laura pushed him down and straddled his hips. Curls obscuring her face, she throatily asked, “Is this better?”

Dazed and grabbing her thighs, Claude replied, “Much better.” His pelvis gave an instinctive buck in anticipation and he flashed her a hungry smile.

“We both need this,” she muttered against his pale skin, kissing his neck and chest.

He stiffened at the piercing word, which allowed a new sliver of clarity to break through. “Need”?

An image flashed in his mind: Cuvier patting him on the shoulders and wishing him good luck as the young man prepared to go and take his final examination, ready to obtain his master’s degree.

“Every arrow in your quiver,” Cuvier reminded his student with the greatest of confidence. “No mercy, understand?” Claude felt more than ready to give his responsion, especially with Cuvier’s lessons stamped in his mind.

He felt Laura getting closer to the edge of his hose, and his arousal was pressing hard against the fabric.

Paul thought of you as a son, and now you look to defile his daughter when he’s not even cold in the ground? A scornful voice rang out in his head. And why—because you have a guilty conscience? For the love of God, man—you attended her wedding! You’re betraying Paul even in death.

“Stop,” his voice rumbled as he shakily pulled her off him, panting. “Stop… this-this is wrong.”

“What is?” Laura tested, staring back at him in awe. Her chest heaved with excitement and her head lolled a bit, matching his stupor.

Claude stared up at the tester cloth above them, his vision still rocking unsteadily. He forced himself to remain inert even though his body hummed with desire, and Laura’s own warmth radiated beside him. “We shouldn’t…this isn’t right.”

Laura ran a hand over the small patch of silver hair in the center of his chest. “I don’t see anything wrong with this.”

He batted her hand away and sat up. “No…Laura,” he began, forcing an even tone and trying to steady his breath. He found himself momentarily dizzy and felt nausea crash against him. “We're…we're just drunk, an-and grieving. But…this is no way to honor your father.”

Laura trailed a hand up and down his arm, urging him to continue. “It's a little late for asking what he'd think. I don’t see any harm in it.”

He shook his head at the notion, which made him sway again. “It…it's still discourteous to him,” Claude mumbled tiredly, now ashamed that he let it go so far.

After every instance of grief caused by a woman, you’re still foolish enough to fall for their wiles? He reprimanded himself. He certainly knew better than to use carnality for comfort, which only made this whole situation even stranger and more shameful.

“It’s just a night, Claude,” she countered. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. You…you’ve made love to a woman before, haven’t you?”

You don’t have to answer that, a nagging inner voice remarked. You don’t owe her any kind of explanation…tell her that you are a man, unsullied by sin…

Eyes shut tightly, he answered in a subdued voice, “Yes.” With a clear head, he could have easily offered some lie about long-term chastity. Why on earth would he admit to such a thing?

“Then…what’s stopping you?” she asked.

His head was buzzing and his ears were deafened by the rain outside. “I can’t make this mistake again.”

Laura's brows rose and she looked as though she wanted to laugh. “You think women are a mistake?” 

Claude’s mind began echoing old sermons about women’s innate evil, though something inside restrained him from vocalizing such rhetoric. Instead, he admitted, “There have always been consequences to follow.”

A drunken smile stretched across her lips. “You must be joking…every woman?”

His own intoxication was making him careless again. “Yes…every woman I've been with has left me with regret.”

“Claude, I promise whatever happens tonight stays between us,” she offered, lazily brushing some curls back.

Who else will understand your grief? Another voice asked him. And her cross is greater to bear. Why not let her help you carry yours?

Suddenly he felt Laura stretch her arm around him. Her chin on his shoulder and a hand caressing his chest, she gently repeated, “It’s just one night.”

One night…

Numbly, he mulled it over. What would be worse: returning to Paris and be wracked with guilt over how he left things with Paul…or try to ease that pain in comforting the man’s daughter, on the slim chance she kept her vow of discretion?

The renewed idea of her hands over him again made his skin burn with lust. Such comfort would surely be welcomed now…

Apprehension unwaning, he asked carefully, “And…what if neither of us feel any better for it?”

She began to kiss his cheek and neck. “Are you sure?”

