"He opened the shaft of the bottomless pit, and from the shaft rose smoke like the smoke of a great furnace, and the sun and the air were darkened with the smoke from the shaft." - Revelation 9:2

What dark and evil streets could be seen now after the chase had ended, the cat using all of his wiles and wits to ensnare his fiery bird, trapping her in his claws as she spread her wings. How lit the streets had been during his mad pursuit, driven by his wild desires that even he himself did not truly understand but knew where they originated and whipped him into a frenzy, all of his soul and mind bent and honed under a solitary thought just like how he used to throw himself before the altar and pray to God: to find Esmeralda. How he had torn to very foundations of Paris to flush her out, how the very streets seemed to crack beneath him to let Hell through and set the city ablaze.

Now those very same houses squatted fearfully under an ink-black sky, dyed so from the smoke rushing out of their half-ruined forms. The fires that since been put out but they still poisoned the air and sky with their noxious fumes, dark rivers pouring from every crevice of every shell to mix into a thick ocean above which not a single shard of light could penetrate. Even in the daytime it had seemed as dark as twilight with all the burning brilliance of the sun shrouded over, how could the delicate, luminous moon stand a chance against Frollo's destruction?

The only sound under the shadow of Notre Dame were the prisoners shuffling about in their cages, like uneasy cattle being forced into pens while wolves prowled the field, hungry for their blood. Esmeralda could only see them dimly through the smoke and darkness, and even then only because there were torches burning around their cages. They seemed like a phantasm to her watering eyes, appearing only for a heartbeat before smoke stole them away from her sight, leaving her to wonder if there were truly people beyond her or if the shifting shadows of the flames played tricks on her mind. She knew there had to be but the square was so empty and silent and cold, life sucked away by the rage of Frollo.

Her eyes darted around, taking in her guards, the bars of her cage, and finally into the deep blackness where she knew the cathedral of Notre Dame was. She could not see a single stone of it but she knew it was there, she could feel its presence towering over them all like a great beast, as beautiful and dominating as it was merciless. Its stone eyes would watch them all being burned alive tomorrow morning and nothing at all would be done about it. A cruel, horrid specter of fate and judgement! Only a few days ago she had crouched in the depths of Notre Dame, among the marbled bowels and stone ribs and prayed, the only time in her life that she had prayed. She had begged God with everything in her to help her people, never in her life, what was left of it anyway, would she ever manage to make such a heartfelt prayer ever again and this was God's answer. He threw them down from His grace, let them be caught by hateful men who would slaughter them all just for who they were and trapped them in cages like animals. Gypsies did not do well inside stone walls, but they were even worse inside cages.

She had thrown herself at the feet of God, and God had tossed her back to the wolves.

Somewhere up there, somewhere far up in the unreachable darkness and empty air, was Quasimodo. Esmeralda remembered hearing Frollo giving the order to take him to the bell tower and to make sure he didn't leave, but how could they managed to keep him there? He was the strongest man she had ever seen and could fly over the roofs and buttresses as easily as any bird despite his lack of wings. Many times she thought to call to him, but each time her words died long before they left her throat. He was so high up there in his solitary room, both his loft and prison, that she doubted he could have ever heard her. All she would get would be a slap from her guards.

She shivered, the cold stones of the ground leeching into her bones. Her dress was light and airy, meant to fly through the air as she danced, not for any sort of warmth or protection. She had slept in it enough times but that never got her used to the cold of Paris. Curling up a little, she rested her head on her knees and tried to keep warm with it, all the while trying to think of some way to get out. Her problem lay almost entirely with the guards, but from what she managed to see of the lock on her cage it was much bigger and more complex than the usual simple clasps that could be picked within a second. And there was a bar on top of it all for added protection. Even with her skills, knowing lockpicking and escaping as easily as breathing, for that was the life of a gypsy, Esmeralda doubted her abilities.

Abruptly she heard footsteps and jerked her head up to see her guards retreating, the shadows swallowing them whole as they traversed the darkness, going to the other cages from the sounds of it. She frowned at them. Why would they suddenly go and leave her alone? Especially when she was the one Frollo had prized most of all. It made no sense.

Esmeralda only saw him by the flicker of movement outside of her bars. He had made no sound when he walked and his robes had hidden him perfectly until he was right there in front of her. He had to be a demon of the night, no man could ever be so invisible to all the senses without supernatural powers.

Frollo's gaze was dark, pitiless, and utterly engrossing as he stared at her, drinking in her sight. She desperately wanted to cover herself, to run away as a rabbit does at the sight of a hungry snake, but there was nowhere to go. She was trapped and the idea of that, the idea of being in a cage like an animal while this man leered at her enraged her and gave her the strength to leap to her feet. "Get out of here!" she snarled, throwing herself at the bars and thrusting her arm through it to grab him, but her fingers only felt the air where he had been a moment before. He had jumped back, far more nimble than she would have ever expected from an old man, and all that was left of him was the ripple of air made by the folds of his clothes brushing in the night.

His chuckle slithered into her ears, dark and heavy as the smoke it came from. "Such fire, witch," he said softly, soft enough for her ears alone. "Perhaps I should not commit you to the flames tomorrow after all. Who knows if they would even affect you? Maybe instead I should douse your fire in the waters of the Seine. You would make a spectacular view all the same, being thrown from the bridge in chains." He came closer, just barely out of reach, hardly even blinking. How did he stand the smoke? How could he breathe it without coughing, pierce through it without his eyes becoming red?

