Author's Note: Alright. You know I had to try my hand at this. So, voila, my first attempt at a HoND fanfiction. It's rather pitiful, I know, but I fought with several ideas for a day or so, and this is what emerged. I have a habit of first writing things were people aren't or in this case, don't necessarily have to be in exact character, before I can practice with stupid little things to get the actual hang of it. So I blame Clopin's uncharacteristic pensiveness on whatever the hell it was he was drinking. XD
This is based off of the Disney movie, (which, while completely screwing over the ending, I none-the-less adore), and since I have not yet seen the sequel, I don't know how Disney handled the 'afterward'. So, this is my own creation.
I own nothing except for Daniil, possibly the tavern they're on the roof of, and the story itself. (I'd like to own Clopin, however.) ;)
It has no actual plot, but I hope someone gets some kind of enjoyment out of it.

Ardendaeas

Roof-top Musings

Night had just fallen in Paris -- the last dying rays of gold, crimson, and orange-bronze sunlight were just painting the wispy little clouds that were caressing the cathedral-ceiling of the purple-blue sky, and sparkling on the current of the Seine. In a few minutes, the previous day would be nothing but another collection of memories and a single bloody red line on the horizon.

With the death of Frollo, city officials who had formerly taken a vendetta against the gypsies, (assuredly at both a good deal of insistence by the late judge, and the seemingly inherent native Parisian distrust of the Romany), seemed to have taken a step backwards. They were not pursuing their dark-skinned 'plague' with half the passion they'd been possessed of before.

It was almost as if they had taken a hiatus to step back and takes stock of things -- to re-evaluate the situation, and plan their next move. This worried a certain gypsy king currently perched on the edge of a roof belonging to a tavern owned by a Parisian gypsy-sympathizer.

True, the Court of Miracles had, (after the discovery of its original location), been moved to another locale, but even this did not completely reassure Clopin Trouillefou. Comparatively speaking, twenty years was not so long a time to take in order to find a hidden 'court'. And would it take half so long this time, for officials to find the new court?

"Damn it all." These words were said in what would have been a slow, clear and precise fashion, if not for the fact that they were slurred together in a rather sloppy manner.

If any late-evening passerby, (for the sun had completely set, now), had bothered to look above them, they would have noticed the gypsy's lanky frame, sitting with his legs dangling into the open air in much the same fashion a young student of the University would dangle his legs off a low bridge on a hot summer day. This arrangement would not have seemed half so precarious if it were not for that he was leaning forward to gaze down at the streets below, and had just recently been drinking. An empty mug sat next to him on the edge of the roof. Good thing, then, that the angle was gradual, and, truthfully, very nearly flat.

Clopin was in a rather pensive mood, which worried him almost as much as the odd doings of the local law. It was not in his nature to be very pensive. Even if it was an intoxicated pensiveness.

He, like all gypsies, had always had an easily-adaptable manner, but that didn't mean he couldn't sense change when it was washing over him like the waters of the Seine.

It was the end of one time, and the beginning of a new. And, like adding insult to an injury, the court had lost one of its finest gems -- to a Parisian who had at one time participated in capturing other gypsies, and vagabonds, no less!

Of course, Clopin could not help but be happy for Esmeralda -- a girl more like a sister to him than any he had encountered in a long time -- for love was just as joyously greeted among fugitives as it was by the law-abiding section of society.

The sound of footsteps on the stone-worked shingles roused Clopin from such dangerously engrossing thoughts, and he turned, teetering dangerously, to see who was approaching.

A smile broke out on his face as his ebony eyes were met with the sight of a shorter, slightly bulkier gypsy scrambling a tad drunkenly along the roof to reach him. The man was Daniil, an old friend of Trouillefou's.

"Ah, my friend, I fear perhaps you have been partaking of our good friend's drink. I shall have to warn you, I'll make no attempt to rescue you if you fall."

"Nor shall I make one for you," Daniil said with an answering smile, joining his companion on the ledge.

"Ah, but then who will keep the rest of you out of trouble? I can't expect you lot to do it on your own, now, can I?"

"Out of trouble? Pfft." The larger man shot the other a sarcastically disbelieving glance. "Do tell me what you have been drinking. It must do wonders."

Trouillefou turned a playfully arched eyebrow to the other vagabond. "And if I do not spit out said knowledge?"

Daniil shrugged. "Then I shall have to do a little investigating. And perhaps bribe some of our friends for the recipe."

Clopin nodded, turning his vision out over the roofs of Paris. The towers of Notre-Dame, the great cathedral, were visible in the distance, and the beginning peals of some of the noble bells could be heard ringing out over the city.

"The bells of Notre-Dame." The king of gypsies let out an almost-imperceptible sigh and rested his chin in one palm. Daniil gave him a searching look.

"What has come over you, my friend? You are not yourself this night."

His companion was silent for a few moments before breaking out into laughter and one of his customary wide smiles.

"It's nothing, Daniil. Just a few silly, wine-induced musings."

"Ah-ha!" The other man waved a triumphant finger in the air. "Wine, is it? I shall have to remember that."

"And if I was lying?"

A shrug. "My loss."

"Indeed." Clopin stood, throwing out his arms to steady himself, rather needlessly, before picking up his mug and extending a hand to help the other gypsy up.

"Come, Daniil. I think it's time for another drink."