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Description
After all that initial excitement, life picks up it pace again and after a full two weeks have passed Esmeralda finds herself frankly bored. Every morning as the copper sounds of the bells of Notre Dame muster her from her slumber, she is visited by two female servants. One of them is an old toothless crone and the other one the same round cheeked girl that brought her supper the first day. They never speak to her and she begins to suspect them mute.

Another discovery she makes very early on is that she isn't locked in her chambers. The elation of that discovery however soon is replaced by exasperation as she finds herself shadowed everywhere she ventures. Oh, they (she is certain there is more than one person tailing her) make sure they are never seen, but she has no illusions that her every move is being monitored and reported to their master.

After a while she starts testing their resolve and makes for the front gate. The front gates are yawning, maw wide open. Behind them the city of Paris beckons. She quickens her step, heart in her throat. She can already smell the street, wet with recent rain. The rains that have come and put a final end to the last smoldering fires of Frollo's mad inferno. She hears the workmen shouting, the sounds of hammers striking iron, and wood being chopped. Already the city of Paris rises up from her ashes, like a reluctant phoenix. If only she has half of that resilience, Esmeralda sighs as she quickens her pace.

But before she can make that final mad dash for freedom, consequences be damned!... Two guards step from behind the edge of the gate. In what appears to be a rehearsed movement they turn inwards and bar her exit by crossing their halberds together. The noise of grating metal cuts her deeply and she flinches. But what disturbs her even more is the determination in the eyes of the guards. And the damned pity when they make her turn back from whence she came.

So she backtracks all the way to her quarters, almost looking forward to the tongue lashing she surely is about to receive from her elusive captor. Some excitement at last! Nothing like a good fight to stifle the utter boredom she feels. She'll show him not to ignore her!

But she is to be sorely disappointed. Waiting for what seems hours she realizes that he isn't going to come. He has ignored her yet again. Stewing in her own rage again. Oh, those damned unrelenting walls!

Where is he? She asks herself. This was not at all how she thought her new life as… a kept woman, for lack of a better word, would be like at all. Not what she imagined at all. Promptly she clamps down on where her horrible imagination does take her. What she thinks does fit the scenario of the woman locked in the tower by a nefarious sorcerer.

No. It simply does not do to torture oneself with might be's and other…strange, unbecoming scenarios. Heaven help her.

Esmeralda decides that she hates being bored. But what she hates even more, is being ignored. Even if she being ignored by the most fiendish man in the whole of France. And the problem is she knows that he knows that she can't stand not being the center of attention.

Where is he? Damn him.

Another week passes before she is woken up early in the morning by the sound of voices drifting through the corridor. Her nights as of late have been filled with disturbing visions and vivid dreams, and more than once she wakes up suddenly, struggling to escape her sweat soaked sheets, gasping for breath.

Her ears prick up as the soft voices continue their conversation, growing slightly louder as she hears them pass by her door. They halt their conversation briefly, but as their voices drift further away she can suddenly make out a low baritone she hasn't heard in over three weeks. Esmeralda is promptly utterly disgusted with herself for the way her heart jumps into her throat and the slight tightening feeling in her belly. All that at the sound of a voice, for God's sake. She really must be starved for attention if he has that effect on her. Ridiculous.

But fed up with being ignored as she is, she swiftly dresses herself. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she softly opens the door and slips through.

It doesn't take her long to catch up with the voices as she winds her way down to the ground floor. Through courtyards and poorly lit hall ways she follows them until suddenly the unmistakable smell of horse fills her nostrils.

Of course. The stables.

More voices are heard. Swiftly she moves back in the shadows, pressing herself flat against the dark wall, praying not to get noticed. She shifts closer to the stable doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Frollo sounds tired, she thinks. His tone of voice is flat as he orders his stable hands out. She hears a small boy close by make a moue of disappointment, before he too is ushered out by the older men. As they trudge single file past her ill chosen hiding place, the young boy suddenly swings his head in her direction and locks gazes with her. He gasps softly drawing the attention of two other man. Their backs straighten, white of their eyes showing clearly in the darkness. It almost looks like fear. Eyes locking on them, she silently beseeches them not to give her away. The eldest man then grabs the startled boy by the scruff and drags him along, muttering softly under his moustache that he didn't see nothing and that he doesn't want no trouble. She notices that he leaves the stable door slightly ajar. The sweet man.

