#but the same Thing for miri is. her very visible ribs.

[rxttenfish]

sketched a generic mer fisherfolk for posterity

[chibi-writings]

Ink 2/?

Characters: Frollo, Esmeralda (Disney)

"He drew me up from the pit of destruction, out of the miry bog, and set my feet upon a rock, making my steps secure." - Psalm 40:2

Deliverance

The morning had dawned with an ominous red sky, choking black clouds still crawling across its length like a great heard stamping their airy hooves in a sea of blood. A tapestry of doom woven by the Moirai, the most hopeless and the most vengeful sky that Esmeralda had ever seen in her life. People had started to gather and stare at them all from the shadows of their houses, visible only when they moved, frail grass stalks bending to their own unseen winds. Esmeralda looked among their faces for any sign of pity, anything that would tell her they were here to help, but she only saw anger and fear.

How could they all do this? Could they really just sit there and watch them all die and not do anything?

She sensed Frollo coming long before she saw him. The sound of hooves clacking on the stone was the first sound she heard, then a ripple passed among the crowd that stirred them into life, the air buzzing with their whispers and the swish of their clothes. The air pressed on her as if it had become water and somehow the shadows seemed even darker, more substantial. She shrank away from them, overcome by the insane feeling that if they touched her then she would feel fingers across her skin.

The clopping of hooves became louder and then she could see him and the people parting around him hurriedly, throwing themselves away as if he would burn them. Even in his most consuming of rages, the coldest of his disdain, the thickest of his confusion, Frollo had the most perfect horsemanship Esmeralda had ever seen. He sat upon his Friesian like a king and it responded to signals and touches she could barely ever discern, they were so complete that it was more like he spoke to the animal with his mind. How could this not be seen as witchcraft by such a dumb and foolish population as these people?

Frollo's swaying in the saddle was perfect and the horse nearly glided across the space that separated them, the leaders of a procession of guards who were infinitely more clumsy and awkward on their own mounts, their armor rattling and half of them looked like they would fall off at any moment compared to Frollo. Esmeralda could not take her eyes from him and even with the distance between them she could still feel his scorching gaze across her flesh, gripping her in a restraint that existed without touch. Her heart galloped in her chest, her ribs which before had seemed so protecting before were like a cage now, a cage made of her very own body.

Each growing step made her realize how huge his horse truly was, how large they both seemed and they stole the air with their very presence. No matter how many times she inhaled it didn't seem like it was enough, her head was light and spinning and they pressed down on her, she felt as much in their shadow as she did of Notre Dame. Her knees trembled and she would have probably fallen if her knees hadn't been locked and her hands gripping her cage with an intensity born of fear. She looked up defiantly as they stopped in front of her, seeing them framed by the sky above that seemed too perfect to be natural for them.

At first all Frollo did was stare at her. His dark eyes were unreadable, unchanging, and it was more like an animalistic instinct that whispered to her what he was feeling than what the judge actually gave away. Anger and desire that chased each other, all wrapped up and caught in each other so it was impossible to separate one from the other entirely. Smugness that oozed from him in every movement, but his face so frozen and cold...So cold. He was close enough for her to nearly reach out and touch but he was as indifferent as a hermit on a remote mountaintop.

Frollo and his horse could have been a statue carved from ebony, marble, and amethyst. Neither of them moved.

"Take her."

She jumped when he suddenly spoke. Everyone did, it seemed. Snapping into action, her guards quickly unlocked the door and then they were around her, grabbing her wrists and yanking her away. Her fingers ached horribly from how hard they had been holding the cage and their hold burned harshly against her wrists. Esmeralda gritted her teeth at how hard they tugged her, but she did not protest and forced her feet to move with them.

"All of them," came the second, imperious command.

There was commotion everywhere, the people around raising their voices in a shout that she could not understand. She couldn't understand anything, her blood was roaring in her ears, roaring like the clanking of armor and the constant buzzing voices around her. The one thing she could hear clearly was Frollo's voice, like cold water against heated skin. It always pulled her back to the present with the shock of hearing it.

