Chapter One

Le Voyage Long à la Maison

(The Long Journey Home)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters/items/other stuff from Hunchback of Notre Dame. They belong to Disney and Victor Hugo (I strongly recommend reading the original – Hugo is simply brilliant). I only use them for my own pleasure in writing, but I don't make a dime out of it, so please don't sue. All original characters are my own creation.

Author's Note: This is my first ever Hunchback of Notre Dame fan fiction. The idea is an old one and had started writing this story quite sometime ago. It was not until a few days ago that I discovered the first few chapters of this fan fiction on an old disc. I read through the notes and the already written chapters and became enthralled in writing more. So, here I am, a number of years later, editing a fan fiction that I had completely forgotten about. This first chapter doesn't feature any of the Hunchback of Notre Dame characters, but they will be in the story, starting with the next chapter. And Jeta is pronounced Yetta. Onto the story…

For as long as she could remember, Jeta Delgado Scarott hated the rain. Not only did the rain make it nearly impossible for her to go out without becoming drenched and ruining all of her possessions, it also made her already hard-to-manage hair a frizzy mane. As she grumbled to herself, shifting her traveling bag to her other shoulder, a deep laugh came from her traveling companion.

"And what is so funny?"

Jeta looked up at Patrick O'Hara, her partner and close confidante, her eyes narrowed and her lips dangerously thin.

"Oh nothing," Patrick replied, still trying to hide his amusement by covering his mouth with his hand, looking anywhere but at the young woman.

Jeta continued to glare at him before returning her gaze to the path in front of them, not allowing his quiet laughter to bother her further. Instead, she focused her attention on the rain that continued to pelt them in the head and how much she longed for a warm fire. They had been traveling for several weeks now, stopping at every few towns for some rest or food. Their final destination would be Paris, France, where Jeta had heard of a well paying job.

This job, as well as the now smirking Irishman next to her, had been stuck in Jeta's thoughts since she had first heard about it. Yes, it was would pay both her and Patrick well – they might not even have to work for a few months – but there had been others that were just as well paying and much closer in distance. However, Jeta knew she could not pass up this wonderful opportunity, regardless of how unwise Patrick thought it was.

Patrick, on the other hand, was slightly more concerned about the nature of this job as it revolved around Jeta's own people – gypsies, as they are called by outsiders – and her birthplace of Paris. She had not returned to either for the past decade, choosing instead to live in exile amongst some of the most scandalous people. When she had first brought up going to France for the job, Patrick was somewhat startled, his emotions soon switching over to confusion. He had agreed to come with her, being the only person that she truly trusted and relied on.

Looking over at Jeta, Patrick began to study the girl, who had now evolved into a young woman, he had raise for the past ten years. She was certainly much taller than she had been, now standing at a proud five foot five, but then she had only been seven when he had found her and was still not tall but anyone's count. Her body had certainly matured as well, where she was once thin to the point of looking sickly, her body was now thicker, slightly curvy, showing off her well-sculpted muscles and small breasts. The thick, coarse, wavy black hair she had as a child – worn at chin length and boyish – was now much longer, yet still possessed the same qualities; she usually wore it down in full waves, but today she had knotted it into a tight braid to keep it out of her face as they traveled. Allowing his eyes to continue to study his travel partner, they returned to her face – oval-shaped with a small nose, soft pale lips, and – his favorite feature – almond-shaped dark hazel-green eyes. Jeta had certainly grown from the small, scrawny girl Patrick had found in an alley and he was proud to have her as his adopted daughter.

While Patrick continued to study Jeta, his thoughts began to wander back to the journey at hand. He had been to France a few times before, but he never stayed long. Patrick was in possession of that flaming Irish physique that made those in the Far East, where they had just come from, jealous. Unfortunately, for him, the French did not want nor approve of his appearance. Patrick stood at six foot three with broad shoulders and hard-earned muscles. Adding to this image of a giant was his thin, brilliant red hair, matched in shade with his grizzly beard – trimmed short and always kept neat, piercing cyan eyes, and pale skin speckled with freckles. Whenever he had entered any city in France, people scattered before him, their eyes openly staring, whispers following his every movement. On more than one occasion, he had encountered trouble with the law. Therefore, Patrick had taken to avoiding the country unless there was an amazing deal to be struck.

"Athair?"

Patrick looked up at the sound of Jeta's voice, startled out of his musings.

