A/N Here we all are again! Hopefully you're here from my last story Toll of The Bells (which you should probably read if you haven't otherwise this will make very little sense: s/11325132/1/Toll-of-The-Bells) but basically for new readers this is a Genderbent Hunchback of Notre Dame prequel to my genderbent fic on the movie. The events below are entirely fictional and from my own weird little mind so please be polite and enjoy it!
For old readers (if you actually got the notification) welcome back! I apologize for the massive delay in this but I wasn't feeling satisfied with it back in January when it was done and just had to rewrite half of it to get it out here before any fanbase I've got left disappears! Anyway, hopefully this prequel is to your liking!
Esmerald, Age 4
He was a gypsy, the child of a spinner and a missionary that didn't even want him. This religion had touched him far more than anything else in this world. He was a gypsy. He was an atheist. There was danger to it in a Christian world but Esmerald had long ago given up his faith in some imaginary quick fix. The hard realities of life had taught him to believe otherwise…
Esmerald looked around the winter scene which covered the tiny town, a thin blanket of snow covering the small manors and clusters of sandy stone row houses. He tightened the ragged blue cloak around his tiny shoulders, fluttering snow dampening his growing raven bush from where he sat on the edge of the rail which overlooked a deep ravine and separated them from the rest of the town which had a name his near toothless mouth and uneducated mind simply couldn't produce. He looked down the steep cliffside and wondered for a brief moment if it was worth going back to dropping pebbles and watching them gradually disappear into the icy depths of the flowing stream with a nearly inaudible sound. He'd already ran through the small cash he'd collected by picking at the frozen mud, dirt blackening his growing nails. His mother had told him to stay put while she went to the well, leaving him in charge of their horse, Pica, until she returned, and telling him if any strangers passed by, to untie their steed from the tiny dormant pear tree and hide with him.
He cast a weary glance back at the content beast, shivering as a sharpened, icy breeze gusted past him, forcing him to dig his feet into the edges of dirt and grass which was just enough space to support the short wall he sat upon, a simple nudge keeping him from falling to what surely would've been a cold and miserable death.
Suddenly realizing the chances of such an incident occurring with his less than acquired balancing skills, little Esmerald pulled himself back from the wall, needles shooting through the bottoms of his blackened feet in near horrified anticipation. No amount of risk was worth feeling that wind, no matter how much more alive it might've made him feel at first. His poor mother would've more than likely had a heart attack if she'd seen him that close to the edge.
Annoyed he'd let judgement get the better of him, the small boy meandered around in the snow, the icy crystals burning into his numb feet as he walked up to Pica, petting the gentle steeds muzzle and relishing the warm puffs of breath which kept his bare hands at a reasonable temperature despite the cold world around him. He'd contemplated mounting him and at least keeping his little feet from the wet, hypothermic conditions of the ground, but seeing the large beast already intimidated him, as it did when Pica would bray in irritation and shake his body like a wet canine, shaking the shimmering snowdrops off of his speckled body. He wasn't about to climb on top of something easily three times his height unless his life depended on it, and so far the only direct threat he'd faced to his or his horses well being was a plague of irredeemable boredom.
Esmerald longed for his mother's companionship from the moment she promised she'd be back, lowering herself down to his height and pressing a kiss to his tawny forehead before giving him his instructions, taking a pail and a bucket, and leaving him with nothing but his imagination and a horse who unfortunately couldn't talk as his only company.
Being poor, his imagination was about as creative as he dared allow it to be. He would close his eyes and feel the warmth of their iron stove, the softness of a rug where a rug should've been in their tiny, one room home on the edge of a river. They lived not exactly in the middle of nowhere, though to a boy Esmerald's size it may as well have been with the nearest neighbors a squinting view away and the town nestled in the near canyon beneath them, not a rare sight in the mountains but pleasant enough in the winter and lovely in the summer when the stream was cold enough to wade in.
At least, back when he and his mother could afford the time off, when he could barely speak and was resigned to his own little world in the long green grass, sneezing when he accidentally inhaled a dandelion and mucking around the tiny stable Pica occupied. Back when his mother would leave for hours everyday and come home bearing a weary smile and whatever she could carry on their horse with her spinning wheel.