The dancer faltered, offput at how casually Frollo described how he would kill her. The words fell from his mouth so easily, yet he caressed the words as he spoke them, his eyes dark with promises unspoken, driving his stare into her eyes until she could not hold his gaze anymore. He was stone and she was flesh, forced to bend to his desires or else be crushed under them. "You're disgusting," she said, defiant of him more from spite and the idea that she had to keep fighting him, had to bite and claw her way to the very end, even on the crevices of Hell.

"Am I?" Frollo whispered, placing the tips of his fingers together. His rings glittered in the firelight. "I, who am simply tormented by a witch such as yourself? Where were you when I was burning Paris and rooting out all of your compatriots? You knew very well that I was looking for you, and you still hid while so-called 'innocent' people lost their homes and lives because of it."

Her hands gripped the metal tightly, her body tensing as she listened to his words. "You dare—" she sputtered, raising her head to glare at him. "You dare try to justify what you have done to my people? You dare to try and make me out to be the villain, when your cruelty and madness has killed more than I ever will?"

"Your very existence is a sin," Frollo replied to her, as simply as he would explain to anyone about the concept of God. "Not only a gypsy, a born sinner, but a witch who has bedeviled not only myself, but my former captain and my Quasimodo. You have them wrapped so tightly in your magic that they would do anything for you, the very thought of you in danger sent them rushing to your court like dogs to their master. Why, the poor souls don't even have a single idea to why they act such a way." His eyes flashed and he stepped closer. "But you will not have me, witch," he spat the word out at her. "You will be caught in my yoke, not the other way around."

He was closer now, and she dared to send out her hand again to strike him, but it seemed like she barely moved before his hand caught her wrist out of the air and he pushed back, slamming her arm against the cage. Esmeralda gave a cry as her shoulder flared in pain, her body forced to bend to the angle or else it would be dislocated, and Frollo's fingers gripped her so tightly she thought her bones might crack. He was more harsh, more unyielding than any stocks or cuffs. She was left panting and shaking, his surprise retaliation upon her frightening her more than she would ever admit, not to herself or Frollo or God.

His skin was hot, burning against her own. He had to be a demon, wreathed in shadows and flame with flimsy skin and bones to hold his human disguise together. What other explanation was there? No man could be so hot on a night like this, not so quick and strong through his frail appearance. He had sucked all the flames into himself and now here he stood before her. His very presence was overwhelming, pressing over Esmeralda like the very cathedral and it seemed suddenly like there was no air to breathe at all.

"Just like I said, Esmeralda," Frollo whispered to her, uttering her name for the very first time, "you will bend to me."

She wanted to scream at him, to yell and thrash and claw his eyes out but the pain held her there. She was sure she could find a way to move without injuring herself, but first she needed the pain to fade so she could think first. She had to—

There were lips on her hand. Soft, gentle, and sending her skin into thousand different sensations that all crawled down her arm to her fingertips. Her eyes snapped open and she tried to jerk away with all of her might, but her hand would not budge. Frollo ignored her completely, his eyes closing as he kissed down her arm, as if he was tasting a wine.

Warmth flooded her veins, crawling along her spine and in desperation she forced her other arm through the bars and grabbed at him, her fingers grabbing his collar and neck before he grabbed her other wrist. Then, finally, he turned to look at her again. His gaze was dark and filled with an inner desire that made her shrink away from him. "Do give me some credit, my dear," he said, holding her arms against the bars as he moved closer, "you aren't half as surprising as you think you are."

His robes were darker than night, his skin pale and ghostly and his eyes glared at him from the dark circles that imprisoned them. He stood before her, only some inches separating them that she tried to widen as much as possible. She knew that look, she had seen it far too many times when she danced in front of men. She wanted to threaten him, to snarl and make him back away, but what could she threaten him with? He was the one with the soldiers and weapons. "I'll scream," she hissed at him.

He smiled, the kind of smug smile that barely curls the lips. "Go ahead," he told her, leaning closer. "There is no one to hear you. No one to help you." His thumbs stroked the skin of her wrists, his breathing heavy. "Tomorrow I will give you a choice. Death, or me."

It felt like all the blood had been sucked from her body, leaving her shaking in his grasp. "What?" she whispered. Against herself, she came closer, as if she had misheard him.

"You know what I said," he said, inhaling deeply. Could he still smell her through the smoke? "Me, or your death." He kissed her hair. "Think wisely, gypsy, is eternal suffering and damnation truly so preferable?" Boldly, he released one of her wrists and grazed his fingers down her arm, slipping through the bars to caress the skin of her neck.

She did not resist. She couldn't think clearly, her whole mind having to comprehend what Frollo was offering her. He meant—he meant—she shivered all over, his fingers tracing down her neck and it felt as if her blood had suddenly returned, leaping to meet his fingertips as he explored.

Defiance blazed in her, some part of herself crawling out of its depths to hate and spite Frollo just because and she balled her hand up in a fist. She moved, aiming for his face but he was gone yet again, leaping back before her blow could connect. With how intently Frollo watched her, it was easy to see the change take place.

And still, he chuckled. "Let's see if you still think the same when you stand in the flames tomorrow, witch," he said as he retreated. "Take care not to let your feet burn too much. I still need you to dance for me."