Author Note: Frollo and Quasi are NOT mine. Please review.

January 2nd, 1463

The moon lay low on the city's horizon, it's light dimmed by a few thin clouds. Stars twinkled overhead, lighting a broad band across the night sky. The frosted cobbles appeared soft and warm under moonlight. Yet the night was bitterly cold. Beggars, dogs and stray cats had fled into underground holes, ramshackle huts and taverns. It was the best night to accomplish his mission.

His breath hung on the air as a thick cloud. Even from within the carriage, the night was far too chilly for a comfortable travel. The man buried his hands under his wool cloak and his toes into the blankets with hot rocks nestled within. The journey was not far, yet on a night like this one, it was miserable.

The driver, Antoine, called back to his passenger.

"Thirty minutes more, your honour."

There was a long silence, only interrupted by the sound of the horses' feet on the cobbles. He knew what the driver wanted to ask, and why he didn't. Antoine had thought better of it and resumed driving. Had he been so foolish, he'd have been under arrest the following morning. Instead, he grumbled his thoughts into his jacket.

"Why must we travel to the palace tonight, the coldest night of the year, rather than during the day?"

The horse walked slowly through the narrow streets, the only light from the moon. The driver remained silent, his eyes fixed on the horses' ears. The reins lay slack in his chilled hands, the horse obediently following the slightest tap of the whip.

The man lifted his hat from the seat next to him, pulling it over his chilled ears. He wrapped its long sash around his neck and pulled his shirt collar high on his neck. He rubbed his arms and shoulders in a meek attempt to rid himself of the gooseflesh that crawled over his body and and up the back of his neck. Either it was the night itself or the shame of admitting he was responsible for its' care. The night air was cold, it could be nothing else.

Reason told him that it would prove useless, yet he couldn't help but wonder if such a thing could relieve him of his burden. A simple touch, a few lines of Latin verse and he would be rid if it forever. He could place it in the wooden cradle and someone else would take it away and look after it. The man sighed deeply at the thought of being free from the shackles that bound him to it. If only he'd had another moment, there would have been no interference from the Archdeacon. He was tired and sickened to the depths of his soul over the bundle. If God would grant him this one miracle, he would be most pleased. God owed it to him, after all he'd done in his name. A public official was above such menial tasks, especially one as pure and righteous as himself.

The small bundle lay near his warming toes, wrapped haphazardly in a torn wool robe and sackcloth. This bundle, this unwanted creature, was what the man wished to be rid of. It didn't move. Perhaps it was cold as well. He removed a warm foot from the cover of the blankets and nudged it closer to the warm stones. It felt dry and somewhat warm. He moved his foot back to its warm nest.

A new fear suddenly crept into the mans' mind. The king would have to see it in order to touch it. Perhaps merely a hand, maybe a foot? To have another, especially one as powerful as the king, behold the hideousness of his charge would be a gross embarrassment. Yet the glimmer of freedom that the Touch offered was worth the risk of shame, was it not? He could always pawn it off as an ape, or the offspring of an ape and a heathen; something less than human that he was bringing only as an act of Christian duty.

The bundle on the floor moved slightly, a small hand working its' way out of the thick covering. Another hand soon joined the first. Both hands, small, pale and chubby, reached toward him. The man watched for a moment, hoping it would not cry. It choked a couple of times, yet soon quieted. There were no tears, no wailing. He'd mixed wine in goats' milk to ensure silence. Hearing its' cries bothered him as much as its presence.

The man tossed his hat onto the bundle to cover it, then turned his head to the street. He watched the frame houses pass by the small carriage window. The scent of wood smoke hung on the night air, yet not a single glow of flame reached his eyes. Three peals of brass reached his ears, their echo shaking the city. The creature remained silent, merely moving under the weight of its cover. The bells did not startle it, they never seemed to.

For over a month he'd cared for this creature. He knew it was young, no more than three months old. He hoped it would either grow strong or die quickly so he would hold minimal responsibility for it. Fearful of hiring a nurse, he'd sent one of his servants to buy a she-goat. The goat was graceful, yet had as much of the devil in her as what she fed. He could not stomach to call it a "child".

The Archdeacon called it a child, refusing to use the name chosen for it, and sometimes fed, read or bathed it. The man had yet to use its name, since it was too young to understand. When it was old enough, if still in his care, he would ensure it knew the meaning of the word.

The carriage stopped outside the palace gates. A small, wiry man opened the gates and ushered them to the stable. The man swept his hat from the floor of the carriage and onto his head. Folding the bundle of cloth around the sleeping creature, he picked it up and carried it as if it were merely a bundle of laundry. He nodded to the driver, who was guided to the coach house. Antione would be sleeping until late the next day, as a reward for saying nothing.

Ushered to a large, lavishly furnished room, the man removed his travel cloak, his gloves and wool-lined boots. He placed his burden near the fire to warm, then carefully unwrapped it. Its face was pink, eyes blue and its hair beginning to grow in red. It squirmed in his cold hands as he held it, it was undoubtedly healthy. Yet the Touch may help him still, to untwist that little body into something that resembled more than an "almost".

The man combed his hair, shaved and washed his face, neatened his robes and ensured his presentation was suitable for the king. Drawing a wineskin from his travel robes, he took a long draught. One of the kings' servants would be at his door within the hour, to fetch him for the private ceremony.

He bathed the squirming bundle in warm scented water and anointing oils, then re-bundled it into a blanket more suited for an infant. He carefully folded the cloth over its face, allowing only one eye and a shock of hair to show. It's hands remained free. He placed the bundle on the bed and waited by the blazing fire, in prayer. The sun had not yet crested the horizon, yet the 6 o'clock bells would soon ring out to wake the city, to announce the coming of a new day.

Then he prayed. The Royal Touch was famed for healing lepers, those with bodies twisted with scrofula and curing those with plague. He prayed it would cure this one as well.

Suddenly a rap at the door startled the man from his prayers. A fancily-dressed servant stood at the door.

"Good day, Minister Frollo. The king will see you now."

He lifted the sleeping and shrouded creature from the bed and into his arms. The servant leaned forward, his eyes peering over the edge of the blanket where he saw only a small hand. He took a step back after the tall man leaned the bundle into his chest, hiding it's face and hands. He cast an icy stare at the servant, nodding his head as he passed his inferior.

The servant stood, his arm extending down the hall, toward the Kings' hall.

"This way..."

The tall man with the child had already passed him.

"...your honour."

Where does this come from? (a background for those who are curious)

I was reading one of my old medical books and came across a chapter on royalty touching the sick, mainly those with Scrofula (Tuberculosis), in order to cure them. It was a part of medieval medicine and involved a lavish ceremony. It was thought kings descended from God and thus could heal like Jesus. It gave the people of the time an enormous amount of hope. Since a person could only be "Touched" once, it kept a positive attitude. Whether or not you were healed was "Gods' will". Most died.

I couldn't help but wonder what Claude Frollo would have tried to rid himself of Quasimodo. Would the offer of something to cure him, thus erase his deformity and get rid of him been at all tempting? To what length would he go to keep this child a secret? Of course, in this story Quasi doesn't die, nor does he become handsome. Nothing happens to him really. It's mainly created for me to give a bit of history, put HoND back in the 1400's and show how much of an ass Frollo is.