Breaking Horses IV

Needless to say, sleep evades Esmeralda for the better part of that night and when it does finally claim her, her dreams are filled with disjointed images and sounds. In her mind's eye she sees a bony hand making its way for her throat, fingers closing around it. But instead of the choking hold she expects and even braces herself for, the hand is surprisingly gentle. She leans her head back, exposing more of her throat, swallowing convulsively against the palm of the hand. Slowly the fingers make their way down her throat, stroking her skin gently. Deeper the questing fingers roam, teasing past her suprasternal notch down into the valley of her breasts, raising goose bumps in their wake.

Stifling a gasp, Esmeralda shoots up in her bed, her fingers clutching wildly at hands that are not there.

The full moon peeks gently through the open curtains of her four poster bed, casting distorted shadows into her room. She knows that sleep will fully elude her now. Sighing to herself, Esmeralda flings back the heavy covers and pushes her legs over the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold flagstones. She shivers and reaches for her night robe, donning it like armour to ward off the chill of the Palace. Opening her door, she peeks into the hallway.

All is quiet. Flickering sconces line the walls , dark shadows dancing in between. A curtain flutters in the draft. Breathing a sigh of relief, Esmeralda makes her way to the only place that will bring her solace, bare feet slapping against flagstones.

Before too long she finds herself at the large entrance door to the kitchen. Hesitating briefly, she puts her hand to the door and pushes gently.


The kitchen is a lot darker at night than she expected. The fire has died down to smouldering embers. One of the younger kitchen maids is sitting on a stool in front of the fire,  head on her chest, snoring loudly. She is toppling on her stool precariously, in danger of keeling over completely.

Esmeralda clears her throat gently and the girl shoots up from her stool with such alarming speed that she stumbles completely, nose almost in the dying embers.

"Goodness grief me!" She exclaims, hand at her throat. "You gave me quite a scare you did, Mistress, spooking me like you did! I nearly had 'alf a heart attack!" Her wide eyes take in the state of the fire and she palms her face in agitation. "I was supposed to keep the fire alive, not doze like an old mare in front of the fire!"

She scurries out the door then, returning moments later with her arms filled with chopped firewood. Without further ado she sets herself with the task of rekindling the fire.


All too soon the fire has regained its former glory, bathing the kitchen in a warm yellowish light. Various pots and pans hung from the ceiling reflect the dancing flames. Closing her eyes to slits, Esmeralda moves her head slowly back and forth, staring at the star-like lights reflected by the brass of the pans.

"You couldn't sleep?" The girl turns and gives her a concerned look. Esmeralda shakes her head in the negative. The other girl makes a commiserating sound. "I understand completely," she nods. "You poor thing. You must have had an awful day with all that commotion happenin'! I wouldn't sleep a wink either."

She perks up. "You know what, I'll fix ye a nice mug of hot milk. That will put you to rest alright!"

Without waiting for a reply, the girl busies herself with pans and jugs and before too soon the kitchen fills with the familiar bustle of life that Esmeralda has come to love so much. Closing her eyes in silent thanks, she just lets the sounds wash over her, lulling her into a state of mindless bliss. Mind determinedly not on her disturbing dreamvisions.

The next thing she knows, a steaming jar is set before her and the girl carefully fills a clay mug with hot steaming milk. Esmeralda looks around for something proper to sit on, besides the stool, and failing to locate something suitable, hoists herself simply on the large wooden countertop, legs dangling over the edge.

"Careful now," the kitchen maid admonishes, eyes crinkling. "It's still too hot to drink. Just have a little patience. It will be at perfect drinking temperature soon!" She smiles softly and rubs Esmeralda consolingly on her knee. Esmeralda graces the girl with a smile. "You are entirely too kind." She ducks her head, blowing on her milk. "And to think I woke you up none too gently too…"

The maid just tuts. " Nonsense," she replies. "You did well to wake me. Bernadette would have had my guts for garters if she found me dozing like that!" They both grin at that."Consider this my thanks!" They smile at each other in easy camaraderie.



