Quasimoda looked out over the city from the south tower, the view she'd do long cherished and longed to be a part of completely altered in nearly every way. Where she'd once heard the gossip and shouts of Parisians from down below she now only heard the crackling of fire and the screams of those affected by it. It was especially depressing to think she was fortunate enough to be above and away from the horror while the innocent were suffering and losing everything, but she chose to simply turn her gaze to her miniature Paris for the moment, knowing it would forever be as accurate as it's model had once been and hopefully would be again one day.
The smoke and embers curled up into a blood red sky as a burst of flames lept from an area well across the city. Her eyes darted to the same spot on her model. It was a cobbler's shop, she knew. With a disappointed sigh, she closed her eyes for a moment before going up to the towers to ring the evening bells, the time of night hardly noticeable given the radiance of the city around her. Besides, she figured hardly anyone was paying attention to the time given the worries they now had.
The cacophony of the many heavy copper and brass shells rocked her innards, the feeling of inevitable strength and power coursing through her veins as it always had. The ringing of the bells was dulled in her nearly deafened ears as she'd never needed protection from the sound nor wanted it. It was loud, but nonetheless beautiful. It was something that had never changed for the hunchback all her life. Even in her darkest moments, ringing the bells of Notre Dame gave her a sense of strength and contentment that for the moment chased away the painful reality of the world outside her thick, stone-walled prison. She had never cared to admit she would be deaf eventually, but thought that blocking away the beauty of her calling to be a fate worse than the former.
Despite the fact that Quasimoda would've gladly remained in her position forever, calloused hands gripping the coarse twine of rope and the beautifully distracting noises of the bells, there was a concern to her friend, Esmerald, that eventually called her back to the bottom of the tower. The gargoyles were standing at the rail, facing the blaze of the square head on. She heard the words of her companions even after the ringing had faded from her eardrums.
"It doesn't look good…" Victoria sighed from her place next to Lorenzo.
"I know," He admitted, his tone sorrowful. "But don't you say anything to our figlia. The last thing she needs right now is to be any more worried."
"It's hopeless." She slumped a bit as if she hadn't heard a single word the elderly gargoyle had said.
"You're telling me!" Harry groaned from her spot on the railing. "I'm losing to a bird!" She threw down a handful of grapes that a pigeon across from her happily gobbled up. "I've been betting that straw mill would be goin' down any second, but no. " She rolled her eyes. "This feathered rat bet on the cobbler and I'm stuck with nothin!"
Both of them looked confused for a moment before Victoria questioned the obvious. "Why are you betting grapes?"
"And pray tell," Lorenzo hopped over to her and gave her a painfully scrutinizing gaze. "Why does that matter when all of Paris is burning?! "
She groaned. "Because I need something to impress that hunk when he comes back, and I don't know about you, but nothing doesn't spell a date."
"Lay off the boy!" Lorenzo snapped and conked the pudgy gargoyle on her head. "He's already taken!" Quasimoda avoided the urge to roll her eyes, her back digging into one of the columns.
"I wasn't talking about the kid, I was talkin' about the goat!" She gave the older gargoyle a slight shove. Lorenzo's eyes softened as he mumbled something in Italian.
"That poor gypsy boy, I'm beginning to fear… the worst." Victoria squeaked.
"I know, but keep those fears to yourself, dear. The best thing we can do right now is to keep strong for Quasi. Understood?"
Both female gargoyles nodded in agreement. The hunched woman stepped out into the light. "You don't have to keep quiet, guys. I can hear you." She sighed.
Lorenzo whirled around. "Quasi, you know better than to eavesdrop." He attempted to scold her but the tone became flat at the realization that it was hardly the time to be doing so.
"It's a big bell tower, you old coot." Harry nudged him. "She's bound to hear everything eventually. Bells don't make her deaf."
The bell ringer ignored their argument and limped up to the thick stone rail, the view of Paris a blazing orange nightmare. Her vantage point allowed her a decent outlook on any given day, but the plumes of black smoke worked to obscure any sort of information she could've obtained from the cathedral. She'd already considered questioning the archdeacon for anything he could've supplied, but knew he had more trouble than anyone else right now what with the massive amount of people now seeking sanctuary in the church while their homes burned to the ground. There was no sign of Esmerald yet, but she asked her friends the same question anyhow.
