Cold.

That is all that remained for her. There was no night… no day. There was no music, no joy, no Phoebus. No, none of that remained for poor Esmeralda. The rest of the world had completely vanished, leaving her nothing but…

Cold.

And the occasional droplet of water, falling from the ceiling into a puddle in the corner. At first, the dripping was comforting, a way to track the passage of time. Then, it started to drive her mad, so much that she tried to catch the falling droplets in her hands, chilling her even further, rather than hear the sound.

But now not even that mattered. She did not even feel the little spiders and rats that occasionally liked to climb over her arms and legs, though she vaguely knew they were there. Nothing was left to care about.

It was just her and the cold.

There wasn't even a way to combat it, which was the worst part. She wore very little and had no blanket. If she tried to lie down, the chill of the dungeon floor seeped in through her skin. If she stood, her body stretched out and lost all the heat she'd been trying to keep in. If she was idle, the shivering rattled her. If she was active, she risked the possibility of sweating and making herself even colder.

There was nothing more hopeless than the complete lack of warmth.

It wouldn't have been so bad if she could just… remember… something. Who was she? Why was she here? Had her life always been like this? What was happening on the outside? Was there an outside?

Suddenly, there was a loud, unfamiliar sound. It was the creaks and groans of protest made by the hinges of the door that was opening.

This was not the little flap that came up ever so often to slide in food—when was the last time she'd eaten? She couldn't remember—this was the sound of the actual door sliding open.

There was a light on the stairs. It was just a lowly lit lantern, but it caused indescribable pain to her unaccustomed eyes and forced her to shut them tightly. She heard the murmuring of a few male voices and then a single set of footsteps heading her direction.

When she opened her eyes again, she could make out a tall, almost bat-like form towering over her from the staircase. The unfamiliarity of it all frightened the prisoner and she pressed herself into the wall, drawing her knees up against her chest.

"Who are you?" she asked, shocking them both with the sound of her own voice. When had she spoken last?

"A priest," replied the shadow. His voice made her trembling increase, but she could not name exactly why.

When she did not respond, he continued, "Are you prepared?"

Esmeralda furrowed her brow. Who was this person? What was she supposed to be prepared for?

She could not think of the right answer. "For what?" she asked, finally.

"To die." The shadow's voice sounded strained when he uttered this, but those two words gave Esmeralda the briefest glimpse of hope she'd seen in a long time.

"Will it be soon, then?" she asked, unable to keep some of the excitement from her voice.

"Tomorrow," he responded. It was scarcely more than a whisper, and the shadow's head dropped as he said it. Esmeralda suddenly felt like doing the same, though for entirely different reasons.

"Oh…" she said, "I was hoping it would be today. Tomorrow is like forever."

She buried her head in her arms, blocking out the new sights and sounds that had done nothing but brought disappointing news. She heard a rustle and lifted her head to find that the shadow had moved and was now knelt down beside her. The lantern had been abandoned on the steps and was blocked from her view, sending her back into darkness. An invisible hand reached out and stroked a tendril of her hair. She felt like his face was mere inches from her own, but could not be sure.

"Are you very unhappy?" he asked.

Happy? What was happy? She could honestly not remember the word.

"I am very cold," she answered, truthfully. She hoped that was a good enough answer. Questions of happy or unhappy were beyond her comprehension.

"This place… is… horrible. There is no light… no fire…" his amazed voice implied that this was the first time he had noticed their surroundings.

"It is cold," she repeated.

"Cold? Is that all you have to say?"

"It is all I know, sir."

Suddenly an emotion came rushing through her. It was the first one she had felt in a very long time, but she easily recognized it. Fear. The cold and hopelessness, she had endured… if for no other reason than she had no choice. But the fear and cold… without hope… was too much.

The prisoner began to cry. The shadow started and fell back a bit, but she did not notice. She sobbed and wept like a little child.

"I am afraid," she said. "I am so afraid. I want to get away from this place."

That profession changed everything. Suddenly, the shadow had uncurled its impossibly long body and now stood, somehow looking even taller than before.

"Then follow me," it commanded.

She looked at the skeletal hand that had been extended to her. With only a slight hesitation, she took it and stood.

When the bony fingers closed around hers, she started at the coldness of them. Esmeralda had been frozen straight to the core… the fact that she could sense cold coming from this hand frightened her. The icy hand of death! Her fearful heart screamed.

She very nearly yanked her hand from its grip and resumed her ball on the floor. But then her mind spoke to her. This is the hand of death. Death is release. Accept death and you will be free of this place.

Ignoring her instincts to flee, she tightened her fingers around the pale hand and resolutely followed him to the steps.

When they had reached the place where the lantern had been set down, the shadow turned towards her once again. She felt long arms wrap around her and pull her body closer. The hands may have been icy, but the body was warm. She found herself leaning in and resting her head on the thin chest, trying to absorb the heat she found there.

It was a blissful eternity before the body pulled back, leaving her cold again. She felt a small vial pressed into her hand.

"Drink all of this," commanded the voice.

"What is it?"

"You must drink it if you wish to leave this place."

Without hesitation, she gulped down every last drop of liquid. Then another bottle appeared—this one full of water. Rather than handing it to her, the shadow took some of it in his hand and sprinkled it over her head, murmuring words in a language she did not understand.

It was all happening rather strangely, and she was suddenly feeling very sleepy. The tall form held her close for awhile longer, while she reveled in the warmth it provided. She was almost asleep when she felt a burning kiss on her forehead. It was like a fire… or a… torturer's brand. Had her rest been naturally caused, she would have been startled awake by the sheer heat of it. As it was, she only had a few seconds of consciousness left.

Before she finally succumbed to sleep, her mind reeled. Where have I felt such kisses before?

--

The prison guard cursed and quickly stashed his bottle of ale when he heard the door re-open and the priest emerge.

"Monsieur!" What is he doing back already? He hadn't even been in there an hour! "I… ah… I didn't expect you back so soon!"

The priest arched eyebrow.

"Clearly," he said, faintly amused at how the large man scrambled off the table he had been propping his feet up on. When the guard had finally composed himself and was standing at attention once again, the he tossed him the keys.

"Depriving the public of an execution is hardly a way to keep your job, monsieur," the priest said simply.

"W-what?" he stuttered, "What do you mean?"

Archdeacon Dom Claude Frollo gave the guard a calculating look.

"The prisoner is dead."