Through the haze, Claude found himself again aroused by her touches. “Only one night?” he muttered, a hand instinctively grasping at the small of her back.

“One night,” Laura echoed. Weakened by drink, he allowed her to pull him back against her chest. “We both want this...and I can feel that you want this too,” she noted with a chuckle. 

He noticed that his erection was still pressing against his hose, as if asking him what the holdup was. Claude rested his head against her and tried to ignore the slight spin of the room. “I…I will stay,” he rumbled wearily and let her wrap her arms around him.

His heart was so torn that he couldn’t help but surrender to her embrace. You’re too drunk, he mentally scolded himself. If you’re going to take this woman, at least sober up. He softly uttered some words about needing some time to recompose himself, to which she obliged.

The two lay there for some time, both of their heads still reeling from the wine. In his state, Claude welcomed the tenderness of her touch and listened to the prattling rainfall, whose sound nearly made him nod off. 

“Why did you go back to Paris?” Laura’s voice broke the silence, her hands still trailing over his back and paying no mind to the stretched and faded scars. Her tone wasn’t accusing, simply curious. “It sounds terrible there.”

Claude, though still drunk, forced himself to keep his answer vague. “I had business to attend to there.”

“Did you ever want to come back here?” Laura threaded her fingers in his hair, playing with it as she waited for his answer. 

He considered it, albeit, with difficulty. “No…Paris is my home, in spite of everything.” Claude lifted himself off her finally, his vision still unsteady. He couldn't afford any troublesome sentimentality threatening to break through. Even now, he was not about to start spilling his darkest secrets in the privacy of the bedroom.

She turned and rested her head against his shoulder. “Maybe you should’ve just stayed in Orleans. You could have built a new future.”

He felt himself almost indifferent at the idea. “It was my duty,” he mused, feeling the drunken lethargy come over him again. “I had to go back.”

“Hmm…was it a woman?” she asked softly.

Claude’s eyes shot open and he turned his head to her. “What did you just say?” he tested, his voice rough.

“Did you go back for a woman? Somebody waiting for you there?”

The word nearly caused a hitch in his breath and he stiffened again. He suddenly felt exposed, letting his usual suspicion take over. “Did your father say something?”

“What? My father…?”

Shakily, Claude pulled himself over her again, bloodshot eyes leering down at her. “What did he tell you?” he growled with defense.

Laura looked at him with pure bafflement, taken aback by this fierce and sudden change. “What are you talking about? My father didn’t tell me anything.”

“Then why would you ask me if it was a woman?” In his daze, he instinctively wanted to pull her by the hair and demand an answer once more.

“Calm down…”

“Why would you ask me that?” he asked again, just as harshly.

Despite his incensed new tone, she remained collected, in contrast. “Call it woman’s intuition, but I can see it in you.”

“See what?” His dark lips curled in a vengeful scowl as he never took his eyes off her. He waited for some biting and condescending words, expecting mockery.

Instead, she pressed a gentle hand to his cheek. “You have a sadness about you…something that only comes from heartbreak. You’ve always had it.”

Claude merely stared at her serene expression, unable to conjure an appropriate response. The answer did not put him at ease, rather perplexed him. “He didn’t say something to you?” he asked, still wary.

Laura offered him a near disbelieving look. “Of course not. He didn’t gossip.”

The judge now felt terrible for snapping at her and assuming betrayal on Paul’s part. He didn’t object now when she began to caress his shoulders, muttering soft words to get him to relax again.

“I’m sorry,” he said heavily, brow creased. “I…he was a good man. I shouldn’t have…”

“Not everyone is looking to betray you, Claude. Especially in this city.”

Claude meditated on her words: was he truly so paranoid that he believed even the kindest person like Paul would violate his trust, and through his daughter, no less?

“If you could, would you have stayed here instead?” Laura suddenly asked.

He wearily thought about Jehan and Quasimodo, and of his ever-present persecution of the Roma population. He thought of how he asked himself numerous times whether any of it was worth it. A rueful sigh escaped his lips. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, what’s the worst thing about Paris?”

Wryly, he answered, “The stench.” They both laughed, cheeks bright red. Leave it to drink to bring out his sense of humor. “And perhaps…If I had never returned home, I wouldn’t have to be a father.”