And the only response she got was a loud wail from Victoria, who slumped into Lorenzo with shaking sobs. "This isn't good." She groaned, hands pressed into her face.
"What are you guys talking about?" Harry asked between the trio's states of varying defeat. "If I know Esmerald he's three steps ahead of Frollo and well out of harm's way!"
"How can you be so sure?!" Victoria nearly shouted. "He could be anywhere! He could be in the dungeons, in the stocks, on the rack; he could already be-" She cut herself off with a hiccup as the deformed young woman felt a stone drop in her stomach.
Her friends words brought her to realize that she had absolutely no knowledge of Esmerald and had no prospect for his survival other than his strength and his ability to outrun people. She had no form of information to the gypsy boy and hadn't seen or heard anything of him be it first or second hand since he'd disappeared into the darkness less than two days ago. Frollo hadn't even been up to visit her and for that she counted her blessings, however minute they have have been. As much as she respected the judge, she would always be afraid of her just as everyone else was. Just because she'd been shown mercy hardly meant she was exempt from her adopted mother's judgement. The bell towers had been painfully silent for the hours after Esmerald had left, the gargoyles remaining to themselves as the hunchback found herself simply looking out at the world as she had in those twenty years of near complete solitude. But unlike then her attention was held by one thing and one thing only: The gypsy boy and his survival.
She yearned to know the truth. But after a moment, it became rather obvious pessimism wasn't going to get her anywhere. Quasimoda looked over to Harry, who'd shooed the pigeon away and gathered the remainder of her grapes in cloven hooves.
"Are you sure," She started. "about him coming back?"
"'Course!" She nodded popping one of the grapes into her mouth. "Things may look bad now, but once this all cools down, you'll see. He'll be back."
She chuckled a bit at her friend's optimism. "What makes you say that?"
"Because he likes you caro. " Lorenzo patted her in the head, bits of dusty gravel flaking in her long ginger locks. "We always said you were the cute one." He nodded confidently.
Harry looked hurt, her cheeks stuffed like a squirrels. "I thought I was the cute one!" She said through a mouthful of grape flesh.
"No!" Lorenzo snapped. "You're the fat, stupid one with the big mouth!"
If anything, she looked confused by the serious insult, and the elder gargoyle waved her off. "Take it from us, Quasi. You've got the boys heart on a platter. All you gotta do is wait your turn."
"Me?" She became red as her beefy hands patted her chest.
"Yes, you!" Harry sniggered. "You're everything he could ever want in a girl! You're original!"
Victoria seemed to have perked up at this. "Damsels in distress don't seem to be his type." She remarked. "And you've saved him from Frollo not even two nights ago!"
"And those other girls? They're all the same from every point of view." Lorenzo waved his hand in a fitting tone. "They want a man with muscle to whisk them off their feet."
"But you're going to be the only one using the muscle around here." Victoria then demonstrated by knocking a bunch against the hunchbacks bicep, and a finger cracked and chipped off as if to show she was tougher than stone.
"You're a surprise from every angle!" Harry hopped down from the rail, the grape stalk getting tossed down to the fire below to be incinerated. "He's gotta love a girl like you!"
"Come on guys, I'm not that special." She blushed as her gaze fell to the wooden slats of floor.
"You gotta be kiddin' me!" Harry spun to her and grabbed hold of the hunchbacks arm, dragging her along. "Come on, I wanna show you something."
Although she would've been able to escape from the cloven hooves, Quasimoda didn't feel like she needed to. She willingly followed Harry to a spot in her bell tower that she had feared for a very long time.
Pegged to a column in a rather innocuous spot besides the staircase was a polished surface of the finest glass. The silver light of the moon often shone upon its reflective surface on any normal night, but tonight the only light came from the distant glow of crackling embers, the outside world providing a source from which Quasimoda had learned to loath and fear. The mirror.