"I had a feeling I would find you here," a low voice comes unexpectedly from the doorway. Esmeralda starts violently, almost sloshing hot milk over the edge of her mug.

Frollo is leaning in the doorway, taking in the scene before him. He flicks his eyes to the maid.

"Leave us."

The girl straightens her back and scrambles to comply. With an almost apologetic look at Esmeralda she backs out the door dropping in a clumsy curtsey as she passes her master.  The door closes with a bang, making Esmeralda flinch.

Clutching her mug protectively in front of her she peeks at Frollo through her eyelashes. He makes a bee line for her, stopping just short in front of her. He is dressed in the same white linen shirt and purple breeches as the morning she found him in the courtyard. For a moment she wishes he'd stuck to his heavy judicial robes instead. That way it would be easier to maintain a status quo.  She doesn't know who she dreads interacting with more, the stern, cold judge or this strange unnerving man standing before her.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asks. Esmeralda shrugs, focused completely on their relative proximity.

He straightens his back, searching her face. She finally looks up and they lock gazes. They stare each other down for several seconds. The flames of the fire are reflected in his unblinking eyes. Suddenly a log pops in the fireplace and Esmeralda starts. Breaking away from his heavy gaze, she places her mug on the top, playing with the rim absentmindedly.

"What about you?" she replies.   Why aren't you in...bed? Frollo moves away from her a little, leaning his hip against the countertop beside her instead. Esmeralda lets out a breath she didn't realise she was holding.

"I had….a letter to compose," he answers carefully. " This took considerably longer than I hoped it would, considering I had to dictate it." He waves his right hand and Esmeralda notices it's bandaged, the swollen knuckles wrapped in crisp white linen.

"What happened?" She asks. "Did you hurt Phoebus?" Her heart constricts painfully.

"No!" Frollo hisses at this, teeth clenched. And amending softly, he adds:  "I had a little altercation with a wall…" He flexes his abused hand, grimacing. Then flattening it carefully on the countertop he states slowly:

"Girl, we need to talk."



Frollo casts his eyes around the room. His eyes fall on the abandoned stool near the fire and with a sigh, he pushes away from the countertop. He makes his way to the fireplace, stooping in front of it to throw another log on the fire. The light from the fire turns his chemise see-through for the briefest time and Esmeralda averts her eyes, cheeks ablaze. Turning around again, Frollo picks up the abandoned stool. Placing it in front of her dangling feet he sets himself down gingerly. He looks up at her carefully from his lowered position. It is a strange scene she finds herself in and Esmeralda scrutinizes his bent form.

" Talk." She simply states.

Frollo squeezes both eyes shut briefly.

Opening them again he states: " I owe you an apology." He runs the fingers of his good hand through his silver hair, making the front end stand up. " And I have no idea how to give one to you properly. Forgive me." He is silent for a moment. Then he curses. " Damnation! If I am going to do this, I am damn well going to do it with the aid of some alcohol!"  He uncoils from his stool, propelling his long body upwards. In a few steps he reaches the darkened kitchen pantry. He rifles through some cupboards, muttering darkly under his breath. Finally he looks up at a high shelf and smiles crookedly. "So that's where she hides it!" He notes, amusement apparent in his tone.

He stretches himself, reaching upwards. The hem of his chemise rides up with his movement. Slowly, almost tantalizingly the rising hem reveals a taut defined belly, white as a new born baby's skin. A thin black trail of hair starts just under his navel before stretching downwards, disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches.  It's almost beckoning tantalizingly, like a treasure line. Something hot and sharp unfurls in her lower stomach, undulating slowly, taking root in her belly. She finds herself wondering where the trail ends. Then she swallows, chagrined at her rampant imagination and sudden dry throat. She busies herself with her milk again in a bid to distract herself.

Frollo appears at her side again, clutching three items to his thin chest. With an audible plonk he places a dusty bottle on the countertop. A goblet follows. The last item, a glass jar, is placed gently next to her hot milk.