Back before she'd told him he needed to stay inside, told him he needed to be more cautious. When she had given him his first knife there was a cold sadness in her eyes he could read as she'd told him to only use it if he knew he needed to. When there came knocking at odd hours in the day, he ignored it and kept out of the conservatively clothed paler folk's line of sight as they peered in, curious and cautious as to who could own such a small house and yet never be seen within the town.
She'd chosen to put her past behind her for her son, a path which hadn't been easy and something little Esmerald had known for months before today. It wasn't hard to decipher the tongue of the people who knocked on the door, requesting that she come out only to realize that the tiny home's bare white walls were devoid of shadows or breath.
He'd thought about asking why before, but decided against it. Sure, it nagged him when she'd frown and refuse to smile despite his best intentions, and it annoyed him when she didn't feel up to storytelling after a long day of disappearing into nothingness and returning suddenly with food and the occasional treat with which their home would slowly gather a quaint feel to it.
It was only when she'd decided to take him to work with her that he realized exactly why he'd been sequestered to their house, learning to despise the color of the pasty plastered stone that lacked anything to break the monotony- not since she'd taken down her beautifully handwoven blanket because it attracted unwanted attention.
Where she worked was a splendid palace, as far was Esmerald was able to discern. The royal blue walls were patterned with a sense of gilded beauty that rarely he saw anywhere but his mother's fine crafts. The floors were a polished creamy stone that he could see his ragged reflection in, his perpetually cleaned face framed by soaked-looking raven locks. He'd longed to run through the halls admiring everything this strange place had that his tiny home didn't, but his mother's stern warnings and gentle arms kept him from fulfilling any of those desires.
The aesthetics were far less impressive in the kitchen and the wood lined back room where his mother would set her large treadle wheel from her back, leaning from her milk maidens stool, and let him watch the spinning motion as supple, worsted yarn steadily accumulated throughout the day.
He'd rock back and forth with intrigue as she would tell him funny tales and weave simple stories through years of experience. She was in the middle of explaining a tale of a giant who stole fires from the earth below for his own greedy purposes when the door had slammed open.
A regally dressed woman of decent standing towered in the doorway, her composure obviously lost from the withering glare she had as it settled on his mother, then on him.
"You," She hissed, storming towards the pair as his mother quickly released her hold on the bobbin, the wheel slamming to a loud stop as she looked ready to fall to the ground.
It took him a moment to realize she was looking at him, and he blanched. What was he doing wrong?
"Please, madame," He heard his mother force out, clearly not confident in her French as she wished she was. "My boy, he didn't do anything-" She was silenced by a menacing glare.
Her hateful gaze leveled on the small tawny child, who shared his mother's likeness in nearly every way. The narrowed darkness seemed to widen in cold, snappish surprise. "So you're the little gutter rat my-" The words were suddenly muffled by his mother's calloused hands. The patrician snarled at his mother for rendering her jab ineffective.
"You do not tell him anything!" The child had never heard his usually still, collected parent use a tone of voice like that; not even when he'd broken his arm climbing a tree.
She scoffed, wrinkling her pointed nose and snapping her glare back to the small boy, beach blonde curls shaking with dissatisfaction like a serpent haired monster. "You dare talk back to me?" She snarled in an icy tone.
But his mother wasn't going to back down. She somehow knew what this unexpected visit was about. "You don't-" There was a jerk to his head as her hands recoiled in surprise, the veiny hand of the slightly older mistress ripped across her tawny cheek and nearly knocked her to the floor.
Esmerald felt panic shoot up his spine as there was a sudden blunt impact to the back of his skull. Completely off guard, he was knocked backwards, skull connecting with the back of the small stool and he felt a steady stream of blood at his upper lip, haziness to his vision as his mother cried something unintelligible and he was in her arms, sheltered as he came to his senses.
He wished he'd thought to use his knife then, and she hadn't been back to that house since then, at least not with him. That was the night he'd learned he was illegitimate to the world, in the stillness of their home as his mother nursed the bruised cheek and bloody nose.
"Why?" He'd cried after she'd cleaned the last of the blood away with a strongly smelling kerchief. "Why did she say that to you?"
