Author's Note: This is the first story I have ever written; I wrote it at the behest of a good friend after I had gone on a rant about how unfair it was that someone as wonderful as Quasimodo never found love and she suggested I create my own. This is a complete story, but I am also a believer that nothing is every "finished" and I will continue to edit and add. This is for everyone who believes appearance shouldn't deter love. Please review!

Cheers, MC

Prologue

Once upon a time, as most tales begin, there was a man who lived high up in a tower. So high, no one in the city had ever laid eyes upon the illusive figure of their gossip. He worked tirelessly, day and night, giving them time, music, and prayer; and yet he remained faceless to them all. He was not well loved by his admirers, oh no, but they loved to talk about his ugliness, oddness, and overall difference from themselves. He knew this, and so he barricaded himself away from the people who scorned him at the behest of his jailer. While he lived locked away in his beautiful tower, he read stories of adventures and the world below. He was fascinated by their lives, and he knew each person in the city by name and profession, caring deeply from them all by creating their personas in his mind's eye. How sad that the people he adored were the same people who were disgusted by his mere name. You see, people dislike those they cannot understand.

That is what makes those people unique.

But I regress, back to the man in the tower. I wont lie, when I first laid eyes upon his face, I was struck speechless from fear and disgust. I, unfortunately, was raised hearing stories of this man, and since I was raised by ignorance it was all I knew of the world. I had never before seen a human with such a figure, but not long after that first meeting I realized that was what made him so special. For those of you who have read fairytales, you likely already know the famous protagonist I am speaking of.

But here is something you probably didn't know; my name is Adeline Lapierre, and I am the first woman to save a man from a tower. It is quite an impressive feat, if I do say so myself.

And in this story, I am the hero.

I know, how presumptuous of me. But let me tell you the story the way it truly happened, because the rumoured story is nothing compared to what happened that fateful year in 1482 France. We faced certain-death, danger, fear, rebellion, and pain alike. We also discovered tolerance, understanding, and faith in the unknown.

Do you need anymore clues about who the man is? Let me give you one more guess, he is a world-renowned bell-ringer.

Yes, he is Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

L'arme la plus puissante dans le monde contre la haine est l'amour.


Chapter 1: The Depressing Festivities

"Adeline, mon cherie, anon!" I heard as I quickened my pace down the hallway- not running, of course, as that is undignified behavior- attempting to loosen my bodice to no avail since my mother had practically caused me to asphyxiate from the tightness. I had donned on my finest dress, a red frock with velvet lining and elaborate trumpet sleeves. The deep square neck shows off just enough décolletage to be tasteful. It is beautiful, worthy of any princess, and yet I felt overwhelmed by the attention I knew I would receive because of my fine apparel. Why must I be a woman?

Ah yes, because God has blessed me. Blessed me with curves I am forced to hide, blessed me with no rights, blessed me with the curse of wearing damn dresses and skirts everywhere when I wish to wear trousers!

It is so ridiculous! And now we must attend this horrid festival, the "Festival of Fools," where they crown the most pig-headed and idiotic men and treat them like royalty for the day. Last year's king, a drunkard named Jaques, is a well known 'fondler' of the lower class women around Paris and has made quite a reputation for himself in the local workhouses and whorehouses.

Quite sophisticated, indeed.

My mother glared at me as I fixed my dress, realizing I had loosened the bodice and kirtle around my bust. After a moment of silent brooding, she simply shook her head in exasperation and gestured me to come to her so she could fasten my silver cap with a small veil on the back of my head. For the tenth time that day in her nastily high voice, she said "it will not be my fault if you never find a husband with your heathen like ways!" I huffed in annoyance. Why is she always so trite!?

Never mind, 'I had been betrothed to one man or another all my life,' I thought bitterly. I displaced my feelings for the moment in order to further aggravate my sensitive mother.

I simply smirked and shrugged, two mannerisms my mother abhorred, and said flippantly, "who knows, I may just be assumed to be a gypsy; therefore, not wife material." My mother's eyes widened, she gasped and shook her head at me in warning. I looked down with a sigh. I am never allowed to mention gypsies, as they are a supposed 'curse' to Paris. No matter how they are talented, and their lives are far more interesting than our lives of paying calls and attending formal dinners with others of the noble class we have inbred with and are related too in some way or another. Who are we to insinuate who the unworthy are? Jesus did say in John, "he who is without sin among you, let him be the first to cast the stone." Who are we to say who is a 'curse' to Paris?