Esmeralda slowly releases her pent up breath.

Safe. For the moment. The game continues.

She creeps on, putting her weight on the old door and slowly opening the crack further. And edges in.

She is met by silence. Most stalls are filled with horses in various states of alertness. A huge bay flicks his ear at her and promptly ignores her for the hay he has been provided with. Other horses doze softly. Dust motes dance in the air. At the far end she sees two stall doors opened, the stables empty. All is quiet, apart from the soft crunching sounds the eating horse makes.

All is far too quiet.

Esmeralda notices the far stable door to the courtyard and combat training fields wide open. Curiously she edges her way through it. And promptly freezes at the sight that meets her eyes.

At the far end of the sandy field she can see the thin form of Frollo approaching what appears to be a skittish young black horse. Never walking in a straight line, he chooses to circle the animal, his gaze never leaving the nervous young stallion. Always keeping their eyes locked. Slowly they move around each other in the gray morning light, a little dance of push and pull. A slow dance of Man and Beast. Thin rays of pale sunlight back-lights them both, making steam rise up and curl upwards from their bodies.

Even Esmeralda can see that although the horse is far from grown, it is already a fair size. It promises to be every bit as intimidating as Frollo's own horse when he's fully grown.

The horse is badly shaking, rivulets of sweat standing out on its gleaming skin. Its ears are pressed flat against his neck. Even from her vantage point she can see the whites of the beast's eyes.

She creeps closer, enthralled by the sight before her. Luckily the shadows conceal her form.

Frollo has exchanged his usual robes for a far more form fitting ensemble. He is dressed in a thin white frock with an old purple hosier underneath. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves. Taut, wiry muscles roll under his pale skin. Like the horse he too is covered in grime and sweat, the thin shirt clinging to his back, the white almost translucent against his pale skin.

Who is this man?

She creeps closer still, not paying heed to the soft rustling sounds her bare feet make as she brushes through the undergrowth. As she watches the spectacle that is Frollo and his young horse, she fails to notice a looming shadow creeping closer.

Before she knows it, she suddenly stiffens as she feels an enormous gust of hot, fetid air hit the back of her neck. Panic grips her belly and a startled yelp escapes her before she can clamp down on it. Who?

Oh.

Two open stable doors.

Cursing herself for a fool she whips around, only to stare down the red nostrils of Frollo's gargantuan horse. His current horse.

They stare each other down, Esmeralda with her heart hammering in her throat, the horse with its eyes narrowed to slits, lips pushed back to expose huge yellow teeth. It then shakes it head, almost whipping her with its long black mane. Flattening its ears it slowly lowers it massive head until the tip of its nose reaches the apex of her thighs.

Oh. Wha.. oh! The sheer nerve of that demonic beast! Fiend! The monster pushes its nose into her…lap..and inhales. And promptly pushes harder, leaving Esmeralda scrambling for her balance.

Apparently satisfied with its humiliating inspection, the horse turns away from her and slowly trots off towards the far end of the field, its mocking neigh a parting shot. Measured and found wanting.

The beast, so much like its monstrous master, she fumes while dropping down on all fours. She struggles with herself to bring her laborious breathing back under control, swallowing convulsively to try and moisten her mouth. Finally looking up, she sees that the beast has joined its master. The old horse flicks its head towards the yearling and they communicate briefly with outstretched necks and some nips, the young horse visibly relaxing. Frollo reaches out and softly tugs the old horse on its manes. The horse stretches its neck and butts him softly on the shoulder, earning itself a chuckle.

Frollo bends and with one hand picks up a leather bridle. Allowing the yearling to sniff it cautiously he twists and with a deliberate movement slides the leather straps over the horse's head, past its twisting ears. The young horse whinnies and tries to backtrack, only to have its movement hindered by the rope tied to the bridle. Frollo diverts the horse's movement to the side, forcing the horse to walk in a circle. Murmuring soft encouraging noises, Frollo is fully focused on the horse's expression and the tension in its neck.

