A/N: This is more of an impulse-write and I doubt it will get many, if any, reviews, but I will attempt to think positively.
Okay, today's chapter was written while listening to the Le Temps des Cathédrales as sung by Bruno Pelletier. Go listen to it if you haven't already because he is fabulous.
I will provide a full translation of any and all French spoken in this chapter and the chapters to come in the footnotes below.
Also, I will be messing with Gringoire's back story a tiny bit. I'm so sorry.
Chapter One: L'histore de Luna
The bells ring loud and clear to signal the wedding of unknown but happy lovers, the beautiful sound is carried on the wind to the ears of a young man and woman perhaps five years his junior walking side by side down one of the cobblestone streets of Paris.
A smile is on the lips of the lady, painted red as blood, and her cheeks are flushed pink. The man watches her with curiosity, as if taking notes on her happiness with his eyes.
They come to a flock of geese blocking their path and the young woman looks to her companion eagerly.
"Oh Pierre, may I?" She asks and her smile widens when he nods. She then turns toward the road once more, lifting up the hem of her white skirt and running towards the birds. They squawk and take flight, landing at a safe distance as she laughs and spins around. The man shakes his head but cannot deny himself a light smile as he watches her spin around.
"That's enough, mon cher." He says in a stern voice that makes her smile fall. She walks closer to him and then notices the laughter that dances in his eyes and her grin returns. She takes his hand, leading him down the remainder of the street.
"Are we almost there?" She asks and he nods.
"Not much farther." He replies and she makes a small noise of excitement and walks a little bit faster, encouraging him to do the same.
Not a few moments later, the man named Pierre and his companion rounds an alley corner, coming face to face with La Notre Dame. The young woman's mouth hangs open like an unhinged basket as she drinks in the sight of the magnificent and Holy place. Her gray eyes never leave the wondrous structure of stone and glass as her companion leads her towards the large steps.
The man named Pierre sits down on the third step from the top and places his hand on the one just above. His friend copies him.
"It was here, Luna. Here is where I found you." She nods, no sign on sadness on her face. "It was nearly twenty years ago, in the middle of winter. I was just a boy, you know. No older than perhaps eight or nine." The woman nods, brushing a stray lock of auburn curls behind her ear.
"Yes Pierre, I know, you have told me this many times." The man feigns offense and puts a hand to his heart as if he is in pain.
"Are you tired of this story, Luna?" He asks in a hurt voice and her eyes widen. She shakes her head quickly and takes his other hand in hers.
"I could never tire of it brother! You have my apology!" She says and Pierre abandons the hurt facade, smile playing on his lips as he squeezes her hand back lightly.
"I am only teasing you, Luna. Yet I accept your apology none the less." Luna lets a breath that she was holding escape her lungs.
"Thank you." When he ceases to continue, she moves a little bit closer to her adopted sibling. "Would you please finish?" She asks and he nods.
"With pleasure, Mademoiselle." She giggles lightly at his tone and grasps his hand once more as he begins.
It was winter. It was cold. The sun had gone to sleep many hours before as I ran through the streets of a half-frozen Paris. The homeless around me begged for whatever they needed, mostly money, but I had none to spare. I watched them with sad eyes as they shrunk back into the shadows of the alleys where the cheerful lamps could shed no light.
I turned back towards the road and continued my way towards my house, if you could call it that. I had not had a proper home for nearly three years and I was well accustomed to the street life.
But, as I passed La Notre Dame on the way, I happened to glance towards the steps. I paused when I heard the smallest, meekest cry, like that of a kitten in pain. I grew curious to know what could be making such a mournful sound. I walked slowly toward the cathedral and you could imagine my surprise when I saw that it came from a very young girl of no more than three years sitting near the doors of Notre Dame.
Her hair was mangled and could've been red if it wsn't so dirty. Her eyes were abnormally large and the color of the moon that shone at its fullest above our heads in the icy sky. I asked her name, she said she did not know. I named her Luna.
I gave her my coat and asked where her Mama was, she said she did not know that either. To me, this girl was unlike the other sans abri that inhabited Paris, she was special.
I looked down to her hand that was still clenched in mine to see that her white flesh was turning a pale blue, which made my heart skip a beat. I took her hand and helped her stand. I cursed softly as I noticed she had no coat and immediately offered her mine. I did not know why I was doing this, as I had seen so many poor children freeze to death outside in the snow banks, but for some reason, I refused to let the same fate befall mon Luna.
