Dance On Our Graves, a hunchback of notre dame fanfic

Title: Dance On Our Graves

Pairing(s): Quasimodo/Esmeralda, with hints of Phoebus/Esmeralda and Frollo/Esmeralda

Warnings: Mild sensuality

A/N: I blame this on Garou being so incredibly good looking and too much caffeine. This took me months to write, not because I had writers block, but because I forgot about it. Oops. Thank you very muchly to SweetSeptemberStorm for betaing this, and making it better.

The first time you see her it feels like you've been struck by lightning. (This of course, isn't possible because it isn't stormy at all, you reason, unless it was a storm in your heart) She places the crown upon your head, and looks as if she's trying hard to stifle a look of revulsion from gracing her lovely face. You look away from her ebony irises as a pang of mortification courses through your veins. You've never seen a girl as pretty as her. Granted, you've seen plenty of women, but none of them have been nearly as beautiful; long locks of hair as dark as the nighttime sky fall to the small of her back, with lips that shame even the reddest of roses. All around onlookers and spectators whisper the name of the gypsy girl in varying tones. Esmeralda, the gypsy girl.

She scurries away from you with her big black eyes full of fear—but also with the glint of childish curiosity with which you have grown familiar.

One must become accustomed to being feared when you are the terror of Paris.

Claude Frollo, Archdeacon of Josas; throughout Paris he was known as a godlike figure, a solemn man who wore a mysterious air like a fragrance.

For you however, he's the only father you've ever known. Sometimes he comes to visit, sitting there coolly while you prattle on and on about the bells. He'll ask you little questions here and there, which you of course, are happy to answer. You aren't sure quite sure what love is, (Claude never mentions it) so the emotions you feel for him are unidentifiable. He's the one who taught you to speak, read, and write, and in return you respect and will do whatever the priest asks.

Anything.

The glitz and glamour of the Festival of Fools has long since died down, leaving the streets and alleys relatively quiet in its wake. Already the sun has descended, making room for the moon that blankets Paris in a veil of silver. Once in awhile a laugh or shout can be heard echoing through the empty streets, breaking the eerie silence. Everyone who had participated in the festival had long since gone inside, either hurrying to bed after too much to drink or taking out another bottle that had been saved for just the right occasion.

Yet here you stood, in a dark street with just the moon for a light, staring dumbstruck at the forbidding man before you.

"Did you hear me Quasimodo? I told you to find that gypsy witch and bring her back to Notre Dame. She must be reprimanded for her crimes against God," Claude says with more malice and venom than you previously thought him capable of.

There's a certain fire in his dark eyes that's disturbing, seemingly ignited by the appearance of this gypsy girl. Your throat goes dry, and the palms of your hands turn sweaty. You'd do anything for Frollo—this is a fact. On the other hand, the thought of abducting Esmeralda makes your insides churn, as you have many theories as to what the word reprimand could mean for her. Imprisonment, torture, and death even; all these words accumulate in your head until you feel like you could burst. However-

"I'll do anything you ask of me," you whisper, leaving the priest standing in the street.

Claude Frollo is a good man; a priest above all things. Surely he wouldn't bring harm to the gypsy girl…

At least, that's what you keep telling yourself and you repeat it over and over in your head.

The merciless sun beats down on your skin. The minutes tick by and you amuse yourself by observing the faces in the crowd. Most have a merry look, while every once in awhile, a sympathetic face can be found. Needless to say, you were caught while trying to abduct Esmeralda and were sentenced for your crime. Nevertheless, you are thankful you were caught while trying to kidnap her; you have no idea what Claude was planning to do with Esmeralda, but with your capture you know she is safe from whatever the priest was arranging.

While you are glad Esmeralda is out of harm's way, martyrdom is pure, unadulterated hell. You've already experienced the lashing (you managed to get through it while envisioning Esmeralda's face) and now are sentenced to the pillory for countless hours. The heat is blistering, which has convinced many Parisians to skip out on observing this particular sentence. This causes much displeasure to those who sentenced you, each of whom were looking forward to a large crowd. You don't know how many hours it's been, but your throat has become incredibly parched.

