His Punishment (A Claude Frollo fanfiction)

The Warden is Now the Prisoner (Part Two)

 "For attacking our home!" crack! Crack! Crack! He remembered that, bringing soldiers like a swarm of black locust upon their home. The flames that consumed every timber and plank of wood that provided shelter and safety to the homeless gypsies.

"For putting us in cages and robbing us of our freedom!" Crack! Crack! That memory was vivid, the starved faces, tear streaked cheeks and pleading eyes, he had only sneered at it all.

"For treating us like we were less than human, for calling our women harlots and our men rats!" Crack, Crack, Crack! This memory was fresh, for he had done it every day, calling them as a race a plague upon humanity, for spitting that word over and over like a curse, gypsy.

"And for killing us with no regret; the young, the old, the weak and the strong, man, woman, child!" Clopin snarled, words dripping with hatred. He was crying now, between screams and howls of agonizing pain, the tears forming a puddle upon the floor. Crack, Crack, CRACK, CRACK!!! Each strike more violent than the last, tearing flesh from bone. He wanted death, no, he wanted salvation. His heart hurt nearly as much as his strikes, the shame of what he had done too much to bear. He was a monster fueled by hate and feeding upon the weak, living a life on bigotry and discrimination. Tilting his face to the sky he began to sob out.

"Please, mercy, mercy upon me!!!" Alas it was not God who responded but the gypsy king himself.

"Mercy? You wish for mercy? Do not ask for mercy from those you have pushed beyond forgiveness, beyond mercy Claude Frollo. You have killed our sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters. You don't deserve mercy!!!" Clopin howled, black eyes hard with hatred too strong to describe. He could only smell blood, only hear laughter and his own howls of suffering and begs for salvation, see only those laughing, jeering faces, too many to count. Finally, the strikes stopped, even if it was only for a minute. And that final strike sliced through skin, muscle, bone and lashed at his very soul. Gasping for breath he felt dizzy and drained, as if the life left in him had been sucked out little by little by the lashing whip. Groaning softly he shut his eyes, only to hear Clopin's hushed voice against his ear.

"How does it feel to suffer Frollo? How does it feel to be treated like you are an animal? How does it feel to taste hatred?" he asked, his voice hot with arrogant pleasure. He turned his head away, eyes tilted to the floor, his body soaked in tears and blood. Tears, hot and scalding, seared his skin as he wept, not only for his pride, his life and his pain, but for his sins. The memory of finding a gypsy woman raped and murdered, the corpse of a man who had bravely defended his children and been beaten to death. And the lifeless frame of a boy no older than five, nothing more than skin and bones after wasting away of disease, his sister sobbing over his small body, slowly dying of the same thing. 

So much death, he had swept through Paris, to the Parisians, a knight of God, like Jesus. But to the gypsies, he had been the Reaper, a face like a skull's; emotionless and merciless to their suffering. He was no saint, he was a killer, a murder, a monster. Clopin took a deep breath, curling his lip at him.

"I must say, it is a mighty fine sight, seeing you broken and helpless before me. After almost thirty years of my life you have made me cower, made me tremble at the sound of your voice, made me wish I was fair skinned like you. But no more. The city will no longer suffer under your tyranny. TODAY, PARIS IS FREE!!!" The crowd could not contain themselves, screaming and shouting and chanting. He felt his heart speed in fear, but weary acceptance fell upon his shoulders. If he was to die, so be it. All he wanted was salvation. The one thing he had never given another living soul. 

Without warning however, the room fell quiet, so quiet in fact he felt his ears pop at the deafening silence. Even Clopin who had looked ready to cut off his head, was shockingly surprised. Craning his neck he looked up, finding a gypsy woman before him. Her face was stained with soot and tears, skin cut and singed and eyes, eyes so sad it twisted at his very soul. Her dress was torn and blackened, as ragged as the rest of her. And still she was beautiful, in a way that reminded him of a fallen angel, weeping over the loss of its wings and innocence. 

They held each other's gaze for a long moment, only for him to lower his eyes. What was she to do to him? They had already insulted him, beaten him, stripped him and whipped him. What more could they do? What was left of him to be broken? But he did not feel a slap, a scratch, a punch or a slash of a knife. All he felt were a pair of arms wrapping around his neck, and her head against his throat. He stared at her in utter astonishment. Why had she not attacked him? Didn't she hate him like all the rest of her kin? She gave a quiet sob, a single, warm tear gliding down his naked chest.

"Claude." She whispered, voice broken and hoarse. He reveled in the sound of his name from her lips, and that's when he realized who she was, the only memory that had been pleasant after so many years of misery. The sight of a gypsy woman with a lovely smile and loved to dance, her shining green eyes like twin emeralds that glimmered and glowed.

"Esmeralda." He breathed, the comforting scent of flowers that he had been intoxicated by gently lacing the scent of his blood. His heart drummed slower now, no longer constricted by fear or terror, but instead slowed by relief and comfort. By her grasp. Closing his eyes slowly he took a final breath as the world and all his senses went black. She was his salvation. She was his mercy.

Fin.