Soldiers were pulling her, dragging her along with them, closer to the front of Notre Dame. A platform had been erected there earlier, with a single pole serving as its decoration. Her heart tripped and froze at the sight of it all, her mind just now comprehending the full meaning even though she had spent the whole last night knowing what was to come.

Then, like a slap to her face, came Phoebus's voice rising above the din. Frollo's voice was jolting as the cold, but Phoebus roared like a clap of thunder. "What is wrong with all of you?! He burned your houses and ransacked your city! Can't you see what he's doing is wrong! He--"

"Witch!" Came an insane shriek that Esmeralda had to turn around and see. The others were behind her in their own twisted procession, but Phoebus was the only one resisting his captors. Then from somewhere in the crowd came a rock that hit Phoebus right in the gut, driving the breath out of him and his knees buckled. All around them the crowd cheered.

It felt like her heart had been torn instead. Esmeralda couldn't hold back the small scream in her throat at the sight of it all, and just like wolves smelling blood, their attention turned to her.

"Gypsy witch!"

"Burn her!"

"There she is!"

Another rock came sailing by, passing so close to her that she heard it whooshing in the air as it passed. Their screaming, frothing rage was stirring into a frenzy, as mindless as howling dogs. Other things were being picked up, fruits and sticks and anything they could get their hands on to hit and attack the gypsies with.

"Enough!"

Frollo's voice rose above it all like a god and at all once there was silence. An incredible, single breath of shocked silence before his soldiers snapped into action, those not holding prisoners pushing the crowds back, screaming threats and waving their spears around to herd them into a more acceptable position, forcing them to leave the prisoners with a wide berth.

Esmeralda felt her eyes burning, but she refused to cry. How could she have ever expected these people to help? These were the very same heartless bastards that had tied a poor hunchbacked man to a wheel and thrown fruit at him, all to make fun of his ugliness. And they had laughed at his suffering cries!

God damn them. God damn every single one of their souls to the deepest pits of Hell.

If she was destined for Hell, then Esmeralda would laugh while she was there. She knew all of them were destined to end up there with her, and how she would be the one to laugh at their pain in the end.

She tried to be brave and defiant and strong, but her knees were shaking so badly that she could barely walk. Not even she understood how she was managing to do it, it was as mechanical as breathing at this point. Even if the guards weren't holding her she had no idea if she could even pluck up the strength and courage to run. Where would she go? Right into the waiting jaws of the peasants who would enjoy tearing her apart with their bare hands? The images of Phoebus played over and over in her head, how easily he fell and how they cheered at it. He was the captain of the guard, one of the most respected men in the city, and how quickly they turned on him! What hope did she, a gypsy, have?

Oh God she hoped Phoebus wasn't badly hurt. He had only been shot a day ago and he needed to recover. Wrestling with his guards couldn't possibly be easy with his injury and stupid, ridiculously noble Phoebus was doing it anyway because it felt right. At the very least one of them would go to heaven. That was a small spark of happiness that glowed in her. She could bear Hell easier not seeing Phoebus there and knowing that his immortal soul would be taken to God's kingdom.

The stairs leading up to the platform banged against her ankles and she screamed again, the pain momentarily crippling her as her legs refused to walk. She wobbled and her guards stopped her from falling, but she could hear their sneers and their annoyance with her. Angrily, she tried to fight her way past it, to show that she would walk proudly to her execution with her head held high and uncaring because she was better than all of them. But she had already been too slow and her guards hauled her up the steps, her feet barely finding purchase and her shoulders screaming as her arms pulled against them.

For a moment, she could breathe. There were no longer people swarming around her and the air was clear and she took a deep breath. Instantly she coughed on the smoke and turned her head to cough into her hand. From the corner of her vision she could see the whole length of the courtyard and the sheer amount of people that swelled inside of it made her blood freeze. Fear unlike anything she had ever known pounded in her veins and once again deafness fell upon her, all other sounds drowned out by her terrified blood screaming in her ears.