"Father Thibault assures me that this is the best honey that the gardens of Notre Dame have produced in years." He explains, fingering the rim. Wincing, he opens the jar. Rummaging through a drawer with his other hand he produces a small spoon and sticks it in the honey. "Go ahead, add some to your milk." He pushes the jar in her direction. " I won't poison you, I promise." He adds, sotto voce.

Esmeralda reaches for the spoon and adds a dollop to her still steaming mug. Stirring gently she fixes her green eyes on the man next to her. Frollo is struggling with the bottle. Hesitating briefly, she frees the bottle from his grasp. Deftly she removes the cork. Gesturing for his goblet, she proceeds to pour an amber liquid into his goblet. Brandy, she decides, judging by the smell.

He takes the goblet from her hand in silent thanks, secretly chagrined at the fact that his clumsy fingers won't cooperate. He sits down on the stool again.


"You promised me an apology." Esmeralda ventures boldly. "I am still waiting".

"…Indeed." He agrees. " You see right through my attempts to procrastinate. Foiled again." He casts his eyes to the kitchen ceiling as if mock- addressing an unknown deity, but there is no humour in his voice.


He inhales the smell coming from his goblet and after a beat drinks from it deeply. " My Horse Master informed me that former Captain de Chateaupers gained entrance to the stables using the excuse that his horse was crippled," he begins. "He brought the horse in with a bad limp. Every fool in this city knows that our stables are the best in Paris, so his choice seemed sound." He pauses to take another sip. " When my stable boys examined the horse, they found that his back heel was bleeding badly on a very specific spot, to maximise bleeding. Almost as if the flesh had been cut deliberately..."

"What?" Esmeralda exclaims. "Phoebus would never hurt Achilles! He loves his horse!"

"No?" Frollo counters. He narrows his eyes. "His ruse worked perfectly however, didn't it? He used Achilles as an excuse to get in, and also as a distraction, because he knew my men would only have eyes for a poor hurt horse".

"He-he wouldn't..."she trails off weakly. When he puts it like that, it sounds almost convincing. And that realisation damn well hurts.

Frollo wisely chooses silence as his reply. Even though he is seated lower than she is, he still somehow manages to look down his long nose at her. Reaching for his goblet again, he drains it and reaches for the bottle for a refill.

"Where is Phoebus now?" she asks finally. "And Achilles, how fares he?" she adds.

" De Chateaupers has been a reluctant guest in my dungeons this past evening, sleeping off his...drunken haze," here Frollo gnashes his teeth audibly. "As for his whereabouts at this precise moment," he continues loftily, "I am afraid I don't know. He has been thrown back into the streets without that horse of his, I might add. Only God knows where he is licking his wounds at this precise moment." Frollo crosses his legs. " How...noble of you to still care." He remarks airily. Esmeralda huffs at his obvious sarcasm.

Frollo straightens his back, vertebrae popping audibly. " I wouldn't have gotten a proper conviction anyway," he ruminates. "What would I hold him for?" Frollo's eyes glitter strangely as he adds: " His only real vice is loving you to the point of insanity... I find I cannot blame him for that."


Esmeralda's heart leaps in her throat at that statement. Frollo snaps his jaws shut with an audible snap and in that particular moment Esmeralda realises that he has given himself away inadvertently.
He frowns darkly at her, silently challenging her to say something. She decides that discretion at that moment is the better part of valour. She's not sure she wants to have that out in the open yet. Because venturing down that conversational path with Frollo would mean...No. Nononono. Esmeralda is far from ready to cast her thoughts and emotions in that direction.

She opts for an easier subject instead.

"So then Achilles is still here?"

Frollo sighs loudly at this, a sound almost akin to relief. His shoulders drop "Of course he is still here. You think me such a villain that I would turn an innocent, hurt animal onto the streets?"

"I don't know what to think of you," she counters honestly, more to herself.

Frollo's eyes snap back to hers, stating that he has heard her comment.
You frighten me in more than one way, her inner voice whispers inside her head.


"Drink your milk," he orders quietly, mentally filing away her remark.