Dancing around one another again, he slowly lowers his hand, forcing the horse's head down with it.

Keeping the horse moving in a steady circle, he then makes the single most beautiful sound Esmeralda has ever heard. Pursing his thin, cruel lips, he produces a single whistling note, so trilling and pure in its intensity that Esmeralda feels her knees buckle at the sheer force of it. She likens it to the sound of the most beautiful of song birds, lamenting its lack of freedom in its cage.

The horse's ears prick up sharply at that purest of notes and Esmeralda sees a miracle unfold before her eyes.

Buckling at the knees, the trembling young horse slowly bends down and simply folds in on itself, executing a perfect knee fall for its master.

Frollo promptly releases the reins and murmuring softly to the horse, approaches the kneeling horse. Swinging one long leg over the horse's back he mounts it and leans forward with all his weight, still pouring words into the horse's receptive ears.

Their movements still after that. As Esmeralda looks on, the horses laborious breathing slows and the horse relaxes, accepting the weight of its master on its back. They breathe slowly in tandem for the longest time as the sun continues its ascent in the pale morning sky. Warming their weary bodies, shortening their tired shadows.

Esmeralda watches, transfixed, as Frollo slides off the horse in the end. He turns slowly then, making his way back to the stables and to her great concern, her vantage point. It doesn't surprise her that both horses follow him as if an invisible tether binds master and horses together.

As the strange procession makes its way past her hiding place, Esmeralda can't help herself. Clearing her throat, she speaks up.

"One cannot help but wonder, " she drawls, " if you have the same treatment in mind for me." With satisfaction she notes the tensing of his shoulders and the furrowing of his sweaty brow.

"Witch." He acknowledges tersely in her direction. Stepping out of the shadows she searches for an equal word to insult and wound him back, only to land on the simplest of forms.

"Claude."

With satisfaction she watches him flinch and turn away from her. Right in one, she thinks triumphantly and moves to follow his retreating form.

She finds him in the stables, grunting as he carries a heavy wooden bucket from the central well. He douses a rough cloth in the cold water, before emptying the remainder of the bucket in both horses' trough. Both animals drink greedily.

Frollo flings the wet cloth over the horse's shoulder and proceeds to wipe him down, firmly but gently. Esmeralda moves to the other end of the small stall, climbing up to perch on the edge of the enclosure. Content to observe Frollo moving back and forth to tend to his horse.

"What's his name?" She asks at last, curiosity once again gaining the upper hand.

He shoots her a strange look over the horse's shoulder, one eye almost screwed shut.

After a beat he shrugs and replies: "This is Kikkuli. I've had him for over three months now. And jabbing his chin to the beast occupying the next stall: "His name is Bucephalus. Kikkuli is his grandson."

She turns to the old beast then. The horse shoots her a baleful look in return. "Why won't you ride him instead?" She asks.

Frollo sighs at this. Continuing his ministrations, he answers slowly:"Two things. One; he is getting on in years. Soon he will be too old to carry even the slightest of burdens."

He falls silent for a while.

"And two?" She prompts, gaze not wavering from the old horse.

"He was poisoned." He replies softly. Esmeralda's eyes snap back to Frollo's in pure disbelief. She reads the truth in that harsh statement in the way the corners of his eyes crinkle at the edges, as if to ward off the bitter truth.

"Wh-what happened?" Her tone is incredulous and she hears her voice rising. In her mind, hurting an animal ranks right up there with hurting children, or defenseless women. It sets her teeth at edge at the injustice of it all.

His tone is deceptively lofty as he replies: "Oh, it was a subtle poisoning. A small amount of water hemlock in his hay for a period of time."

He has finished cleaning the yearling and is now scrubbing him down vigorously, drying the horse.

He looks up at her again, pain evident in his mercury eyes. For an instant, Esmeralda's heart goes out to him.

"Who would do such a thing?" She asks softly.

Frollo has finished Kikkulu's grooming and now ducks under the horse's neck to join her. He approaches her perch and looks up at her, craning his neck.

"It appears", he murmurs, "That I trusted the wrong gypsy." And holding out his dirty hand, he beckons for her. Before she can control herself, she grasps his thin fingers and he helps her slide gently down from where she is seated. His other hand comes up to steady her, cold fingers curling protectively around her middle.