In Frollo's eyes it was a necessity to keep one's soul within viewable reach, for the pious judge saw it as more than just a reflective surface. There was a value to the human soul, as corrupted as it may have been, that could never be replaced. In the mirror, she'd taught her daughter that the soul of the viewer was reflected back at them, and every time she looked, she could see the ugliness of her features that reflected the twisted nature of her own soul. Quasimoda had even been forced as far as to accept the hideousness as a flaw that she was cursed with, and to ensure she never forgot it, the judge had her daughter repeat the phrase 'I am ugly' every time she stumbled past the looking glass. She'd even gone as far as covering up the mirror his a section of silk every time her mistress left. The physical deformities quickly became her worst traits, but as deep as the emotional scars were, she'd learned long ago to accept she wasn't beautiful.
But to her and Frollo especially, being ugly, or different for that matter, was the worst possible thing she could be. Pointing it out only made her feel worse.
And yet here they were, the reflection of her deformed face staring back at her, her hazel eyes glowing in the distant light of the fires outside. She looked on at every nuance, every malformation, everything that they deemed unfit for the light of day. Her left eye was almost hidden beneath a large wart, her adam's apple jogged in her throat with each gulp. Her lips her nonexistent, thin lines of pink flesh shielding a snaggletooth. Her hair was thick and frizzy, the tarnished ginger red dulled in the light of the world outside her tower. Everything about her said unkept. Everything about her said hideous.
"Kid," Harry began with a slight sigh. "I know it and you know it. Ya don't look your best." A moment of silence passed at the words dug into her pale skin. "But what I see in that mirror is a girl with a heart of gold. You may not see it, they might not see it." She shook her head. "But we all see it. We see the girl behind the mask. We see past what you look like, because it's what you are." She patted her shoulder as well as she could with the height difference. "That boy sees it in you. He's seen it all along. If he hadn't cared he wouldn't have risked his skin standin' up to Frollo. No matter what happens in life, you chip a bit, you get wear and tear," She dusted a bit of gravel from her hair as if to illustrate her point. "But beauty isn't skin deep. Beauty is within. Victoria and Lorenzo see that in you; I see it in you. Esmerald sees it in you. And if you can see it, something tells me you're gonna be just fine."
She gulped. "You really think so?"
"Mon Dio above!" Harry laughed. "Of course, kid! For all the girls that chase him, you've got a better chance than anyone else."
Quasimoda looked hard at her reflection, her eyes softening from the scrutinizing glare she'd often given herself whenever passing. She focused on herself, trying to beneath what was outside. She tried to look past what she was, what she looked like. Confidence bloomed in her for a moment before something caught her eye, Harry suddenly going cold and hard as the stone she was carved from. It was a flash of gold in the corner of the mirror, a distant smudge doing little to hinder the reveal. She whirled around to face the intruder.
Leon stood behind her, his face sheltered by the shadow of an elevated beam. His brown eyes were covered with a length of mauve fabric. His tawny skin was a lucid pale shade even in the glowing light of the fires outside. His black hair was short and messily cut, many strands of sleek ink lines dripping down his dampened forehead. His goatee on the other hand was neatly trimmed, streaks of silver hairs surfacing in minor clusters like freshly cooled pewter. His attire was plain as it was most days, a limpid white shirt hidden beneath a dirtied, once crisp apron. Large boots covered his feet, corse and hastily stitched leather suggesting they'd been through many repairs.
"Bonsoir, Quasimoda." His voice was throaty, as if he'd attempted to say it as quietly as possible. "I didn't mean to frighten you." He began to turn away.
"No!" She covered as she stumbled towards him. "You didn't frighten me. I just... didn't expect you here so late."
He laughed a bit, a sense of elation passing like a spark between the two for a moment. Quasimoda felt a sense of accomplishment from this. He almost never laughed at all, much less around her.
"I can't even tell what time it would be anyway," The smallest of smiles began to twitch at his lips. "I would've guessed it was daytime, everything's so bright."
It was a joke she knew she or him shouldn't have taken lightly, however they both seemed to be in need of some humor, even if it could've come from someone else's expense. Knowing the drill by now, Quasimoda looked immediately to her right and fetched a piece of carefully whittled wood that was about as tall as her, and carefully pressed it to Leon's arm. He gripped it, and smiled again, a bit wider, before he began walking towards the statues that stood on the opposite end of the room, the cane tapping occasionally to the floor as he was familiar with the room.