Laura curled around him. “You have children?”

“Unfortunately.” Claude furrowed his brow in contempt. “Thank Heaven just one.”

“What’s the matter? Fatherhood doesn’t suit you?” Her fingers continued to run circles over his chest.

“It’s a fate worse than death.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that,” she teased.

“I hate it,” he drearily bemoaned, closing his eyes. “I absolutely hate it. But I’m bound to it.”

“Claude, we’re all bound to our children.

He merely scoffed. “You had a choice; I did not.”

“You make it sound like you fathered some reptilian beast. Don’t tell me it doesn’t look like you.”

He forced his resentful words against the boy to be tempered, still not wanting to reveal too much. “I’d invoke every saint I know if he did. He’s not my flesh and blood.”

Laura couldn’t help but smirk at his bitter words. “Please, what’s so “awful”, about this poor boy?”

Without missing a beat, he stoically replied, “He’s a monster.” Truthfully, he wasn’t sure why he was even talking about Quasimodo now. “Testament that God has a questionable sense of humor.”

Laura propped herself up and studied his stony expression. “If you hate it so much, why did you even bother with him in the first place? What on earth would make you want to be a father at all?”

Guiltily, Claude cast his gaze to some corner of the room. “I don’t want to talk about it. Why…why are you so interested in my attachment to Paris? What makes you think I’d fare better here?”

“You make it sound like Paris only deals in misery. If you were truly unhappy, you would’ve gone somewhere else.”

“But specifically, Orleans?”

With a shrug, she replied with nonchalance, “It’s one city for new beginnings.”

“So, you didn’t hold hope that I might stay here or even return?”

Laura let out a soft chuckle. “No, I wasn’t just eagerly awaiting your return. I only ask because you seem so unhappy there…who knows if you would’ve been better off somewhere else?”

Gray eyes making out her features in the dark, Claude sardonically accused, “You didn’t bring me here just to hear my deep-seated shrift, did you?”

She grazed his smooth cheek with her fingers. “It’s just nice to see you again.”

Those troublesome thoughts reappeared…Why was he inclined to speak so freely with her? He wasn’t even this open to any confessor, let alone his own brother.

A tense hand curling into a fist, Claude remarked, “I don’t…I don’t usually confide in others.” New regret was beginning to settle in his core. “Maybe I shouldn’t have…”

“Claude,” Laura softly began. “You don’t have to explain anything. We don’t have to be frank with each other—that’s not what this is.”

Raising himself up on his elbow, he looked at her with slight confusion and was hit with that familiar swaying again. “Then…should I leave?” he asked stiltedly, uncertainty surrounding him. A brief pause passed and the two only heard the pattering of raindrops.

“No, I told you…” Lifting one of his hands up to her breast, she drawled, “We both need this.”

He had forgotten just how soft and supple a woman's body could be, especially when she moved his hand to show him how to caress her.

With his mind spinning, it felt like he spent an eternity reasoning with the logic. Her touches were certainly not helping him fight the temptation, as evidenced by his flushed face and returning arousal.

He did—he did need this. After all, he couldn’t apologize to Paul now.

“Lock the door,” she whispered, a wanton gleam in her eyes again.

After clumsily doing so, Claude pressed himself against her once more. “Perhaps…you’re right,” he roughly murmured, before meeting her lips once more. He now imagined enjoying her for the rest of the night, with various positions flashing in his mind. However, his vision was darkening quickly, and it was as though every ounce of energy was suddenly sapped. “I-I only need…just a moment.”

Laura panted under him, rasping out, “Yes, I need a moment…I need a moment as well.”

This much-needed moment seemed to have flitted by because Claude felt his wine-sick mind began to drift off, into a black and dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

Claude woke up curled beside Laura with his neck sore and frame sweating. Assaulted with confusion, he studied his situation: his hose were still tied in front and her shift was still properly placed. A wave of relief passed over him—No sin had taken place, he noted with a quick prayer of thanks. No, they had merely passed out drunk in each other’s arms.

Grief casts quite a spell over people, he groggily mused as he turned over on his back. He was briefly startled by a faint jingle and looked over to see the tiny pile of his rings sitting beside them.

