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Katabasis || Chapter 4 || The Return || E

Massive trigger warnings exist for this fic and this chapter specifically, and are discussed under the cut where you can find the chapter content.

From the beginning (Explicit)

Claude Frollo/Esmeralda

A/N: I don’t like posting fic onto tumblr, but as I have said before, I’m having computer troubles that has prevented me from posting this directly to my Ao3 account. I will hopefully have access to that account soon, but for now, I must work with what I have.

Please note that there are the following TW: non-con, use of the G-slur and racism consistent with canon.

I hope I haven’t scared you off!

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Chapter 4

The Return

The first night, she barely slept. Too exhausted to stay awake, but too vigilant to let even the softest rustle not be searched for in the darkness. More than once, jolted awake, Esmeralda had wearily lain, watching as Djali settled yet again for more unburdened rest. “How lucky you are,” she had murmured, before sleep crept upon her. As the new day dawned, Esmeralda had found herself with Djali at her feet, blissfully alone.

After the second night, her head no longer felt heavy, nor did her bones complain as she paced up and down the gallery. She didn’t find her eyelids drooping as she watched the square below.

Readying herself after her third unperturbed night, Esmeralda thankfully noted how the bruises on her wrists had begun to fade. Her pain had diminished enough that she had to think about it to notice the subtle twinges and aches.

Waking from the fourth night’s slumber, Esmeralda had looked around the tiny cell, illuminated by the growing morning rays. The customary basket of food and a jug of fresh water had been placed just on the other side of her threshold.

Quasimodo had seemed to be taking even greater pains than ever before to avoid her notice. For this, she was glad. To see the twisted form or ugly face of the thing that had put her here, to be reminded of his lies and how he had been willing to let her be attacked by the priest - it was something Esmeralda wasn’t sure she could take. And whether the hunchback intuited how despised his appearance would be now, or whether he was too cowardly to face her, Esmeralda was thankful for his absence along with his continued efforts to ensure that she and Djali were at least fed something.

As she broke her fast with a few bites from the portion of bread the bellringer had given, Esmeralda smiled. “How is the hay?” she asked Djali. The goat didn’t look up from the fresh pile of hay she had buried her face in. “That good, then.”

However difficult life in the cathedral was for Esmeralda, she knew that it was even harder for Djali. There was nothing to graze or forage. Hay and scraps of Esmeralda’s meals were barely enough. Whenever she brushed or stroked the goat, Esmeralda could feel the cost of their sanctuary. Djali had grown thin, and her coat was now dull. Esmeralda was glad she couldn’t easily see the toll the weeks of imprisonment and seclusion had taken on herself. Filling Djali’s water bowl, she deliberately avoided glancing at her own reflection.

Just as she had begun to rise, two arms encircled her. Esmeralda screamed as she was lifted upwards. She didn’t hear the shatter of the earthenware against the stones, but she felt the splash of water over her bare feet.

A hand covered her mouth, and the grasping arms tightened around her, pressing her back against him. “Please,” whispered the priest. His breath was hot against her neck.

Esmeralda shook, seeking the slight give that would break the vise. But, the more she struggled in his arms, fighting against his hold, the faster his breathing became. Through her dress, she could feel against the small of her back the heat of his sinister purpose. With every move she made, she felt it growing stronger. He gave out a moan, muting it with her bare shoulder.

Against every instinct, Esmeralda froze. Thrashing about in the priest’s cruel embrace served only him. Her heart pounded, drowning out the increasingly urgent sounds escaping from him. Undaunted by her sudden stillness, he began to grind himself against her.

She saw no other means of escape. She grasped the flesh of his palm between her teeth and clenched her jaw tightly. She didn’t release his skin until she tasted metal.

He yelped and pulled away.

Esmeralda spun and spat in the priest’s alarmed face. She could see flecks of blood in the glinting spittle.

The priest muttered something in a language Esmeralda did not know, glancing from his bloody palm to her.

She sucked up her remaining saliva, ready to spit again, but furiously the priest covered her mouth with his lips. He wrapped himself around her once more, one hand roving down her chest.

“Take all you will,” he panted as he broke from the kiss. “My blood, my body.” His hand cupped her breast. “After my soul, what does anything else matter?” He took his hand away, and Esmeralda saw with horror the red smears over her left breast. “I give you everything.”

“Give me peace,” she parried. “Stay away from me.”

“You don’t understand how much these past few days have pained me. Not merely bodily. How hard it was to stay away, but I-”

“Leave me be or I will crack your head again.” She knew exactly where she had left the rock, she knew it would only take a few steps around the priest before she would have it in her grasp. In the daylight, she could see the yellow and green around the crusted wound. She would strike there with all her force. She would hit it again and again until she was sure that he would never touch her again. It was the only way she would ever be free of him again.

