Disclaimer: It all belongs to Disney and Victor Hugo.

January 9, 1482

It took some work to step around everyone taking up floor space inside Notre Dame Cathedral, but such fancy footwork wasn't anything Clopin wasn't used to. The Archdeacon had graciously allowed many of the Gypsies to stay nights in the cathedral until they could find other places to set up a new home. They couldn't return to the Court of Miracles; not now that its location had been revealed to the gadje. There was the distinct possibility that they'd have to split up—meaning most of them would have to fend for themselves. The loss of the Court of Miracles was devastating. Clopin had originally managed to find a safe haven for them on the outskirts of the city and had set up a system for defending the Court from intruders. And it was for this that he had been made their king. But now he would not be able to protect them all. While there had been cause earlier that day to celebrate Frollo's defeat at the hands of Quasimodo and Esmeralda (technically; they both denied delivering the fatal blow), and Clopin had been overjoyed, to say the least, when Esmeralda walked alive out of the cathedral, that moment of rejoicing had passed, and now the reality of their situation washed over the king of Gypsies. He needed some space to himself to think. He didn't want restless little voices asking him why he looked so pensive and angry.

Clopin made his way toward a flight of stairs that he could only guess led up to the bell tower. The hunchback lived up there, and while Clopin was grateful for Quasimodo's role in ultimately ridding his people of one of their greatest enemies, he didn't feel like speaking to the young man just yet. Quasimodo was, after all, still partially responsible for the loss of the Court of Miracles.

Clopin turned away from the staircase, muttering to himself in Romani. He saw the Archdeacon making rounds with a pail of water, offering refreshment to the few who were still awake. Clopin noted the man's distinct hobble, recalling that he'd admitted to being injured by Frollo during the siege on Notre Dame. Yet the sickeningly pious man was still limping around trying to do his sacred duty. Clopin snorted. It must be some kind of facade. Surely even the kindest gadjo had to be simply putting on a mask.

The Archdeacon looked up to see the Romani man in the feathered cap staring at him with an odd expression that that could best be described as a cross between an untrusting glare and a bemused smirk. He made his way over to where Clopin stood.

"You should get some rest, my friend. You've had an exhausting past few days." The Archdeacon reached out to put a hand on the Gypsy's shoulder, intending to guide him back to his mat, but Clopin flinched away.

"You're one to talk," Clopin responded, nodding toward the leg the Archdeacon was favoring. "How very noble of you, exacerbating your injuries to give water to poor Gypsies sleeping on your church floor."

The Archdeacon ignored the sardonic tone with which Clopin spoke. "What Frollo failed to comprehend," he said in response, "was that these people are no more or less human than himself. Christ commands us to do unto the least of these His kindness. I am but a humble follower of His command."

Clopin rolled his eyes. "Yes, because all we'll ever be is the 'least of these,' so of course you must pity us, helpless creatures that we are. Of course, that help only applies right up until someone complains about the smell, or some fine, silver candelabra goes missing, no? Then we're no longer welcome." Clopin began to lean against a nearby pillar, but the pain in his back reminded him not to do such a thing. Frollo had taken great delight in having the jester who annoyed him so much flogged. Especially after a guard reported to him that one of Clopin's concerned citizens had referred to him as the Gypsy king. The Rom had been returned to his cell with a very raw back—which was now one of the primary factors in his current insomnia. His quick reaction to the pain of his back making contact with the marble pillar did not go unnoticed by the Archdeacon.

"Have your own injuries been treated?" the old man asked.

Clopin waved him off. "Of course they have. Why wouldn't they be? They're minor, anyway. I can barely even feel them."

It wasn't hard to tell he was lying. The Archdeacon gave a slight shake of his head. "If it's the pain that keeps you awake, I can have the monks help you with a salve and fresh bandages."

This earned a fierce glare from Clopin, which startled the Archdeacon. "Or you can just cut the act," the Rom growled.

"What?"

"I don't know what you're expecting from us, but I do know that no gadjo is genuinely kind to my people without some ulterior motive. Even that moron captain has his motives; he wants La Esmeralda. Sure, he'll be all noble and sympathetic, but just watch; once he gets what he wants, he'll have no more use for her than that...that monster did after Esme rejected his advances up on that pyre! Everything you gadje do is just an act! A facade! It's a mask, and I can see right through it!"

The Archdeacon waited patiently for Clopin to end his rant, then said in a low voice, "It seems to me you're every bit as quick to judge someone on the color of their skin as Frollo was. Perhaps the two of you had more in common than you thought, if one dares to look beneath the surface."

Clopin gaped at the man, rage welling up inside of him. How dare this ignorant gadjo compare him to that evil Frollo! Oh, how he wished he could put his fist through the man's face, but he checked himself. No sense in getting everyone thrown out into what was the first genuinely cold night of the month; not with snow finally starting to fall outside after days of unseasonable warmth. He settled for clenching his fists at his side. "What?" he snarled. "What do you mean by that?"

The Archdeacon shrugged. "I'm merely suggesting that perhaps the only one wearing the mask here is you, my child. I've only ever seen you in the past with a mask concealing who you are. Are you sure you've removed it? The house of God is really not the place for such things, you know. If there's anyone who can see through a mask, it's Him."

With that, the old priest turned and limped away, leaving Clopin to his thoughts. The Gypsy king gave a frustrated grunt, spun on his heel, and charged up the stairs without thinking of where they led.

Eventually, Clopin found himself between the towers of Notre Dame, with a rather lovely view of Paris. The waning moon was breaking through the clouds, illuminating the snow-covered roofs of the city. Some snow still fell, and there was a slight breeze that made Clopin shiver. But at least it was peaceful up here. Clopin leaned over the rail and sighed. The Archdeacon's words echoed in his head: "The only one wearing a mask is you. Are you sure you've removed it?"