She'd asked him long ago why he walked with his blindfold on when he was already blind, but the matter was often returned unanswered or with a grunt. The bell ringer learned his affliction was a sore subject rather quickly, and refrained from bringing it up with him.
Like her, Leon had a job to do. Within the bell tower on his infrequent visits, the clattering of a cane could often be heard echoing in the rafters and the bells. He would enter the church, be greeting by the archdeacon, and go up to the bell towers for many hours in the early and late evening. Quasimoda would do her part, and locate his cane despite the fact that he rarely needed it. He would then make his way over to the shelves, blocks of thick, grey stone waiting and ready to be shaped into anything the archdeacon or the church desired. He would take his tools from the chest, and remove his blindfold before going to work, carving the bricks into acclaimed works of art one never would've expected to be possible given the sculptors condition of vision. To his credit, Leon was a quiet soul, and was able to supposedly identify shadows and depth. Not well enough to fully see, of course; but well enough to provide him with a job at the church.
His relationship with Quasimoda was, at times, strained. Both of them were loners at heart but the hunched young woman often attempted small talk that for a very long time was only answered, customarily, by a grunt, or silence. Most of the time this convinced her that he wasn't interested in talking, but occasionally it didn't. And when she pressed further, this goaded the blind man into either snapping or getting up and leaving altogether, the result being pain and hurt on both sides. These arguments were normally forgotten or overlooked until the next visit, and by then the cycle would begin again. He was a lonely voice in the tower whenever she longed for actual companionship, and despite their ups and downs, there was a mutual respect that the both shared for one another that however tumultuous, was something she wouldn't have given up for anything in the world.
He'd taken a half complete work, a replacement hand for one of the saints outside, and began to chisel away more rock, his eyes trained on his work and nothing else as the hunchback limped over towards him. He didn't look up at her. She sat down on her stool and cleared her throat.
"Something wrong?" He asked with a slight hint of annoyance.
"No," She shrunk away as her voice became a squeak.
He sighed heavily. "I'm guessing you're not going to leave me alone until I give you my attention?"
"Right." She nodded, a little stronger.
"Alright." He answered, and set his carving tools down and leaned both dusty hands on his knees. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," She answered slightly shy, her fingers twirling a lock of hair.
"Don't give me that." He shook his head. "I may be blind but I'm not deaf. What's wrong?"
She blinked for a moment, her lips pursed in angst. "I'm just a little… conflicted." He grunted. "About someone."
"Someone," He echoed.
She folded her large hands. "I don't know. He just gets me excited."
Then Leon paused, and took a breath, his gaze finally settling a full foot above the hunchback, his dark eyes distant and lost as they always had been. He let it out in a long, drawn out sigh. "I don't know what to tell you, Quasimoda. I've never had something like that happen."
"Never?" She pressed in slight shock. He shook his head.
"Nope. Being blind doesn't help me anymore in relationships than it does going up stairs. It's one of those things that never gets any easier." He sighed again.
She looked at the floor, his makeshift cane resting at an angle between the gap in his legs. It represented the emptiness his disability brought him, the reminder that he was an outcast just like she was. Something within her brought to ask the question she hadn't asked him in years, and she almost felt a sense of regret for doing so.
"How did it happen?"
A stretch of silence passed over the room as the sculptor closed his eyes, the 'it' rather obvious. His lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze became conflicted. Something within him seemed different. Almost familiar. For a moment, it looked as if he was about to tell her the story of how his sight had been taken from him; to tell her the reason why his eyes were limpid and empty with every moment of passing time.
Something had to ruin the moment, and that certain thing was the opening of the door to the bell tower. Quasimoda whirled around to look at the intruder who had interrupted her conversation with Leon. A stretched shadow cast by moonlight filled the doorway from down below, the definite figure of a young mans. His arms hung loosely around the stone decor of the outside, and the distant glow of fires seemed to extinguish in his presence.
"Quasimoda?" His tone was tentative and soft, but it carried through the tower nonetheless. She felt herself jumping up from her stool and Leon shot to his feet, his cane clattering to the floor.
"Esmerald?" She questioned with a hint of glee growing in her voice. She peered down the channel of steps to the doorway where the handsome gypsy stood, his dulled eyes darting to the loft area and her. He stepped inside.