Questions jumble in her throat, clamoring to get out as she looks into his tired eyes. Her brow knits together in slight indignation. Why is it that he always blames the gypsies?

As if reading her thoughts he replies:" I apparently have a history of taking in strays. This.. gypsy boy turned up at my gates five months ago, all bruised and bleeding. Claimed he was beaten up and left to rot by his own kin." He sucks in air through his teeth. "What was I to do? I fed him, clothed him and gave him a place to sleep in my stables. He repaid me by slowly killing my horse."

They stare each other down for a short time. Bucephalus breaks the tension by whinnying and scraping his hoof against the wooden enclosure.

Suddenly realizing whose hand she is still clasping, she promptly drops it like a hot coal. He just sighs and removes his other hand from her side. He steps back, restoring her personal space and equilibrium.

"Before you ask," He continues wearily, "He was caught in the act. My stable master saw him add the poisonous herbs to Bucephalus' feed."

"I had no choice but to act."

He ushers her out of Kikkulu's stall and closes the stall door.

He stands still for a beat, as if debating something internally."Come", he sighs finally, his weariness evident in the very way his shoulders droop. "I will escort you back to your chambers."

He holds his elbow out to her and after hesitating shortly, she slides her hand past his arm to rest in the crook of his elbow. If she concentrates she can feel the pulsing of his veins through the sensitive pads of her fingers. Human after all.

They walk slowly, abandoning the now sun drenched stables for the dark bowels of the Palace of Justice. With every step, Esmeralda's heart weighs heavier. She looks up at the man walking silently beside her. His face obscured in shadows, giving his countenance an almost skull-like appearance. Still she can feel his eyes resting on her, silently branding her.

"What happened to the boy?" She finally asks, once again failing to reign in that damned curiosity, but fearing the answer at the same time.

The man beside her grumbles at her audacity, her merciless talent for picking at mental scabs.

"I gave him a choice," he states. "Two years in confinement in my dungeons…or the hand that poisoned my horse. He chose the latter."

And in her mind's eye, she sees a sullen young man in the Court of Miracles, doing his best to win Clopin's whimsical favor. Vying for the attention of the Gypsy King. One handed Yoska. Disfigurement over imprisonment. Proud young fool.

All too soon they stop at her door. Around her the sounds of a household unfolding and beginning its day. Her hand still rests in the crook of his elbow and she can feel his muscles tightening.

"You still haven't answered my question you know." She challenges, meeting his eyes.

He relaxes his elbow and her hand slides from its resting place, arm falling limply to her side. He cocks his head at her, playing dumb for the moment.

She frowns at him, irritated by his sudden silence. To empower her question, she raises her hand and jabs her fingers at his chest, making him take a step back. She pretends not to notice the way her finger pads slide over sweat slicked muscles.

"What question?" He challenges mockingly.

Esmeralda snorts.

"I cannot help but feel a certain kinship with that young of horse of yours," she shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes.

Where have you been? The question lies unbidden.

He leans into her then and her nostrils fill with the scent of sweat, exasperation and over all, healthy adult male. It is almost enough to make her step back, but she stands her ground, meeting his burning gaze.

"Why, damsel mine, would you like to be ridden as well?" he croons mockingly into her ear.
An angry choked noise escapes her, before she places both hands on his chest and shoves hard, making him grunt and stumble back a few steps. She then bolts for her door and through it, before slamming it hastily. Shutting out her tormentor.

His mocking laughter follows her through the door. Defeated she leans back against the wood, raising both hands to her face. Only to drop her hands in exasperation as the smell of him permeates her senses again.

Devil, she curses, gritting her teeth at her humiliation.

But it's a long time before she washes the smell of him off her hands.

A.N: Bucephalus was Alexander the Great's horse. Legend has it Alexander as a boy saw the wild stallion, and despite its ferocious nature and the advice of his elders, managed to tame the horse. After he claimed that the horse was simply afraid of his own shadow.

Kikkulu was an ancient Hittite Horse Master who wrote complete training manuals on horses.

Reviews and critiques are much loved by the author.

