Note: My attempt at a novel length "Fresme" fanfiction.

Warning: Violence & Non-Consensual Situations

The Minister

I: Burn the Pages & Cover Your Shame Lest They See You Fall

Paris was quiet. In the distance the Notre-Dame bells could be heard like a soft humming, easing the weary to sleep in their small, itching beds made of straw and dirty cloth. Darkness consumed the sky, and the moon, accompanied by the numerous stars, graced the city once again. Children peered out of their windows, large curious eyes scanning the empty streets which not one soul dared to walk upon.

However, far off into the night, softer than the toll of the bells, a stampede drew near. Horses gently neighed and soldiers whispered back and forth, their armor clattering with their every movement, swords and shields clanking against each other. And a dark figure whose heart was of stone, much like that of the grotesque gargoyles perched atop the Notre-Dame and gazing at the city below, emerged on a dark horse, this shadow of a man which shook the very heart of the Reaper himself: Judge Claude Frollo.

He was a soul whose exterior was withered away by time but whose interior was overwhelmed with zeal, seeking to uphold the divine laws of God and man, holy commandments and justice. And much like the slab of stone, in which the Ten Commandments were etched upon, Judge Frollo was inexpressive, cold, and hard.

"Your Honor," a soldier said, his eyes shadowed by his lowered visor, allowing only his dry, stern lips to be visible, "We've found more of them." He dismounted his horse and neared the bookshop that sat at the edge of the street. Not a soul stirred inside, but the crimson booklet sitting behind the window, barely discernible through the darkened glass, beckoned him to draw closer.

Judge Frollo, frowning at his soldier's observation and directing his horse towards the shop, scoffed at the sight of the booklet. The golden words etched upon the cover winked at him: The Minister.

"Burn it," he ordered, his deep voice shaking the night. And though his soldiers inwardly expressed their concerns of burning the peasant owned shop they obeyed nonetheless. They lit their torches and set the shop ablaze, a bright mixture of orange and yellow consuming them and accentuating the dark shadows cast upon their faces from their lowered visors like black bats fluttering about their helms; their expressions, had they any, were completely concealed. And Frollo, his head held high and grin widening at the sight of the flames, which illuminated his hollow cheeks and stern brow, refused to spend another minute wasting his precious time. He swiftly directed his horse northwards and trailed off into the distance, for every book was to be destroyed, and he had such little time to do so.

And then a noise caught his ears. It wasn't the cackling of the fire that consumed the bookshop, which was now but a dark smudge upon the snow, but something foul. A shriek filled the silent night and a litter of bohemians, coughing and cursing the night, stumbled out of the burning shop, scattering about like wild animals. They had been taking refuge within the old dusty shop, concealing their souls from the one who mercilessly damned them, the judge. He despised them, that heathen race, sought to cleanse the world from their immoral practices of thievery, drink, and perversion.

"After them!" he cried, jutting a sharp finger into the cold night. His soldiers were quick to obey, roughly tugged upon the reins, and followed after the shadows of the bohemians which danced upon the buildings, guiding them in the chaos. A horde of men took to the left and another took to the right; the gypsies would be captured and slaughtered, purged along with that foul booklet. However, in the midst of the chaos of clattering armor, sneering lips, and snorting horses, a young gypsy girl found her soul in a dark place.

Frightened and wrapped in a thin shawl that hardly offered her warmth in the bitter cold, she managed to dodge the charging horses and hide within the cluster of guards as they raced past her, pursuing her dear friends, her family, her people. However, unbeknownst to her, as she stood within the empty street, shivering and gazing at the bookshop which was still smothered by the fire, Frollo lurked behind.

Sneering, he reached for her, pale fingers clawing at her shawl, but the warm breath of his neighing horse startled her before his flesh graced her body, and she ran. Muttering dark curses, he pursued her into the night and all that was left was the burning shop, stirred snow, and distant echoes of violent screams.

The girl steadied herself, placing one foot in front the other and praying to a God she hadn't known for safety from the dark shadow that pursued her in the night. And though she childishly assumed that she could outwit the menacing figure, for her life depended on the back streets of Paris, taking to the alleys for comfort and to the abandoned shops for shelter, he was no fool. He followed her trail: the chaotic and misguided footprints of his frightened prey; and he swore to slaughter the unruly heathen for stressing him so.

However, like the panting and fidgeting prey she was, she soon exhausted herself. Her legs grew weak, unable to carry her to safety, unable to take the small but necessary steps that led to the Cathedral de Notre-Dame, sanctuary. And that shadow, that dark phantom, the brooding judge, lingered behind, watching her and taking pleasure in her tiresome form. Satisfied with her weakness, he restrained his horse and dismounted before approaching the panting heathen with ease.

A firm hand fell upon her shoulder and another twisted itself within the locks of her dark hair. Shrieking, she contorted within his iron hold, cursing him, denouncing his authority, and slandering his name.