Through the window, Claude saw that dawn was barely approaching. Picking up his discarded robe and tunic, he slipped out of the chamber and lumbered downstairs to a guestroom to sleep the rest of it off, relieved much the spinning of his head had finally stopped.

X

Frollo coughed, sputtering curses as he tore himself up from the bed and wiped away whatever red liquid had just been dumped on him.

“Hair of the dog that bit you!” A youthful voice taunted.

Coming to his senses and ignoring the pounding in his head, the judge looked up to see a smug-looking teenage boy standing in the doorway, a goblet cradled in his hand. The tart smell of wine filled his nostrils and he shuddered as the liquid ran down his back.

With a hoarse voice, Frollo rasped out, “What in God’s name are you doing?!”

“Just offering a little wake-up call,” the boy joked, biting back laughter.

The sunlight burned his eyes and Frollo realized that the little pest was right: he should have been up hours ago, not sleeping through the day like some lout.

With a new accusing edge in his voice, the teen remarked, “It’s already afternoon, so you’ve long overstayed your welcome. I don’t know what you did to my mother, but she still hasn’t gotten out of bed yet.”

“I did nothing with your mother,” Frollo retorted, throwing his tunic back on and feeling it stick to his skin. The noxious wine smell instantly made his stomach churn. “You can ask her yourself—we merely talked.”

“And you just happened to stay the night?” the boy tested, familiar blue eyes warning. “I know that old dogs like you will jump at the chance to bed some poor, grieving woman.”

The Minister’s expression turned even more grave as he ambled towards the impudent lad. “And I give you my word that I did nothing that warrants such ire.”

The boy crossed his twiggy arms and puffed out his chest. “Just leave,” he ordered, forcing authority.

Exhausted and drenched, the Minister was in no mood to offer any sardonic remarks in return. Despite wanting to bellow curses at him, Frollo forced an even tone and replied, “Very well then, but I will return. And before I do, let me offer you some advice, dear boy…” He towered over the daring young man, expression hard and unforgiving. “If you disrespect me in such a manner again…” Frollo gripped the boy by the shirt collar and a fierce scowl came over the judge’s ashen countenance. “I’ll see that it’s your soul receiving the next set of mourning prayers, understand?”

The teen merely stared back in defiance before Frollo released him and left. Truly, he was too fatigued and hungover to care that he threatened Laura’s son, only wanting to get back to his inn and rest.

Even after a few more hours of sleep, he still felt like absolute hell. As he lay in his cot, arm slung over his eyes to block out the scant sunlight, Frollo tried to piece together the events of last night.

We reminisced, we drank, and that’s the end of it, he mulled, furrowing his brow in concentration. Noticing the stiffness of his neck, he suddenly remembered: But you followed her to her chamber—how else did you end up in her bed?

The Minister caught faint glimpses in his mind of Laura’s hands on him, followed by flashes of a kiss, unrestrained. No…no, you did not, a panicked inner voice pleaded at recalling faint snippets of conversation from last night. You merely talked, his mind rang again.

You saw for yourself: there were no signs of sin, a voice firmly countered. Clothes not in disarray, no seminal fluid…

But something happened, a terrified voice piped up. Frollo stared at the ceiling, trying to remember.

What if you didn’t see clearly? It had been in the darkness of dawn and anyone, half asleep and reeling from alcohol, could have missed the evident clues. Surely they didn’t partake in anything regretful.

What if you did, and simply rearranged your clothes as normal? That same anxious voice worried.

Phantom sensations of a pair of arms around him took hold. “God, no,” he grumbled. He was positively sick at the idea that he might have instigated something reprehensible.

He couldn’t return to Paris knowing that he had done just what Jehan promised would happen.

No, you talked—that’s all there is to it. Perhaps…but about what?

“He’s a monster,” he heard his own voice recount, the cloudy memory surfacing. The judge recalled now: You confided in her. His eyes widened in equal horror at the notion, pressing his fingers against his temple.

What could have possibly made him admit to so much? It wasn’t like him to confide in others, let alone someone he hadn’t seen in years and who was a passive acquaintance, at best.

Why? He asked himself, still reluctant to get out of bed. The idea of opening up made him frown, detesting the very idea that he may have been so…

Weak, another voice snarled. He had experienced loss before, but why now?

