For days now, the Minister had imposed on himself a new penance, specifically denying himself proper nourishment. He settled for a penitent diet of water, bread, and prayer in an effort to purge the sin. It certainly kept his mind from circling back to his anger with Jehan, though he didn't feel completely relieved of this whole ordeal with his brother. The discussion days ago with Augustin had rattled the judge a bit more than he would like to admit. Frollo had accepted that despite his brother's promise of maturity, the latter would suffer for casting out his own bastard children. He concluded that it would be up to him to ensure the safety of his little brother's soul once more, despite the pain and exhaustion it brought over him. Images of those young and innocent little faces continue to appear in his mind, sickening him to his very core.

Over the following few days, the Minister continued to occupy his attention with work and caring for the boy. Today he was relieved that Quasimodo had regained his strength in his master's care. Frollo himself, on the other hand, did not feel as strong as he usually did. Lately, in fact, he had been plagued by coughing fits and aches that became incredibly disruptive to his court sessions. Nevertheless, he merely brushed it off as some nuisance caused by the late winter air and nothing more.

"Drink," Frollo ordered as he handed the boy yet another cup of tea concocted of elderberry, courtesy of the cathedral's kitchens. "The sickness may have passed but we must ensure that it stays away." He noted again, followed by a hollow cough. He continued to ignore the pain in his stomach that had been gnawing away at him for days.

Quasimodo finished the drink and looked up gratefully at his guardian. "Yes sir. Thank you, sir." Truthfully, he enjoyed being able to see the Minister more often, despite Quasimodo feeling back to his old self once again. Though the boy had noticed that his master had been coughing more than ever in the last day or two. Given how much the man had been put through taking care of him, Quasimodo was hesitant to ask.

"Very good," Frollo said evenly, a rough cough suddenly racking his chest as he quickly covered it into the crook of his arm. "Now then, have you—" Once more, the cursed coughs escaped him, this time repeatedly and louder. Composing himself, he continued. "Have you reviewed our Hebrew lesson?"

Quasimodo studied his master cautiously, noting the shaking in the man's shoulders during this coughing fit. Despite his concern, the boy decided to keep quiet and dutifully found his little wax tablet and stylus. He now sat across from the Minister and waited for his lesson, all the while the latter's face became incredibly flushed when he finally subdued the coughing. Frollo promptly rattled off instructions for the boy to write out a few letters, meanwhile noticing his shoulder muscles beginning to feel tighter and heavier.

The Minister was sure that having not seen his brother for the last few days would come as a relief, but all he had found were chills and tiredness. Jehan's family debacle coupled with treating Quasimodo's illness, he figured, was simply stress aggravating him. But these meddlesome coughs and pains implied something more…something worse.

"Aleph, bet, gimel—one, two, and three, right, Master?" Quasimodo asked carefully, raising his work a little. Even the boy noticed that his guardian did not seem entirely engaged with the assignment.

Hollowly and barely offering a glance, Frollo merely answered, "Yes, indeed." Another cough escaped. "Now…" He cleared his throat, disgusted with himself. "What about the next…four letters?"

While Quasimodo demonstrated his proficiency in letters by drawing out another rough sketch over his tablet, the Minister found himself increasingly distracted: while a headache made its way over him, he also began to feel increasingly hot and bothered by more unrelenting coughs.

"How was that?" the boy asked unsurely, unnerved by the bright color in his master's countenance.

"Ve…very good," the Minister sputtered out, his breaths becoming shallow. "Excellent work, my boy."

Quasimodo carefully studied his guardian, as it was terribly unlike man to be hunched over and heaving. "Master," he squeaked out, turning his head to meet those gray glassy eyes opposite him. He couldn't stop his curiosity anymore and just had to ask, "Are you…are you feeling alright?"

"Just marvelous!" Frollo snapped, his rough voice icy and face twisted miserably. Tiredly he dragged a hand over his face in exhaustion. Quasimodo recoiled and noticed that the Minister's frame shook, very uncharacteristic of the stone-like man.

"Forgive me, Quasimodo," the Minister breathed out, dabbing some sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "I'm a bit, um…out of sorts at the moment." As his chest heaved, he pitifully felt as though he was being weighed down by a dozen stones.

"Should I get Father Augustin?" the boy asked, leaping down from his seat.

Frollo waved a hand frantically, dismissing the idea. "No, don't bother him—it's merely a slight cough and it will pass." Unfortunately, his words were followed a sharp cough and wheeze, sickening the man himself.