"Are you done staring at me now?"

Her one eyebrow was quirked, showing her amusement, yet her thin lips and slight crinkling of her eyes told him that she was starting to get annoyed at his treatment. Patrick, although one to not back down or show his emotions, was slightly embarrassed at being caught staring, something he tended to hate as people had so often stared at him. Her lips curved into a smile within a few seconds, however, silently telling him that she was not angry and he was clearly forgiven.

"Iníon, you scared me."

Jeta softly chuckled. "Perhaps you shouldn't get lost in your thoughts."

"Bite your tongue."

Patrick glared half-heartedly at Jeta, not really offended by her quick comment, but she was still his little girl, his daughter, in his eyes and would not take lip from anyone. Jeta, in response, stuck out her tongue and then promptly bit down slightly on it, a twinkle in her eye, causing the Irishman to laugh. The rest of their trip passed uneventful until they arrived in Paris, where trouble sprang up almost immediately.

Paris was well known for its lack of polite treatment toward the gypsies, but Patrick and Jeta had been hoping to pass into the city without too much trouble, especially since they had all the proper papers in order. It was with much dismay that their first true bump in the road occurred at the gates into the city, where the guards stopped them.

"Well, what do we have here? A gypsy wench trying to sneak in with this upstanding citizen."

A guard had stepped in front of Jeta and Patrick, blocking their way, while two more fell behind the couple. The two guards in the back began to whisper amongst themselves, eyeing Jeta up and down, lust and disgust apparent in their eyes, while the other began to interrogate Jeta.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Jeta went to open her mouth, an insult almost passing from her lips, when Patrick placed a hand on her shoulder. Looking up at him, Patrick passed her a quick shake of his head, signaling to her that he would take care of any problems with the guards.

"Actually, the young lady is with me."

The guard seemed a bit shocked at this and his mouth hung up for three very long seconds, before he snapped it closed and glared at the Irishman, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

"We'll be needing to see her papers…" Patrick began searching through his bag while Jeta casually placed the papers into his other hand, having been holding onto them herself. "…and an explanation of who she is and her purpose in Paris."

Patrick handed over two envelopes, both of them thick due to the several pieces of paper in them. The guard passed them back to a man on his left and crossed his arms, waiting for Patrick's answer.

"She is my servant. Her purpose is to, as all servants do, serve me. I, myself, am here on business."

Jeta quickly hid her look of anger, not wanting to give away that she was no servant, but Patrick had seen the emotion flash through her eyes. He could only imagine the lecture he would receive when they reached their safe house. While Jeta was always one to take up a disguise in order to reach a goal, her intense dislike of being viewed as subservient or of lower status generally had her avoiding such situations.

"A servant?" The guard chuckled, pointing at Jeta as if the others had not seen her. His eyes looking her up and down, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, the lust very apparent in his eyes; Jeta wanted nothing more to show the man that she was not a person to be messed with, but instead, playing up her servant role, averted her eyes to the ground. "She looks like a gypsy and everyone knows that they can't be trusted."

Patrick had watched this all, his one hand playing with the knife hidden in his belt. How he wanted to slit their throats for looking at Jeta, his partner, his daughter, the way they were. It was indecent. "Oh, my dear friend, she is no gypsy." The guard looked at the Irishman, taking his eyes off of Jeta, a look of disbelief on his face. "No, she is Spanish you see. They are so easy to confuse. What, with both of them in possession of dark skin and features, it's nearly impossible without getting to know the person first. Ask her a question if you don't believe me. But, be warned – while she understands French, she can only respond in Spanish."

Scratching his chin for a moment, the guard began to think. Not really wanting to waste time, as he could be out catching more gypsies and improving his reputation, he asked her the first thing that came to mind.

"What is your purpose here in France?"

Jeta pretended to ponder the question for a moment, trying to play out her role as a lowly, unintelligent servant as well as possible.

"Un trabajo. Aunque, yo contentamente le mataría para diversión, usted repugnando el pedazo de cerdo, yo tengo los asuntos más importantes en mano." Jeta stated this question, acting as if her reply was well-mannered and describing exactly what her "master" had said. Inside, she laughed, knowing full well that the guard would not understand a lick of what she had just said. Patrick's eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and he almost turned around to smack her upside the head as her little speech.

"Well, what did she say?"