With that Esmerald saw his mother's eyes slump to the ground, their deep brown glow darkening with a quiet feeling he couldn't recognize and wouldn't for years to come. "What did I do to deserve it?" She winced at that line.
"You did nothing, Esmerald. I promise, you did nothing wrong." His mother shook her head quickly, settling both hands on his shoulders where he stood and she kneeled on one knee.
"Then why?" He repeated. "Why did she hit me?"
There was a broken sigh. "Sometimes, my baby, the world isn't fair to people for things that they can't help." She could tell he was starting to hry, and hugged him close to her chest. "The best thing you can do is realize when that happens, and know that you need to stand up for it. Show them that they're wrong for doing so."
They'd been riding all morning since dawn towards her next job, spinning wheel still mounted to the back of her horse. She still wasn't back yet. Part of him wondered if he should take the horse and go looking for her. But, still not willing to be gone if she'd told him to stay put, he simply leaned against Pica's back leg softly despite the fact that he weighed less than thirty pounds soaking wet.
Then, suddenly, the stillness of the serene winter hillside was brutally shattered by a loud shriek, one that shook the young boy to his core and he instantly gripped the reins in one white knuckled fist as Pica reared his white head in bewilderment. It hardly sounded human, whatever it was.
There was a distinct rustling coming from the long, snow dusted fields of dry, prairie-like grass blades which were curled like wrought iron from drought and chills. Esmerald gripped the hilt of his knife from his pants pocket, the pain in his aching feet suddenly fueling a blazing fire of adrenaline with threatened to burn through his entire being. He took his stance in front of the slightly skittish horse, knowing if this wasn't something he could subdue, the slip knot in his other hand could be easily undone and they'd be off in a split. Lost, no doubt, but out of the way.
He tensed, other hand now drifting to soothe his horse. His toes dug into the slushy, icy dirt.
Then out waddled a white, bedraggled creature who instantly keeled over, it's fur was dampened by snow and it's eyes were unusual for a goat, being full, round pupils instead of inexpressive inky black bricks. It was tiny, knobby white legs shaking in the air from exhaustion, it's little pink tongue lolled out and panting softly.
Little Esmerald glared weakly at the creature, holding next to no sympathy for getting him worked up. But within a moment the anger had faded, and he found himself peering over the long grass, listening for the sound of footsteps or calling. The goat most likely belonged to someone, and although they could easily take the small creature as their own, he wasn't about to steal someone else's property, even if it meant more companionship than Pica or even fresh milk.
The thought crossing his mind, he walked up and examined the little goat further. The obvious anatomy labeled him a billy, and the small, comically stubby bumps at the tips of his forehead showed the coming signs of horns. He could also see the lines of his ribs and the knobby bones in his knees and legs. He looked almost emaciated and it was clear he was still quite young.
It was a sad sight for his cold stung eyes as the thing still panted heavily. Esmerald felt a twinge of compassion and against his better judgement he removed the cloak from his shoulders and wrapped the shivering, panting mess within it's course, but warm embrace.
"Hang in there little guy." He picked up the limp billy and sat sat to Pica as he sniffled the boy's new companion with great curiosity, no longer anxious in the slightest.
He was white as the snow which blanketed the ground in a thin sheet, still damp as if he'd swam through a ravine, and out of steam as if he'd ran for miles. There was a hint of scruffy black at his muzzle which threatened to climb up to his forehead with the coming years, and at the black tips of his leathery ears, a small hole was punched through the right one.
Letting out a weary sigh as he cradled the poor thing close, he found himself humming an old hymn his mother would sing him to sleep with.
He sat there for a good ten minutes before the sound of footsteps suddenly pounded through the grass the soft layer of snow atop it sifting to the ground. He quickly whirled around and saw the shadow of someone who clearly wasn't his mother. Esmerald's green eyes widened as the baby goat let out a concerned bleat that he quickly understood. His eyes darted between the storming man and Pica. There was no way he could hope to mount that horse and carry him at the same time, much less ride off.
