Chapter Text
Frollo was standing in the center of his chambers, watching the fireplace. The fire emanating from the hearth was the only source of light in the room. He was staring at the movement of the flames, but he felt no warmth; only a hollow chill coiling beneath his skin. How could he feel so cold standing in front of the fire? His body shivered all over. Maybe it was the adrenaline still running through his veins. He had just taken over the Court of Miracles.
He had just imprisoned all the gypsies residing in that place. He had finally achieved his goal of finding that wretched place that he had been searching for for over 20 years. The gypsies were imprisoned. Justice. His justice. His triumph. But why wasn't he feeling victorious? He should have been happy, or at least gloating inwardly. However, something within him was causing him unease. This victory felt like a tightening noose around his soul instead.
He should have felt satisfaction, triumph, even righteous pride. Yet something hollow gnawed at him. A hunger not of the mind, but of the flesh. Something restless. Something unfulfilled.
She was there… among these prisoners. With these vermin, among the filth imprisoned in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. She felt so near, yet so far from his reach. The fact that he could go down to the dungeons and see her at any moment was the cause of this uneasy feeling rushing through his body and veins. She was to be burned at the stake in the morning, but could he let that happen? Could he let her die without ever touching her? Having her? His body recoiled at the thought
Frollo took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring; he wanted to see her, to be near her. The urge to do so grew stronger by the second. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair until it lay flat; his hand trembled as he smoothed his robe. Now he looked presentable. Dignified. He looked completely in control.
He turned on his heel to face the door of his chambers. Taking one step forward, he stopped, hesitating. His will wavered. Torn between salvation and sin.
Within a second, he snapped himself out of it.
“I am the minister of justice,” he reminded himself in a whisper. He continued walking towards the door, he opened it. His breath hitched, and he felt as though he was suffocating. Looking beyond the bedroom door, he realized everything was engulfed by darkness. He had wanted to hurry down to the dungeons, but he forgot to take a candle to light the way. Turning back into his room, he grabbed an unlit candle. His focus turned to the fireplace once again. Slowly, he started to walk towards the flames. As if he was being pulled by an invisible string towards it. He lifted his hand that held the candle towards the flames. Allowing the fire to light his candle for him.
Before he could hesitate once more, he bolted towards the door and slammed it shut behind him, leaving his chambers.
Frollo strode down the corridor with hurried, uneven steps, the newly lit candle flickering wildly in his grasp as if protesting the speed of his movement. He had to slow down or else the candle would go out. He had to regain his composure. The entrance to the spiral staircase loomed ahead, descending into utter darkness like a gaping throat ready to swallow him whole. He froze at the top step, forcing a long breath through clenched teeth. He would not enter her cell. He would not speak to her. He only wanted to see her, even if from a distance, nothing more. But his pulse hammered through him like a drum. It sounded much like the drums he would be hearing before her execution. He rested his hand on the cold stone walls as he began to descend; the candlelight was bouncing along the curving walls. With every step downward, the shadows thickened, the air chilled, and yet he burned hotter beneath the skin. The dungeons were not merely below him; they were beneath him. Yes, as part of his job, he did go down there to interrogate or to administer some inhumane torture, but he was not working now. He was walking willingly into them. Once more, he was being pulled by this invisible string. “Only watch,” he repeated silently, as if the words alone could bind his hands. “I will not go inside.”
The last step of the staircase met him like a threshold between judgment and temptation. Down here, the air was damp and heavy, thick with the stale scent of stone and despair. He paused, forcing his spine straight, and he cleared his throat before taking another step. He had entered these halls countless times before, to interrogate, to condemn, to watch men break, yet tonight his footing felt uncertain, as though the ground itself were aware of his trespass. His fingers tightened around the candleholder. She was near now. Too near. He could feel it; like a current beneath his skin, as if the very darkness vibrated with her presence. His lips parted, a quiet breath slipping through before he could catch it. This was madness. And yet he could not turn back.
As Frollo finally entered the dungeons, he found two guards seated at a low wooden table, lazily playing cards. A single torch burned above them, casting just enough light for their game. Beyond their post, however, the corridor stretched forward into near-total darkness. The first prison cell closest to the guards received a faint spill of torchlight through its iron bars, allowing a thin flicker of visibility within. But every cell beyond that point disappeared into absolute blackness, swallowed whole by shadow.
“Where is the gypsy girl?” Frollo addressed the guards with his usual cold manner.
“She is at the end of the hall to the right, sir.” Said the first guard.
“Would you like us to open up the cell for you, sir?” Said the second.
“No!” The word left him too quickly, too sharply.. He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a steadying breath before speaking again. “Listen carefully. I need you to place a lit torch on the wall across from her cell.”
The two guards looked at each other in confusion at the minister’s request, but dared say nothing.
The first guard stood up and grabbed another torch to be lit up by the one that is placed above their table.
“Any further orders, sir?” Said the soldier with the torch in his hand.
Frollo paused, calculating. “No. Place the torch across from her cell, then leave. You are to return only when I summon you.”
He would not allow witnesses to the madness that pulled him down here.
The guard obeyed, carrying the torch deep into the dark corridor. After securing it across from her cell, both soldiers exited the dungeon as instructed, their footsteps fading up the stairwell. Only when they were gone did Frollo feel his pulse surge, a sharp, unsteady panic at the knowledge that nothing stood between him and her now. Except for the iron bars, of course.
He set his candle down on the guards’ table and began moving slowly toward the far end of the corridor, staying close to the wall and taking small, slow, and calculated steps to avoid being personally exposed from the illuminating torchlight. He wanted to see her without being seen in return, to look upon her while still pretending he was in control. Every step reminded him that he was a coward, skulking in the shadows while she would be fully illuminated, the only figure the flame allowed to shine in that darkness. And yet, he told himself he was composed, that he was in full command of his emotions, of his desire. Every instinct screamed otherwise, but he clung to the illusion of control, forcing his gaze to linger on her as if it were duty, not obsession.