Personally, I believe the 'curse' is the entire populous at large, but who is a woman to remark on such matters?

Anyway, I could easily be mistaken for a gypsy, which is probably why my mother attempts to hide my large hips and voluminous bosom from prying eyes. It is unsightly to look so "uncivilized," so I must cover up my true body, not to mention my dark auburn hair, in order to look more like the anemic French royalty. Ah yes, with their headdresses that create a dragon-esque figure and their necklaces that appear to be causing them pain from the sheer weight. Not to mention the tight dresses and underskirts that, when paired with heels, make it impossible to move.

But at least they look "civilized." Unlike me.

My deep rose colored hair falls heavily down my back in waves, when allowed out of its braided chignon. My mother always curses my hair and my coloring, my often flushed cheeks and full pink lips causing me to appear caught "in flagrant." She has attempted, and failed, to tame my wild hair since the day I was old enough to attend mass; each morning she pulls and combs to flatten the top so it appears straight and fine. After all, that is the style of the monarchy. Now she simply looks at it with distain, stating that I look to be a demon's child.

My mother, a lovely woman really; I often aspire to one day adopt her wonderful understanding of her children.

I sighed forlornly and followed my family out of our modest estate as we made the brief journey across the Seine to go to the courtyard of the infamous Notre Dame. As we walked, we encountered many joyous and rambunctious townspeople anxiously awaiting the festival. Ironically, this is the singular time in the year when being a gypsy is cause for celebration among the Parisians, as their entertainment and organization enables the festivities of the day. As we strolled into the cheering square, I looked up, as I so often do from my window at home, to view the mysterious bell tower. They say a man lives there, and that he is made from the devil's craftsmanship. Somehow I don't believe that description. God would never allow a human to fall so lowly into the Devil's grasp if he had not sinned. It is too preposterous to consider!

No, there must be another explanation.

As I pondered quietly to myself, I felt my father place a firm, unyielding hand on my shoulder and forcibly turn me until I was faced with the object of my loathing.

Captain Phoebus, leader of the royal guard of Paris, my paramour. Ah, how we French love to love! It is so...revolting.

As a member of nobility, I have been betrothed since before my infancy to any number of unworthy candidates. Many of them died going to the Battle of Montlhéry, some for treason against King Louis XI in the Hundred Years War, and others simply fell from well-bred society through rumors of witchcraft. Captain Phoebus has been the receiver of my forced affections for the 1480s.

Honestly, it is so B.C. to have an arranged marriage!

Anyways, my fiancé works under Archdeacon Claude Frollo, Monsieur Monster himself. How lovely that when we marry, I will be dubbed the high honor of spending time in the evil alchemist's company as well as my loathsome husband who wouldn't know a book if it landed in his lap. Oh joyous occasions! Such small pleasures to light up my dismal life! I almost cried out in frustration, but held my tongue as I knew I would displease my father should I act childishly. However, I could not help that a tad of my displeasure was relayed when I spoke to him.

"Bonjour Captain, to what do we owe this pleasure?" I purred in an obviously fake, saccharine sweet voice that caused him to cringe slightly and my father, who was still clutching my shoulder, to squeeze sharply in a disapproving manner. I scowled at the situation, why must I be forced into a loveless existence when it is one of the only aspects of life I truly desire!?

"I am here to maintain public order for the festival, as you know" he explained gruffly, as usual. Everything he said and did was reasonable and done efficiently with no emotion or thought. Honestly, the man is incapable of imagining anything outside of orders for his soldiers! I can't believe I am being forced to marry this brute, uncultured mongrel. My father gave me a warning look that said 'if you don't behave, you'll receive a lashing.'

I received that look quite more often that my other family members, and I simply smiled sheepishly and looked into Phoebus' blank gray eyes with a scowl. How am I ever to grow to be even fond of him when he has no emotions? He is attractive enough, with golden hair that is tied back in a throng and his body is desirable, if one cares for such follies. He had blue eyes and a patrician profile, giving him a stern but obviously noble born face. He is tall and broad, possessing a prominent walk and a fierce temper. His courageous actions are notable, but for all those traits he lacks in the ones that matter; the ability to be passionate, caring, and unique. He is the exact same as every other solider there ever has been and ever will be.