"Please, something to drink. Please, someone have pity," you shout despite your dry throat. Some of the people step back in horror upon hearing your voice, while others begin to laugh. You lick your lips and decide to accept your fate when the steps of the platform you're tied to creak. Looking up (and quite expecting it to be someone else come to mock you) you are struck dumb with who stands there: Esmeralda.

The extreme heat has affected even Esmeralda; her long black curls rest damply on her face while beads of perspiration trickle down her neck and into places you dare not to think of. Confusion plagues both your mind and face as you try to figure out why Esmeralda is standing here. You expect that she has come to jeer and laugh; her own punishment for the kidnapping attempt. Yet, she licks her own chapped lips and holds her flask of water out, gesturing for you to drink. Shock courses through you as you look up into her smoldering dark irises. Esmeralda smiles and gestures for you to drink. At first, admittedly, you don't want to obey for a fear of tainting the flask with your accursed lips.

"Come on, drink. It's alright," she urges sweetly. Refusing her is impossible, so of course you oblige and drink the water. It runs down your throat and feels absolutely wonderful and deliciously cool.

"T-thank you very much," you manage to stutter, and wince as Esmeralda flinches at the sound of your gruff voice. She only flashes a quick smile, and scurries away from you for the second time.

Suddenly the sun doesn't feel so hot on your skin, nor do the ropes that tie you down feel so tight anymore. Seeing Esmeralda has erased any pain that you've had.

It was like she was a speck of stardust caught in your eye. The world around you had suddenly become illuminated like the stain glass windows in Notre Dame. Your love for Esmeralda, it seems, has made the dark and cruel world suddenly beautiful. Hymns that the priests sing suddenly have all new meanings; stars in the coal black sky all have a wish attached to them (please let Esmeralda love me), while the gargoyles are all told how absolutely enchanting she is.

Time passes slowly, until you can no longer count on your fingers the days that have gone by since you haven't seen Esmeralda. There are some mornings where the sound of a tambourine can be heard playing, or perhaps even the bleating of a goat. You treasure these rare moments, and wish oh so terribly to see her again. However, you will have to be content with just dreaming of her dancing.

It's hope, above all other things, that gets you through the long days.

A fleeting breeze blows through your hair while the sun's harsh rays blind your sensitive eyes. The world could be frozen over and your limbs could've turned blue, yet you wouldn't have even noticed for your heart has stopped beating.

Esmeralda is sentenced to death.

Esmeralda will die.

You can't imagine what Paris would be like without her. Before, your life was mundane—an endless routine of ringing the bells day after day. But when Esmeralda came though, everything changed for the better. You can't bear to think your colorful world would return to the monochromatic and lifeless place it once had been.

So for one time in your life, you will do something of your own accord.

It seems unfair and cruel that on such a tragic day the world should look so beautiful. A golden sun peaks out on the horizon, banishing the stars and moon until night descends again. You realize that under different circumstances, Esmeralda wouldn't be facing the gallows but would probably be waking and preparing to dance. The streets are crowded with people, perhaps more crowded than on the festival of fools. If there's something the Parisians enjoy more than wine and tomfoolery, it's an execution. The allurement and inexplicable enjoyment of watching someone die before their very eyes cannot be fully described; you wonder when the populace became so bloodthirsty.

The crowd begins to subside, as a cart makes its way down the streets. Sitting upon it with her head held high in makeshift pride is Esmeralda, wearing a flimsy white chemise that makes your cheeks turn the slightest shade of crimson. You climb down the cathedral to get a better look and notice that even though Esmeralda is trying desperately to appear calm, tears cling to her dark irises. (Oh how you wish you could run to her and wipe her tears away!)

The cart stops in front of Notre Dame, and Esmeralda is led to the steps where Claude Frollo (even thinking his name now sends a strange wave of rage through you) walks over to her. He says things to Esmeralda that you cannot hear, but they make the gypsy visibly shake with fear. (How you wish you could save her from the priest that probably counts her heartbeats!)

And then an idea forms in your head. What if for once you were the hero that saves Esmeralda? Maybe then she'd fall in love with you like she did with that soldier…

And so you do just that.

Your heart beats faster than normal; you shift awkwardly as you wring your hands and gulp. Esmeralda is lying on your bed. Esmeralda is curled up in your blankets, with a smile gracing her full lips.

This must be a dream. This has to be a dream.

It is not.