He wavered a bit as he stood up and gathered his hat in hand. After releasing another harsh cough into the crook of his elbow, Frollo staggered towards the stairs. "No, I-I believe I should go home and…" His words were punctuated by sick, shallow breaths. "And rest." As he trudged down the steps lethargically, Frollo balanced himself by holding onto the wooden beams flanking them.

"Are you sure?" the boy piped as he hopped down after his guardian. "He might have something to help you feel better—"

"I assure you, Quasimodo, it is nothing you need to worry about." While the judge hoped his words could put the boy's mind at ease, Frollo could feel his muscles tightening as the illness was taking hold. Upon reaching the top of the winding stairwell, the idea of the spinning descent suddenly unleashed a dizzying sensation and caused his stomach to churn. How on earth did you manage to get up here in the first place? He mentally bemoaned, hand clutching at his burning forehead.

Quasimodo watched his master, who stood motionless and steadying himself against the stone doorway. The boy was concerned that he might tumble forward down the seemingly endless winding stairs. He wanted the judge to refrain from pushing himself and risk injury in such a state. Quasimodo raised a finger, hoping to ask his master to please rest, but quickly stopped himself in fear of the man chiding him.

Despite the pounding headache and tension all over his being, Frollo forced himself down the stairs. He knew that the image of holding himself against the icy stone wall easily resembled a drunkard, but the heavy exhaustion prevented him from caring much anyway.

"Master, please be careful!" Quasimodo cried as he continued to follow his sluggish guardian.

"I've told you already, boy: you needn't worry about me," the Minister rumbled with another wave of his hand, his voice without any of its usual might. But dear Lord, if you send me falling down these steps as my fate, so be it, he dismally prayed, lumbering down the stairwell further.

It seemed like an eternity before the pair reached the bottom of the stairs and back into the church nave. "I don't think you'll have to worry about me falling in here, Quasimodo," Frollo observed, forcing himself to give the boy a light pat on the head. Despite the fraught air pervading Notre Dame, Frollo felt his skin continue to burn.

In a voice that was barely a mutter, the judge again said, "I should be going. I…I will return tomorrow, as usual."

"I-I hope you feel better, Master," Quasimodo earnestly offered, hating to see the man so defeated.

Frollo gave a tired nod and rubbed the back of his tender neck. "Of course. If Jehan stops by, tell him I am indisposed." Quasimodo responded with a confused tilt of his head, his master bluntly answering, "Tell him that I'm far too busy—and I can't be bothered with him. Now, I will be on my way…" Another violent cough pushed its way out of his lungs once more. After I catch my breath, he thought and now noticing his forehead positively burning. The judge dragged himself over towards one of the stone columns and balanced himself against it, his free hand clutching at his heaving chest.

"Master, I…I'm going to get help," Quasimodo announced, swiftly hopping away and leaving the Minister wheezing.

The man could barely croak out a breathy protest. Frollo tugged at the stiff collar as it felt like a snake constricting itself around his throat. All the while his body continued to burn underneath his heavy black robe. Pull yourself together! He scolded himself, trying to ignore how much his whole being ached.

With the rest of his remaining energy, Frollo pulled himself across the nave and headed for the front doors. Perhaps his workload waiting at the Palace of Justice might help in distracting him from his pain and fatigue. Get back to the Palace and everything else will fall into place, he tried to console himself. However, he felt his energy suddenly sapped and needed to rest against the cold stone wall, just short of escaping through those old wooden doors. But the pounding in his head only grew more powerful…Just need a moment…

Frollo was suddenly shaken from his exhaustion as a hand gripped at his shoulder, causing him to instinctively flinch away and stumble back some. Through bleary eyes, he found Quasimodo had indeed returned with the Archdeacon beside him. "Minister, Quasimodo tells me that you're feeling unwell," Augustin addressed, his countenance sympathetic as he studied the judge's weakened expression. "Although he might've made light of it, just a tad."

Frollo offered a scowl to his adversary as he tried to regain his regal composure. "He has greatly exaggerated my condition; a mere cough is nothing to fret over. I must be leaving anyway as I…" Another harsh cough escaped in perfect time, undermining the judge's words.

Quasimodo clutched at the Archdeacon's arm, ill at ease as he watched his guardian almost crumble under this newfound sickness. Frollo, in turn, continued to heave and wiped at his face that was now beaded with sweat.

