Do You Hate Me?
Title: Do You Hate Me?
Fandom: Notre-Dame de Paris
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gringoire, Phoebus de Châteaupers
Summary: Gringoire and Phoebus, after the attack on the Notre Dame de Paris, and in the aftermath of all that happened. A chance meeting between Gringoire and Phoebus.
Note: Written in 2009. Archived from FFN.
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Gringoire meets Phoebus again, one day, in the central square, where the fountain sings in the dust.
"I first loved her when she danced on these pavement stones," The Captain of the King's Archers says, wistfully, before he realises he shouldn't have spoken too loud, and he folds his arms against his chest. He is a reformed man, these days, or so he says, even though the ladies of the Val D'Amour know better, Gringoire thinks.
He says nothing anyway, feeling the wind blow. They know each other better than they think, and today, he still doesn't know why Phoebus spared him when the King's Archers took the Notre Dame by force.
Would he ever forget it? Blood, fire, and arrows that wounded the night, splitting it with shrieks of pain and betrayal. Sacre bleu! Could he ever look at the cathedral once more to see the future of man's desires and ambitions and love in transcendent glass and stone?
Why? He asked, a line of blood trickling from his mouth.
Perhaps you will one day sing the tale of all that has happened, poet.
He scoffed. What songs were there to sing? And it was all silent, with the voices that would no longer cry out in the deep, hypnotic chant of Clopin's band- for asylum! For safety!
"My wife would kill me if she heard those words." Phoebus says. Gringoire looks at him, pulled from his thoughts suddenly, and the Captain laughs, although not a merry laugh. "She was very unhappy when she learned…"
That you are a womaniser, Gringoire thinks, and that you have sown half the gardens in Paris. He did not say that. "I am not your confessor, Captain."
He thinks that Phoebus doesn't love Esmeralda either. No, the Captain of the King's Archers only wanted the feel of Esmeralda's body, yielding and pliant against him, and the satisfaction that followed. Never love.
"Were you not her husband?" Phoebus asks, shooting him a look from beneath dark eyebrows and glass-green eyes. The afternoon light lit up his hair, streaking it with bright gold, crowning him like Apollo, the sun god.
"I was her husband. Not her lover, Captain." Gringoire replies, harshly.
A hand catches his blue-leather coated arm. "Do you hate me?" Phoebus de Châteaupers asks.
Gringoire knows the depth of the question. And he should. Phoebus was the one who did not speak up for Esmeralda at her trial. He was the one who led the forces into the cathedral to slaughter all seeking for asylum to capture Esmeralda. He gave her up to the priest Frollo, who had her killed.
And Phoebus had spared his life, allowing him to flee the cathedral.
Green eyes meet green eyes, and when the sun shines, and Phoebus' hair is gilded gold in the warm rays, Gringoire shakes his head wearily. They look too alike, sometimes, he thinks, with the eyes, and Phoebus' hair washed in sun-gold.
Sometimes, he wonders if it was possible that in another life, he would have been Phoebus, and Phoebus would have been him.
"No." He says. He turns to walk away, pulling away from Phoebus' arm.
It is our folly, and the hands of Fate.
And as the wind blows, Phoebus waits, and the fountain sings, he thinks he can see Esmeralda dancing lightly in the square, a ghost amid the forms and echoes across time that throng the crowded square.
And then, the first words are set gently to his lips by his Muse.
-
This is a tale that takes its place,
In Paris fair, this year of grace
Fourteen hundred-eighty two,
A tale of lust, and love so true.
We are the artists of the time,
We dream in sculpture, breathe in rhyme
For you we bring our world alive,
So something will survive.
Fandom: Notre-Dame de Paris
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gringoire, Phoebus de Châteaupers
Summary: Gringoire and Phoebus, after the attack on the Notre Dame de Paris, and in the aftermath of all that happened. A chance meeting between Gringoire and Phoebus.
Note: Written in 2009. Archived from FFN.
-
Gringoire meets Phoebus again, one day, in the central square, where the fountain sings in the dust.
"I first loved her when she danced on these pavement stones," The Captain of the King's Archers says, wistfully, before he realises he shouldn't have spoken too loud, and he folds his arms against his chest. He is a reformed man, these days, or so he says, even though the ladies of the Val D'Amour know better, Gringoire thinks.
He says nothing anyway, feeling the wind blow. They know each other better than they think, and today, he still doesn't know why Phoebus spared him when the King's Archers took the Notre Dame by force.
Would he ever forget it? Blood, fire, and arrows that wounded the night, splitting it with shrieks of pain and betrayal. Sacre bleu! Could he ever look at the cathedral once more to see the future of man's desires and ambitions and love in transcendent glass and stone?
Why? He asked, a line of blood trickling from his mouth.
Perhaps you will one day sing the tale of all that has happened, poet.
He scoffed. What songs were there to sing? And it was all silent, with the voices that would no longer cry out in the deep, hypnotic chant of Clopin's band- for asylum! For safety!
"My wife would kill me if she heard those words." Phoebus says. Gringoire looks at him, pulled from his thoughts suddenly, and the Captain laughs, although not a merry laugh. "She was very unhappy when she learned…"
That you are a womaniser, Gringoire thinks, and that you have sown half the gardens in Paris. He did not say that. "I am not your confessor, Captain."
He thinks that Phoebus doesn't love Esmeralda either. No, the Captain of the King's Archers only wanted the feel of Esmeralda's body, yielding and pliant against him, and the satisfaction that followed. Never love.
"Were you not her husband?" Phoebus asks, shooting him a look from beneath dark eyebrows and glass-green eyes. The afternoon light lit up his hair, streaking it with bright gold, crowning him like Apollo, the sun god.
"I was her husband. Not her lover, Captain." Gringoire replies, harshly.
A hand catches his blue-leather coated arm. "Do you hate me?" Phoebus de Châteaupers asks.
Gringoire knows the depth of the question. And he should. Phoebus was the one who did not speak up for Esmeralda at her trial. He was the one who led the forces into the cathedral to slaughter all seeking for asylum to capture Esmeralda. He gave her up to the priest Frollo, who had her killed.
And Phoebus had spared his life, allowing him to flee the cathedral.
Green eyes meet green eyes, and when the sun shines, and Phoebus' hair is gilded gold in the warm rays, Gringoire shakes his head wearily. They look too alike, sometimes, he thinks, with the eyes, and Phoebus' hair washed in sun-gold.
Sometimes, he wonders if it was possible that in another life, he would have been Phoebus, and Phoebus would have been him.
"No." He says. He turns to walk away, pulling away from Phoebus' arm.
It is our folly, and the hands of Fate.
And as the wind blows, Phoebus waits, and the fountain sings, he thinks he can see Esmeralda dancing lightly in the square, a ghost amid the forms and echoes across time that throng the crowded square.
And then, the first words are set gently to his lips by his Muse.
-
This is a tale that takes its place,
In Paris fair, this year of grace
Fourteen hundred-eighty two,
A tale of lust, and love so true.
We are the artists of the time,
We dream in sculpture, breathe in rhyme
For you we bring our world alive,
So something will survive.