Not that it matters, my father arranged my marriage to be in favor of the church officials whom adore Phoebus and his winning streak in the war. And Phoebus is in love with my name and dowry.

And so I am sold to the highest bidder!

I fought down my thoughts for a later time and smiled, what I hoped was a genuine smile, willing him to excuse himself and ride off on his horse, Achilles, to save another damsel.

Because I do not need saving. And even if I did, it wouldn't come from the likes of him!

He nodded at me cordially and then bowed slightly to my father, "Lord Lapierre, Lady Adie" he finished with a little smirk as he turned sharply and began to stride away with his self-important walk. Abâtardi!

How dare he butcher of my name in such a horrid fashion! Just as I was about to yell something rude, and most certainly unladylike, the trumpets began to blast, announcing the entrance of the Bishop and Claude Frollo. I scowled at their airy waves and cold, placating masks they wore when passing the townspeople in their elaborate black carriage. How can we bow to such hypocrites? Allow them to tell us who is merciful and deserving of forgiveness when they are guilty of gluttony and vanity! Where is God's mercy when such cowards run the church?

"I can hear the treasonous thoughts prancing through your head, cher une, so enough" my father growled lowly in his most demanding voice, pulling me away from the drunkards stumbling through the crowd as he led my mother, brothers, sister and I to the tent where the nobility were ushered to watch the festivities away from the peasants.

My family bonds over their common goal of political gain and climbing the ladder of society by any means possible. My elder brother, John, is twenty-one and is enlisting in the royal guard this upcoming summer after his training is complete. He is like my father in mannerisms, rough and unyielding. My younger brother, Pierre, is seventeen and beginning University in the fall. He is softer, kinder, and I will miss him desperately. We are the closest of all of my siblings, and even then we are estranged from one another, since my mother does not approve of our adventures or radical ideas of happiness and rights for the people. Both of my brothers are large and burly, like my father, with dark brown hair and a square jaw-line, with full beards to match. My youngest sibling, Mary, is thirteen and like my mother in every manner. Stubborn, close-minded, and easily angered; honestly their emotional reactions make them easy targets for teasing. She is beautiful, with fine golden hair and small brown eyes, and my mother adores doting on her.

As for me... Well, I do not belong. I am nineteen, stubborn for all the wrong causes and, worse of all, a rebel-rouser.

I loathe my feeble existence. I have spent my entire life being dressed and paraded around as an ornament, controlled by my father and demeaned by my mother, and ho! Now I will be expected to answer to a husband whom I loathe. Not that Phoebus is not a just man, for I will begrudgingly admit that he is, however he lacks the emotional resonance I require for love! Am I to live my life as an ornament, is this what God has intended for me?

I had always thought I would be meant for more than this trivial life. Alas, apparently not.

The festivities were becoming more rakish as the promiscuous gypsy woman, Esmerelda, began her sensual dance. She is a beauty, thick dark hair with a red tint and piercing jade eyes. She appears to be about my build, but is able to move without the confines of multiple layers; staring at her, the freedom of her movements with her body, her ability to express her inner sexuality, caused me to turn an unbecoming shade of green.

How I wish I could be so free! So expressive! I stared at her with the deepest loathing in my eyes, wishing only for an ounce of her beauty or openness. When I glanced over the talkative nobles from where I sat, I realized I was not the only person entranced by her rhythmic song and exotic beauty. But whereas I was staring with callous jealousy, he was staring with a look I had rarely seen- primal lust.

I shivered from the pure carnal light in the Archdeacon's eyes when he gazed at Esmerelda and turned away, unwilling to see such inappropriate sights. The man, craved for affection as he was since he was too holy and 'good' for the whorehouses, longed for her body and nothing more. It sickened me, the idea a holy man was lusting after a woman in plain sight- and a gypsy woman no less!- so I turned to observe the crowd in order to distill my troubled thoughts.

Who is that? That odd figure, under the black cloak?

Just then, Esmerelda disappeared in a mist of purple smoke and the crowd was startled into silence. Before any raucousness could befall the Parisians, the head Gypsy, Clopin, called for the candidates for the King of Fools. I sighed heavily and sat back in my chair. It is always the same; a drunken, lowlife of society who does not deserve recognition for his folly and sins. This year will be no different, I mused irritably as I drank my thick mead.

And how incredible wrong I was.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo or the Disney interpretation