"I don't think you should be so quick to rush back to work in your condition," Augustin pointed, taking the judge's shoulder once again, encouraging him to reconsider.

Frollo promptly batted the man's hand away, huffing, "Nonsense. It will pass and I can—" Once again a cough broke though, threatening to buckle his knees.

"I think you should rest here, Claude. You know there are cells where you can recuperate."

Frollo looked down at his agitated ward. Quasimodo then said, his voice soft and cautious, "Y-you should, Master. You need to rest." The Minister suddenly felt agitated by their pleading eyes on him, detesting the pity on their faces.

He shook his head (instantly regretting it) and breezed past the pair back towards the door. His voice was even weaker when he spoke and his head was spinning. "I have work to do," he muttered hazily. It took a great amount of effort for him to push open Notre Dame's doors, ignoring the now distorted words beseeching him to remain in the cathedral.

Outside the wind began to pick up, replacing the feverish burning with terrible chills and forcing him to wrap his cloak tighter around him. Just as he had with the doors, the mundane task of unhitching his horse from the post outside took shaking hands and unfocused eyes. Frollo leaned a bit against the great black beast momentarily to regain his strength. His body threatened to give up as he forced himself to mount up on the horse, another raspy cough escaping to compliment the effort.

It was with every ounce of his remaining energy that Frollo forced himself to keep upright as the horse trotted along. Words by passing Parisians or patrol guards were muddled and the winding streets were disjointed in his vision. His gaunt face still burned and his body trembled, making him fear that he might just fall out of the saddle into the muddy street. Even Romulus detected a change in his rider and shook his head harshly, making his black mane fly about.

Frollo inwardly prayed thanks when his horse arrived at the Palace and wordlessly handed off the reins to the stablehand. Inside, he fought back the urge to vomit as a handful of clerks suddenly surrounded him with hands filled with books, scrolls, and inquiries. A horrible cacophony rose from their battling voices and was worse than any trumpet to be blown on Judgment Day.

"Minister, these scrolls need your seal and signature!"

"Sir, we cannot delay this trial any further!"

"I have man filing a repeat claim and is asking for a session!"

How he wanted to rush off and shut himself into his chambers, away from this noise. The Minister ran a hand over his clammy face and attempted to steady himself, knowing full well that such an idea was now impossible. Forcing a collected demeanor, Frollo steadily announced, "Gentlemen, if you would follow me to my study, I would be glad to answer all of your questions." The clerks and scribes trailed after him, making him mentally curse them as their dissonance continued to make his head pound.

X

The hours ticked on slowly, which only exasperated the Minister as he struggled to stay alert. The simple task of stamping scrolls and signing his name required more energy than he had anything he had done in a long while. Trying to discuss judicial matters was constantly punctuated with harsh, wheezing coughs. It pained him to delay more trials to preside over, knowing he was in no state to be overseeing any cases. The glaring orange sun was close to setting when he was able to sign and seal the last of these pesky documents.

"Thank you again, Minister," a young clerk chirped, closing up one of his many ledgers. "Apologies but we weren't expecting today busier than usual."

The judge rose from his desk, albeit with difficulty. Strained and trying to mask his tiredness, Frollo flatly clipped, "Neither was I." He could feel heat rushing to his forehead and prayed the low light would hide his sickly appearance.

The clerk placed a hand on the study door handle and glanced back at the Minister. "Well, I suppose we should brace ourselves: the rest of the week is likely to be just as mad. Good evening, sir."

Frollo merely offered a nod and sent off the young man. At the thud of the door closing, he promptly collapsed onto his desk, resting his head in his arms. Lord, he dolefully prayed, fingers gripping into his arms. Why today of all days do you plague me like this?

You can blame the boy, his mind grimly offered as it fought off the ruthless headache, followed by more coughing. He did this to you—after all your mercy and kindness. Why couldn't it have been Jehan? Before he knew it, exhaustion had shrouded over him into a heavy slumber.

When he finally woke, Frollo scanned over the dark study, which was barely lit by the wax stubs that were once candles surrounding him. Outside it was already night, and he noticed stiffness in his neck from his awkward sleeping position. Reluctantly, he tore himself away from his desk and stretched out his sore neck, deciding to retire to his chambers.

