Frollo grabbed Clopin’s face and threw him towards a wall. “I should take your lying tongue and melt it from your mouth! What would you do without it, I wonder? Bulk up and die from the unspoken poison of your words?”
Frollo struck Clopin, lashing out with fists, feet and club.
“Blackguard! Sodomite!” Frollo shrieked. “How dare you mock me!”
Frollo propped him up against the wall.
“No, no no,” Frollo said, patting Clopin’s cheeks to keep him awake. “Now is not the time to catch the vapors. I want you to watch, and observe- the fruit of your labor, the product of your perversion,”
Frollo was upon Pheobus before he knew what was happening. He felt him stroke his flanks, fingers crawling across his thighs like spiders looking for prey.
“Such a fine specimen to place your affections- my compliments, Majesty,” Frollo said. He released the screw entrapping Pheobus’ fingers- as soon as they were free, he curled in on himself in relief. Frollo straightened his legs, and with the spit from his mouth greased Pheobus just enough for penetration.
Pheobus stood, bent over the stocks he had been locked in, curled protectively around his bleeding fingers, as Frollo took the last of his dignity. He was dimly aware of the discomfort, of long fingers pulling at his hair and nails digging into the cuts across his back. He was aware of Clopin watching, struck dumb with fear and repulsion, as Frollo came, pulled Pheobus’ trousers back over his knees, and chained his wrists back behind his back.
“The Gypsy has repented,” Frollo told the guard.
They were taken back to their cells. Pheobus walked to the back and sat hunched in the corner, staring at the splits in his nails and the purple tips of his swollen fingers. Capallaries and veins had burst deep in the tissue of his twisted hands- they had been a soldier’s hands this morning.
Long, spindly fingers wrapped around his shoulders. He thrashed in their grip, trying to beat away the image of the Judge gripping him, grinding into him, beating him-
And then he heard the voice the hands introduced. “Water! Whatever you haven’t drank from your supper, bring it here!”
The gypsies handed Clopin the jug, with half a pint still sloshing in the bottom. He looked inside and tutted.
“This is very bad- we will need more. Bother the guards!”
They had been given back their shirts and jackets. Clopin daubed Pheobus’ wounds with his shirt and the water, forcing him to drink from the pitcher. Pheobus tried to shy away, but Clopin dragged him back. His hands were wrapped in his own shirt, tied together as if he were praying.
“Ay, look at what they have done, the barbarians,” Clopin muttered to himself, fussing over the cut in Pheobus’ lip. “And they call me a cutthroat for hanging intruders when they saunter into my home!”
When Pheobus was cleaned at last, he turned from Clopin. His jacket was spread across his back- he was warmer, now. And if he was not warm enough, then he would freeze in his sleep. It didn’t matter to him.
“Pheobus?” Clopin asked.
“Pheobus,” Clopin called.
“What’s the matter with him?” A little, childlike voice asked. Pheobus stiffened, wondering what new madness had been brought to torture him.
“Nothing’s wrong with him, child. He’s only very, very tired,”
Frollo struck Clopin, lashing out with fists, feet and club.
“Blackguard! Sodomite!” Frollo shrieked. “How dare you mock me!”
Frollo propped him up against the wall.
“No, no no,” Frollo said, patting Clopin’s cheeks to keep him awake. “Now is not the time to catch the vapors. I want you to watch, and observe- the fruit of your labor, the product of your perversion,”
Frollo was upon Pheobus before he knew what was happening. He felt him stroke his flanks, fingers crawling across his thighs like spiders looking for prey.
“Such a fine specimen to place your affections- my compliments, Majesty,” Frollo said. He released the screw entrapping Pheobus’ fingers- as soon as they were free, he curled in on himself in relief. Frollo straightened his legs, and with the spit from his mouth greased Pheobus just enough for penetration.
Pheobus stood, bent over the stocks he had been locked in, curled protectively around his bleeding fingers, as Frollo took the last of his dignity. He was dimly aware of the discomfort, of long fingers pulling at his hair and nails digging into the cuts across his back. He was aware of Clopin watching, struck dumb with fear and repulsion, as Frollo came, pulled Pheobus’ trousers back over his knees, and chained his wrists back behind his back.
“The Gypsy has repented,” Frollo told the guard.
They were taken back to their cells. Pheobus walked to the back and sat hunched in the corner, staring at the splits in his nails and the purple tips of his swollen fingers. Capallaries and veins had burst deep in the tissue of his twisted hands- they had been a soldier’s hands this morning.
Long, spindly fingers wrapped around his shoulders. He thrashed in their grip, trying to beat away the image of the Judge gripping him, grinding into him, beating him-
And then he heard the voice the hands introduced. “Water! Whatever you haven’t drank from your supper, bring it here!”
The gypsies handed Clopin the jug, with half a pint still sloshing in the bottom. He looked inside and tutted.
“This is very bad- we will need more. Bother the guards!”
They had been given back their shirts and jackets. Clopin daubed Pheobus’ wounds with his shirt and the water, forcing him to drink from the pitcher. Pheobus tried to shy away, but Clopin dragged him back. His hands were wrapped in his own shirt, tied together as if he were praying.
“Ay, look at what they have done, the barbarians,” Clopin muttered to himself, fussing over the cut in Pheobus’ lip. “And they call me a cutthroat for hanging intruders when they saunter into my home!”
When Pheobus was cleaned at last, he turned from Clopin. His jacket was spread across his back- he was warmer, now. And if he was not warm enough, then he would freeze in his sleep. It didn’t matter to him.
“Pheobus?” Clopin asked.
“Pheobus,” Clopin called.
“What’s the matter with him?” A little, childlike voice asked. Pheobus stiffened, wondering what new madness had been brought to torture him.
“Nothing’s wrong with him, child. He’s only very, very tired,”
“He looks hurt,” The little voice squeaked.
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