She followed me as I led her towards the large doors of La Notre Dame. I raised a fist and knocked on the curved pieces of wood so that my hand began to hurt just a bit. I looked back to the small girl and noticed her shivering. I raised my fist to knock once more but did not get the chance.
The door swung open to reveal a small, portly man; the Archdeacon. He would help, I hoped. I knew the man, not very well but I saw him once or twice when I preformed my songs and told stories before the large cathedral. I was sure he liked my work; he made no attempt to chase me off when I sang.
"Sanctuary." I said as soon as he set eyes on me. He looked to the young girl whose hand was still clenched in mine and ushered us in without a sat Luna before the fire and knelt down next to her.
"Your name, child." He commanded and I spoke before she could.
"Luna." He whipped around in shock and then looked back to the little girl. I was surprised when she nodded.
"Very well, and her family is where?" He asked me this time and I carelessly shrugged.
"I haven't the foggiest, Phillip." I replied truthfully and he looked back to the girl with sad eyes. She did not notice his look of pity; she was too busy running her fingers through the hair of her cloth doll. I hadn't noticed it before. It was homemade and worn from time and love. I approached her slowly, not wanting to frighten her and that was when she turned to look at me.
"Her name is Yvette." She said. Her moonlit eyes seemed to stare through me. I didn't know what she was talking about, but then I realized she was referring to her doll.
I chose not to leave her that night, I wanted to talk to her a bit more, perhaps find out if she had any family.
She kept glancing towards the big, wooden doors, as if someone were going to suddenly burst through them. After a few minutes, I asked her what she was looking for, she said her Papa. I asked if she knew who he was and again she replied that she didn't know. It stuck me as odd that she would be looking for a man she did not know, but I did not think about it further as she began to hum.
"Do you sing?" I asked and she nodded.
"Yes, I do." She replied. Growing bored with the silence, I spoke up.
"Sing for me, kill the silence that hangs in the air." She nodded and began.
"C'est une histoire qui a pour lieu
Paris la belle en l'an de Dieu
Mil-quatre-cent-quatre-vingt-deux
Histoire d'amour et de désir
Nous les artistes anonymes
De la sculpture ou de la rime
Tenterons de vous la transcrire
Pour les siécles à venir
Il est venu le temps des cathédrales
Le monde est entré
Dans un nouveau millénaire
L'homme a voulu monter vers les étoiles
Ecrire son histoire
Dans le verre ou dans la pierre
Pierre après pierre, jour après jour
De siècle en siècle avec amour
Il a vu s'élever les tours
Qu'il avait bâties de ses mains
Les poètes et les troubadours
Ont chanté des chansons d'amour
Qui promettaient au genre humain
De meilleurs lendemains
Il est venu le temps des cathédrales
Le monde est entré
Dans un nouveau millénaire
L'homme a voulu monter vers les étoiles
Ecrir son histoire
Dans le verre ou dans la pierre
Il est venu le temps des cathédrales
Le monde est entré
Dans un nouveau millénaire
L'homme a voulu monter vers les étoiles
Ecrir son histoire
Dans le verre ou dans la pierre
Il est foutu le temps des cathédrales
La foule des barbares
Est aux portes de la ville
Laissez entrer ces païens, ces vandales
La fin de ce monde
Est prévue pour l'an deux-mille
Est prévue pour l'an deux-mille."
I stared at her when she finished. Her voice was adequate but it was the song she sang that caught my attention. It was my song, I had sung it a hundred times before on the very steps I'd found the young girl; I had penned that song from my thoughts of La Notre Dame.
"That is my song." I told her and I could not help it; my tone was gruff and accusing. She did not seemed phased by this in the least.
"I know." She replied. "I have heard you listen to it many times." I was stunned.
"You have?" I asked and she nodded.
"It is why I was outside today, I was waiting for you." I took a closer look at her; the matted hair, the dark circles under her eyes, this girl had not been abandoned tonight; she knew she was a street rat. "I would not have moved at all if it were not you who lead me in here." She said and my eyes widened.
"But we have never met!" I exclaimed and she only gave me a rather strained smile.
"Music is the window to the heart; you have kept yours open for me to look into every time you sang. I know you, Pierre Gringoire."
Footnotes:
L'histore- story
Mon cher- my dear
Mademoiselle- Miss
Sans abri- homeless
Mon- my
The song is Le Temps des Cathédrales.
A/N: I hope that Luna isn't too much of a stalker, but I believe that music is the window to the heart and that you can know someone by just listening to them sing.