Out in the corridor, the air was frigid and the chills quickly returned. Frollo crossed his arms over his chest as he attempted to fight off the cold, comforted by the thought of the privacy of his own chambers to ride out this sickness. He was relieved that the hallways offered scant light from the sconces on the wall, as he was certain any more would allow for a migraine to take hold.

Once inside his chamber, Frollo quickly shed his robe as the feverish heat began to make his skin boil again. He began shaking and attempted to keep himself standing by holding onto one of the beams of his bed. His head spun again and he felt his legs grow weak, instantly followed by a lurching sensation in his stomach and throat. The Minister lumbered forward and grabbed for a nearby chamber pot, regurgitating and wiping his mouth with a remorseful groan. Drained, and his mind foggy, he was disgusted at the sight of himself becoming incapacitated.

Frollo fumbled around until his hands wrapped around a bottle of wine he had stored away in one of the chests. Uncorking it, he took a hearty swig as he prayed it might offer some reprieve after emptying the contents of his stomach. Shouldn't have wine when fasting…you'll have to fast even more…His feverish inner voice nagged him. What's a bit more penance anyway?

With intense lethargy, Frollo struggled to remove his boots and clothes, only sated when he could crawl into the plush comfort of his bed. He pulled his linen sheet tightly around him as his frame continued to tremble. He could feel his face becoming hotter and perspiring, all the while the headache pounded at the front of his skull like a hammer on steel.

You'll feel better tomorrow, he tried to console himself, followed by another cough racking his chest.

X

A cloud of boisterous laughter barged through the tavern door with Jehan leading the way with his posse in tow. In his hand he jangled a heavy pouch whose sound was clinking victoriously with coins. "Not too shabby on today's work, so have a round on me, gentlemen!" Jehan giddily announced and making his way to the bar counter. Such generosity was met with affable pats on the shoulder and grateful thanks as the barkeep filled mugs for them all.

"It's a shame though," one of Jehan's fellows remarked, leaning heavily against the counter and swirling his mug of beer around. "We could've made a lot more had you been there."

Jehan huffed before taking a long swig of his own drink. "I told you already—I had some personal business that needed tending to. So why don't you just drink and try to relax."

"Fine." While still bitter, he still offered a clink of their mugs as a small sign of goodwill. Almost instantly everyone was absorbed in conversations and laughter, jovial after another day of moneymaking. True to form, Jehan found that the emotional turmoil days ago could be easily remedied by old habits; nothing that plenty of drinks and the company of painted women couldn't fix. He readily ordered some celebratory wine to accompany their lonely jug of beer.

"I can't believe we were able to get all of it out to market so quickly," Jehan's friend remarked, filling his wine cup from the worn earthen jug.

"Considering I had to haggle with old bastard to no end—it's a miracle if I ever saw one." Jehan threw back his drink and let the cheap wine course down his throat with ease. "But we turned a profit! And we already have another order from Rheims, but I'll see if I can't get a good deal out of him."

Jehan's associate gave an understanding nod and kept his shifty eyes scanning over tavern. "So, what was this "personal business" that was so important?" the man inquired, keeping his eyes away in trying to mask his curiosity.

"Nothing pleasant." Jehan awkwardly scratched his head and pointed for the bar maid to top off his cup.

"And your brother took care of it? Cleaned it up again for you?"

"As per usual. But I might need to watch my step around Claude right now; I promised him I wouldn't drag him into any more madness." Jehan shook his head morosely at the idea of his protector finally sheathing his figurative sword, no longer at Jehan's beck and call. "And I have no idea how I'm supposed to that."

"What—you intend make good on that?" His other friend pointed, having been eavesdropping and turning towards their leader. "Just keep your head low and pray that he'll forget you even promised such a thing!"

"Not a terrible idea." Their third man agreed, nudging Jehan in the ribs encouragingly.

"Not "terrible", but probably not realistic," Jehan noted, pushing his drink aside. "Claude's got a sharp memory—and I mean dangerously sharp. Then again…" He tapped his fingers as he considered his options carefully. "I've broken so many promises to him, what's one more?" With this, he offered a wicked chuckle.

"Just like a pie crust, your promises," one noted with a smug grin.

"How's that?"

"Easy to make and easy to break!" The comment earned boisterous laughter from each of them, Jehan included.

"And he still has no idea how you're making your way?" one asked, flashing his teeth in a devious smile. "He never asks why you've stopped asking him for money?"