The priest sighed. “Do it, and I promise that you will beg for the quickness of the noose.”

It wasn’t a threat. Sincerity stared piercingly back at her as she searched his face for a sign of doubt. The fierceness of his certainty sent a shiver down Esmeralda’s spine. The terrifying devices in the prison seemed to pass before her, each more horrible than the next. The damp cold of the underground cell chilled her despite the summer heat. Desperately focusing on the block of sunlight that stretched across the cell, Esmeralda swallowed back the rising sick.

If she did kill him or wound him fatally, they would know who to blame. Even if she were somehow to muster the strength to throw his body down from the tower, it would only be a matter of time before everyone came for her. Escape would be nearly impossible. Quasimodo certainly couldn’t be counted on to help. He had chosen the priest over her before, and Esmeralda was no longer able to hope that he would protect her ever again.

“So hit me,” the priest continued. “Spit at me, strike me. Do what you will. I care not. It’s nothing compared to all that I have suffered these long months.” Trembling he kissed her temple, a mirror to the blow she had given him. “And everything pales to what I know awaits me.” He gave a long sigh. “But the cruelty of man is vast, and should they find my body, you will very quickly see the depths of manufactured Hell.” He kissed her once again before pulling away to add, “Have mercy. Let us have a shred of kindness together.” He began to push, steering her towards the bed, his hand wrapped around her wrist.

Even if she couldn’t end him and forever stop his pursuit, Esmeralda was not ready to submit. Even if all that she had cherished and all her dreams had been stolen from her, she would not surrender. She had been raised to be stronger than that. With all the courage left in her body, she said, “Never.”

A jarring yank sent Esmeralda tumbling to the floor. She reached out a hand to stop her fall and landed hard upon the mattress. The priest was already on his knees above her, pinning her down by the time she found air enough to say, “I hate you.”

Between bruising kisses, the priest managed, “I love you.” Still pelting her face and neck with his lips, he began to draw her skirt up to her waist.

As his hand wandered down to explore her exposed skin, shame burned red and hot across her face. His fingertips might as well have been claws, ripping her flesh as they ran across her abdomen and over her thighs. His breath now heaved his chest, and his eyes flickered up and down, as if trying to consume every part of her he had stripped bare.

Clumsily, Esmeralda reached down to try to cover herself, but he batted her hands away. “Please don’t,” she whispered. Despite his weight on her legs, she tried to buck and kick. Her fists struck his chest and face as he leaned over to kiss her once more. She could feel his shuddering moan in her mouth. She screwed her eyes shut, her last defense.

She nearly jumped as the fabric of his cassock was lifted away, brought up to his hips. His naked thighs parted her legs, and he let the skirt drape back down to cover them together.

He was prodding her. An awkward jab at the top of her inner leg. A misaimed thrust that landed him against her belly. It was hot and swollen. He seared as he rammed inside her, and her breath escaped in agonized cry. Like the cleaving thwack of an axe against wood, his splitting suddenness roughly cut into her.

Despite the pain, Esmeralda tried not to let her breathing quicken in panic, least he think that the hitch in her breath and frantic gasps were caused by his next thrust forward. He was going too deep. She was sure he would rip out on the other side, still plunging on into stone, oblivious as he quivered on top of her.

As he slid out, Esmeralda heard him moan deeply. Her body was screaming. Perhaps she was as well. His next attack robbed her of any sense but pain. He was shaking against her, groaning and muttering. Only one word she was able to discern -

“Esmeralda.”

He seemed to twitch and jerk as he pulled back before jaggedly returning, uttering a raw cry. His muscles tensed as he held himself fast against her. Finally, his breath slowed, and his body relaxed. She could feel the sweat on his face as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing on top of her.

“Are you going to cry this time?” she snapped, pushing him off.

“What?” It stung as the priest slipped out, trailing a sticky wetness in its wake. Slowly, he rolled onto his side and began to dab at the milky drops with the hem of her skirt.

Esmeralda’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she tugged her dress out of his languid grasp. “Are you,” she said, punctuating every word, “going to cry?” She sat upright and smoothed her clothing out.

Sleepily the priest blinked. “That was a one time thing.” He took the blanket in hand and started to dry himself.

Esmeralda could only stare. After everything he had inflicted on her and how he had deprived her of her modesty, she felt no inclination to afford him any privacy. Soft and much reduced, it was hard to accept that it was the same instrument that had provided so much torture. But, she knew little of such matters. Compelled to know what Phoebus had under his hose, she had spied one or twice on her husband during their weeks together. Other than Pierre, she had seen no other man’s nakedness before. This, however, wasn’t entirely trivial, but it was still an ugly worm.

More interesting to her, however, were the dark curls nestled there. No shock of white or trace of grey - so unlike what remained on his head. An old man, she had thought, would be just as grey on bottom as he was on top, just as it was for the aging women she had seen bathing. He couldn’t be, she realized, nearly as old as a quick glance suggested.