She complies, if only to give herself a moment to mentally regroup herself. She has a hard time reconciling the brave knight she thought she loved with the desperate drunk that nearly ruined everything. She also finds it hard to rhyme this almost penitent man seated before her with the mad monster she saw unleashed just this afternoon.



The man before her meanwhile scoots his stool a little closer to the countertop she's perched on and reaches for the open jar of honey. Almost cheekily, he dips his little finger in the jar, coating the digits liberally. With a small smirk he brings the appendage to his mouth, tongue darting out to catch the drop that is threatening to fall off. He sucks his finger in slowly, heavy lidded eyes never leaving hers. He hums contentedly around his finger.

"Hmmm, Thibault spoke truthfully," he murmurs around his finger. "This is really quite an extraordinary tasting honey." Wiping his hand against his shirt to clear off excess stickiness, he gestures to the jar. "You really should try some. It has a very subtle underlying flavour beneath its sweet obvious exterior. Almost tangy. Tart." Esmeralda makes a sound in the back of her throat before she realises the last word isn't directed at her. Frollo's upper lip curls up at her almost gaffe, white teeth gleaming. His eyes crinkle at her defensiveness. Then he reaches for the jar again. "Makes you want to come in for another taste." He ruminates." Just to define all those subtle complex flavours. It really isn't what it seems on the outside."

He leers at her openly and makes to dip his little finger in again.

"I know you're not talking about the honey, Frollo," she levels her gaze at him in mild accusation, confused by his sudden playful mood.

"Oh, such a clever little witch," he slurs darkly in reply, fingers hovering over the honey.

That really does it for her then. He goes from earnest to double-edged in a heartbeat, just at the exact moment she thought she might possibly come to... no. Esmeralda is tired and fed up. So she picks up the gauntlet. If he wants to have a battle of wits, she'll up the ante.


Grabbing his bony wrist, she applies pressure to his hand, lowering it, dipping his little finger once again in the sticky liquid.


"I think I will have a taste after all."


With her two hands she guides his hand to her mouth, full lips open invitingly. Dimly, beneath the sound of her blood rushing in her ears, she hears the sound of the stool overturning; a loud clatter in the otherwise silent kitchen. Her pink tongue peeks out in an imitation of his, slowly licking the tip of his little finger. She can feel Frollo's arm begin to tremble beneath her hands. Revelling in her new found power, she puckers her mouth and sucks his finger in all the way past the second knuckle. A large part of her is terrified at what she is doing( a voice is screaming loudly inside her head; I cannot believe what I'm doing, this is Frollo'sbloodyfingerIhaveinmymouthOhmygodOhmygodJesusMaryandalltheSaints...).His ruby ring rests sharp and unrelenting against the corner of her mouth as she twirls her tongue around his finger, lost in taste and sensation. He is absolutely spot on about the flavours, she decides fuzzily. She places her flattened tongue against the roughened pads of his finger, enjoying the contrast of the slick sweet honey and the slightly salt tang of his skin. Softly she bites down on the soft spot behind his second knuckle.

Frollo groans, a low animalistic sound that reverberates in her chest. Giving his now clean finger a last parting suck, she pulls his hand slowly away from her mouth with a wet pop.


Frollo is staring at her, half- standing, half crouching, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. If she thought his eyes reflected the fire before! She know sees that the fire blazes from deep within him, making his eyes seem almost luminescent. She is elated at the fact that she has made him react this way. The unbending, unflappable Judge come undone by her machinations. Score.
He has his hand clutched to his chest as if cradling a wounded bird. His jaw clenches and unclenches. Slowly he looms closer, eyes locked on hers. His hot breath puffs on her face. She can smell the brandy on his breath, laced with the smell of honey. Despite the blazing heat in the kitchen she shivers and a high squeak  bubbles up and makes its way past her lips.

That sound seems to break the spell and he wrenches himself away from her with an anguished cry. His boots beat against the black and white tiled kitchen floor as he makes his way to the farthest window, movements strangely jerky, his back turned to her.

A complete retreat. In the pale light of the moon she can see him shake.