"He doesn't ask, and I'd like to keep it that way," Jehan answered confidently and gave an amused snort. "He wouldn't know what's going on if it walked up and punched him in his big, crooked nose."

Their third man raised a point. "With the amount of money that you're funneling to keep it quiet, it shouldn't come as a surprise that he hasn't found out."

Jehan nodded, picking up his nearly empty cup again and raising it to his lips. "I love my brother, but I'd also love to see the look on his face if he ever found out about our little operation. But knowing Claude, he'd probably murder me right then and there."

"Well, until he does, no reason not to celebrate now. Here's to our continued success!" His friend lifted the earthenware jug and guzzled down the remaining wine, his sputtering easily getting another laugh from Jehan and a few other bar patrons.

Jehan and his compatriots threw themselves into the raucous activity of the tavern, sharing their cheer in buying drinks for weary travelers and local drunks. Within minutes the entire tavern was red-faced and warm with mirth as beer and wine flowed freely, Jehan at the helm as he encouraged more drinks. As he continued to shell out his earnings, he welcomed the inebriated adulation from these barflies.

He and his friends were now occupied with a few busty young women pressed against them, persistently offering their services to the trio. Jehan was making teasing chit-chat and letting one run her hands through his hair when some passing words caught his attention: "Looks like Paris might be getting a new Minister of Justice!"

Jehan's attention snapped up at a couple of strangers nearby from where he heard such a comment, his brows drawing together curiously. Brushing the girl aside, Jehan quickly strode towards the little mass of drinkers huddled together in the corner. "Excuse me gentlemen," Jehan interrupted, trying not to seem too eager. "What's, um…what's all this chatter I hear about a new Minister?"

The group exchanged some apprehensive glances before their supposed leader spoke up. "Well, I was just at Notre Dame—I had a few prayers to send—and the cathedral was buzzing! What I heard is that apparently he fell ill—just out of the blue! Can you believe it? Judge Frollo: always healthy as a horse, now he's got one foot in the grave. So you tell me that we're not due for a new Minister if he's collapsing in the church?"

It suddenly felt as though a weight dropped in Jehan's stomach at these words, causing him to take a nervous step backwards. Silently, he shuffled back towards the table where his friends sat, ignoring the surrounding the noise of happy drunks. He didn't even look at his pals and the smiling trollops in their laps sharing their drinks. One of Jehan's friends looked up at him and slurred, "Why do you look so down? You need another beer?"

Jehan shook his head and picked up his cloak he had left draped over his seat. Slinging it over his shoulder, he mumbled out, "I have to go."

"Go?" asked the other, shifting his eyes back and forth between Jehan and the lady in front of him. "We just got here—where are you off to?"

"I have to go see my brother." Jehan's distracted words were barely heard as he marched out of the tavern, fighting to keep himself from stumbling. Outside, Jehan's unsteady vision glanced up and down the black streets, deciding which way to go. Instinctively, his hand clutched at the dagger hanging at his belt, ready for action. With a deep breath, he set off down the streets towards the Palace of Justice, planning on staying close to the surrounding buildings and their shadows. He was confident that he knew the way back well enough that he could get there, despite being a little plastered.

His trip might have been marred with some stumbling, but the young man was grateful that he was able to avoid any unwanted attention when the Palace lay across the square, now before him. Through the darkness he could still recognize a few guards posted outside, spears and pikes in hand and torches making their armor glint. Jehan trudged forward until he was standing before a tall and imposing guard before the countless steps of his brother's home.

"Nobody gets in," the guard brusquely stated, sizing up the drunk young man.

"Yeah, well, Minister Frollo is my brother, so step aside and let me see him," Jehan ordered, puffing his chest out to appear clear-headed. Another guard was passing by with a torch in hand, holding it out to see what the exchange was about. Jehan turned and snapped, "Hey! Tell this walking oak tree to move—Minister Frollo is my brother!"

The second guard sighed wearily, letting his chin fall to his chest in irritation. To his associate, he remarked, "I wish it weren't but it's the honest-to-God truth." He thumbed towards the unembarrassed first guard and commented to Jehan, "New guy."

Jehan simply gave a sound of mild amusement. "And you're both worth every penny Claude's paying you." Arrogantly he brushed past them without a second glance. Still buzzed, he ambled up the seemingly endless steps to the Palace's front doors, cursing the effort it took. Once inside, he was stunned to see a mass of servants clustered together, their voices mingling and a myriad of expressions on their faces. As he strolled past them, the staff seemed to either not notice him or simply ignored him, not bothered by the Minister's brother at all. He was quickly disturbed by the snippets of their conversations he caught as he breezed past them:

"I saw him lying there—he looks like death."