It was then that she realized with alarm that the worm had grown. Not quite a serpent, but enough to menace. She swallowed and glanced over to the priest’s face, meeting his gaze. He had been watching her as she stared at him. “You’re despicable,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “Deplorable.” She got to her feet and scanned the cell. Djali was nowhere to be seen. Wherever the goat had wandered off to, Esmeralda was sure it was safer than here.

Still smirking, Claude leaned against the wall. She had found him fascinating. How else could such intense regard be explained? His eyes followed her as she crossed the cell. As she bent down before the shattered jug, he sucked in his breath, already imagining taking her once more.

One by one, she picked up the pieces of clay, only a sliver of her profile visible to him. A broken jug. “How could I forget!” he exclaimed as the specifics of Pierre’s marriage in the Court of Miracles returned to him. The poet had been married to Esmeralda through means of a broken crock. His face flushed as the significance seized him.

Startled, the girl turned to gape at him.

“How many pieces?” Claude asked breathlessly. She had dropped the jug when he had embraced her, and then he had had her. Hardly sanctified, it wasn’t proper, but if canon law could accept a clandestine marriage as valid, then - Claude could feel the weight of at least one sin leave. However many other sins this gypsy marriage created to join his innumerable crimes, for the first time that he had taken the key to the red door, Claude felt his conscience was clear.

“What?”

Exasperatedly, “How many pieces?” Claude repeated. “The jug.” He gestured to the floor. “How many?”

Bemused, the girl shook her head, but still she cast a glance around, mouth wordlessly moving as she counted. “At least twenty,” she said flatly and returned to gathering the remains.

“We’ll be married at least twenty years then,” concluded Claude.

“That’s-” stammered the girl. “How?”

Unperturbed by the feigned confusion, Claude waved his hand dismissively. He could understand why she would take every advantage she could, counting on his ignorance of the customs of her people. “No need to lie,” he said. “I know that’s how you Gypsies get married. A broken jug that states how long you will be married. We have broken a jug, so we are husband and wife for at least twenty years.”

A strange expression crossed her scowling face before she let out a laugh. Bright. Pure. She was laughing at him! Indignant, Claude began to rise.

Finally, she managed, “You’re mistaken, Father.” She shook her head, the smile fading from her as she turned to him.

“And why is that?” he snarled, her momentary mirth still ringing in his ears.

“To be married requires agreement - between families, between husband and wife. Without it there is nothing.” Fire flashed behind her dark eyes. “I am not your wife. I will never be yours.”

“Then why the jug!” spluttered Claude.

Esmeralda shrugged. “There are many people who come to the Court of Miracles. More than just mine. I don’t know why a marriage is announced with breaking something here, but it’s nothing more than a…”

“Symbol,” Claude provided with a sigh. He should have known that his former student couldn’t be trusted to accurately recount or explain all that he had seen. Ever since he had met the aspiring poet, Pierre had been more partial to invention than recitation. Claude pressed his fingers between his brows.

It had been pointless to hope for something that could ameliorate his perdition. As long as he was still a priest, it was a violation of all that he had vowed. Moreover, she was a heathen. Their union could never be holy.

Drained of the frenzied relief, Claude sighed.

There was no redemption for this transgression. And now he was even more damned than he had been before. He had stained his soul once again with such vile licentiousness, and despite the punishment he would suffer, he still had every intention of repeating his sin. Contrition was impossible while she still lived. Perhaps even now that he had experienced the exquisiteness of carnal knowledge, his whole existence was doomed to be consumed by this need. What had driven him to mastery of so many passions, Claude could now see, was what Fate had designed to condemn him.

Clattering clay pieces dropped upon his lap, pulling him out of his reverie. He looked up at her scornful expression.

“Count them if you wish, Father,” Esmeralda said.

The title following such sacrilegious thoughts brought clenching unease to the priest. “Claude.” He took her hands in his, holding fast even though she made no attempt to slip away. How foolish he felt realizing that never once in any of their prior encounters had he offered his name. There had always been so many other matters to attend to that it had simply been determined unnecessary, unimportant. “My name is Dom Claude Frollo.”

Dark eyes bore into his.

“Claude,” he repeated, wishing to hear her finally add words to her siren’s call. A thrill passed through him as he imagined just how sweet it would sound to have her cry out his name as he was inside her.

He would do it. He would make her say it. His body begged to have her again. It would not wait.

It took very little effort to bring her to her knees, on the bed once more. Claude brushed away the fragments of the jug. Though already aching with desire, he gave himself a long stroke. Unlike the paltry pulls he had resorted to during the past few days while his head pounded and stomach spun after slight exertion, there was the promise of wrapping himself around Esmeralda and entering her warmth.