Then he felt teeth on his ragged sleeve as his free arm was tugged. His attention momentarily captured, the little goat jerked his head towards the stone wall several times. Considering his options, he grinned slyly, grateful for the idea. Holding the creature tight to his chest, he ran towards the wall and hopped it, transferring the cloak to be bunched up in one fist as he ducked out of sight, black bottomed feet digging into the short edge. One hand looped around the top of the wall, the bundled goat being hoisted over the ravine just barely for the crouched child to maintain balance. The creature bleated anxiously as Esmerald shushed him. He took one last look over the wall before the rotund man burst through the grass, panting similarly to that of his goat. The small boy immediately ducked and prayed through the pounding of his heart that he wouldn't see his fingers from the edge. Deciding it wasn't worth the risk, He slowly crawled the only thing keeping him anchored to the edge back to a jutting stone, hoping to high heaven that it could hold him and the goat long enough.
"Just don't look down," He whispered meekly to both himself and the goat as the man's beady eyes leveled on Pica. He heard the horse whinny in skepticism and he tried not to groan as he realized the man was perfectly fine with stealing an unattended horse. His mother would kill him for this.
The man released a disgusting chuckle. "I was looking for a stupid goat, but you'll definitely do." He could hear the reins being untied and was just about ready to get up and stop him before another voice rang out.
"What do you think you are doing!?" His mother shouted as she dropped one of the pails of well water and the footsteps suggested she was confronting him.
"Watch it lady!" The man yelped as the sound of splashing water could be heard from his position.
Then there was an impact, a hand slapping a face as Esmerald recoiled, fearing the worst, but his mother's angry voice quickly disproved his thoughts. "What did you do to my son!?"
"Look, I ain't seen no kid around here gypsy!" The man hastily defended himself, his tone shivering like his body.
There was a growl. "And now you are here to steal my horse? Get out of here!" She shouted, a blunt impact following as it seemed like she hit him with her empty bucket. "Run away before I get the other pail and make you sorry!"
The sound of a body hitting the ground and then scampering as it appeared the man had run off, and Esmerald peeked over the wall just to make sure. He could see the terror in her eyes resurfacing as her anger floated calmly away. Before she could call his name, he'd slung the goat over the wall and climbed over with him, deep breaths shaking his little chest as he slid down the bumpy stones, his legs like jelly from being so close to the edge of the deep ravine. His mother instantly was on him, wrapping her son in her arms as he was forced to let the bundle unfurl and the little goat hobbled out, still weak and lightheaded from the extensive motion and cramped conditions of his hiding place.
His mother stared blankly at the small thing with her deep brown eyes, curiosity clear on his young features as she looked between her son and the billy. His face went red. "We had to hide from him. He was gonna take him away." He gestured to the bewildered goat who sat immediately, either dizzy or attentive or quiet possibly both.
"Well," She tempted, looking down at him. "Does he have a name?"
"Not that I know of." He shook his head. "Can we keep him, Mom?"
A brief moment of consideration passed over the woman's features as she nodded yes. "Only if you can take care of him."
"I promise I will." Esmerald nodded wholeheartedly as she set him down and he hugged the goat, who, despite still being a bit disoriented, licked his cheek with a sandpapery tongue, before running over to the spilled pail and lapping up the water before it had a chance to freeze and leave him dehydrated.
"We don't really know where he came from," Esmerald kind of lied, knowing the owner had passed by and knowing the conditions couldn't have been good.
His mother watched the goat lap up the precious water like he'd never seen so much in his life. "Poor thing. He doesn't look too good right now." She lamented. "How about Djali?" She suddenly suggested. Esmerald paused.
The name meant origin, or lack thereof. They'd just found him- it seemed as good a name as any. He nodded as the oat finished his drink, instantly darting for the dry grass and burping loudly. Esmerald looked at the goat as he'd had his fill, sitting next to the little boy and licking him again.
"Well, Djali?" He tired out the name as it rolled off of his tongue with slight difficulty. "You ready to keep going?" The goat didn't let a beat pass before bleating excitedly, jumping into his new owners arms.
That was all the response he needed.
Phoebe, Age 3
The young captain had been to the masses every Sunday and the occasional Christmas feast when she but but knee high, and little appeared to have changed in the near two decades of her absence. She removed her golden helmet, as the invisible words of worshippers reminded her to do so. It was one of the few places that offered comfort to the young woman, to know that in the silence and equality of the church, she was not in a position of power...