It's been a few days since her execution date, and she has yet to awaken. No doubt this is her best sleep in awhile (you feel oddly satisfied at this), and nothing or anyone could dare would make you wake her. The first days had been rather unreal; just knowing Esmeralda wasn't far away was both nerve-wracking and perfectly splendid at the same time. Admittedly, you both longed for and dreaded the day she'd open her eyes. Would Esmeralda be grateful for being rescued, or upon seeing your twisted form would she wish for the death she had been denied? Time would tell, but in the meantime you busied yourself with ringing the bells and tending to her swollen little foot. (How could someone dare to torture an angel?)

You've just been standing around idly, when all of a sudden her eyes flutter open. Your heart leaps as she sits up and slowly takes in her surroundings…and you. Her eyes widen, and she visibly stifles a gasp, which of course is painful to you to witness.

"You're the…bell ringer," Esmeralda states simply, keeping her eyes transfixed on the floor. She cannot bear to look at you, that much is simple. The little gesture feels like a knife has pierced your heart, and you curse yourself because you should be used to this by now.

"Thank you for saving me," she continues, finally meeting your gaze. A few seconds pass and Esmeralda is staring at the floor again, finding the task of staring at you too hard to bear.

"I'm sorry you have to look at me, I know that I am monster," you mumble, stepping out of the little room.

"You might be ugl-different, but you have a beautiful heart. No one else would've done what you did," Esmeralda smiles faintly. Suddenly the room feels scorching hot, and your stomach starts doing somersaults like the gypsies did at the festival of fools. (How you wish you could finally tell her she brings beauty into your world and how the cathedral could be her home if she wanted)

"Thank you." But that's all you can manage to say. Esmeralda shifts awkwardly, and draws her knees to her chest, no doubt feeling a bit self-conscious in her flimsy chemise.

"How is your foot doing?" you ask, breaking the deafening silence.

"It's feeling—wait, you tended it?" Esmeralda only now takes notice of her bandaged foot.

"I thought I'd never be able to dance ever again… Thank you, it appears you've saved my life more than once." Her smile melts your heart, as you begin to once more depart.

"I-I'll leave you now," you say timidly, wanting to leave, but at the same time longing to bask in her angelic presence. Esmeralda only nods, and doesn't give you any indication she wants you to stay. (Not that you expected that) So you leave and feel like in the first time in your life not like the stoic gargoyles or a monster, but like a real human with feelings…of love.

"Tell me, what do you ring those bells for?" Esmeralda asks, unable to hide the curiosity creeping into her voice. She points towards three particular bells that stand apart from the rest. You are stunned. Esmeralda hasn't spoken much to you at all, save for a quick, noncommittal 'good morning', or 'lovely weather we're having'. She chooses to stay in her room, spending all of her time with Djali. She doesn't ever seem to take notice that you've grown thinner, on account that you've been giving her your food. You'd give up everything and anything for her. Yet, Esmeralda is suddenly taking a sudden interest in your bells? You cannot contain your own childish glee coursing through your veins.

"When I ring the littlest Mary," you gesture towards a smaller, shining bell, "It's for when children die, so she can send them to heaven." A misty gleam materializes in Esmeralda's eyes, and you assume her tears are on behalf of the children. A part of you feels ashamed to have made Esmeralda sorrowful.

"This one is rung for the soldier's that sail off to sea, so that they may have safe passage. A-and the last one…" Your voice suddenly trails off, as your gaze falls to the ground. Esmeralda frowns and pouts her lip.

"Yes, what do you ring the last one for?" She doesn't seem to notice your apparent distress over the last bell, the biggest of all the Marys.

"I-I ring it when lovers exchange vows."

Esmeralda understands perfectly now, for her complexion reddens and her dark eyes cannot bear to look at you. She draws her knees to her chest, and bites down on her lower lip, as if carefully choosing her words.

"I'm sure that someday, a girl will truly learn to love you-" And then Esmeralda realizes what she's just said, and quickly shuts her mouth. The minutes pass by slowly, as a deep silence looms in the air. Somewhere off in the distance children can be heard laughing, while the sounds of the daily goings-on in Paris continue. Yet in the one place that is usually never quiet, there is only silence.