Description
After all that initial excitement, life picks up it pace again and after a full two weeks have passed Esmeralda finds herself frankly bored. Every morning as the copper sounds of the bells of Notre Dame muster her from her slumber, she is visited by two female servants. One of them is an old toothless crone and the other one the same round cheeked girl that brought her supper the first day. They never speak to her and she begins to suspect them mute.

Another discovery she makes very early on is that she isn't locked in her chambers. The elation of that discovery however soon is replaced by exasperation as she finds herself shadowed everywhere she ventures. Oh, they (she is certain there is more than one person tailing her) make sure they are never seen, but she has no illusions that her every move is being monitored and reported to their master.

After a while she starts testing their resolve and makes for the front gate. The front gates are yawning, maw wide open. Behind them the city of Paris beckons. She quickens her step, heart in her throat. She can already smell the street, wet with recent rain. The rains that have come and put a final end to the last smoldering fires of Frollo's mad inferno. She hears the workmen shouting, the sounds of hammers striking iron, and wood being chopped. Already the city of Paris rises up from her ashes, like a reluctant phoenix. If only she has half of that resilience, Esmeralda sighs as she quickens her pace.

But before she can make that final mad dash for freedom, consequences be damned!... Two guards step from behind the edge of the gate. In what appears to be a rehearsed movement they turn inwards and bar her exit by crossing their halberds together. The noise of grating metal cuts her deeply and she flinches. But what disturbs her even more is the determination in the eyes of the guards. And the damned pity when they make her turn back from whence she came.

So she backtracks all the way to her quarters, almost looking forward to the tongue lashing she surely is about to receive from her elusive captor. Some excitement at last! Nothing like a good fight to stifle the utter boredom she feels. She'll show him not to ignore her!

But she is to be sorely disappointed. Waiting for what seems hours she realizes that he isn't going to come. He has ignored her yet again. Stewing in her own rage again. Oh, those damned unrelenting walls!

Where is he? She asks herself. This was not at all how she thought her new life as… a kept woman, for lack of a better word, would be like at all. Not what she imagined at all. Promptly she clamps down on where her horrible imagination does take her. What she thinks does fit the scenario of the woman locked in the tower by a nefarious sorcerer.

No. It simply does not do to torture oneself with might be's and other…strange, unbecoming scenarios. Heaven help her.

Esmeralda decides that she hates being bored. But what she hates even more, is being ignored. Even if she being ignored by the most fiendish man in the whole of France. And the problem is she knows that he knows that she can't stand not being the center of attention.

Where is he? Damn him.

Another week passes before she is woken up early in the morning by the sound of voices drifting through the corridor. Her nights as of late have been filled with disturbing visions and vivid dreams, and more than once she wakes up suddenly, struggling to escape her sweat soaked sheets, gasping for breath.

Her ears prick up as the soft voices continue their conversation, growing slightly louder as she hears them pass by her door. They halt their conversation briefly, but as their voices drift further away she can suddenly make out a low baritone she hasn't heard in over three weeks. Esmeralda is promptly utterly disgusted with herself for the way her heart jumps into her throat and the slight tightening feeling in her belly. All that at the sound of a voice, for God's sake. She really must be starved for attention if he has that effect on her. Ridiculous.

But fed up with being ignored as she is, she swiftly dresses herself. Throwing her cloak over her shoulders, she softly opens the door and slips through.

It doesn't take her long to catch up with the voices as she winds her way down to the ground floor. Through courtyards and poorly lit hall ways she follows them until suddenly the unmistakable smell of horse fills her nostrils.

Of course. The stables.

More voices are heard. Swiftly she moves back in the shadows, pressing herself flat against the dark wall, praying not to get noticed. She shifts closer to the stable doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Frollo sounds tired, she thinks. His tone of voice is flat as he orders his stable hands out. She hears a small boy close by make a moue of disappointment, before he too is ushered out by the older men. As they trudge single file past her ill chosen hiding place, the young boy suddenly swings his head in her direction and locks gazes with her. He gasps softly drawing the attention of two other man. Their backs straighten, white of their eyes showing clearly in the darkness. It almost looks like fear. Eyes locking on them, she silently beseeches them not to give her away. The eldest man then grabs the startled boy by the scruff and drags him along, muttering softly under his moustache that he didn't see nothing and that he doesn't want no trouble. She notices that he leaves the stable door slightly ajar. The sweet man.