As he kissed her, he felt words spoken against his lips. “What?” he gasped.

“What does it mean?” Her tone cut with annoyance.

Claude gulped for air, wishing she would just make sense for once.

“Your name.”

He squinted at her. “Of all the things… what…” Claudius cum claudio. He could feel his face flush as he imagined actually saying the word ‘lame’ to the girl. “Never you mind.” She no doubt had a devious purpose. Hadn’t the goat learned to spell that captain’s name?

“I will only ever love the man who is named for-”

“Will you never cease this madness!” Claude let go of her. “Why do you torture us with talk of that captain?”

“He is-”

“A drunk who seduces and whores and has no doubt already found someone else to ruin,” Claude interjected. “He will never be worth your devotion, and the more you insist on saying his name, the more you debase yourself.” He got to his feet. “You do not see him for what he is. You see only fancy trappings-” as he spoke, he began to pace, “- a shiny sword you would kiss, someone who thinks he’s Adonis. And he doesn’t even see you unless you’re willing to offer him what I have fought so hard for.”

Though he wanted to stop and hold her so she would no longer wince and flinch from his words, he couldn’t contain himself. He could think of no other way to make her understand than to scold and lecture.

“If he feels anything for you,” Claude continued, “it’s hate and fear. You tried to kill him, and it drove him away-”

“You tried to kill him!” snapped Esmeralda.

“He doesn’t know that! He thinks you stabbed him, and what has he done? He’s stayed away, far away. He didn’t go to your trial. He was ready to watch as you died accused of killing him. He’s a coward, and he does not want you. But me,” he put his hands over his heart, feeling it thunder underneath his ribs, “I have come back. You tried to kill me, and still would, yet here I am!”

“I would,” she hissed, “but we’ve established why I can’t.”

“Surely you can see that I love you. I love you in a way he never could, and I would-”

“If you love me so much, prove it by throwing yourself off the tower.”

Wraith boiling over, Claude scrambled to find a proper response, but before he could fashion one together, he felt something ramming into his side. Though it did not bring him to his knees, the blunt force left him gasping. “What the-” he muttered as he looked down to see the furious goat, head lowered, poised to strike again. “Devilish beast!” He took a step forward, but already the girl was wrapping her arms around the goat, murmuring praise and kissing her.

Esmeralda held the goat to her chest, a demonic shield with yellow eyes that seemed to gnash its teeth, daring Claude to approach once more. Did he see Hellfire flickering there? There was undoubtedly something infernal that had summoned the creature to the cell and prompted it to attack.

Shuddering, he backed away until he was at the door. “Perhaps I’ll throw that thing from the tower instead.” Claude could feel the scorching hate follow him all the way down to the cloister.

He slammed his chamber door and hurried to the window, already trying to soothe the dissatisfied agony between his legs. Supporting himself with his forearm against the wall, Claude frantically moved his fist, cursing that he had to fall back to this. Pathetic. Lame. His arm was tiring from pumping and still she hid out of sight, as if she knew how much suffering she was inflicting still.

Biting his arm, he silenced his moans as the hot flood of relief spilled over his hand. He rested his head against the stone wall. “Esmeralda,” he whispered. He let his cassock fall back over his legs and sought his washcloth. He had only managed to wipe the remnants of his seed off of his hand when a knock intruded on his silence.

“Monsieur Archdeacon?” It was the nervous voice of the beadle.

If he stayed silent, perhaps he would be left alone again.

“You should know, but… word reached the Bishop that you are well again-”

Claude clenched his teeth.

“- and he’s on his way here.”

Resisting the urge to shout about damning the Bishop, Claude opened the door. “Thank you for the notice, Charles,” he said, his face a mask of placid duty. “I will be sure to greet him when he arrives.” Not waiting for the beadle to respond, Claude brushed past him, already weary with the day.

~~~

A/N: Wow! Congrats on getting to the end of this beast of a chapter.

I’ve interpreted the jug breaking in the book as being something that’s a result of so many cultures being in the Court of Miracles that the Jewish tradition of breaking a glass to celebrate a marriage wound up as just a part of how things are done in the Court of Miracles. Since actual Romani marriages are pretty diverse in tradition, I can’t say for sure that no jugs were ever broken, but to my knowledge, it’s not done. Of the Romani marriage traditions I know - from jumping over a broom, to the bride changing dresses as she’s accepted into the groom’s family, to giving jewelry, or just plain old having a regular Church service - I have heard nothing that resembles what Hugo wrote.

I apologize if there are any formatting errors or other issues. (Let me know!)

Please let me know if you liked this chapter with ‘likes’ and reblogs. I always love hearing what people think, and it really makes my day!

Thank you! And Happy Halloween!!!!

#claude frollo #esmeralda #hond #fresme #nddp fanfic #non con trigger warning #racism trigger warning #trigger warnings in general

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