They dragged her to the pole. They had to drag her because her legs refused to work altogether. She saw a few things roll by her feet, a much smaller rock and an apple so rotten that it didn't so much roll as flip its way over. One of the guards kicked it back into the crowd before they pressed her against the pole and began to tie her to it, the ropes biting into her skin.

She couldn't stand, her legs felt like water and could not hold her up, all her weight pressed against the ropes until the pain became too great and she forced her legs to move until they finally began to hold her weight again. Pinpricks at her feet made her look down and only then she noticed that other guards were swarming around, throwing bundles of hay beneath her. To burn her. She had seen the displays before.

Her breath screamed in her ears, tearing out of her throat in ragged, panicked gasps. Her eyes darted around, looking for any sort of help, and the sea of angry, jeering faces being held back by the guards made her turn away from the earth and up to the heavens. Those dark, opaque, heavens.

Notre Dame towered over it all. Two pillars of harsh, jutting stone presiding over the gathering like distant judges. Their firm edges were at once both terrifying and somehow comforting, the safety and solidity of the cathedral apparent in every stone, yet hard, unfeeling stone did not move the slightest when souls were in danger. The eyes of Notre Dame watched, but did not care.

Esmeralda looked up to the bell tower. She could not see much through the haze of smoke and the distance, but she thought it looked empty. Where was Quasimodo? What had happened to him? A wild, desperate part of her wanted to scream for him to save her like he did when he carried her from the church, but she knew it was hopeless. He wouldn't hear her. And he could not fight through the crowds around her anyway.

Silence descended upon the square, as if Death's shadow had passed over. Esmeralda had no idea how much noise she had been blocking out until it was all gone and the utter lack of it was now what was uncomfortable. Instinctively she looked back down and there he was at the top of the steps, his robes blacker than night and his face still set in its cold scowl. He was so pale and haunting, his eyes burning out at her from the dark circles around them.

Seeing that he had her attention, he began to walk to her. His robes rippled around him with each liquid movement and the clunk of his shoes against the wood seemed as loud as a cannon in the quiet. The air coiled around him and made his movements seem strange, as if he was stalking upon something like a predator rather than walking. He came closer, and finally she saw a smile start to emerge on his face.

"Gypsy."

His lips moved, and his whisper was so soft that her ears strained to hear it. Immediately the crowd began to whisper and grumble, and she heard from somewhere a man shouting at him to speak up. Frollo ignored the comments.

"What do you want?" she tried to growl in a final attempt to be careless and defiant. Her voice broke and her snarl refused to stay in place no matter how hard she tried.

"Do you remember what I said last night, gypsy?"

She balled up her hands. "Yes, and you can go to Hell."

He chuckled, stroking his chin a little as he leaned in closer to her. "How amusing. Do you tell me that because you yourself fear for your soul, knowing that is where you shall go? Redemption is not too late for anyone, you know." His eyes shifted, flickering to the assembled crowd that was grown more irritated by the moment. "Tell me, did you see them?"

She blinked at him, her mind stumbling in the dark, groping for a meaning to his questions. "I--Of course I did. Do you think I'm stupid on top of everything else?"

"Do you think they would see it that way, Esmeralda?"

The use of her name stopped her. "What?"

"Redemption, gypsy, redemption. Do you think they want to see you redeemed? Do you think they would like it if you fell before me and begged God to purify you and forgive you of all sins?" He looked back at her. "What do you think they came here for, gypsy? Did they come to watch a woman's soul be saved, or did they come to watch a witch burn so they could scream and humiliate her and feel righteous about themselves?"

An uncomfortable truth flooded her and made her throat close. Her mouth had no answers to give him. She could not speak and admit he was right, especially not to him.

But, for all her silence, he seemed to know. "Hear them yelling now? They want me to get on with it, to burn you for the crime they believe you are rightly guilty of committing. They are not here to help you, Esmeralda. They are not your allies. Remember that." He stepped away.

