Light shone through the dim corridors of the Notre Dame bell tower as the bells swung and rang out across Paris. Charles stood alone amongst the rafters, breathing heavily with a tired grin on his face. He staggered and grabbed onto the rails as the toll of the bells vibrated through his body. Closing his eyes, he spends a few precious moments to enjoy the sound until his knees threaten to give way under his own weight.

He's unable to stand on his own for longer periods of time now, an observation he unhappily takes note of.

Clutching the railing like a lifeline, he half sits, half falls into the wheelchair next to him, nearly hitting the back of his head against it in the process. A groan of pain escapes his lips before he can stop it, and he takes a few moments to catch his breath before tiredly wheeling himself over to the balcony, to steal a quick glimpse of the city below.

It's breathtaking; it always has been. No matter how many years go by, Charles would always appreciate the view. But today, of all days, held the best view of all. Today was the greatly renowned Feast of Fools. A day of rare entertainment for Charles, for it was held in Notre Dame's courtyard, in perfect view. At the height of activity, the high thrum of excitement and joy was very nearly palpable for Charles, with happy thoughts and laugh induced stupors echoing through his mind and in turn, lifting his own spirit. It was early yet, with the sun still creeping over the rooftops, casting the early morning mist aglow. Banners were still being hung and stands were making their final arrangements, but there was a still a trickle of an early crowd beginning to form; mostly family members eager to get their fill of food and demure conversation before it was all swept away and drowned out in the city crowd. Charles felt his smile widen; Truly a calm before the oncoming storm..., and he wheels himself from the archway towards the center of the room, to begin the day's work.

The crowds would be sparing in the cathedral, but present nonetheless. A few uptight festival naysayers, who were laughingly the same every year, but then there were also one or two stray drunken souls who would sometimes stumble through the gates. Most of whom would feverishly pray for forgiveness for their drunken sins. Or for more wine, Charles mused, closing his eyes. Once or twice the priest's sacramental wine had gone missing; but Charles couldn't keep track of everything in the cathedral, could he? His smile widened.

Most of it was all harmless fun. A few years before however, a group of teenagers had dared one another to go up to the belltower and ring the bells, and had made it quite far; before Charles gently nudged their minds to think twice about it, sending them back down the spiral staircase in confused daze. Part of him hoped this year would be as exciting, but the wiser half knew otherwise. As with every year, too, dawdling by the window to merely watch the crowds and festivities was not allowed. Instead, Shaw expected a full report on the worshippers below and their prayers. Hopefully, if the crowds would thin inside, he could spare time.

With a sigh, he leaned his head back and extended his consciousness to the people below. There were incredibly few for this morning's mass, as expected, and most of the minds were familiar. He brushed across them, catching glimpses of their thoughts. A public official and his wife, both still praying for their first child. The cobbler, who had been frequenting only recently, still praying for forgiveness over a quarrel he had with his son. It had ended badly, as far as Charles could tell, for he was unwilling to pry into the man's thoughts further. He had learned long ago the harsh repercussions it could carry, after admitting to Raven he had dug into her head solely out of concern, when he had found her crying in the stairwell when they were still children. Raven knew he had meant well, but had still given him a blistering lecture about how people really don't appreciate it when you bring up, or look through memories without permission. He hadn't done it since.

Slowly, Charles scanned over the minds one by one. A few stragglers wandered in, before finally it seemed to settle. Charles opened his eyes and wheeled over to his desk, taking up his charcoal. The prayers are the same as they've always been, and he begins to write them wearily. Of course, though most unchanging, they still must be properly recorded. Charles skillfully writes the people's names, and then their prayers. An internal part of him always recoils at the clear invasion of their privacy, but Shaw insists it's for the greater good, and so he writes them down with minimal hesitation. He never questioned Shaw. He owed the man too much.

Charles couldn't help but let his mind wander.

Shaw had taken in Charles in when he was young. A supposed orphan, found on the streets, he found refuge in the Notre Dame cathedral. There the priests took care of him and a menagerie of other lost children. It was there he met Raven. But it wasn't until Charles had been there for a year or so that the voices started. At first it was just mere whispers, but then they became full on voices, and Charles found himself answering questions that the other kids never even asked. Raven was supportive, fervently telling Charles that they were special; as she could change eye colors at will. 'One day,' She whispered to him excitedly one night, 'Perhaps I may even be able to change my hair color!'. But even as his powers refined, Shaw was never surrounded by odd voices. It was as if Shaw was under deep water; everything in his mind hazy and sluggish. Charles was never able to read him, and instead of being a comfort, the fact made him uneasy.