"Esmerald!" She exclaimed, a massive grin overcoming her as she bounded down the steps before limping to her friend and embracing him. "I knew you'd come back! I just knew you would!" She chuckled as the teenager returned the embrace. Her eyes fell to the ground for a moment and her eyes grew wide in horror. "You're hurt!" She gasped, bringing her large hands to her mouth.
Esmerald shook his head. "These are nothing compared to what I've had. Trust me, Quasimoda. Gypsies are very resourceful. A few scrapes on your feet are easily healed." He indicated to the bloody lengths of once lilac cotton that had been bled to white and then red.
"But you're alright now?" She asked breathlessly.
"Yes." He nodded before he face fell. He sighed with the tiniest bit of guilt behind his eyes. "My friend, you've done so much for me. You've saved me from Frollo, you've kept her in the dark. I didn't want to, but I'm afraid I must ask for your help one more time."
"Yes." She answered instantly. "Anything."
He led her towards the door, and beckoned into the world. A large man appeared in the doorway, his large frame nearly overshadowing the passenger he held in his hands. She couldn't hold back her awe as a pang of recognition followed the reveal of the blonde captain of the guards. Her gilded armor was no more, and without it she was obviously injured. Numerous cuts and wounds, some scabbed, some bleeding; dotted her upper torso as well as a nasty gash by her shoulder and a matching one on her right knee. Her straw blonde locks were frizzed and the tips were stained copper. They were also noticeably shorter than before.
"Her name is Phoebe. She's horribly wounded and a fugitive like me." He indicated to the young woman who was cradled in the large gypsies arms.
"Fugitive? But she's the captain-"
"Of the guard, I know. She was, but not anymore. She defied Frollo and was hit multiple times by the marksmen. I saved her from drowning and I can heal her, but I need a place where she can stay for now. With all of Paris burning, I didn't have much of the choice." He looked back outside and sighed. "Please, Quasimoda, can you hide her?"
Although she had no desire to hide Phoebe, the hunchback couldn't help but feel terrible about the way she had acted towards the captain. It was inevitable that she'd eventually pay the price for defying the judge, Quasimoda knew that much from previous captains. But she hardly ever expected she'd see her again afterwards for the hanging or flogging or whatever punishment her adopted mother would have seen fit. It was a whole other matter to be housing a criminal in her personal quarters. If she did this, there was no question. She would be dead if Frollo found out.
But then again, she'd promised. Esmerald was the first person to show actual kindness towards her. She owed him much for saving her skin. With a heavy heart, she nodded.
"This way." She beckoned and began to walk up the stairs.
She felt limp inside, a feeling of overwhelming terror washing through her even though Esmerald had made it clear they had nothing to fear from the injured captain. She stumbled up the steps as best she could, her face tingling with silent anxiety. Something was bad about this. She just couldn't figure out what that was yet. With each step the glow of candlelight grew brighter, and the creaks in the steps grew softer.
But when she reached the loft, there was a flush of surprise. Leon was nowhere to be seen, the only indication of his former presence the sculpting tools which sat exactly where he'd left them. The candle near the forlorn objects was out, a trail of wispy smoke curling to the rafters above. She blinked as her jaw worked itself slightly, unsure what happened.
He must've ran off. Quasimoda frowned for only a second before they reached the only place Phoebe could rest: her pallet.
She extended an arm towards her own bed without a release of breath, Leon's disappearance leaving her mind as the large gypsy set the injured woman down on the soft cotton spread, a rolled up section of wool sufficing as a pillow. She was laid down as carefully as possible, a grunt of pain coming from her lips upon contact with the barely padded wooden slats.
Her eyelids twitched in the warmth of the candlelight. "Esmerald," She managed to wince before he shushed her.
The gypsy boy got to his hands and knees, shedding his worn blue cloak and tucking it beside them, Djali sitting patiently next to his master. The larger gypsy moved towards the balcony, keeping watch over the city of light for any signs of trouble. Quasimoda on the other hand remained by a column of wood, watching to gypsy and the former soldier with tentative eyes. Her beefy hands wrapped to the post like ivy, unwilling to leave the scene. With a soft silence settling in the air, Esmerald went to work on the injured hero.