The first beat of the drums made her jump. She had not seen them at all earlier but of course there would be drummers here for the mass execution to take place. Frollo did not take his eyes off her and lifted his right hand, which she realized had a rolled-up parchment grasped in it. The light of the torches danced across his rings as he moved with a practiced, ceremonial air and unrolled the parchment.

His voice boomed out, suddenly so loud and commanding that it seemed impossible that such a frail looking body could produce it. "The gypsy, Esmeralda, has been accused of witchcraft," he read to the cheers of the people. "The sentence: death!"

Whatever he said next was lost in the roar of the crowd that mirrored the roar in her brain. She tugged at the ropes vainly and felt more straw being thrown under her. It was nearly up to her knees at this point, digging through her dress and scraping at her skin; no matter how much she squirmed and wiggled it still hurt, she couldn't escape from the pinpricks. But that would be nothing compared to what would happen when the straw would be lit. She had seen witch burnings before--how they screamed, God...

Light invaded her eyes, and she looked up, trembling, into the face of Frollo just a foot away from hers. He carried the torch with him, just like how she saw at the miller's. The light danced across his face and the shadows cast by its planes and the wrinkles decorating them danced with it. It gave him a twisted, ethereal appearance that shifted and morphed wickedly under the display, like his face would melt away at any second and reveal the demon beneath.

"The time has come, gypsy," he said to her, the smooth tones of his voice rolling out in that baritone that made her bones tingle. "You stand upon the brink of the abyss. Yet even now it is not too late." He was leaning closer to her, smiling and bringing his torch closer at the same time, his growing more earnest. "I can save you from the flames of this world, and the next." There was a heartbeat, a solitary breath of a pause where they both tottered on the edge of an abyss that had no bottom. "Choose me, or the fire." He brought the torch closer.

The heat was scorching her face, everything seemed too bright, too hot and she tried to turn away from the flames but the ropes barely let her move. Her heart still thundered, her blood racing yet she couldn't explain how she was still shivering as if she was cold. She knew what he meant by his words, and what choosing him would mean. She knew and yet--yet to stand here in flames, in the heat and everyone would laugh and cheer all because she was hated. But Jesus bore such suffering, did he not?

She could smell burning hair--hers! She jerked away, gasping for breath. "I--" Yell! Scream! Be defiant! The words would not come. She was split between two halves of herself, titans facing each other on a battlefield that existed only within her mind, as different as any two sides could be. "I--"

"Speak quickly, Esmeralda," Frollo told her, unrelenting. The way he said her name, rolled her syllables so beautifully from his cultured accent... "It comes down to this. No more running, no more sorcery. Choose."

He would burn her. She knew that in the very depths of her soul. His attraction, whatever form it might be, would not prevent that. She watched him barricade an innocent family inside their home and set it ablaze for no reason, he would absolutely let her burn alive and enjoy it. Either way he would win.

She trembled, fear making her head spin, tears filling her eyes. Frollo would win no matter what, but he could win with her alive or her dead. And one of them, just one, kept her alive and out of the flames of Hell for a little while longer.

The crowd was screaming, frenzied, a writhing mass of righteous fury.

Heat still burned her, so close it felt like her skin was about to peel off. It hurt so much, so much.

She was no Jesus.

"I--" she faltered, a bird flapping unsteady wings. "You," she said to her feet.

The surprise from him was palpable. Even the flames seemed to waver and become unsure of themselves. "What?" she heard the single, silent whisper of shock. Then a louder, vicious growl. "Say it again."

Now it was her turn to be surprised. "What?" she blurted out in an exact echo of Frollo. The bottom dropped from her stomach, sweat pouring from her skin. Did he not accept it? Was he dangling freedom in front of her just to snatch it away? "But I said it!"

"Say it again!" Frollo snarled, thrusting the torch inches from her face and bearing over her, his hellish expression boring into her.

