This Burning Desire by Joslinne Morgan (digital book reader TXT) 📕

– the clanking of armor. Since when did Frollo wear armor?

Since never.

"Soldiers!" he whispered as loudly as he could. "Run!"

"What do I do with …?"

"Leave him!"

Far too late, the soldiers were upon them.

~*~*~*~*~

There was not a part of him that didn't ache by the time Jean-Francis had been thrown back into his cell. He didn't even try to sit up properly, merely lay in the exact position he had collapsed in. He was certain that if he tried to move a single muscle, the pain would erupt like fire throughout his back and his shoulders again. His legs were an entirely different story. From the knees down, he couldn't feel them. Not even pain. That was definitely not a good sign.

Lifting his arm just enough to pull down the front of his shirt, which they at least had the decency to give back to him, and winced with the pain the simple movement brought. Working with his fingers, the tiny vial of red liquid tumbled out from his shirt pocket and he managed to catch it with his other hand before it hit the ground. Unfortunately, this sent him toppling sideways and landing on his shoulder, sending yet another burst of fiery pain throughout his entire upper body.

Gritting his teeth, he contemplated with real motivation the vial in his hands. He tried to recall all of what he had told them, but sometime after Frollo had left his memories began to all melt into one red haze of pain. His throat going raw with his screams, bones breaking and ligaments tearing … that was all he could remember. He could have told them anything, and for all he knew, they were on their way to the Court of Miracles right now to destroy it and everything that dwelled there.

And if they hadn't gotten the information out of him already, it was only a matter of time before they succeeded. And Jean-Francis couldn't live with himself, knowing that he had betrayed his people and failed his most beloved family member. Thinking of Esmeralda in the Notre Dame Cathedral only made him angrier. Some people could live with it, but he could not.

So thinking, he brought the vial up to his mouth, wrenching out the cork with his teeth, and then took another moment to smell the contents. Odorless, tasteless… it would go down like water, and he wouldn't feel the pain.

Licking his dry cracked lips, he opened his mouth wide, and dumped the contents into his mouth. It wasn't much, barely a swallow, but it burned all the way down his throat, and his belly erupted in pain with protest. Groaning, he dropped the vial to the ground and curled up into as tight of a ball as his ruined body allowed. "Not long now," he breathed, his voice shaking. "Not long at all."

~*~*~*~*~

The door swung open, and Clopin stumbled in, propelled by a helpful little shove between the shoulderblades. Jolie came next, managing to stagger in with a bit more dignity, but not much. Both of them had been stripped over their weapons, even the ones that Clopin kept hidden in the most private reaches of his person, thanks to the help of a smug Jehan. Had Clopin's hands not been bound, he would have clocked the younger man in the nose. As it was, his only satisfaction was replaying the imaginary scene over and over in his head.

"How did we not foresee that?" he demanded.

"It was your idea," Jolie reminded him. "I think that…" she trailed off, her words ending in something like a sob. Clopin looked up from inspecting his person to see what had happened, and his breath caught in his throat.

There lie Jean-Francis, his most beloved cousin, curled up on the floor. His legs had both been broken beyond all repair just below the knee, but that seemed to be, thankfully, the worst of it. He was covered in a number of many minor cuts and bruises that could be easily cared for.

"Francis!" he exclaimed in relief. When his cousin didn't reply, he glanced at Jolie for answer. She merely shook her head, indicating she didn't know, and kneeled beside her beloved, pulling his head into her lap and stroking the sides of his face.

"Jean, Jean," she muttered, bending down and kissing his forehead lovingly. "What have they done to you, my love, my poor Jean?"

Jean-Francis's eyes fluttered open, and for one horrid moment, they were completely unfocused. He squinted, as if peering through a haze, and asked, "Jolie?"

"Yes," she tried hard to keep the tears from falling. "My beloved Jean, what have they done to you?"

"Nothing that couldn't be fixed," his voice was faint and rasping. Clopin tried to swallow, but his throat was too constricted. He knelt down on the other side of his cousin, and his knee banged on something small and hard. He glanced down. He wouldn't have been able to see if it the dim torchlight from the hallway hadn't reflected off the surface. A tiny clear glass vial, just big enough for him to hold in his palm.

"What have you done?" the gypsy king demanded, fearful of what his foolish cousin had attempted in his absence. "Francis! What is this?"

"Poison," Jean-Francis muttered, as if his tongue were too thick for his mouth. "You gave it to me not …" he drew in a deep breath, as if that alone were costing him all his effort. "…Too long ago. Told me to… take it… should they capture me."

It was like he had taken a blow to the stomach. Clopin stared in horror at his dying cousin, his head spinning. What have I done? He thought. What had he done?

"For future reference, never listen to me!" Clopin screamed. "Especially not when I'm drunk off my ass!"