"It's just odd to see him like this—the sickness took him just like that!"

"Well, I might just find somewhere else to work if he keels over. Judge Frollo's always been good to us."

"Maybe the next Minister might be an improvement!"

"Yeah? And maybe he might be some fat fool who'll whip us like animals."

Under his breath, Jehan muttered, "Jesus." He was becoming even more concerned about his brother, who had just seen him days before, the man ever sharp and resilient. He continued to navigate the icy corridors and considered something: he had never seen his brother fall ill. Blackout drunk, once; crushed by stress and anxiety—yes, many times—but sick? Never.

Coming upon the chamber door, he was met with a thin servant woman exiting, at her hip a basin with damp linen rags. "Oh!" he cried, trying to get her attention. He snapped his fingers as he tried to recall her name. "I want to say…Elise?" His awkward expression prayed that he guessed correctly.

"Violette." She corrected him sternly as she closed the door behind her. "Years of serving your brother would have allowed you to learn at least a few of our names."

"Inconsequential." Unbothered by her comment, he continued to pry. "How's Claude? Word is that he's a little under the weather."

The beaten down woman sighed and looked away, resting the silver basin against her stomach. With a solemn air, she answered, "Yes, he's not feeling very well. So it might serve you well to let him recover in private. No good can come from disturbing him."

"I'm his brother—I should see him. So why don't you go do your job and I'll check in on him, alright?" He gave her a brash wave of his hand, in hopes that she would leave him be. "How do I know you're not waiting for him to croak to try and make off with the valuables?" Even the young man knew this was a preposterous accusation, but he wouldn't be spoken to in such a way by his brother's staff.

The woman glowered at him. Even in the dark hallway, the irritation on her face at his entitlement was evident. "The man is running a fever and a terrible cough; I'm making sure he's taken care of. But good luck trying to coax any money out of him in this state."

"Wouldn't dream of it." With that, Jehan brushed past the distrustful woman and slunk through into his brother's chamber, promptly shutting the door behind him. Inside was a haunting and dangerous air surrounding him as he stepped in. A few candles were lit, which kept the room almost cavernous, and a single window was cracked open to let in the crisp winter air. Jehan let his eyes adjust and focused on the four-poster bed where a dark figure lay exposed. His brother hated curtains: he said that they made one vulnerable in the event of an attack. When Jehan pressed him on whether it might make it easier for the attacker, Claude rebutted that at least the attacker would be just as visible and make for a fair fight.

Meekly, the young man barely raised his voice. "Claude?" He was met with no answer and decided to approach the bed. Jehan began to regret his decision as he drew closer, especially after having made a show of needing to see Claude immediately. He gulped and looked hard at this silhouette, blanching at the sight: Claude lay still and was bright red, his chest rising and falling heavily while ragged breaths escaped, and sweat covering his half-naked body.

"Claude?" Jehan repeated, a little louder this time. "It's me." He stepped back a bit when his brother opened his eyes, those gray orbs glazed and unfocused.

Claude's voice was gravelly and raw. "I hope you're Death in the guise of my brother." He instantly turned his head away and coughed hoarsely, earning a sneer from Jehan.

"We'd both be so fortunate if that were the case." Jehan leaned casually against a beam of the bed, looking awkwardly at his ghastly brother. "What happened? You were right as rain just a few days ago."

Claude coughed again. "It was the boy," the judge cursed, eyes now tightening shut. "He did this to me." His face was damp with sweat, no doubt the fever having yet to break.

"Well, you look like you're about to cross the river Styx."

"And I feel like it," Claude bemoaned, shifting uncomfortably. His eyes looked emptily at the sheet hanging over his head, as though looking past it to a higher power. "I think my time has come."

Jehan laughed. "Don't be so dramatic—it's a fever, for God's sake."

"Then why do I feel as though I'm at Death's door?"

"Now you match how you look," the younger jested, offering a twisted smile. That quickly dissipated when another cough racked Claude's chest and slight pity settled in Jehan's stomach. "Are you even eating?" he inquired, stepping back a little.

Claude answered slowly, "Bread and water…once a day…for days now." He now wrapped the linen sheet tighter around himself as he began shaking again.