Clopin shook his head. What mask? Around his own people, he was himself. The public did not deserve to know him as he truly was. They wanted a jester; a stereotypical Gypsy who lived to amuse them with his acrobatics, jokes and musical abilities. They wanted the "stumbling fool"; the man who had become Clopin Trouillefou in order to satisfy their demands and earn their coin. They didn't want a man who was regarded as a leader, who fiercely protected his home, who loved the traditions of the Roma, who hated having to resort to stealing to eke out a living, who bled like any other man, and who never, ever, ever wanted to relive the terror he felt when he realized that his worst nightmares were about to come true. When that bumbling idiot of a captain had announced that Frollo was coming, Clopin knew immediately that the judge would not wait until dawn, as the blond gadjo claimed. He was at the doorstep. Their arrest was imminent. And Clopin was helpless to protect his people. Helpless to keep them from being roped and chained, and dragged off to what Frollo promised would be their execution. Helpless as he watched his surrogate sister be bound to the stake, with bundles of kindling tossed haphazardly around her.

And yet at no point did he dare allow even his own people to see just how helpless and terrified he had felt in those moments. He did not allow them to realize the crushing weight upon him as he considered himself an abysmal failure for focusing all his efforts on hanging two relatively harmless intruders, thus allowing Frollo and his troops to waltz right in and take over their home. He refused to confide even in Esmeralda how he really felt about the whole situation, returning to his role as jester, storyteller and puppeteer after the sun was high in the sky and the crowd of Parisians realized that Quasimodo was not the monster they'd assumed him to be. It was his job to act the part of the fool in order to entertain the children. It was his job to be stalwart, pretending he had never suffered more than an inconvenience, so that his people might have confidence that all would be well for them. It was his job to wear those masks...

Clopin rubbed his cheek, where his mask normally sat. Perhaps the Archdeacon was right. Perhaps he was wearing a mask that needed to be removed. After all, would it really be such a tragedy if he put away Clopin Trouillefou for a while? Did he really need to be that man on any day that wasn't a festival? The gadje already knew he was the Gypsy king; could it really do him anymore harm to just be himself, without any pretenses, for the first time in his adult life? Maybe even convince the Roma to start calling him by his real name again. Come to that, he couldn't recall ever having told Esmeralda what his real name was. Or her real name, for that matter. He was one of only two people who had ever learned what her mother had called her when she was born, and the other was long dead. And he himself had given her the name La Esmeralda. Was he forcing Esme to wear a mask that she didn't want to wear?

Clopin smirked to himself and shook his head. No, Esme seemed content with who she was now. And the Gypsies needed their king. They needed someone to be strong, not vulnerable, if they were to have any hope of securing a home for themselves over the coming days. Clopin would just have to keep wearing the mask. It was what he was good at, after all.

He turned to head back downstairs when he heard soft, uneven footfalls behind him. He peered over his shoulder to see the hunchback limping toward him, a blanket in his hands. The boy stopped a few yards from him, seemingly uncertain of what to do next. He held the blanket out to Clopin, his hands trembling.

"Um...E-Esmeralda saw you out here. She and Phoebus and I were just talking about everything that's happened. You know, trying to make sense of it all, discussing what's gonna happen now...all that technical stuff. She...she was hoping you could join us. I-It's a bit chilly up here, even in the bell tower, so I brought a blanket for you."

Clopin turned and regarded Quasimodo for a moment. He wasn't sure at this point whether or not he should still be mad at the bell ringer, or grateful to him. He reached out to accept the blanket.

"Dweebus is up there with her, is he?" Clopin said bitterly, wrapping the blanket around himself before shooting a glare in the direction of the tower. His expression softened a bit, then he grinned sadistically. "Well, we'd best be certain the idiot gadjo doesn't make anymore potentially fatal mistakes tonight, for his sake." He theatrically waved a hand over the walkway. "Lead the way, mon ami."

Quasimodo gave him a confused look for a moment. Then he chuckled softly. "Come on, Esmeralda's waiting for you. And...for what it's worth, Phoebus' intentions were genuinely good."

Clopin raised an eyebrow at him. "I'll be the judge of that," he quipped.

As the two made their way to the bell tower, Clopin considered the tongue lashing and threats he would pour out on the captain. Maybe he would always wear a mask, and maybe he would take it off someday. But for now, letting his ire at the blond officer be known was as real as it could get, and Clopin Trouillefou planned to relish every moment of it.

AN: Inspired by the moment Clopin steps out of the shadows to greet Phoebus and Quasi in the Court of Miracles. I've always loved how the first time we see him without his carnival mask, he's still wearing a mask of sorts, but one that denotes his darker nature. Yet for all that he has removed the magenta mask that conceals half his face, we still are not privy to seeing the real man. He's still a mystery; still putting on an act. I wanted to explore that a bit.

Clopin's name is heavily implied in the book to be a stage name. It translates roughly to "stumbling fool," and refers to his crippled beggar persona. We never find out his real name, and frankly, we don't need to know. For those of you who have read the book, you can probably guess that Esmeralda's given name at birth was Agnes. She doesn't remember being called anything other than Esmeralda. In this story, I'm going with my head canon that Esmeralda's father was a Rom - Quasimodo's maternal uncle, in fact - who kidnapped Esme as a baby because her mother was a prostitute, and he didn't want her growing up in that environment. Esme's father was arrested while trying to sneak his sister and nephew into Paris to the Court of Miracles. He died in prison, probably as a result of torture.