There was a brilliant flash of orange and yellow. And that was the last thing Phoebe could remember.
She'd awoken in a bed which wasn't hers and easily three times her own size, and clutched the covers with horror in the darkened room, the light of many candles glowing within the cracks of the aged wooden door. She bit her tongue and whimpered as her arm moved. A tight bandage was wrapped around the length of her forearm and down to her wrist, her right hand unscathed. Her toes pressed into the rug and then the floorboards, creaking as she dragged the quilt with her like a hideously flowered cape. At her unimposing height, she stared up at the gilded golden handle of the door. Wherever she was, it certainly was a place nicer than her own.
For a moment, she paused, eyes scanning the smaller bedroom which seemed to be slightly less scary than what she'd awoken to. Through a small window she could even see the light of another apartment in the darkness of the night's sky. Assessing the situation the best she could, the three year old toddler smooshed her thumb into her mouth, sucking on it for a moment in an attempt to calm herself down. How much time had passed?
The thought which had entered her mind upon her regaining consciousness flashed through her head once more. She looked between the bed and the doorknob. Suddenly, her brown eyes widened as an agonizing scream tore through the apartment and she instantly dropped to the ground like a lifeless marionette, terrified of whatever demon had infiltrated her new resting place. Tucking herself into a ball, she bit back a wail and held her tears, fear bubbling through her stomach as if whatever had made such a horrific noise would devour the first thing which made so much as a peep.
It took her almost twenty minutes to pull herself together, and in that time more sounds infiltrated her safe space. It wasn't recognizable, but familiar in a sense. It sounded like her mother. And it sounded like crying, but the little child didn't understand any of what her situation had become. All she could really comprehend was that whatever was going on, she wanted to go home as soon as possible.
Then, another scream rattled her boiling blood, but it was nowhere near as loud as the first one, and quickly dissolved into a pathetic whimper. Realization panged through her. It was her father.
Swallowing her terror and fear of what lay beyond her quilted, dark cave, Phoebe reached for the doorknob with a tiny hand poking through a roll of the soft quilt, brushing the edge of the spherical object as even including her arms she was still shorter than it. It was hardly a blow to her confidence as much as it was to her fears. Determination worked through her as she propped herself up to her tippy toes and tried to clasp a her hand around the handle, pushing and jiggling the thing without a sure definition of what to do. Grunting in her tiny voice, she felt herself almost melt into the door as her balance swayed.
Finally, as another cry of pain rung in her ears, she managed to turn the knob and stumble out into a hallway, the door swinging open and creaking softly. In darkness she stumbled, dirty, bare feet catching on the occasional uneven board and the folds of her quilt, tripping her thrice and falling her once. Her breathing ragged and anxious, she followed the sounds down the massive cavernous hall with a still cold twinge to the air. Brown eyes widened as the sights and sounds of her world grew more apparent.
Finally, she reached the end of the long hall, and saw exactly what had brought her to this strange new place. Then, she wished she hadn't.
Her father was spread out on a dining table, naked, with her mother and two large men holding down both arms and his left leg. His right one dangled lifelessly, coppery blood pouring into a provided wash tin as a third man sawed through blackened flesh and bone. Though she was barely at the height of the table she could see every twisted nerve on her father's blond stubble. A mortified cry bubbled to her throat before she could stop it.
As she watched the gaping wound with fuzzy vision, she could feel each bead of sweat materialize on her face, every hair on her body shocked with an electric charge, every ounce of blood boil to her head. Through the corner of her vision she could she her mother rushing to her side and before she could throw up she was whisked her into her arms, her head instantly forced into the crook of her mother's shoulder to keep her from seeing anything more.
She felt to tears stain into her dress, the scent of lilac flooding her nostrils and blocking out the cruel world her father was still weathering. A large, willowy hand clapped over her ear as another agonized scream ripped free from her father's throat. The little girl swallowed the massive lump in her throat, squeezing her small eyes shut.