"You..You!!" He cries out desperately, voice cracking. " You will …DESTROY me!" He clenches his right hand into a fist and brings it down on the window sill, hard. He shudders violently directly after as the scabs over his knuckles rupture, fresh blood pooling from the reopened wounds.

He falls silent then, focusing himself, grounding himself on his own pain. Anything to regain his composure. Anything to distract himself from her.


Esmeralda watches his hunched-over form by the window. The moon illuminates his taut still shape. From her vantage point his silver hair, still dishevelled, almost appears blue. With a little imagination his monochrome features could be mistaken for one of Quasimodo's stone companions.

She is still exhilarated about her new found power over him, but a small part of her yearns to close the distance and take away his anguish. Then again, she is curious as to how far she can push him.

She pushes herself off the counter, cautiously making her way to the window. Bare feet slapping against the floor. Slowly she steps forward, counting the black tiles on the floor that still lie between them. She takes care only to step on the black tiles, mentally likening Frollo and her interaction to a real-life chess game with her as the approaching Black Queen, closing in on the White King.


" You would do well," he whispers harshly, sensing her approach, "not to stray within my arm's reach right now."

Esmeralda heeds his warning and stops cold in her tracks. Something wild flutters in her belly again . All of a sudden toying with him doesn't seem so appealing anymore. It's like trying to corner a mad, wounded animal.

So they stand for a long time, both watching the moon, and she allows him to pull the tatters of his self-composure close to himself again.  Slowly the tension in his rigid back muscles evaporates and his breathing slows. He lowers his injured hand to his side and Esmeralda is dismayed at the blood that stains the soaked bandages. Blood still trickles slowly from underneath the linen, dripping on the white tile next to his foot. A small purplish puddle has formed, colour distorted in the moonlight. He pays it no heed.

"You should have that hand looked at, Frollo." She whispers in the end, breaking the silence.


"Frollo." He repeats slowly, tasting his own name. "You called me by my true name before. Twice, to be exact." He turns around again, eyes flat and shuttered. The mask again firmly in place.

"Once in derision, once in fear," he remembers. "I wonder, what emotion will evoke my name from your lips again?" Esmeralda is confused at this sudden change of subject. It almost seems he is grappling for anything to gain the upper hand again.

She scowls at him. " I hope you're a patient man, Frollo". She sniffs derisively, secretly dismayed at his apparent mental recovery. " I would rather call you  "Monster", for that is what you are!" She lashes out at him again. A part of her wants to see him undone again.

"I... am a monster", he whispers back harshly. He turns around and takes a swift step forward, and she steps back hastily, her ears still ringing with his earlier warning.

He bows at her mockingly, hands clutching an imaginary doffed hat.

"but know this, Vixen-Mine. I am your monster!".


Silence descends between the two again, thickening in the atmosphere. Esmeralda feels her feet slowly going numb on the cold tiles of the floor and she shuffles back and forth. Silently she debates the merits of Fight versus Flight. After a beat the latter wins out and she turns to flee his presence, head full of conflicting thoughts.

"One more thing, for now, gypsy," comes his calm voice. She stops in her retreat, curious despite herself.

"Allow me to take you to Mass this Sunday."

That takes her by surprise and she turns to him again. She considers this briefly.

"Very well," she relents. "But only if I can see Quasimodo afterwards!"

"Quid pro Quo?" He queries, corner of his mouth moving upwards. "You're beginning to learn!" Frollo has returned to his goblet and he eyes the bottle of brandy speculatively.

" You've got a deal." He nods his head once. He refills his goblet and turns away from her, her presence apparently forgotten.

"Was there anything else?" His tone is haughty.

Dismissed like a common servant. Esmeralda has had more than enough and she slips away from his presence, accelerating as she passes the doors. Her nerves and dignity in tatters. She turns the corner rapidly, eager to have as much space between her and that...that demon in the kitchen. But his low voice simply follows her around the same corner, calling out to her one last time.

"I will see you on Sunday, Maiden Mine..."

Esmeralda breaks into a run.