Esmeralda looks as if she's inwardly scolding herself for the lack of discretion. You'd like to tell her that you take no offense, for you really don't, (that's what you make yourself believe) because you've grown used to the fact no woman will ever learn to love you. Perhaps deep down in the recesses of your heart, there is a little light of hope that maybe, just maybe as the days go by that Esmeralda will –

No. You don't dare to finish that thought.

"I best be getting back to Djali now," Esmeralda quickly stands, unable to make up something to soothe the strained silence, and smoothes the wrinkles from her chemise. As Esmeralda starts to depart, suddenly she lurches forward and hugs a beam for support.

"Are you alright?" You ask, choosing to ignore the string of colorful oaths that you never thought you'd ever hear come from the angel before you.

"I-I'm fine. It's just my foot." Esmeralda whimpers, putting on a brave face as she tries to start walking once more.

"I could look at it if you like-" Your offer isn't even considered as a flash of panic appears in her eyes and face.

"No-no. I'm quite alright, thank you though." And with that, Esmeralda limps away, choosing excruciating pain over having you touch her.

The best time of day (in your mind) is when Esmeralda sleeps. For a short amount of time she's able to escape the fact that she's condemned to die and that her precious captain hasn't saved her yet. You like knowing that even for only a little while Esmeralda can rid herself of such troubles.

And yet, that isn't the only reason.

Every night you watch her sleep, and while one half of you is mildly ashamed at doing such a thing, the joy that overcomes your entire being cannot be described in words alone. With Esmeralda's long dark locks sprawled across her (your) bed, cheeks rosy from sleeping on them, and the way she curls up in a little ball, Esmeralda looks like a sleeping angel. In the back of your mind you vaguely remember a tale about a princess that slept for one hundred years, until a handsome prince came along and kissed her. Esmeralda looks the perfect image of what the sleeping princess probably looked like.

And oh how you wish you were that handsome prince.

Days pass slowly in the cathedral; an hour can feel like a week, while a month can seem like a year. Esmeralda wanders around aimlessly, dividing her between looking after Djali and staring out longingly at Paris. While she may very well be in the cathedral, her heart, her soul is elsewhere. You two rarely speak; sometimes she'll watch you ring the bells, but not very often. You once heard her remark to Djali that if she ever gets out of this place, she wants to go somewhere where she'll never have to hear another bell ring again.

A month, two months pass…

Nothing. Never once does Esmeralda learn to like or even love you like you had once upon a time hoped.

And then-

"Quasimodo! Quasimodo!" Esmeralda shouts, as if her life very well depends on it. You race to find her, fearing for the very worst. A whole list of scenarios run through your head as to what could be wrong, none of them particularly pleasant. When you do find her, Esmeralda is half leaning over the railing, wilding pointing and shouting at something.

"It's Phoebus! Look down there! There he is! Oh, is it possible that his hair has become even more golden?" she says dreamily, eyes in a daze. Indeed, there off in the distance is Phoebus, with this armor shining in the last of the sun's golden rays. Your heart plummets as a sickening feeling grips your insides. This is the moment you've dreaded and at the same time waited for; it was bound to happen. All things must come to an end; did you honestly expect that Esmeralda would stay here forever? If she hadn't seen her dear Phoebus, more than likely she would've become a shadow of her former self. (Gypsies don't do well behind stone walls.)

"You have to get him for me! If he realizes that I'm up here, he'll come rescue me and take me away from this awful place. Go now!" She cries, directing her attention back down below.

"I-I don't think that's a very good idea-"

"When in your life have you ever possibly thought about anything besides the bells? Now listen to me and bring Phoebus up here!" Esmeralda screams, as a fiery rage takes over her usually docile dark eyes. As she turns back to look upon Phoebus again, her face sinks.

"He-he's gone," she whispers, backing away slowly from the railing. For a few moments she remains quiet, but the agonizing pain is apparent in her eyes. Then, she looks to you.

"You imbecile! That was my one chance to get out of this godforsaken place! You and your idiotic self had to go and ruin everything! I wish you had just let me hang then to rot away high above from everyone. Now I truly know why they crowned you the king of fools!" Esmeralda screams, and with one final look, runs off.