Esmeralda slowly releases her pent up breath.

Safe. For the moment. The game continues.

She creeps on, putting her weight on the old door and slowly opening the crack further. And edges in.

She is met by silence. Most stalls are filled with horses in various states of alertness. A huge bay flicks his ear at her and promptly ignores her for the hay he has been provided with. Other horses doze softly. Dust motes dance in the air. At the far end she sees two stall doors opened, the stables empty. All is quiet, apart from the soft crunching sounds the eating horse makes.

All is far too quiet.

Esmeralda notices the far stable door to the courtyard and combat training fields wide open. Curiously she edges her way through it. And promptly freezes at the sight that meets her eyes.

At the far end of the sandy field she can see the thin form of Frollo approaching what appears to be a skittish young black horse. Never walking in a straight line, he chooses to circle the animal, his gaze never leaving the nervous young stallion. Always keeping their eyes locked. Slowly they move around each other in the gray morning light, a little dance of push and pull. A slow dance of Man and Beast. Thin rays of pale sunlight back-lights them both, making steam rise up and curl upwards from their bodies.

Even Esmeralda can see that although the horse is far from grown, it is already a fair size. It promises to be every bit as intimidating as Frollo's own horse when he's fully grown.

The horse is badly shaking, rivulets of sweat standing out on its gleaming skin. Its ears are pressed flat against his neck. Even from her vantage point she can see the whites of the beast's eyes.

She creeps closer, enthralled by the sight before her. Luckily the shadows conceal her form.

Frollo has exchanged his usual robes for a far more form fitting ensemble. He is dressed in a thin white frock with an old purple hosier underneath. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves. Taut, wiry muscles roll under his pale skin. Like the horse he too is covered in grime and sweat, the thin shirt clinging to his back, the white almost translucent against his pale skin.

Who is this man?

She creeps closer still, not paying heed to the soft rustling sounds her bare feet make as she brushes through the undergrowth. As she watches the spectacle that is Frollo and his young horse, she fails to notice a looming shadow creeping closer.

Before she knows it, she suddenly stiffens as she feels an enormous gust of hot, fetid air hit the back of her neck. Panic grips her belly and a startled yelp escapes her before she can clamp down on it. Who?

Oh.

Two open stable doors.

Cursing herself for a fool she whips around, only to stare down the red nostrils of Frollo's gargantuan horse. His current horse.

They stare each other down, Esmeralda with her heart hammering in her throat, the horse with its eyes narrowed to slits, lips pushed back to expose huge yellow teeth. It then shakes it head, almost whipping her with its long black mane. Flattening its ears it slowly lowers it massive head until the tip of its nose reaches the apex of her thighs.

Oh. Wha.. oh! The sheer nerve of that demonic beast! Fiend! The monster pushes its nose into her…lap..and inhales. And promptly pushes harder, leaving Esmeralda scrambling for her balance.

Apparently satisfied with its humiliating inspection, the horse turns away from her and slowly trots off towards the far end of the field, its mocking neigh a parting shot. Measured and found wanting.

The beast, so much like its monstrous master, she fumes while dropping down on all fours. She struggles with herself to bring her laborious breathing back under control, swallowing convulsively to try and moisten her mouth. Finally looking up, she sees that the beast has joined its master. The old horse flicks its head towards the yearling and they communicate briefly with outstretched necks and some nips, the young horse visibly relaxing. Frollo reaches out and softly tugs the old horse on its manes. The horse stretches its neck and butts him softly on the shoulder, earning itself a chuckle.

Frollo bends and with one hand picks up a leather bridle. Allowing the yearling to sniff it cautiously he twists and with a deliberate movement slides the leather straps over the horse's head, past its twisting ears. The young horse whinnies and tries to backtrack, only to have its movement hindered by the rope tied to the bridle. Frollo diverts the horse's movement to the side, forcing the horse to walk in a circle. Murmuring soft encouraging noises, Frollo is fully focused on the horse's expression and the tension in its neck.

