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Description
Chapter One

Whatever it is that La Esmeralda, Queen of Gypsies would expect, this certainly isn't  it. Her capitulation to Judge Claude Frollo and subsequent captivity has her at first thinking that she has exchanged one blazing pyre for another. She may be all talk and loud noises sometime, but she knows she is not at all ready to meet her Maker. Thus, life with Claude Frollo is in the end the only real valid option.
She remembers shouting out at him as the flames lick the dry timber at her feet. Never again can she think fire crackles merrily. The edge of her shift is smoldering and her naked feet are already blackening with soot.  Her throat closes at the heat.

It's all a jumble of images after that. She remembers someone leaping forward, sudden smoke as the fire is extinguished. Loud hissing reaches her ears. A mad jumble of voices clamoring for attention as she feels the ropes that bind her fall away. Somebody (Frollo? ) wraps his arms around her and she is lifted away from the smoking wood. Tenderly, as if she is made of spun glass. After that she just closes her eyes and lets the tears fall.

And so she now finds herself an unwilling inhabitant of the Palace of Justice. The only building in Paris arrogant enough to have its back permanently turned towards the beauty of the Notre Dame. Esmeralda remembers herself being ushered in, more voices raised in various levels of excitement ( and is that anger? ) and a brisk walk through long, dark corridors. Her ear pressed against the sound of a thudding heart. Almost lulling her into a state of catatonia.
She is dropped, rather unceremoniously on a stool. When she dares to open her eyes, she's just in time to see the back end of a long red sash, and witness the slamming of the door.

Alone.

Unexplainably, her stomach chooses that moment to announce its emptiness to her. The moment is so absurd, so mundane that she barks out a hysterical laugh at the sound. After a brief pause the laughter gives way to heaving shoulders and choked up sobs until finally she drops her head and lets her grief get the better of her. Hot tears glide down her dirty cheeks.

It is at this moment that Claude Frollo chooses to reenter the room. He has discarded his chaperon, leaving his hair oddly ruffled. He looks almost human in that moment. In his hands he carries a bowl of what looks to be steaming water. Pieces of cloth are slung over his forearm.
He closes the door with his foot and turns to look at her. Only to have his eyes widen almost comically as he takes in the tear tracts standing out on her face.
He crosses the room quickly and stands before her with an inscrutable look on his face. Stooping quickly to place the bowl in front of her feet, he then reaches out and softly touches the evidence of her distress.
His fingers are cold, she notes. His thumb comes up and softly he wipes the pad of his thumb across her cheek, removing the smears.

Dimly she knows what must come next. She knows the stories as well as any other young women would. She knows what happens when a man and a woman are left alone in intimate circumstances. This is the deal she has made, she steels herself. This is the devil she will have to lie with in order to ensure the safety of her people. Her life in exchange for theirs. Oh, Phoebus.

Knowing somehow that it is important to meet her personal demon on even ground, she raises her eyes to his and their eyes lock. She tries to read his eyes and is shocked at the blazing fire that she sees gazing back at her. His heavy lidded eyes glitter with unspoken emotions. Frightened at what she sees burning in his eyes she closes hers and quietly, stiffly awaits her fate. This is the man that burned half the city of Paris to the ground, in his zeal to get to her, she reminds herself! Brace yourself, Gypsy queen.

She hears the rustling of his robes and grits her teeth at what must come next.
The next thing she knows, she nearly jumps out of her skin as she feels those long, cold! fingers close gently around her foot. And as she peeks through her eyelashes, she can make out his figure before her.
Kneeling on the ground. The great ominous bat Frollo on the floor, kneeling before her. Before her feet. His eyes focused on her dirty feet. Frollo reaches for the cloth floating in the bowl, and after wringing it out softly, moves it over her feet, beginning to wipe them gently.
She struggles not to jerk away as his fingers hold her in a firm but gentle grip, the cloth moving over her feet in a soothing rhythm. Esmeralda feels her heart hammering in her throat. What game is Frollo playing?

His hands leaves her foot briefly, to wring out the dirty cloth. Slowly the clear water turns murky. His hands, now slightly warmed by the heat of the water, reach again for her foot, continuing their slow torture.
He leaves no part untouched. Meticulously he cleans off every small bit of her foot, moving gently between her toes. Now she does try to jerk away, huffing softly.

"That tickles!" She exclaims, stifling her girlish squeak.

She can tell he smiles at that, even though his features are obscured by shadows. He looks up at her, piercing her with his gaze. He places her clean foot softly on the floor. And without breaking their eye contact, opens up his hand and slowly gestures for her other foot.