Hours later, well after nighttime has fallen, Esmeralda finds you sitting on the railing beside the gargoyles. She leans on the balustrade next to you, and doesn't say a word. The both of you remain silent, choosing to stare at the great expanse of stars instead of talking. And then, suddenly, Esmeralda takes your hand in hers, and gives you a small smile.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, before swiftly departing into the night almost like a ghost.

The sun has just descended, while the stars start appearing like diamonds in the darkened sky. Constellations that all probably had exquisite names (Claude would all probably know) sparkled high in the ocean of stars; some offered a way home to a weary sailor, while others simply were just beautiful to behold.

And then-

"Your eyes are pretty," Esmeralda whispers, so low in fact that you almost didn't catch it.

"They're like two sapphires, even though I've never actually seen jewels like that before. Others have described them to me. I could honestly just stare into them all day and night," she continues whimsically, yawning in the process. You of course are completely stunned, because this is your first compliment that you've ever received. It's almost unfathomable to imagine that it just occurred, and you almost pinch yourself to make sure this isn't a dream.

Just as you're about to thank her, Esmeralda suddenly falls onto your shoulder, eyes closed in apparent sleep. You catch her and take her in your arms, and slowly carry the young girl into the cell-like room she now calls home. Her intoxicating scent (of lilacs and foreign spices from faraway lands) drifts into your nostrils,

"Tell me, are you dreaming of your handsome solider?"

Esmeralda slowly begins to open up more and more. She tells tales of far off sights, and describes them in such vivid detail you can picture the places in your head. Esmeralda illustrates to you how the ocean looks, so well that you can almost feel the sea breeze upon your face.

"Do you remember your family?" you ask one day, a bit surprised at your boldness. She remains quiet for a few moments, with her eyes closed as if trying to recall a distant memory.

"No, I don't. Sometimes I think I can remember my mother's smile, or perhaps even the sound of her laugh. Do you remember yours?" Esmeralda asks in return.

"I was just a baby when I was abandoned here at Notre Dame. Claude Frollo is the only family I've ever known," you say with far more emotion then intended. Esmeralda looks at you tearfully, and then clasps her hand in yours.

"We can be family then," she says with a smile.

Family.

You like the sound of that.

One time you ask Esmeralda how she feels hearing all of Paris call her a witch and sorceress. She only responds with a little laugh and says they are all entitled to think what they will, but you notice how she begins to fade.

Her rosy complexion turns pale, while not even the sight of glittering stars and purple-and-pink-hued horizons can amuse her. You pretend not to hear (but the stab of pain in your chest says you do) Esmeralda murmur Phoebus's name during her slumber. These are just events and moments that you've come to expect, because true happiness is an emotion that an abomination like you cannot ever fully experience.

Sleep begins to overcome you. It's one of your favorite times of day, for you don't have to feel the extreme pain of your mangled form; on the other hand, it also means you won't be able to see Esmeralda, except in your dreams. Just as you are about to drift off, a blood-curdling scream jolts you awake.

"Quasimodo! Quasimodo!" Esmeralda cries; her voice echoing off the cathedral's walls. For a minute you wonder if perhaps she's seen her darling Captain again, and yet, there's urgency in her voice which makes your heart beat wildly. You race towards her room, shove open the door and are granted with a horrible sight. Someone has pinned Esmeralda to her bed, and now lies upon her, trailing violent kisses against her throat. In a matter of seconds the offender is pushed up against the wall, without any chance at escaping. You seldom ever are blinded with rage, but now as someone has dared to touch Esmeralda they must pay the price.

However, the moon has other plans.

A sliver of pale light creeps in through the window and illuminates the face of the perpetrator. Time stands still as you gasp. Even Esmeralda lets out a sharp breath. Standing pinned to the wall is Claude Frollo himself, his face was completely unreadable, but there is still a spark of lust that radiates in his eyes. He takes advantage of your bewilderment and pushes you off, striding out of the room without a care in the world.

Claude, the man that unselfishly took you in as a son, the man that was the first to tell you of the Lord, would do something like this? You yourself understand the allurement Esmeralda exudes, but is it powerful enough to dethrone the most faithful of men? It certainly seemed like that.

Forgoing the disbelief that still rattles your bones, you turn to Esmeralda. She's curled herself into a little ball, with tears streaming down her face. How you long to reach out to her and tell her it's all right, that you'll always be there to protect her. (She'd probably just pull away though.) Esmeralda sits up finally, smoothes back her hair and fixes the bodice of her dress.