"Silence!" he bellowed, tightening his hold upon her, but the girl was deaf to his commands. She protested endlessly, squirming like a worm and screaming like a pig being brought in for the slaughter. Temporarily liberating a hand, she lunged for the cathedral as if safety were only as simple a thing as touching the stone steps that led to the two wooden doors. Sneering, the judge fastened another hand within her hair and pulled the young girl to the ground where her hot flesh melted the snow.

Gypsy and minister wrestled with one another until her small arms failed to do her justice, allowing him to snicker in pride as he hovered above his fatigued prey. And it was in this moment, glaring down at the breathless girl whose chest rose and graced his own with every breath, that familiar, dark verses consumed his mind: . . .minister and prisoner wrestling atop the winter's kissed floor. . .and she kissed his neck, that warm flesh where his pulse tantalized her lips.

The perverse lines overwhelmed him as he watched the girl beneath him, glaring into her dark eyes which reflected the starless sky above, those two oubliettes. Recalling the verses he had read, he had learned, he longed to practice them, dare to loosen the strap around his black tunic and claim the gypsy girl in the dead of night. And should the eyes of Notre-Dame fall upon him in his menacing act, so be it.

Taking her wrists and pinning down her hands to the blistering frost beneath her, he drove a knee in between her legs, spreading them for his carnal desires. She whimpered in protest, dared to wriggle beneath his frame, and though he was warm, though the soft fabric of his dark cloak fell about her and curtained her from the chilly air, she attempted to withdraw from him in fear of his lewd intentions. But her dry screams were not enough to drown out the voice in his mind, the repetitive, vulgar verses which fueled his hunger for her.

Unfastening the strap around his waist and tossing his sheath and sword to the side, he lifted his eyes to the fragile girl before him only to find a jagged, red line across her neck, and it bled. A broken poniard, too short to thrust into one's body, but sharp enough to slit one's neck lay in her hand; the girl was dead.

Thick, warm blood trickled down the slope of her neck and melted the snow beneath her. And he watched with neither pity nor grief and refused to mouth a prayer for her soul.

"Murderer!" cried a man, "Filthy murderer!"

The judge lifted his eyes to the shrieking gypsy who was bound in shackles, two guards standing at either side of his shivering body, though it was not due to the bitter cold that he shook, but due to vengeance and despair as he gazed at his deceased daughter lying upon the snow.

"Your Honor," called Captain Christian Bonheur, a heavyset man whose face was overwhelmed by a dark, gruff beard. "What happened here?"

Frollo refrained from answering what he deemed unnecessary and allowed the broken poniard in the gypsy girl's hand to speak for the atrocious sight before the cathedral, however her father, the shrieking bohemian, failed to understand and howled his foreign curses into the night.

"Execute him," demanded the judge, who was already tiring of his shrill screams. A silent nod was exchanged between him and his captain, and with a forceful gesture, Bonheur brought his sword down atop the man's head.

Two bodies lay sprawled upon the snow, and as the judge mounted his horse he glanced back at the lifeless girl, studied her, and dared to wonder if her fate would have been different had those foul verses, that foul prose, never entered his mind.

"What are your orders, Your Honor?" asked Captain Bonheur, joining the judge at his side, his horse neighing and snorting.

"Take the gypsies to the dungeons and interrogate the citizens. Those found with the book in their possession are to be brought before the Palace of Justice."

"And what of the author, the conspirator behind this?" asked another soldier.

"Leave that to me," hissed Frollo, his face darkening at the thought of punishing the foul individual who had destroyed his world with just a quill and ink.

The Minister had been widely distributed through back storehouses and grimy brothels within the ghettos of the city, read by many eyes and bought by many lonesome souls, for it wasn't an ordinary book concerning the practical and numerous ministrations and principles of a minister, but a rather perverse story of suppressed, sexual desires and unholy demons that dwelled with a minister's heart.

And King Charles VIII was irate, astounded by the work.

It had been the middle of January when he was alerted by his confidant of the immoral literature, by then it had been read by nearly all of the country, and without hesitation, he demanded for Judge Frollo's presence, his most loyal friend.

"I want this foul prose demolished—removed at all costs. It's repulsive, vile—has the entire country swimming in ecstasy, contaminating the minds of young men and enthralling virgin women to surrender their virtue in the back alleys," said the King, his hand clutching that damned booklet. However, at the time Frollo found the entire scenario to be rather trivial, merely furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth at the King's orders.

"Your Majesty," Frollo began, clasping his hands behind his back, his black tunic rustling at his movement, "Words of prose are forgettable things, rather inconsequential. What harm could come of them?"

"Thou art questioning my authority? Questioning my decisions as King? Surely, thou art not. Tell me thou art not!"

"I am not," he replied, his dry lips twitching in slight irritation at the King's words. "Forgive me, Your Majesty."

The King snickered, "Thou dost not know of the crime, the indecency of such prose." Enraged, he threw the booklet down, the loud slapping noise of the paper hitting the floor echoing about the two men. Instantly, the King snapped his delicate fingers, calling forth a servant whose hair was unruly and tangled, eyes heavy from sleep deprivation, and ordered for the boy to gather the contents upon the floor, for such impudent literature was threatening to stain the floors of his Kingdom.

