He held the key to a loveless heart,

And she held him in her sweetest pain and suffering.

A shadow lurks in the darkness. She can feel the ominous man, hear his timorous breathing, and see his lewd thoughts soaring through his aching mind. She cowers away from him, this presence blacker than the Dark Lord of Hell, and hides her small body within the shadows of her tomb. However, the gentle rattling of the heavy shackles which bind her wrists and ankles stir him, and like a striking serpent, sensing the miniscule vibrations of the clanking metal, he turns her way and lunges.

"Begone!" she cries, thrusting her arms into the darkness in warning, but her small hands do not find him, and she trembles at the thought of falling into the arms of delusion, though the thought is not as delusional itself, for she had been kept away from the day, from the light, from life. She had been imprisoned for crimes she hadn't known, and in the darkness of her cell she will wait until her body and her bones decay and fall beneath the dirt, adhering to the foundation of the Abyss she has come to know so well.

He sighs, and she shudders.

"I have come to relieve thee of death."

"Begone," she says, "Begone from here—this place darker than Hell."

Hell.The word sends a jolt through his body, a throbbing pain, and he clasps the crucifix dangling from the rosary which strangles his frail wrist.

"I shan't," he says, summoning a dark voice from the pits of his body as if to frighten the girl with his strength. But he hasn't any strength left, for she had drained him, left him indefensibly withered. And in desperation, placing a trembling hand upon his chest, upon that neglected scar beneath his robes which sends a surge of pain throughout his body, he wallows in his weakness and begs for mercy,

"Dost thou not know of the blazing heat within?—the summer's sunlight which scorches my heart and leaves my flesh smoldering, for thou has cursed me and left me yearning.

She snarls, rejects his pleas, and turns away from him, "Thou art a phantom—a demon sent from the Dark Lord to torment me and punish me for sin I dost not know."

"Nay," he protests, offended by her statement, "I dost not consult with the darkness."

"This is darkness, Priest," she says, eyes still straining to adjust to the shadows that consume her. "I am darkness. Leave me be—torment me no longer."

"Thou dost not know torment-"

"Blasphemy!" she cries, the shackles rattling upon her fierce movements, for she had known torment, befriended it, and fell to her hands and knees before it.

"Silence!" the Priest orders, "Thou shall not interrupt me." He flicks his hand towards her, the rosary snapping and falling to the floor. "Thou dost not know torment as I. Thou dost not know of the endless ordeal which has plagued me from the first sunrise of January; the desires, the longing, and the yearning for a touch from thee,who gracefully glided upon Paris's ground and whose beauty surpasses that of the Holy Virgin. And, oh, the glee of thine eyes piercing me, gazing upon this blackened soul that clandestinely begs in the darkness of my tomb to be cradled and caressed by thee."

Her chest constricts and her heart convulses, for his words are painful and leave her cold and trembling. And if she could turn blue, relieve herself of life and place her soul in the Reaper's hands before offering it to the infatuated man before her, she would. However, his suffering makes him no less terrorizing; and he seizes her in the midst of her thoughts, those eerie imaginations of slipping away into death in all shades of blue.

She yelps, begs for his mercy, begs for the unforgiving sun to rise and cast its radiant light upon this belligerent man who wrestles her in the dungeons of Hell. But dawn is far away. Only the empty night will hear her cries, though her voice is exhausted, hoarse, and hardly recognizable beyond the impenetrable door of the dungeons. And he, struggling to contain this hopeless creature in his arms, this woman who had possessed his heart on that faithful day, claws his fingers into her flesh and draws her into his robes.

"Be still!" he cries. But she refuses him, struggles in his hold; and in misery, collapses and falls into his arms, this limp body lying before him. And then she breathes. And so does he, relieved that the beauty which had possessed him has not slipped away.

"I am innocent," she says breathlessly with hazy eyes and lips that are too tired to fully part, "But dawn will see my lifeless body dangling from a necklace of twine. And my heart will be no more, my heart which has been pierced by the dagger that pierced his—Phoebus!"

"Nay!" cries the Priest, cringing at the mention of that man, that name—those disheartening syllables which create it. "Do not speak that name, that wicked name which sickens one like cyanide, scorching my flesh, corroding my soul until nothing is left but a sigh and an aching mind."