He began by removing a section of thread from his poet's shirt, looping through the eye of a needle. Setting it aside for the moment, he removed an object from his scarf. The glint of a green bottle caught the hunchbacks eye as she heard every word.
"Hold still." Esmerald chided, placing pressure on her shoulders as the captain attempted to shift from her position.
Her eyes became playful for a moment upon seeing the bottle. "Is now really the time for a drink?" She chuckled weakly.
Esmerald remained serious, his frown not even wavering as he uncorked the wine. "I seem to recall a certain captain giving me a drink not even twelve hours ago." His tawny hands worked to moved the bloodied fabric of her pants away from the wound.
"And how was it?" She smiled a bit.
"Well, I'm not dead yet." The tiniest hint of a chuckle left his throat before his eyes hardened in concentration. "Don't move," He scolded. "This might sting a little."
The maroon liquid splashed on her knee, forcing a pained yell to leave her dry throat. Her hands clenched into fists and there was a trace of tears in her eyes. "That feels like," She paused. "A 1470 burgundy. In hindsight, not a good year."
"Only the finest for Frollo's goons." Esmerald sighed and began to sop up the alcohol with a rag from his pocket. "But a wise woman once told me it could heal."
She grinned a bit. "You think I'm wise?" Her voice was weak.
"No." Esmerald answered.
"Figures." Her eyes rolled weakly. "I was stupid enough to make Frollo mad."
A pause of silence passed as the teenager tightened a knot and with decent precision, began to suture the knee wound shut. Magenta colored thread, stained by wine, was slowly but surely stitched through the bloody flesh of her kneecap. She winced with each poke and tug of the needle, nails clawing into pink palms. The snap of the thread echoed on the near silent room, the suture complete. Esmerald then repeated the process to a wound on her shoulder.
"You were stupid." The gypsy boy agreed. "But you were also a hero. I think idiotic bravery works well with you, captain."
"Ex captain, remember?" She grunted in pain as he began to stitch the second, smaller wound closed.
"That family still owes you their lives. You're either the bravest ex soldier I've met, or the craziest." He admitted. "And you stood up to Frollo. That, I have to give you credit for."
"You made it look so easy." She rolled her eyes. "You managed to do it and didn't get… how many arrows?"
The last suture was completed, and Esmerald broke the thread with his teeth. The movement made her wince. "Seventeen." He supplied. "Only one of them went deep enough to cause real damage. The rest you got, I'm afraid, from me. I guess I could've been more gentle when rescuing you."
"I'll take note of it." She sighed solemnly. "For some reason, whenever we meet, I always end up bleeding."
His tawny fingers brushed a lock of bloodstained, copper tinted hair, and Phoebe looked at it with a small smirk. "You cut my hair. I swear I said I didn't need one." She chuckled.
"I had to." He answered, the fingers going deeper. "They were getting in the way of everything. You're lucky this is all that I needed to do." He began to brush away a fleck of dried blood from her shirt. "The leg injury could've left you with a cane, and that one arrow almost pierced your heart."
Suddenly, her hands moved from her sides. Phoebe opened her eyes a little wider, the dulled brown shining in the candlelight. Those hands brushed against Esmerald's dark skinned hand, caressing the calloused flesh and bringing it to her heart. His labret caught the light as his mouth opened a bit.
The injured woman's next words were soft and tired, a hint of a smirk on her lips. "I'm not so sure it didn't."
Quasimoda's eyes suddenly widened at those words, her hands clutching the column as a wave of lightheadedness passed over her. Her legs stumbled back to support her torso as she pressed into the wood. Her eyes felt damp as she watch Esmerald lean into her, his scarred fingers bunching the blonde tresses as Phoebe sat up. Their eyes closed slowly and in only another second, their lips touched in a kiss. His raven hair caught the light of the candle, a glowing silhouette forming around the pair as their silent kiss continued, his lips molding into hers.