No matter how they tried, however, Charles' powers could not be kept a secret. When word of Charles' voices reached the priests they thought him possessed, and anxiously sought a means to release the devil inside of him. They were close to enacting an exorcism. Shaw, a respected, but low ranking priest, had stepped in and refuted their judgement, saying he intended to make him his pupil. He would find the lord through his teachings. When the priests hesitantly agreed, Shaw took Charles aside. He told Charles that his power was not a curse, but a blessing. That so long as he remained in the belltower with him, he would ensure the safety of Raven and the others, and even the ones after them. All he had to was relay the prayers of all the worshippers to him. A simple task, surely? Only seven years old at the time, Charles agreed.

When the time came for Raven and the others to move on and get jobs outside of the church, Charles stayed. Shaw had been appointed Archdeacon, no doubt because of his impeccable ability to relate to worshippers, and his incredibly intimate knowledge of the church's inner politics. He stood in his long, garish robes near the church doors, watching Charles and Raven exchange tearful goodbyes. Raven, now capable of changing her entire form, grabbed onto his shoulders by the church entrance, which Charles was forbidden to pass. She turned him so that he was forced to meet her gaze. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, and he struggled to look at her straight.

'I will return.' She told him adamantly, her voice barely a whisper. She locked their gazes. 'I will come back, Charles.' Charles only managed a short, jerky nod. Raven smiled then, and wiped his tears away before turning and vanishing into the city crowd. As far as Shaw and everyone else knew, she had crossdressed and gone aboard a local merchant ship, to vanish into the sea. Charles had cried after hearing Shaw's snide remarks on the incident. 'Never could keep her skirts about her, the wench. Pray you'll keep better company now, Charles.'

When Charles attempted escape that night to go after her, he was caught and moved to the belltower. Iron beams and chains were placed on it shortly thereafter. He refused to speak to anyone for months. His only outside connection being the thoughts of the people below, and the long lists of prayers he wrote for Shaw everyday, which he would slide underneath the door frame, to avoid seeing him. The only visitors were the nuns, who would quietly leave food for him, their minds alight with shame and concern. But they, like the other priests, were too afraid to speak out against the Archdeacon.

Years crawled by, and Charles' abilities grew more powerful, even as his body weakened from the lack of sunlight and stimulation. As his telepathic range extended, so did his intellect. He devoured any and all scrolls the nuns and priests saw fit to give him. He longed for the outside world, and was enthralled with the thoughts pervading the minds of local townspeople. Tales of mysterious, free spirited gypsies who walked the edge of the law. He would be able to see them once a year during the Feast of Fools, and he grew more interested every year he watched. There were whispers of them having strange powers and abilities, and apparently the group was even in possession of a huge, blue furred beast. Charles wasn't usually drawn into such gossip and senseless fantasies, but what did he know of the world beyond the stained glass windows of the church? Their thoughts seemed honest enough. Charles dared to ask Shaw of them once, and Shaw's face immediately twisted, his voice turning cold and cruel. 'Disgusting vermin. I will one day be rid of them. They are a plague upon the city.' He nearly spat out his words, and Charles spoke of it with him no more.

Raven returned shortly thereafter; a decorated and celebrated war veteran. She was to be promoted to the city's captain of the guard, under special assignment to oversee the church's activities. Initially, Charles wasn't even able to recognize her. She had thoroughly disguised herself as a man. Her hair was chopped short, and her jaw was broadened and more masculine. Her chest was flat and her shoulders broad. As different as she was, her mind felt the same as he remembered, if not darker and more guarded. And her eyes…. Her eyes were still the gold that he remembered.

She visited him that night in the belltower. But their reunion was not a happy one. The belltower was dark at night, the only illumination coming from a small handful of candles laid around the room. They cast deep shadows on Raven's face, and the light only barely showed her red, crying face.

'Oh Charles…' She whispered, her voice breaking upon seeing him, 'What have they done to you?'