A small voice in her urges her to give him what he wants. Only because this treatment he has bestowed upon her so far has been… confusing enough to keep her off balance. Another voice, sounding suspiciously like Clopin, rails at her, shouting to plant her dirty foot in Frollo's face and make a mad dash for the door. The speed at which she stifles that voice startles even her.

Knowing not to back down from a challenge she lifts her dirty foot slowly into his waiting palm. Frollo hums a little at this, pausing briefly, before he continues his ministrations. Swiping his fingers over her strong foot, mapping her instep and the calluses on her sole. Fingers linger briefly over a small scar caused by stepping into a shard of glass when she was just a small girl.
He dips the rag in the water and the same thorough care is given to her other foot.

All too soon he is finished. She feels him pulling on her big toe softly, as if to signal the end before he leans back to clean and dry his hands on a dry piece of cloth. Resting back on his haunches, long fingers folded demurely in his robed lap, he gives her the once over. The only thing Esmeralda can do is stare back.

This is the man that burned Paris for you

After a long moment, he rises, knees audibly creaking. He smirks at that, eyes never leaving her face. Suddenly he turns away, making for the door. He yanks it open and barks a few terse words at an unseen person behind the door. The sound of clanging silver wear is heard briefly before Frollo opens the door completely. A maid ducks under his arms, in her hands a tray with a small bowl of something steaming and a plate of what appear to be cold cuts. The smell of food fills Esmeralda's nostrils and she has to bite back a moan of hunger. For a moment Frollo's eyes snap back to Esmeralda's seated figure.  He waits for the servant to back out obediently before backing out completely as well, closing the door completely behind him.

Leaving Esmeralda once more alone.

She makes quick work of the food. As she finishes her last bite her eyes drift back to the bowl with murky liquid on the floor. There it sits, innocently. If she didn't have that evidence of the past events, she wouldn't believe what she just experienced. She swallows confusedly. What has just happened?

Placing her tray on the floor she stands up and pads over to the furthest window, her mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts.
And as sudden as that, she comes to a startling realization. The entire time they were alone, the entire time he touched her, stirred something in her…confused her… He has done so without uttering a single word!

That realization rocks her to the core. Feeling as if an idea has just been born and is threatening to burrow its way aggressively out through her throat and mouth, she swallows hard. And again.

This is the man that burned Paris for you

If he didn't speak to her at all just now, then how come, she mentally cries, that so much has just been said…

By the light of sputtering candles, Esmeralda sits down again, rocking slowly. Her mind ill at ease.

Description
Chapter One

Whatever it is that La Esmeralda, Queen of Gypsies would expect, this certainly isn't  it. Her capitulation to Judge Claude Frollo and subsequent captivity has her at first thinking that she has exchanged one blazing pyre for another. She may be all talk and loud noises sometime, but she knows she is not at all ready to meet her Maker. Thus, life with Claude Frollo is in the end the only real valid option.
She remembers shouting out at him as the flames lick the dry timber at her feet. Never again can she think fire crackles merrily. The edge of her shift is smoldering and her naked feet are already blackening with soot.  Her throat closes at the heat.

It's all a jumble of images after that. She remembers someone leaping forward, sudden smoke as the fire is extinguished. Loud hissing reaches her ears. A mad jumble of voices clamoring for attention as she feels the ropes that bind her fall away. Somebody (Frollo? ) wraps his arms around her and she is lifted away from the smoking wood. Tenderly, as if she is made of spun glass. After that she just closes her eyes and lets the tears fall.

And so she now finds herself an unwilling inhabitant of the Palace of Justice. The only building in Paris arrogant enough to have its back permanently turned towards the beauty of the Notre Dame. Esmeralda remembers herself being ushered in, more voices raised in various levels of excitement ( and is that anger? ) and a brisk walk through long, dark corridors. Her ear pressed against the sound of a thudding heart. Almost lulling her into a state of catatonia.
She is dropped, rather unceremoniously on a stool. When she dares to open her eyes, she's just in time to see the back end of a long red sash, and witness the slamming of the door.

Alone.

Unexplainably, her stomach chooses that moment to announce its emptiness to her. The moment is so absurd, so mundane that she barks out a hysterical laugh at the sound. After a brief pause the laughter gives way to heaving shoulders and choked up sobs until finally she drops her head and lets her grief get the better of her. Hot tears glide down her dirty cheeks.

It is at this moment that Claude Frollo chooses to reenter the room. He has discarded his chaperon, leaving his hair oddly ruffled. He looks almost human in that moment. In his hands he carries a bowl of what looks to be steaming water. Pieces of cloth are slung over his forearm.
He closes the door with his foot and turns to look at her. Only to have his eyes widen almost comically as he takes in the tear tracts standing out on her face.
He crosses the room quickly and stands before her with an inscrutable look on his face. Stooping quickly to place the bowl in front of her feet, he then reaches out and softly touches the evidence of her distress.
His fingers are cold, she notes. His thumb comes up and softly he wipes the pad of his thumb across her cheek, removing the smears.