"Why the hell would you do that?" Jehan incredulously snapped. "No wonder you're wasting away!"

"Fasting…" The Minister's gaze drifted every which way, unfocused. "Trying to atone for you."

The young man snorted tauntingly. "There's nothing to atone for though."

Claude's head rolled forward and his dark eyes found his little brother, which instantly unnerved Jehan. "What you did to that woman and her children," the judge rasped, his tone venomous. "I'm not going to Heaven marked by your sin."

"But we already took care of that—water under the bridge, remember?"

Claude's eyelids began to droop once more. "It's not enough," he said almost under his breath and letting his head fall back against his pillow.

Jehan shook his head in disbelief, and a bit of amusement. "Dramatic," he repeated disdainfully. "Just eat something and rest, then you might start to feel better." The comment seemed to be lost on the older brother, who now seemed to be fading back into unconsciousness. "Claude?" Jehan snapped his fingers trying to bring his brother back.

Claude's eyes fluttered open and did not bother to look at his brother. "People die from fevers everyday," he morbidly said and another cough escaped. "I need last rites."

"You're not dying." Jehan's patience was wearing thin. "It's a fever and cough—just say a prayer or two to Saint Andrew and rest. Why don't I tell one of your servants to bring you some actual food so you can—"

Without warning, Claude gripped Jehan by the front of his cloak and yanked him closer. His glassy gray eyes pierced Jehan's own bright blue ones. "I need you to go and get a priest," the judge hissed through clenched teeth. "Or Augustin—someone from the church. I must have absolution!"

Jehan pushed Claude's hand away from him. "I'm not going all the way to Notre Dame and dragging him down here just because you're too stubborn to eat. Why don't I just come back in a couple days and see how are you then?"

"I might not have "a couple days"!" Claude snarled, quickly covering his mouth and coughing. After collecting himself from such a fit, he breathed out, "Humor me: dying or not, just get a priest for me."

Jehan ran a hand over his curls as he considered it. With great frustration, he relented. "If I bring a priest, will it really put you at ease?"

"It will." That short bit of strength was quickly replaced with exhaustion as Claude sank back deeper.

"Even though you're not dying?"

The elder brother cocked his head back toward Jehan and cast him a wan expression of almost pleading. "Just go." Annoyed to be so inconvenienced, Jehan offered a few curses under his breath before exiting his brother's chamber and slamming the door behind him.

X

"In the middle of the damn night," Jehan muttered, now reluctantly more sober as he pounded his fist against the huge front door of the cathedral. He impatiently tapped his fingers against his crossed arms as he waited for someone to answer. Should have just gone back to the tavern and told Claude nobody at Notre Dame would answer, he mused as he tried to stop himself from shivering. He shook his head at the missed opportunity, teeth now chattering.

It felt like an eternity before the door was opened by a wide-eyed priest holding up a candlestick. "Master Jehan," the monk addressed, evidently confused and looking around to find nobody else. "What, uh…it's quite late. Is there something wrong?"

Jehan sighed with apathy. "My brother thinks he's on the verge of dying so he wants somebody to administer last rites. Is there any chance the Archdeacon might be able to drop in? Hell, even you could do it."

"The Archdeacon has already retired for the night, and I hardly think this is the time to give last rites to a man that isn't dying." The priest was about the shut the door before Jehan stuck out his boot to stall it.

"Would a few deniers change your mind?" The young man offered, raising his brows at the man.

"Let me fetch my cloak." The small priest disappeared and returned, quickly matching Jehan's pace as they set off towards the Palace of Justice.

Upon arriving, the two quickly brushed past the guards and headed for the judge's room. Leading with a lantern borrowed from the priest, Jehan pointedly said, "You'll have to excuse my brother: he gets a little cough in his throat and thinks he's going to the Pearly Gates. And apparently he thinks it's a good idea to keep fasting even after getting sick. So I suppose he won't eat even after you absolve him."

The priest's eyes wandered with great curiosity around the Palace of Justice and grunted a sound of acknowledgment. "Forgive me for asking, but what sin is his fasting for?"

Jehan briefly considered admitting that it was his own bout of sins and not Claude's, but forced the idea out of his mind. He cleared his throat and flatly answered, "Who knows what goes on in his head?" Reaching said brother's chamber, Jehan promptly ushered in the timid priest and followed behind.

X

A/N: It's been a minute but I got some things cooking for these stories. Thanks for reading and R/R!