She whimpers and turns away from him, turns back to the darkness, though his hold upon her never loosens. She shivers and he lifts her limp body, drawing her form into his, and slithers a hand behind her head. And then, delicately, he brushes his lips against hers. And she yelps.

His kiss is blistering.

She attempts to turn away from him, tear her lips from his, but at her rejection, small hands pressing against his shoulders, he forces himself upon her.

"Do not deny me Heaven," he gasps, hands desperately reaching out for her and drawing her body close, lips seeking her out in the darkness. He kisses her cheeks, stained with tear streams like that of a dried river, her neck, which will soon be fitted with a noose, and her shoulders, where the weight of Death rests. And she, writhing in his hold in an attempt to end this nightmare, cries out into the night with every burning sensation, every mark he places upon her flesh.

"Forgive me! Forgive me, child!" he cries in between kisses at the sound of her whimpering. And in unreserved fury of being claimed and abused by this man, strength finds her and she scratches him. He yelps, releases her, and lifts his hands to his face, dark blood seeping from between his fingers.

"Have pity on me, child! Pity this fallen man, this servant who begs at your feet!" he cries, casting his body upon the floor, hands reaching for her, desperate to touch her, feel her, and soothe her sorrows.

"Nay!" she cries, withdrawing from him.

"I have come for thee." His every word is stressed as if his life rests solely upon every syllable, "I shall relieve thee of death. I have come for thee!"

"Nay!" She sobs, hiding her face within her hands, those hands he yearns to hold, to adorn kisses upon, and worship. "Thou hast come to torment me—Begone and let the dawn steal my soul!"

He snickers in refusal, crawls towards her, this servant begging at the altar of forgiveness, and dares to rest his head upon her feet, "But I have come for thee, and Death shall not steal thy soul." His touch is warm as if a fire burns within, and though she refuses him and rejects his unwanted offers, she relishes the warmth in which she has been denied, for life in the dungeons had been unkind and only the cold darkness had known her name.

His hands trail up her feet and past her ankles, fingers roaming her shivering body. And, oh, if she'd let him, he'd gather her in his arms and sell his soul to her, trade places and die at dawn.

And as this tortured man caresses her, his warm flesh heating her core and dispelling the cold that had sought to snatch her, she turns away from him and lifts her eyes to the brick wall beside her. Resting a hand upon it, wondering if the outside lingers beyond, thoughts of freedom cloud her mind: the feeling of the warm sunrays hitting her flesh, the laughter of young children roaming about Paris's streets, and the familiar clanking of armor, Phoebus, walking at her side. She sighs.

"Give me the sun and I shall learn to forgive thee," she says, a glimmer of hope rising in her chest. And he furiously nods, pulling her body into his arms once again. She's reluctant and pulls away from him, and he cries out in one last attempt,

"Be still, my child!"

And she obeys, for he is warm, this distorted reflection of the sun. And though she loathes this man, this phantom, this tormentor from Hell, she feels her eyes grow heavy, arms falling weak as if the shackles that bind her have abruptly grown heavy, and she surrenders to the warmth he offers. Resting her head upon his chest, she listens to the spastic heartbeat within, the heart in which a dagger's point sought to destroy. And he clenches his teeth at the pain of the unhealed wound, the neglected scar beneath his cassock which throbs at her touch.

And she sobs. She sobs for her soldier, that man who held her world in his eyes and the sun in his palm, and she sobs for hope, if it should ever find her. And it has.

"Save me," she whimpers into his chest, her pleas ringing in his ears, sweeter than the toll of Notre-Dame's bells. Carefully, he runs his trembling fingers through her hair, fingers which had once wielded a dagger, plunging the blade into his chest lest he hear her cry out in agony in the executioner's chamber.

"Come with me into the night and let the shadows hide us," he says in a hoarse voice, lifting the girl to her feet, this shivering creature.

She submits, allowing hope to swell in her chest and allowing him to take her chains and lead her; and before the door opens, before the lights of the stars on this moonless night grace her skin, she asks, "Priest, why dost thou torment me so?"

"I love thee."