She felt a wicked tug on her chest, her breath quickening as a hand drifted to it. A tear left her eye before she forced herself to close them, and turn away. She couldn't bear to witness any more of it. Her heart ached as she felt the cold, dry wooden of the post press into her forehead, a feeling of weakness rolling down through every part of her body from her broken fantasies. Something prodded her from within as more tears flowed down her flushed cheeks. Esmerald didn't love her. It was so obvious now and she wanted to strangle herself for not seeing it sooner. Why had she let herself be so stupid? Why did she let herself be goaded into ever believing someone could love her at all, much less for the way she was? Why was this time different?
Because he'd shown her kindness. She knew that now. Because he was the first person with sight that hadn't grimaced from her appearance. Because he'd saved her from the torture of the jeering Parisians. Because he'd made her feel like she was worth something when all her life she'd been taught to believe she was only a burden and a monster. Because for once she felt normal.
But she'd also been naive. He'd never shown anything telling to her. He'd never given her a compliment outside of friendly nature. It was painful to think there was a difference between attraction and kindness, that the two things were totally different. But no face as hideous as her face was ever meant for heaven's light. She'd been a fool to think any different. Once again, Frollo was right, and it tore her up inside.
The teenager broke the kiss first, Phoebe's eyes shutting from exhaustion. Soft breathing came from the captain as Esmerald laid her down once more, his hand caressing her cheek in affection that he hadn't realized was there until now.
The silence of the moment was shattered by the large gypsy man. He called for Esmerald, his hand beckoning to the rail as Djali scampered up next to the man, bleating with urgency. The gypsy boy and Quasimoda ran to the rail, peering down to the square from the south tower and out to the smoldering city of Paris.
In the darkness of the cobblestone square, an elaborate carriage was parked before the cathedral. A black robed figure stepped out from the door, guards flanking either side as she began to walk in their direction. Quasimoda shook herself out of grief.
"Mistress Frollo's coming. You need to get out of here!" She began to stumble away from the rail and towards the steps. "Quick, follow me,"
The three adults dashed down the steps with Djali prancing behind, their footfalls clambering down the steps with urgency to avoid being caught in a dead end with a woman whose idea of justice involved fire and lots of it. "Out the north tower steps; Frollo doesn't know about them. They're the ones that are inlaid behind the statue of St. Maurice!"
The large gypsy man spent no time doddling and heeded the warning, Djali following him as Esmerald suddenly stopped, turning to the bell ringer. His hands grabbed hold of hers, his back bending to reach her height. His eyes flashed with a glow of concern. "You're not coming?" His voice was hushed.
"No," She shook her head. "If I'm not here she'll only put two and two together. I'll be fine."
"If you must," His eyes darted to the floor and back to Quasimoda. "be careful my friend. Please, promise me you won't let anything happen to Phoebe."
A beat of anxious silence passed through her, but she had no choice. "I promise." She nodded.
"Thank you, my friend." He whispered, pulling away and leaving the room, the door pushing shut behind him.
The gypsy's feet stung on contact with the cold stone floor but it didn't matter to him. Esmerald knew his biggest concern was leaving the cathedral before he was seen by anyone else. His companions were nowhere to be seen, although their distant echoes could barely be heard above the crackling of far off fires and the sounds of his own footfalls. He saw the statue of St Maurice, its chipped stone robes blocking his view of the staircase the bell ringer had pointed them towards.
But suddenly, Esmerald felt himself slowing down, his bandaged feet moving smaller and smaller strides as a presence was behind him. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, a sense of paralyzation working through his now comatose legs. His spine vibrated with tingling as a tapping sound came from behind. He whirled around to face the noise.
The source of the sound was revealed to him as his shining eyes took in the figure before him. The man was a clear distance away, only halfway across the bridge between the towers. The light of the moon cast a darkened glow on his tawny face and appendages, a hand wrapped around a wooden cane, tapping it lightly against the stones of of the floor. Esmerald squinted at him, and realized he was blindfolded; a pink length of fabric wrapped around his eyes. He was looking in his direction, his chin level with Esmeralds as he tapped his cane to the ground again. It was light, almost mute, but for some reason very unsettling.
Esmerald gulped, and blinked at the man. As suddenly as he'd appeared, he was gone. With no explanation and the sounds of his friends footsteps growing weaker and weaker, he picked up his pace, following them down the stairs and back to his sanctuary, his safe haven. To the Court of Miracles.