Dimly she knows what must come next. She knows the stories as well as any other young women would. She knows what happens when a man and a woman are left alone in intimate circumstances. This is the deal she has made, she steels herself. This is the devil she will have to lie with in order to ensure the safety of her people. Her life in exchange for theirs. Oh, Phoebus.

Knowing somehow that it is important to meet her personal demon on even ground, she raises her eyes to his and their eyes lock. She tries to read his eyes and is shocked at the blazing fire that she sees gazing back at her. His heavy lidded eyes glitter with unspoken emotions. Frightened at what she sees burning in his eyes she closes hers and quietly, stiffly awaits her fate. This is the man that burned half the city of Paris to the ground, in his zeal to get to her, she reminds herself! Brace yourself, Gypsy queen.

She hears the rustling of his robes and grits her teeth at what must come next.
The next thing she knows, she nearly jumps out of her skin as she feels those long, cold! fingers close gently around her foot. And as she peeks through her eyelashes, she can make out his figure before her.
Kneeling on the ground. The great ominous bat Frollo on the floor, kneeling before her. Before her feet. His eyes focused on her dirty feet. Frollo reaches for the cloth floating in the bowl, and after wringing it out softly, moves it over her feet, beginning to wipe them gently.
She struggles not to jerk away as his fingers hold her in a firm but gentle grip, the cloth moving over her feet in a soothing rhythm. Esmeralda feels her heart hammering in her throat. What game is Frollo playing?

His hands leaves her foot briefly, to wring out the dirty cloth. Slowly the clear water turns murky. His hands, now slightly warmed by the heat of the water, reach again for her foot, continuing their slow torture.
He leaves no part untouched. Meticulously he cleans off every small bit of her foot, moving gently between her toes. Now she does try to jerk away, huffing softly.

"That tickles!" She exclaims, stifling her girlish squeak.

She can tell he smiles at that, even though his features are obscured by shadows. He looks up at her, piercing her with his gaze. He places her clean foot softly on the floor. And without breaking their eye contact, opens up his hand and slowly gestures for her other foot.

A small voice in her urges her to give him what he wants. Only because this treatment he has bestowed upon her so far has been… confusing enough to keep her off balance. Another voice, sounding suspiciously like Clopin, rails at her, shouting to plant her dirty foot in Frollo's face and make a mad dash for the door. The speed at which she stifles that voice startles even her.

Knowing not to back down from a challenge she lifts her dirty foot slowly into his waiting palm. Frollo hums a little at this, pausing briefly, before he continues his ministrations. Swiping his fingers over her strong foot, mapping her instep and the calluses on her sole. Fingers linger briefly over a small scar caused by stepping into a shard of glass when she was just a small girl.
He dips the rag in the water and the same thorough care is given to her other foot.

All too soon he is finished. She feels him pulling on her big toe softly, as if to signal the end before he leans back to clean and dry his hands on a dry piece of cloth. Resting back on his haunches, long fingers folded demurely in his robed lap, he gives her the once over. The only thing Esmeralda can do is stare back.

This is the man that burned Paris for you

After a long moment, he rises, knees audibly creaking. He smirks at that, eyes never leaving her face. Suddenly he turns away, making for the door. He yanks it open and barks a few terse words at an unseen person behind the door. The sound of clanging silver wear is heard briefly before Frollo opens the door completely. A maid ducks under his arms, in her hands a tray with a small bowl of something steaming and a plate of what appear to be cold cuts. The smell of food fills Esmeralda's nostrils and she has to bite back a moan of hunger. For a moment Frollo's eyes snap back to Esmeralda's seated figure.  He waits for the servant to back out obediently before backing out completely as well, closing the door completely behind him.

Leaving Esmeralda once more alone.

She makes quick work of the food. As she finishes her last bite her eyes drift back to the bowl with murky liquid on the floor. There it sits, innocently. If she didn't have that evidence of the past events, she wouldn't believe what she just experienced. She swallows confusedly. What has just happened?

Placing her tray on the floor she stands up and pads over to the furthest window, her mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts.
And as sudden as that, she comes to a startling realization. The entire time they were alone, the entire time he touched her, stirred something in her…confused her… He has done so without uttering a single word!

That realization rocks her to the core. Feeling as if an idea has just been born and is threatening to burrow its way aggressively out through her throat and mouth, she swallows hard. And again.

This is the man that burned Paris for you

If he didn't speak to her at all just now, then how come, she mentally cries, that so much has just been said…

By the light of sputtering candles, Esmeralda sits down again, rocking slowly. Her mind ill at ease.