He had to speak to Laura, and soon. His eyes scanned around the small room, noticing the absence of his signature chaperon. With a huff, he dismally thought to himself, Well, now you have no other choice.

X

The priest leaned against the wooden pew as the Minister stood tautly beside him, gray eyes flitting around the familiar and ornate Orleans cathedral. Frollo crossed himself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been…some months since my last confession.”

“And what do you wish to confess to?” the priest asked boredly, his distant expression set away from his confessant.

Still drained, the judge let out a sigh. “I… I indulged in the sin of lust. And to make matters worse, she is the daughter of a man I greatly respected.” His terrified eyes scanned for eavesdroppers.

“Is she married?” The priest asked.

“No, widowed, actually.”

“Betrothed, then?”

“Not that I know of.” The judge’s fingers locked tightly together as the remorseful words lingered in the warm cathedral air.

“I see,” the priest deadpanned. “So, you fornicated with this woman nonetheless?”

The word burned him like boiling water and Frollo tensed. “No, we did nothing of the sort,” he replied, even though he was not quite so sure anymore.

The confessor seemed to be taken aback, briefly glancing aside to the man. “Then…what could you have done that constitutes as “lust”? You didn’t violate this woman against her will, did you?”

“No, of course not.” More glimpses from last night resurfaced and Frollo felt himself positively burning under his robe. He gulped and struggled to explain. “We…we retired to her chamber, and…nearly committed an act of sin.” He was loathe to admit that there were amorous touches and kisses but reluctantly alluded to them.

“So, you didn’t actually lay with this woman?” the confused priest tested.

“No, no, I-I didn’t.” Frollo dabbed at his sweating forehead with his sleeve. Internally, he prayed that he was telling the truth and not awaiting some unpleasant revelation later. You should have just come here after speaking to Laura, he cursed himself as he considered it.

The priest couldn’t stifle a chuckle. “Well, she’s no one’s wife anymore and you didn’t do anything otherwise unnatural, so you can consider the ninth commandment unbroken.”

Unfortunately, the man’s words did not ease Frollo’s conscience. “Still, Father…what might be appropriate penance? I still feel obliged to make right with this woman’s late father. I should confess that it was after his funeral that we…”

“Dear Lord…well, in that case, ten Hail Marys.” The priest leaned back farther and thought hard on his next words. “And pay it forward appropriately.”

Frollo drew his brows, now perturbed. “How so?”

“Ask yourself: what did this man love? What were his passions, his values—the things in life he held most dear? Maybe a contribution to whatever that was as a way to honor him, like his guild. Go perform an act of charity in his name.”

Frollo nodded and understood. But still, he couldn’t leave Orleans just yet.

X

“Is the lady of the house home?” Frollo greeted a servant, here again at Cuvier’s house and hearing a clamor of children’s voices within. He was grateful for a fleeting moment that the humidity of the last few days had finally subsided. While he waited for Laura downstairs, his heart pounded furiously as he feared that she would send him away before they could clear the air.

“You came back,” the lady in name’s voice said as she entered the main floor, back in her mourning attire and collected as ever. “I must say that I’m surprised.” She handed him back his hat, commenting, “I think you forgot this last night.”

Replacing it, Frollo looked about and noticed in the next room sat the very teenage boy who dumped wine on him earlier, offering the judge a hellish scowl. “May we speak in private?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Once again, the pair found themselves in her late father’s study, this time fueled by shared agitation.

“I’m sure you’re aware of what we need to discuss,” Frollo muttered out. “I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow and I think we should set the record straight.”

“We should. I, um…” Laura steepled her fingers before her, keeping her eyes down. “I should apologize for my behavior last night.”

Frollo looked away, still trying to gather what happened. “And myself, as well. I don’t usually act on such reprimandable impulses. And I suppose neither of us were in the right state of mind.”

“Neither do I,” Laura added quickly. “And I suppose we can blame it on too much wine. Well, wine and sorrow.”

With heavy remorse, he commented, “The Devil finds us at our weakest and flaunts temptation when we have the least resistance.” His expression darkened as flashes of last night appeared in his mind again, making his teeth grit in disgust.