Dancing around one another again, he slowly lowers his hand, forcing the horse's head down with it.

Keeping the horse moving in a steady circle, he then makes the single most beautiful sound Esmeralda has ever heard. Pursing his thin, cruel lips, he produces a single whistling note, so trilling and pure in its intensity that Esmeralda feels her knees buckle at the sheer force of it. She likens it to the sound of the most beautiful of song birds, lamenting its lack of freedom in its cage.

The horse's ears prick up sharply at that purest of notes and Esmeralda sees a miracle unfold before her eyes.

Buckling at the knees, the trembling young horse slowly bends down and simply folds in on itself, executing a perfect knee fall for its master.

Frollo promptly releases the reins and murmuring softly to the horse, approaches the kneeling horse. Swinging one long leg over the horse's back he mounts it and leans forward with all his weight, still pouring words into the horse's receptive ears.

Their movements still after that. As Esmeralda looks on, the horses laborious breathing slows and the horse relaxes, accepting the weight of its master on its back. They breathe slowly in tandem for the longest time as the sun continues its ascent in the pale morning sky. Warming their weary bodies, shortening their tired shadows.

Esmeralda watches, transfixed, as Frollo slides off the horse in the end. He turns slowly then, making his way back to the stables and to her great concern, her vantage point. It doesn't surprise her that both horses follow him as if an invisible tether binds master and horses together.

As the strange procession makes its way past her hiding place, Esmeralda can't help herself. Clearing her throat, she speaks up.

"One cannot help but wonder, " she drawls, " if you have the same treatment in mind for me." With satisfaction she notes the tensing of his shoulders and the furrowing of his sweaty brow.

"Witch." He acknowledges tersely in her direction. Stepping out of the shadows she searches for an equal word to insult and wound him back, only to land on the simplest of forms.

"Claude."

With satisfaction she watches him flinch and turn away from her. Right in one, she thinks triumphantly and moves to follow his retreating form.

She finds him in the stables, grunting as he carries a heavy wooden bucket from the central well. He douses a rough cloth in the cold water, before emptying the remainder of the bucket in both horses' trough. Both animals drink greedily.

Frollo flings the wet cloth over the horse's shoulder and proceeds to wipe him down, firmly but gently. Esmeralda moves to the other end of the small stall, climbing up to perch on the edge of the enclosure. Content to observe Frollo moving back and forth to tend to his horse.

"What's his name?" She asks at last, curiosity once again gaining the upper hand.

He shoots her a strange look over the horse's shoulder, one eye almost screwed shut.

After a beat he shrugs and replies: "This is Kikkuli. I've had him for over three months now. And jabbing his chin to the beast occupying the next stall: "His name is Bucephalus. Kikkuli is his grandson."

She turns to the old beast then. The horse shoots her a baleful look in return. "Why won't you ride him instead?" She asks.

Frollo sighs at this. Continuing his ministrations, he answers slowly:"Two things. One; he is getting on in years. Soon he will be too old to carry even the slightest of burdens."

He falls silent for a while.

"And two?" She prompts, gaze not wavering from the old horse.

"He was poisoned." He replies softly. Esmeralda's eyes snap back to Frollo's in pure disbelief. She reads the truth in that harsh statement in the way the corners of his eyes crinkle at the edges, as if to ward off the bitter truth.

"Wh-what happened?" Her tone is incredulous and she hears her voice rising. In her mind, hurting an animal ranks right up there with hurting children, or defenseless women. It sets her teeth at edge at the injustice of it all.

His tone is deceptively lofty as he replies: "Oh, it was a subtle poisoning. A small amount of water hemlock in his hay for a period of time."

He has finished cleaning the yearling and is now scrubbing him down vigorously, drying the horse.

He looks up at her again, pain evident in his mercury eyes. For an instant, Esmeralda's heart goes out to him.

"Who would do such a thing?" She asks softly.

Frollo has finished Kikkulu's grooming and now ducks under the horse's neck to join her. He approaches her perch and looks up at her, craning his neck.