Patrick, as frustrated as he was at Jeta's hijinks, was not surprised at the guard's inability to understand his parther. It was getting harder not to laugh at the unintelligent Frenchman and Jeta found that the only way to not burst out in giggles was to dig her nails into the palm of her closed hand. Patrick watched her from the corner of his eye, amusement sparkling in their blue depths.

"That she does not know the exact reason for her coming to France besides that me, her master, has told her to come."

The guard went back to scratching his chin, pretending as if he had known that that was what Jeta had said all along. He still did not believe the red-headed man, but not being able to find a way to prove that the girl was indeed a gypsy, he let the pair past. As they entered the city, he motioned to the other two guards to make sure that word got around to watch for them; he was not a genius, but even he could tell that something was very wrong.

Once out of sight of the group of guards and safely into the city, Jeta promptly punched Patrick in the arm, a sour expression on her face. Patrick just rubbed the spot, faking pain, complete with moans of anguish.

"What did you do that for?"

"A servant?!"

Jeta was livid. She had always been a bit headstrong and thrived on her independence, so being a servant, even acting as one, would cause her short temper to flare up. Patrick had been well aware that eventually she would have provoked an argument between them, her stubbornness always a point of contention; for now, simply being angry at having to be called a servant was enough to set her off. Patrick did not answer, knowing it was the only way to get into Paris without being thrown into the Palace of Justice; Jeta knew this as well, but was, at the moment, too hungry and tired to see reason, so she continued to glare at Patrick until he did respond.

"It was the only way to get into Paris, you know that Jeta. So stop making a fuss about it."

"I will not! Why couldn't you be the servant?"

"Because, iníon, you are Romani." Patrick raised a hand to stop her as Jeta had opened her mouth to retort. "Perhaps you could have played it off with your Spanish heritage, but really now, do you think he would have allowed you to pass? And if you can't think of it in terms of race, think of it in terms of sex. I was, as I'm sure you were, well aware of the other two guards who were openly leering at you, gypsy or not."

Jeta stuck out her lip and crossed her arms, not wanting to admit he was right. This type of behavior was not something she displayed in public but as it was only Patrick that was in the vicinity, having recently turned down a back alley, she did not mind being a bit of a brat. She did not speak for the rest of the way to their new home, occasionally glaring at Patrick before returning her eyes to the road. Sometimes Patrick forgot how young she still was and right now, her age was showing; however, bringing up that would only cause another fight so he kept his mouth shut, allowing Jeta to calm down.

It was nearing dusk when the pair finally arrived at the safe house – a rickety, dark, one-story building with dirty, cracked windows and a dilapidated roof. The first floor consisted of a kitchen, dining area, sitting room, small half-bath, and tiny bedroom. Unbeknownst to the few people who passed by the house, there was also a very extensive basement. This basement is where many of the occupants of the house lived. There was a single, circular staircase that led to the two levels of the basement – the first being the bedrooms and bathrooms and the second being the training area. Unfortunately, none could enter the house unless they knew the password.

Patrick and Jeta stopped in front of the house, allowing their eyes to wander the dank, grey surface of the building, before both moved to step up to the front door, bumping into each other on the way. Jeta twisted her head sharply, sending a glare at Patrick who put his hands up in defeat, allowing her to knock twice fast and once hard on the door.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then the sound of wood scraping on wood reached their ears and a small rectangular opening appeared in front of them. Two bloodshot eyes peered at them, glancing from Jeta to Patrick, studying both of them.

"Parolă?"

"Dragostea din tei."

The two eyes squinted at Jeta, seeming to decide if the phrase she had said was correct or not. With a grunt and a slam of the slab, the front door creaked open, allowing the two weary travelers to finally settle down and rest their feet.

Author's Note: This story is going to have snips of different languages in it – Romani, Spanish, Irish, French, and maybe some Mandarian or Japanese. This is due to the different characters' origins and some other things, it all will make sense as the story continues. I will make a list at the end of each chapter with the words found in it, what the mean, and what language they are from.

Athair (Irish): father
Iníon (Irish): daughter
Un trabajo. Aunque, yo contentamente le mataría para diversión, usted repugnando el pedazo de cerdo, yo tengo los asuntos más importantes en mano. (Spanish): A job. Though, I would gladly kill you for free, you disgusting piece of swine, I have more important matters at hand.
Parolă (Romanian): password
Dragostea din tei (Romanian): love from the linden trees