An awkward silence passed between them, both struggling to find the right words. Finally, the Minister spoke again. “Laura, I must ask: to what extent did our…our behavior carry us?”

Laura planted herself down in her late father’s chair. “If you’re asking me if we made love, you can rest easy. We didn’t.”

Frollo felt as though his heart might burst from his chest as his suspicions were confirmed. “We did not?”

The woman shook her head. “As it turns out, we really were much too drunk. No, we both fell asleep before anything could happen.”

An exuberant smile threatened to break across the judge’s stern face as relief filled him to the brim. Fighting to remain collected, he simply said, “Then perhaps it was the Lord’s doing that no further sin took place.”

She grasped at her necklace, turning it with slight discomfort. “We should both be so fortunate. For once, too much to drink proved to be an unlikely savior.”

“I agree.”

A new meddlesome thought returned, having nearly driven him mad all day. “Though, what I am struggling to comprehend is this: I’ve been to numerous funerals, and I’ve never been driven to temptation because of grief. It begs the question of why on earth now?”

A mysterious smile came over the woman’s lips. “Claude, have you studied the Stoics’ teachings?”

“Long ago, yes. Some principles are worth adhering to.”

“Consider it: logic and reason are all well and good for controlling emotions, but the heart can only push them down for so long before they spill out. And with nowhere to go, or no one to offer help, it only takes one great trial to push a person over the edge, for example…the loss of a friend.”

The Minister sat down opposite her, staggered by her insight. “It just seems out of character for me,” he pondered aloud.

Laura absently toyed with a penknife sitting on the desk. “You’re still human, and everyone craves some kind of affection. And maybe that’s just what you needed, even for a day.”

Frollo cast his gaze towards the window and away from her knowing eyes, furious that again he had been reduced to something he detested: vulnerable. Resting a hand over his eyes, he wished hopelessly that he could have just gone back to his inn and left well enough alone. “I just can’t comprehend it,” he added hollowly.

Her gaze lingered on him. “Perhaps because in the back of your mind you knew there’d be no consequences.”

Realization tugged at his expression. Because she knew you before the power. To open up here in Orleans meant no line of blackmail that would follow him to Paris.

In Paris he was constantly keeping vigilant of anyone who might wish him harm, or keeping an alert ear for any sort of slander or unsavory rumors. Life was engulfed by a constant awareness that every movement was being watched. Here in Orleans, he was simply anonymous, subject to nobody’s scrutiny or concern. Paul and Laura certainly had nothing to gain from anything he said or did.

She was right.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she reminded him, breaking him from his concentration.

Frollo’s expression remained cross. “Still, I should have acted with more decorum.”

Laura took a beat and considered her next words carefully. “Claude, remember what my father kept reiterating: opening your heart wouldn’t be the end of the world—the earth isn’t going to split open and the Temple isn’t going to crumble, so to speak.”

Truly he didn’t want to hear Paul’s words about love anymore, even posthumously. He resented that she also sounded very much like the Archdeacon. An intimidating idea prompted him to ask, “There isn’t some ulterior motive for all this prattle about affection, as well as last night, is there?”

Laura flashed him another knowing smirk. “Nothing like that at all. I told you, we both needed a bit of comfort. Sometimes the best remedy for heartache is a warm body.”  

He scoffed at such bluntness. “I highly doubt that I’ll seek “comfort”, from anyone else on this wretched earth again.” He realized it could have been any man that she might have found solace in, he just happened to be the nearest fellow in the room. Nothing personal, nothing to follow—a simple night of distracting pleasure. At least that put to rest his fear that she might be plotting to find a way to keep him here in Orleans.

“Well, forgive me for sounding like my father again, but I hope that you do find the right woman you can open up to,” she offered, rising from the now tidy desk.

“And I’d advise you not to pray too ardently on that,” he curtly replied.

“Don’t be so pessimistic. The woman you find isn’t going to be some soft-spoken, little waif. Anyone who can chip away at that stony façade will be worth her weight in gold.”

“Ever optimistic, Laura. You truly are Paul’s daughter,” Frollo noted with amusement.

Returning the expression, the woman then said, “I’m sure you have other business before you set off for home tomorrow, but I’d like to give you something.” She handed him the penknife she held moments ago.

