A Girl Like You (3a/7)positivelysillyApril 15 2012, 01:34:36 UTC
Phoebus spent every waking moment of the following week under Frollo’s watchful eye. There wasn’t a moment he spent to himself, and no matter how he tried there was no window of opportunity within which he could escape to Notre Dame and finally meet the bell-ringer. Her eyes still haunted him, and the times the memory of them distracted him only made Frollo increase his vigilance of Phoebus’s activities.
At the end of that week, Phoebus was overworked, exhausted, and quite frankly just irritated beyond belief. The order to burn an innocent family alive was the final straw. And when he finally, finally rebelled against Frollo, it didn’t just feel good. It felt great.
Of course, then Frollo had set the mill on fire anyway, but Phoebus liked to think his little act of rebellion had counted for something. And if it hadn’t, surely his daring rescue of innocent lives did. Although, he was then nearly killed for his efforts. And then chased. And then nearly-killed again.
By the time he fell into La Seine, Phoebus was pretty sure he really had died, an assumption only bolstered by his waking up to those sea-blue eyes. Only angels had eyes like that. He was sure of it. Even if some of those angels were ugly.
His headache set in, then, and he was suddenly really very sure this was not heaven, because heaven really ought not to come with splitting headaches. It felt like a cherub was trying to shoot its way out of his skull.
“He’s awake!” Phoebus heard someone yelp, in a voice that made him doubt his assessment of the situation’s heavenly nature yet again. Maybe the headache really was a cherub. There was no other reason for a voice like that to exist outside of fairytales.
He heard footsteps as someone approached. “Good. Hand me the wineskin.”
Oh, no. He’d know that voice anywhere.
“Esmeralda,” he muttered, as her face swam into view. This was most decidedly not heaven.
“Shh. You’re wounded.”
“Thanks for the information, but I got that already,” he growled. “Searing pain in the shoulder, deafening headache. You know how it is.”
Esmeralda’s caring look vanished in an instant, and she gave him a wry look. Pain exploded in Phoebus’s shoulder as she emptied the wineskin onto his wound. “How’s that?”
“Great, thanks,” he ground out, jaw still clenched as the pain subsided, far too slowly.
“You were lucky,” she said, stitching up his wound in a perfunctory manner. “That arrow almost pierced your heart.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “I brought you to the bell tower of Notre Dame.”
Phoebus’s eyes flew wide open. His headache intensified, and the pain in his shoulder spiked, but he barely noticed. “The bell tower?” he breathed, turning his heard to search the shadows with his eyes.
At the end of that week, Phoebus was overworked, exhausted, and quite frankly just irritated beyond belief. The order to burn an innocent family alive was the final straw. And when he finally, finally rebelled against Frollo, it didn’t just feel good. It felt great.
Of course, then Frollo had set the mill on fire anyway, but Phoebus liked to think his little act of rebellion had counted for something. And if it hadn’t, surely his daring rescue of innocent lives did. Although, he was then nearly killed for his efforts. And then chased. And then nearly-killed again.
By the time he fell into La Seine, Phoebus was pretty sure he really had died, an assumption only bolstered by his waking up to those sea-blue eyes. Only angels had eyes like that. He was sure of it. Even if some of those angels were ugly.
His headache set in, then, and he was suddenly really very sure this was not heaven, because heaven really ought not to come with splitting headaches. It felt like a cherub was trying to shoot its way out of his skull.
“He’s awake!” Phoebus heard someone yelp, in a voice that made him doubt his assessment of the situation’s heavenly nature yet again. Maybe the headache really was a cherub. There was no other reason for a voice like that to exist outside of fairytales.
He heard footsteps as someone approached. “Good. Hand me the wineskin.”
Oh, no. He’d know that voice anywhere.
“Esmeralda,” he muttered, as her face swam into view. This was most decidedly not heaven.
“Shh. You’re wounded.”
“Thanks for the information, but I got that already,” he growled. “Searing pain in the shoulder, deafening headache. You know how it is.”
Esmeralda’s caring look vanished in an instant, and she gave him a wry look. Pain exploded in Phoebus’s shoulder as she emptied the wineskin onto his wound. “How’s that?”
“Great, thanks,” he ground out, jaw still clenched as the pain subsided, far too slowly.
“You were lucky,” she said, stitching up his wound in a perfunctory manner. “That arrow almost pierced your heart.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “I brought you to the bell tower of Notre Dame.”
Phoebus’s eyes flew wide open. His headache intensified, and the pain in his shoulder spiked, but he barely noticed. “The bell tower?” he breathed, turning his heard to search the shadows with his eyes.
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