"It appears", he murmurs, "That I trusted the wrong gypsy." And holding out his dirty hand, he beckons for her. Before she can control herself, she grasps his thin fingers and he helps her slide gently down from where she is seated. His other hand comes up to steady her, cold fingers curling protectively around her middle.

Questions jumble in her throat, clamoring to get out as she looks into his tired eyes. Her brow knits together in slight indignation. Why is it that he always blames the gypsies?

As if reading her thoughts he replies:" I apparently have a history of taking in strays. This.. gypsy boy turned up at my gates five months ago, all bruised and bleeding. Claimed he was beaten up and left to rot by his own kin." He sucks in air through his teeth. "What was I to do? I fed him, clothed him and gave him a place to sleep in my stables. He repaid me by slowly killing my horse."

They stare each other down for a short time. Bucephalus breaks the tension by whinnying and scraping his hoof against the wooden enclosure.

Suddenly realizing whose hand she is still clasping, she promptly drops it like a hot coal. He just sighs and removes his other hand from her side. He steps back, restoring her personal space and equilibrium.

"Before you ask," He continues wearily, "He was caught in the act. My stable master saw him add the poisonous herbs to Bucephalus' feed."

"I had no choice but to act."

He ushers her out of Kikkulu's stall and closes the stall door.

He stands still for a beat, as if debating something internally."Come", he sighs finally, his weariness evident in the very way his shoulders droop. "I will escort you back to your chambers."

He holds his elbow out to her and after hesitating shortly, she slides her hand past his arm to rest in the crook of his elbow. If she concentrates she can feel the pulsing of his veins through the sensitive pads of her fingers. Human after all.

They walk slowly, abandoning the now sun drenched stables for the dark bowels of the Palace of Justice. With every step, Esmeralda's heart weighs heavier. She looks up at the man walking silently beside her. His face obscured in shadows, giving his countenance an almost skull-like appearance. Still she can feel his eyes resting on her, silently branding her.

"What happened to the boy?" She finally asks, once again failing to reign in that damned curiosity, but fearing the answer at the same time.

The man beside her grumbles at her audacity, her merciless talent for picking at mental scabs.

"I gave him a choice," he states. "Two years in confinement in my dungeons…or the hand that poisoned my horse. He chose the latter."

And in her mind's eye, she sees a sullen young man in the Court of Miracles, doing his best to win Clopin's whimsical favor. Vying for the attention of the Gypsy King. One handed Yoska. Disfigurement over imprisonment. Proud young fool.

All too soon they stop at her door. Around her the sounds of a household unfolding and beginning its day. Her hand still rests in the crook of his elbow and she can feel his muscles tightening.

"You still haven't answered my question you know." She challenges, meeting his eyes.

He relaxes his elbow and her hand slides from its resting place, arm falling limply to her side. He cocks his head at her, playing dumb for the moment.

She frowns at him, irritated by his sudden silence. To empower her question, she raises her hand and jabs her fingers at his chest, making him take a step back. She pretends not to notice the way her finger pads slide over sweat slicked muscles.

"What question?" He challenges mockingly.

Esmeralda snorts.

"I cannot help but feel a certain kinship with that young of horse of yours," she shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes.

Where have you been? The question lies unbidden.

He leans into her then and her nostrils fill with the scent of sweat, exasperation and over all, healthy adult male. It is almost enough to make her step back, but she stands her ground, meeting his burning gaze.

"Why, damsel mine, would you like to be ridden as well?" he croons mockingly into her ear.
An angry choked noise escapes her, before she places both hands on his chest and shoves hard, making him grunt and stumble back a few steps. She then bolts for her door and through it, before slamming it hastily. Shutting out her tormentor.

His mocking laughter follows her through the door. Defeated she leans back against the wood, raising both hands to her face. Only to drop her hands in exasperation as the smell of him permeates her senses again.

Devil, she curses, gritting her teeth at her humiliation.

But it's a long time before she washes the smell of him off her hands.

A.N: Bucephalus was Alexander the Great's horse. Legend has it Alexander as a boy saw the wild stallion, and despite its ferocious nature and the advice of his elders, managed to tame the horse. After he claimed that the horse was simply afraid of his own shadow.

Kikkulu was an ancient Hittite Horse Master who wrote complete training manuals on horses.

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