As he examined the smooth and curved handle, Laura noted, “That’s birch; this was his favorite for sharpening quills. If Father wasn’t behind a lectern, he was writing treatises about laws, from Avignon to Vienna and everywhere in between.”

Frollo smiled a bit as he remembered Paul always scribbling down notes on his wax tablet between lectures, and pictured him at this desk, hunched over his numerous law books.

Opening one of the desk drawers, she now pulled out something glimmering in the scant sunlight. As she held it out to the Minister, she added, “And he said one can’t have too many of these.”

Frollo examined the object: a simple gold cross with a black stone at its intersection.

Laura remarked, “That’s onyx in the center. He was gifted that during his time in Cologne and he wanted you to have it. He said he hoped you would find peace as he did.”

The Minister admired the lack of ostentation, thanking her and announcing that he should be leaving. He ultimately decided against telling her of her son’s discourteous prank this morning. After all, why leave the city on such a sour note?

“It should go without saying,” he began lowly. “Perhaps we'd both benefit from a shared code of silence.”

Laura smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Despite her sentiment, his expression still indicated something mournful and distressed.

They stopped before the front door again and she studied him with keen eyes. Detecting what was still haranguing him, Laura said with a comforting tone, “He didn’t hate you, if that’s what was troubling you.”

Frollo’s expression instantly softened and he felt his heart leap. Clutching the gifts tighter in his hand, he soberly asked, “He didn’t?”

Laura shook her head. “No…he just wished you two kept in touch.” Though faint guilt still needled him, he felt he could rest easier now knowing that Paul forgave him in the end.

He felt it unnecessary to tell her that before coming here, he had spoken to the masters of the civil law college and pledged a sizable donation in Paul’s name. Frollo hoped that maybe his old teacher was smiling with approval from above, and that perhaps it was an acceptable display of contrition.

“You’ve been most hospitable,” Frollo said amiably as he prepared to leave the Cuvier house.

“Our door is always open to you. I wish you safe travels back to Paris." She stepped closer to him. "Oh, and one more thing, Claude…” She kissed him lightly on the cheek before murmuring, “Thank you again.”

X

Tiredly, Frollo ambled up the bell tower steps, finally home after a week and a half away from Paris. Admittingly, the trip to Orleans had been a nice change of scenery from the usual drudgery, despite the unpleasant circumstances. As he drew closer to the top, the judge heard a pair of familiar voices.

“…and nobody suspected a thing,” recounted the voice of Jehan above. “And we probably would’ve had that dog a lot longer if he hadn’t gone after one of the teachers.”

“Did your dog kill him?” Quasimodo asked, no doubt enthralled by it all.

“No, of course not. But the damn thing bolted out of our student house and through the streets. Didn’t stop until he grabbed the old man’s cape in his mouth and tore it clean off! My God, we busted a gut laughing!”

“Feeding the boy more stories of your idiotic antics?” Frollo greeted, his voice making the pair jump a bit at the surprise entrance.

Jehan smirked at his brother. “Oh, please! That story is legendary around the University.

“It’s not conducive for a young mind.”

“Have a heart, Claude! It’s not like he’s getting out of this tower anyway, right, Quasi?” Jehan offered an equally cruel smile to the boy. “He might as well hear some stories from someone who’s actually lived a little.”

Ignoring him, Quasimodo greeted dutifully, “Welcome back, Master. How was Orleans?”

“A grim affair, as are most funerals,” the judge replied as he sat beside the two. “Though it was quite nice to see my old teacher again. And I pray Paul is in the presence of God now.” Again, he could see those kind eyes staring back at him, as they both laughed while regaling each other with their stories.

Quasimodo studied his guardian, unsure of what to say. “How…how did he die?”

“Chest infection. Although, in all honesty, he was ready to go. He had done everything to make peace with himself and God in the end.” He thought of the gold cross now resting against his chest—a worthy replacement for his old scapular, long gone and broken. Now another mournful look fell over his stern expression. 

Jehan leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And did you, um…Comfort any grieving widows or daughters while you were there?”

Schooling his expression and, in his usual flat tone, Frollo answered, “Nothing of the sort.”