The heat and flames were too much, she cried out and tried to run from them. "You, you, you! I choose you!" She wanted to scream the words out but her throat was too choked with fear to strangle out more than a whisper.

All at once it was gone and the blessed colder air kissed her face. "The gypsy, Esmeralda, has recanted!" she heard Frollo's voice shouting, and the roar of the crowd. Yelling, booing, disappointed that she was not currently screaming from the flames at that very moment. "She will be brought to confess for her sins, and may God forgive her for them!"

The citizens went insane, screaming and throwing more things and a few even tried to force their way past the guards until one of them was stabbed. Frollo was about to have a full riot on his hands. But the judge didn't seem to care, he unsheathed a dagger that he carried from his belt and cut her ropes in a few short, sharp strokes. His robes seemed to nearly engulf her, hiding her from the accusing, malicious stares of the peasants. If only briefly.

"Come quickly," his hand seized her wrist, his skin still burning compared to hers. But this time he gripped her with a tightness that seemed born of desperation and urgency. Oh, he didn't care that the crowd was about to throw a revolt, but he was certainly aware of it. He dragged her to the steps, his feet taking enormous strides and forcing her to nearly run to keep up. "Quickly, quickly!" he hissed at her, passing her over to two guards who caught her as she stumbled down the steps. "Take her to the Palace of Justice immediately. You may kill anyone who tries to stop you. You--" he pointed at some other soldiers. "Bring me another one of the prisoners, now, dammit!"

There was a torrent of noise around her, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the hatred that glared at her from hundreds of pairs of eyes. It was shocking and utterly crushing to see. Just some days ago she had danced for these same people in the Festival and they had loved her, adored her, called her the finest girl in France and praised her dancing. And now--now it was all gone, just like that under the one simple accusation: witch.

"This way," a soldier growled into her ear and he hurried her away, her trembling legs stumbling awkwardly after him like a child. It was hard for even her to imagine that these very same legs were capable of dances and acrobats that had even landed her the title of witch in the first place.

She was surrounded by men, soldiers, all of them except her escort forming a ring around her that lashed out at anyone who managed to break away from the blockade to try and rush at her. They herded her and she saw Frollo's carriage of wood and iron at the other corner of the courtyard. She wondered who had brought it.

"Here!" Frollo shouted above the mass, somehow still able to make himself heard. "Another witch! And a king of the gypsies, too!"

The words sent a dagger into her heart, as did the shrieking that threatened to split her ears open. She whirled, not wanting to look but at the same time needing to, and met the eyes of Clopin. His mask was gone and even as he was being tied to the pole his gaze was on her.

The shock and betrayal on his face was too much for her. She turned away away, tears burning in her face and sick to her stomach.

Of course, freedom for her didn't mean Frollo would let everyone else off so easily. He probably didn't even offer them the choice.

And Phoebus... No, she was absolutely not going to look for Phoebus. That was the last time she was going to look back or she would actually go insane.

Tears made her vision wobble and ran tracks down her face, stinging her sensitive skin before the air cooled it back down. "Inside," she heard one of the men say as he opened the door to the carriage. She nodded dumbly, mutely, and forced her limbs to cooperate and properly climb into the box. The prison, it all but felt like.

As soon as the door shut she let herself collapse, though. A small part of her noted that Frollo's seats were made of some sort of fancy fabric that she had never felt before, but the most of her finally broke down and sobbed. Sobbed in total, overwhelming terror, anger, grief, and tying them all together: relief. It made her hate herself to feel it, but at the same time she was still alive.

The carriage shuddered and swayed as someone whipped up the horses and set them off as a fast trot, no doubt to get as far away from the volatile crowd as possible. She didn't care, she could finally lay down and cry until there was nothing left inside of her anymore.

A/N:  Aside from the obvious change in the end, I made a few minor tweaks to the story and setting and characters to fit in with a more realistic depiction of when HoND takes place, the most obvious of course being the peasants.