"Read it," demanded the King, gesturing for the servant to hand over the foul book to Frollo. It seemed so small and insignificant to him at the time, however, had he known of what the bewitching prose was about to do to him, he'd have cast the foul book into the flames and deemed it unholy at all costs.

Carefully, he opened the book, and with a frown and jutting out his chin, glaring at the tiny, black words of impudence down the length of his aquiline nose, he read the first line he saw.

"She lunged at him and straddled him, the Minister and the prisoner wrestling atop the winter's kissed floor. She grasped his slender wrists, a rosary tightly wrapped around his left, and she pinned his fragile arms down, burying his hands within the ice. Had he been a stronger man, he'd have overpowered her easily, but his wounds were throbbing, blood gushing out of him, and his mind whirled."

Frollo darkly chuckled, tore his sights away from the booklet and repeated his firm statement, "Your Majesty, such words are trivial. The book depicts violence—mere classifications of my duty as judge, for many prisoners are tortured to the point where blood gushes out of one's wounds."

The King remained silent, seated in a chair with his lips pursed and brow lowered. And then a curt smile contorted his face.

"Finish it," he ordered.

Frollo refrained from sneering and obeyed, gazing down at the tiny black letters yet again.

"Gently, she leaned down and pressed her lips onto his and carefully moved to his sharp jaw line. Her delicate fingers tugged at his tall, white collar, and she kissed his neck—"

He stopped, dared not read anymore, for his face was growing hot and his heart was beginning to pound as if he had been caught practicing such ill mannerisms as the story described. The King merely grinned, leaned back in his seat, and gestured for the judge to continue. Frollo audibly gulped, but managed to keep his dry lips pursed, his face as emotionless as stone.

". . . and she kissed his neck, that warm flesh where his pulse tantalized her lips. The Minister moaned at her touch and lost his virtue as her hands slithered down his chest and to his pelvis, lifting his cassock, searching for—"

"Perhaps such words are not trivial after all?" asked the King, interrupting the judge.

"Heathens, Your Majesty," replied Frollo, "They are foul creatures, and only such creatures could have conjured such words—nevertheless they remain trivial." The King nodded in false agreement and crossed his arms, golden robes rustling as Frollo continued, "However, by your divine order I shall abolish each and every one and cast them into the fire where they belong." And as natural as a reflex, he flung the booklet into the flames of the fireplace, the pages catching aflame and curling up, corners blackening, the words forever destroyed.

"I applaud thee," remarked the King, gently tapping his hands upon one another. "Thou art a holy man. I respect thee. And I trust thee can cleanse my country of such ludicrous nonsense, for the people have lost their senses, polluted their minds with such vulgar prose."

"Merci, Your Majesty," replied Frollo before being escorted out of the King's private quarters. He held a proud smirk upon his face, his aged features violently contorting, and he held his head high, this self-righteous man of God. But when he returned to the Palais de Justice, his own Kingdom where he ruled as divine, he found himself in an odd circumstance, specifically when his duties had ceased at the invitation of the moon filling the sky.

Returning to his private quarters, left to toil in his thoughts, such words haunted him, damned him, and inflamed his heart. He resorted to his library, retrieved God's Holy Book, and immersed himself in the Latin verses he knew so well. It was in vain, for such Holy and promising words contorted, and his eyes found themselves hungrily scanning over words of impurity. And as his lips silently mouthed such verses, they quickly found themselves mouthing that last sentence he dared to know the ending of: The Minister sighed at her touch and lost his virtue as her hands slithered down his chest and to his pelvis, lifting his black robes and searching for. . ."

Searching for, oh! how he dared to imagine. He tugged at his tunic, for the room had grown hot as a furnace, and his face, cold sweat dribbling down his temples, deepened to a violent red. And though he fought to remain calm, fought to battle such unholy thoughts which were rapidly consuming his once Holy mind, he couldn't resist those beautiful words, imagining such delicate fingers tugging at his collar, a woman's lips gracing the hot flesh of his neck. He dreamed of finding himself in such a situation, a beautiful woman straddling him upon the ivory snow of winter, warm kisses trailing down the work of his jaw.

He sneered, "Nay." He dug his fingers into his palms, clenching his hands into fists. "They are forgettable," he reminded himself, "forgettable and inconsequential." He chanted this statement over and over, but those words were anything but insignificant.

In time, they threatened his title and shook the chains of his celibacy, those words. They echoed in his mind, drove him mad with desire, leading him to scribble them down, those vulgar words, whenever and wherever he could, whether it be across pardons and policies or in the Holy Book itself. And he damned himself for destroying the booklet which had grown heavier in his hands with each passing second. If only he could return and piece the remaining shrivels of parchment together. If only he could know that last line and quench his lustful passions.

A/N: Wow, it took me so long to finally get this first chapter out. Hopefully I can do the rest much quicker, but of course your feedback always fuels me. :D The lovely cover art was made by user, bluekitten1979 & as always, if you liked it, tell me what you think! :) Reviews are appreciated.