The door to her room was nudged open with her mother's hip, and closed the same way. A burst of cold September air made her shiver beneath the shaking sobs. She felt her mother sitting on the bed, cradling her smooth and shushing her sounds, free hand stroking her long blonde locks lovingly. Her bandaged wrist was sqiushed between their chests, and the sudden touch of pressure, despite it's gentle intention, made her pull away, tumbling back into the lumpy mattress as her mother paused and struck a match to the bedside candle, the room now illuminated in a golden single flame.
Then, her mother looked her over as Phoebe clutched the bandaged appendage, biting her lip as the pain came and went with her pulse, gradually going to a numb burn. She pulled herself together, her lungs relaxing while her mother watched tentatively. After a moment's pause, her mother scooted closer.
"I-" Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry you had to see Papa like that."
Phoebe snuggled close, burying her head in the crook of her shallow stomach. "What's going on?" She wailed softly into her dress.
"There was an accident sweety." There was genuine melancholy in her tone, and though her face was smushed in darkness, she could tell her parent was trying to hold whatever weak barriers she had left to keep from breaking down. "The forge…" She paused for a moment, as if she couldn't think of a word to describe it. "Papa had to get you out. He needed to make sure you were safe. He got hurt, really bad."
She peered up at her mother, brown eyes wide and soft with tears. "Those people… his leg…"
"It couldn't be saved." She closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Is he gonna die?"
Her mother felt her heart breaking as every node of fear stung her skin like a hornet. She trailed her index finger up her chin, pondering over what she could say next. "I hope not."
A small whimper escaped her lips as she leapt into her mother's arms, holding her close and burrowing her face into the soft creases of her dress. "What are we gonna do?" She could hear from the muffled mouth, spirit practically shattered like a prized mirror, silver shards stabbing at her heart.
"We're gonna wait right here." She nodded, suddenly clapping both hands around her daughter as another scream tore through the house. "Do you think you can sleep okay?" There was a sideways motion and a mumble into her apron.
Setting her head over her daughters and planting a kiss at the crown, she shifted her arms so she was cradled in her arms like she had been so many times before, the comforting warmth of her love awash in her rattled mind.
But through the soft sounds of an old Coventry coral she'd remembered from many sleepless nights, she could shake the image of her poor father, his gruesome injuries from her eyes even scrunched closed form the light of the candle. He'd saved her being on that table. He saved her.
"Momma?" She spoke in a tiny voice fitting to her literal size, half closed eyes gazing upwards. "It wasn't my fault, was it?"
"Of course not honey." Her mother grinned softly as her. "It was no one's fault. You shouldn't be worried about that."
"But why did it have to happen?" She whimpered as she was slowly rocked back and forth in her arms.
She could hear a huff and a sigh from the figure above. "Sometimes the lord has strange ways of working with us- but I promise everything will work out in the end."
"How do you know?" She yawned.
"Because it's best to have faith, honey. Without it, there's not much else we can hope for in this world. It can be used as a powerful tool in dark times." She seemed to lament, eyes drying. "But for now, I need you to do something else for me." Phoebe nodded weakly. "Just relax, close your eyes. You need to rest tonight, and bury your fears for the day. You can do that, right?"
"Yes, momma." She answered.
"Good." Her mother planted a kiss on her forehead, and set her down on the bed, pulling the dusty comforter up from the floor, giving it a whip, and tucking her under the warmth of the downy quilt. "Sleep well, my little soldier. We'll see you in the morning."
She snuggled into the pillow as the adult blew out the candle, crossed the room, and closed the door behind finally filling the apartment, the little girl was left to pleasant dreams despite whatever awaited her tomorrow.
She'd make her mother proud.
A/N So please, feedback? This is the first time I've really deviated from the source material and there's so much potential here for something great! This will be shorter than ToB, maybe it'll be five chapters long or something like that, published at the same rate? I dunno. Either way it'll split between their pasts as different stages of their lives, all the way up to pre-movie Hunchback. I hope you all enjoyed it and it's good to be back!
And hi Anonymous! To answer your question, Phoebe is three years older than Esmerald at 20 when ToB occurs, and Esmerald is 17- Originally I had this part of the story with Phoebe at 3 and Esmerald at birth, but to be honest, writing birth is somewhat boring (hence the unsatisfaction & rewrite). In the next chapter they'll probably be at different ages but I'll see what happens. Thanks so much for the review!