"Didn't…think of that." Jean-Francis managed a small smile.

"You'll be fine," Clopin clenched the tiny vial in his hands. "You'll be just fine, we'll call for help … how long has it been in your system?"

Jean-Francis attempted to shake his head, but that was too difficult. "No," he said. "Too late." He closed his eyes, too much effort to keep them open anymore. "F-Forgive me Clopin, p-please."

"I don't know what you mean," Clopin sat back on his heels, his voice thick with sorrow.

"I … I betrayed you. I t-think I did. I couldn't help it! They hurt me, and…"

"Stop right there," Clopin snapped, dashing tears away with the back of his hand before Jolie could see them. Thankfully, she was too absorbed in tears of her own. "You are not a traitor, never have been, never will be! Damn it, Francis, cling to life with that mule-headed stubbornness that we both have!"

Jean-Francis opened his eyes again, and rolled them upwards to look at Jolie. "You must forgive me, too." His voice was barely louder than a whisper now. "That we could not be… all t-that I wanted us to be."

"Oh, my Jean." She kissed him, and for a long moment, their lips remained locked in one final, passionate kiss. When she pulled away, reluctantly, she whispered against his lips, "I love you."

"I love you," he replied. He rolled his eyes over to look at Clopin. "May the path n-never stray for you, my f-friend." He managed one last weak smile. "Cousin." He closed his eyes, and his lips parted for his final rattling breath to escape.

And then Jean-Francis Troillefou was no more.

The tears were coming freely now, and neither of them were going to try and deny it. Jolie burst into tears, pressed her forehead against Jean-Francis's and muttered something incomprehensible for her body-wracking sobs. Clopin, for his part, leapt to his feet, the tears streaming down his cheeks, and threw the vial across the room watching with only mild satisfaction as it smashed into a thousand tiny pieces. With a strangled cry wrenched from the deepest reaches of his throat, he beat his fists against the wall, cursing verbally every god he had ever heard of, cursing Frollo, cursing his damned, damned stupidity!

"How could I…" he couldn't even finish, he was so angry. Angry at himself, angry at God for letting it happen. Angry at Frollo for making it happen.

"It's not your fault," Jolie sniffed, making a feeble attempt to wipe away her tears.

"Yes, it is."

She shook her head. "We should alert someone, so they can bury him."

"NO!" the rage in his voice frightened her, and she recoiled. "They will NOT take him away, I refuse to let those bastards touch him!" he kicked the wall, and instantly regretted it when the pain shot up through his foot. "I swear by God," he growled, holding his injured foot. "That Frollo will pay for this. If it's the last thing I ever do, I shall make him pay!"

Chapter Eighteen: The Unrepentant Prodigal

The servants didn't possess the power that God had granted their master of seeing right through Jehan's pathetic ruses. Especially not Margery, the cook, who absolutely adored the boy and doted on him with every opportunity. As soon as the soldiers had brought Jehan home, he had been put in front of a fire, wrapped up in a blanket, and a bowl of soup with hearty chunks of meat and potato had been shoved into his hands. Now he was thoroughly enjoying himself by giving a detailed account on all the torments the horrible heathen gypsies had forced him to endure. The servant's children gathered around him and listened with wide, terrified eyes. One even jumped up and ran to his mother to cling to her skirts.

All too soon, it seemed, Margery appeared once again. She was a rather plump good-hearted woman with fiery red hair to match her equally fiery personality. Yet buried underneath it all she held a real soft spot for Jehan and treated him as if he were her own son.

"Mon petit chou," she said, brushing the hair away from his face as she inflicted him with the pet name. "The master has returned, he has sent for you and says you are to see him at once."

"Already?" Jehan grumbled, dropping the blanket from his shoulders. "But I haven't finished my soup."

"You can finish it later, petit chou." She ruffled his hair affectionately. "I'll have someone warm it up for you if it gets cold in your absence.

"Thanks, Margery." He shot her a boyish smile before taking off, non too hurriedly, in the direction of his brother's bedchamber. He knew that was where Claude would be, he didn't need to stoop to the indignity of a guide. Besides, he had intruded upon his brother's privacy enough that it had long ago ceased to be embarrassing. On Jehan's end, at least.

"Claude?" he called, tapping on his brother's door. "I'm home! I don't care what you're doing in there, I'm coming in…" without further ado, he grasped the handle of the door and swung it open, managing to walk in on a rather annoyed and impatient yet unembarrassed Claude Frollo.

"Shut the door," Frollo said, and his tone was not one to be argued with. Obediently, Jehan shut the door.

"Sit."

Jehan sighed, and crossed the room to where a pale blue chair was arranged just across from his brother's. He sank into it, relishing the plush velvet as it pressed into every sore place of his body, offering maximum comfort. "Are we going to continue like this? I don't bark