"Thank you," she manages to say while stifling a sob.

"You're welcome." (Those aren't the words you want to say. You want to tell her you love her and that you'll be her hero like in those stories.)

"I-I'd like some time alone." Her voice is strong and resolute, like the gypsy you know, not the sad young girl that you don't like seeing.

So you obey her words and leave, while trying ever so hard to push her sobs from your mind.

If there's something that you never expected to witness, it would be people destroying Notre Dame. They come in hoards, with fiery torches and high-pitched voices, all crying one name: Esmeralda. You panic—they've come to take her away and carry out the execution they were denied.

Of course, you decide to fight back. There's no way they're going to take away your Esmeralda. You do everything in your power to drive them away (things that you never ever want to do again) and they eventually do retreat. You feel overjoyed as they depart, and you race to tell Esmeralda the good news. No doubt she's heard what's going on and is probably worried.

As you push open the door to her room, you expect to see her lying on her bed, with Djali close by.

And yet she's not.

Desperate, you search the room, and then the cathedral. Esmeralda isn't sitting by the bells marveling at their size; she's not leaning on the balustrade counting the stars; nor is she dancing her gypsy dances under the light of the moon.

She's gone.

You have never in your life cried before, except for those moments as a baby which were natural. But when you discover that Esmeralda is gone, for the first time you honest-to-God just cry. Crystalline tears fall from the sapphire eyes she said she adored, and sobs that could almost pass for inhuman echo off the cathedral walls. You fall to the stone ground, and barely even feel the pain shooting up throughout your knees.

An insufferable amount of time passes, and it is only then that you began to feel your throat become hoarse, or the pain of your stinging eyes. By now the stars have disappeared one by one, overpowered by the power of the flaming sun. If anyone nearby had been up at such an ungodly hour, they would undoubtedly have been able to hear the sound of your heart breaking into millions of pieces. Not even the sound of the angelic bells that you used to ring will ever be able to mend your broken heart.

She is gone.

Gone.

Just like your reason for living.

Swaying, swaying, and swaying. Esmeralda's limp body hangs from the gibbet; her white chemise flutters like a bird's wings, while her ebony locks dance through the air. You want to look away as she draws her last breath, but your eyes remain transfixed on her like the gargoyles next to you.

And she is dead.

Dead.

Just like your heart is now.

A million things never said, fleeting memories of exchanged looks, hidden meanings behind words, urges and desires and dreams never carried out, they all whirl though your mind.

And then you notice Claude Frollo.

And your vision blurs.

It happens in slow motion: with one single move, Claude is knocked over the railing and dangles from the sky. He caused this, he did this; if it weren't for him Esmeralda would be rising with her goat to begin another day of dancing, not hanging by her neck, stone cold and dead.

"She's all that I ever loved!" you cry as Claude loses his grip and plunges to the ground.

Death fills your nostrils as you stare at Esmeralda's body, which lies on the ground far away from the other rotting corpses. You think perhaps the people that took away her body noticed her beauty and couldn't bear to toss her in a pile with the others.

You slowly make your way to Esmeralda and pick her up to rock her back and forth like a mother would with her baby. Already her warmth is starting to wane, just as the color of her rosy lips and cheeks has begun to fade. Even though it has only been a few hours, time as already started to ravage the gypsy's body. For the second time that day, tears begin to fall from your eyes; you vaguely remember the fairy story of the prince that kissed a princess and how she woke up. Could that happen in real life? You press your lips against Esmeralda's, and dare to hope that perhaps…just maybe…

But she remains cold and dead.

"Won't you dance one more time Esmeralda? Just one more time for me?" You sob, as you bury your face into her hair and catch the quickly fading scent of foreign spices she used to exude.

Days go by until they cannot be counted on your fingers. It is just you and your Esmeralda, lying side by side together. Hunger begins to plague your body, and a certain lightheadedness begins to take over as death looms near. However, you aren't afraid, because if heaven is as what you've learned, then you shall see Esmeralda once again. You do hope she won't be too frightened of you when you see her again, in the great beyond.

"It is not death to die for you Esmeralda," you sigh.

You then take her small hand, as everything goes black.