A sudden roar of excitement drew Charles from his stupor. At once, the memory drained from him, and he gained his bearings to the room about him. He had let the charcoal roll off of the table, and he bent over in his chair to reach for it with some difficulty. Hopefully he hadn't missed any worshippers in his pondering. Surely Shaw wouldn't notice if he had.

The festival was beginning to pick up. A whisper of enthusiasm began to hum in his mind. Charles felt a pang of longing in his chest when there's a sudden chorus of trumpets, and he's unable to stop himself from once more going over to the archway. A jovial announcer wearing a jester's outfit of red and black is juggling a pair of swords, and although his voice is muffled by the roars of approval from the crowd, he is clearly cracking jokes. The jester throws one of his swords into the air, then just as quickly, confidently swallows the other, smoothly gliding it down his throat, putting it all the way in just in time to catch the other flying sword, balancing its tip against the swallowed sword's hilt. The crowd gasps and applauds thunderously, and Charles joins in himself, laughing.

Distracted as he is by the performance, Charles almost doesn't catch the familiar consciousness of Raven nearby, who seemed to be making her way up the stairs. Startled, Charles accidentally hears a snippet of her thoughts.

Can'tbelieveI'mdoingthisIcan'tbelieveI'mdoingthisI-

The door opens, and a slightly disheveled Raven stands in the doorway, carrying a basket with what could only be his breakfast. She's fully dressed in her captain's uniform, her chest bearing the city insignia, and hair combed back neatly. She gives him a withered smile, and straightens herself, absently trying to right her hair and clothing.

"Good morning Charles." She says casually. It sounds forced.

"You look flushed." Charles comments cautiously, wheeling towards her. "Is everything alright?"

She waves her one hand, dismissing him. "Of course! I'm fine." She walked over to the center table, slightly wincing at how loud and sudden her response was. "Everything is fine. I just… had the craziest idea." She put the basket down with an almost exaggerated speed. Charles watched patiently as she adjusted the basket's position so that is was lined up with the table edge.

When she looks up, she's met with Charles' tempered gaze. Almost immediately, she pulled herself in, inhaling deeply before evening out her own expression.

"Charles." She started, her tone implying a question.

"Raven." He replied, mimicking her severity. It took all of his willpower not to smile.

She turned her attention to the main window, looking out on the Festival. It was in full bloom, as much of a spectacle as it was every year. The crowds cheering and celebration provided a stable backdrop of noise to their conversation, and Raven's head tilted. Charles couldn't help but notice the subtle change in her expression. She looked almost regretful.

"You've been here for years. You've never gone outside. You watch this festival from afar every year, wishing you could go. And yet…" She looked at him, her tone softening, "You never complain."

Charles found he suddenly couldn't meet her gaze. "Of course I don't complain, Raven. There are others to consider. What is my happiness compared to the children down below? They depend on my hard work, on my obedience. The needs-"

"-Of the many outweigh the needs of the few." Raven finished for him, her tone deadpanning. Her voice sharpened. "I've heard you say it before Charles, but frankly I don't care. Why not do something for yourself for once?"

Charles shook his head. "What exactly are you saying, Raven?"

Raven strode over to the room walls. They were covered in charcoal drawings. They were some of Charles' sole possessions, and perhaps his most prized. Portraits of all the people who dwelled below, that he had drawn since he could first lay his hands on charcoal. Some of the people prayed at the church, and though they didn't know him, they were important to him. And now, Raven was clutching the face of the local cobbler, waving him in the air like a festival streamer.

"Raven!" Charles shouted, wheeling towards her.

"Look at this Charles- You want so desperately to be with these people, to meet them." Raven yelled, almost pleading. She surrendered the drawing without a fight as Charles swiped it from her grasp.

"I don't know what you're going on about." Charles strained, trying to smooth over the paper.

Raven's voice lowered. "Let me take you."

Charles' head shot up. "Take me?"

She reached down and clutched one of Charles' arms, meeting his eyes. "I'm taking you to the Feast of Fools."

Charles felt his mouth open and then close again as he couldn't quite articulate a response; an objection of some kind.

"Don't talk me out of this. I've made up my mind." She said sternly, grabbing Charles' chair. She plucked the drawing from Charles' hands, placing it haphazardly on the table as they went by. "Today, after all, is the day for breaking rules."