Forgiveness

They passed through the choir, and out of Notre Dame through the north portal. Cold air blasted into the hall as the door was opened. Quasimodo pulled Phoebus' cloak tight to his shoulders. They walked through the gardens, only twilight to guide them. Father Lacroix led the group, with Brother Laurent falling behind, closing doors and gates. He watched as Quasimodo's limp worsened on the frosted ground.

Father Lacroix unlocked the door into the Hotel Dieu. He stepped inside, peering through the narrow passages. He waved to his companions, who quickly filed through the door. The air remained cool, yet still. Father Lacroix secured the lock and looked to Quasimodo, who melted away from Phoebus' shoulder.

Phoebus struggled to hold onto Quasimodo's arm. He lowered his own shoulder, lifting his friend.

"Phoebus, he's sliding." Esmeralda grasped Quasimodo's arm as he leaned back from them, to the wall.

Esmeralda knelt, gently touching Quasimodo's cheek. He smiled lightly.

"A few moments, if you don't mind." Esmeralda squeezed his hand. "I'm suddenly rather tired."

"It's the Valerian, Quasi." Quasimodo raised his right eyebrow, shaking his head slightly. His hair flopped forward, covering his eyes. Esmeralda scanned his face for a surprised expression. None emerged. "Valerian makes people sleepy."

"What?" Quasimodo's eyelids rose, narrowing his gaze. "Why would Brother Rocher do such a thing?"

Hesitantly, Esmeralda guided Quasimodo's hair away from his face, carefully avoiding his bruised skin. Briefly, he turned away. Then, his focus returned to Esmeralda's eyes. Esmeralda offered a sad smile.

"I'm not sure."

Father Lacroix continued to walk through the passages.

"What brings you here so early?"

"Sister Louise, I have brought Quasimodo to meet with Archdeacon Chevrier. Need I remind you that it is upon the Archdeacons request." Sister Louise crossed her arms.

"I'm not keeping him out." The aged nun flapped her habit. "Sending him over is not fair to the novices. They are not prepared for him. He's unnatural and looks like a devil."

"They scare him away." Father Lacroix argued. "Is it true that some of the young ladies screamed at him? The Captain told me that they ran away from him, as well. Sister, you know as well as I that he is not a devil. A devil could not pass through Notre Dame, let alone live there."

"A devil could, and you know it. Claude Frollo would look after his bell-ringer daily, he even attended services. That man certainly was a devil."

"Claude Frollo was a different sort, Sister." Father Lacroix looked to the nun. "Quasimodo is just a man. He is a good man, one that would not harm anyone. In your heart, you know it as well as I."

"I do believe you, Father." The nun fumbled her rosary. "His face, though. I can't look at him without feeling unease. He shouldn't be." Father Lacroix frowned. Sister Louise met his gaze, then turned away suddenly. "I'm sorry."

"Then, please clear away anyone that could be bothered by the sight of him. I will do my best to have Quasimodo pass through quickly."

"Very well. You know where the Archdeacon stays." Sister Louise disappeared through the halls.

Father Lacroix walked back through the passages. Brother Laurent stood near the main hall. He turned to find Esmeralda and Phoebus sitting on either side of Quasimodo, who dozed.

"Come, it's time to go." Father Lacroix lightly grasped Quasimodo's hands, waking him.

Esmeralda and Phoebus stood, guiding their friend to his feet. Phoebus caught Quasimodos arm as his knees trembled. After a few paces, each step became more certain. Phoebus released his arm, yet remained close to his side. Esmeralda kept her hand on his wrist. After a few turns, Quasimodo was guided through another door. Brother Laurent remained outside with Phoebus and Esmeralda.

"What shall we do now?"

"Father Lacroix and I will wait here. Returning him to Notre Dame should be less trouble." Brother Laurent drew a key from his pocket, placing it in Esmeraldas palm. "This is for the bell tower. It will go to Quasimodo once he has recovered. Ultimately, only he should carry it. Make the tower more welcoming for him, more like a home. After meeting with the Archdeacon, he may recover more quickly than expected."

Esmeralda closed her palm around the key. She squeezed it firmly and nodded.

"Go through that door" Brother Laurent motioned to the end of the opposite hall. "It opens into the square."

Her and Phoebus stepped away, leaving the monk alone.

Notre Dame remained mostly empty, the sun having yet to rise. They climbed the steps, entering the now familiar passages without speaking to another soul. At this hour Notre Dame was completely silent, almost lonely.

Esmeralda unlocked the door to the bell tower. Having swung the door inward, she felt the inside of the door. A keyhole in a metal plate, and nothing more, donned the inside. Phoebus sighed, a low rumble escaping him.

The couple stood in the darkened landing, looking up into the spiral staircase. A single lancet window cast a pale beam of light onto the cold steps. They exchanged glances before inserting the key and closing the door. The click of the lock echoed through the stairs. Esmeralda unlocked the door, then withdrew the key. She passed her fingers over the interior of the door.

"It's inhuman."

"It's not now, and will never be again. Come, my dear. The clergy will fix the door for him later."

They continued to climb. Once in the little room, they examined the empty shelves and undisturbed blankets. Phoebus stepped toward the curved wall surrounding the window. He adjusted the desk against the wall, where the light would fall best upon it.

"A few quills, some ink and something for him to write on, perhaps. Books on the shelves..."

"Is that really wise?" Esmeralda looked at the empty shelf. "Quasi may not want to read in here at all. It would be best to clear away the dust and trash from under the bells."

Phoebus and Esmeralda walked out of the room and into the loft, climbing the ladder. Within moments, Phoebus began to fill a sack with broken pottery. Esmeralda walked through the loft, noting how smooth some areas of the floor had become. Years of footsteps had worn the roughly cut boards as smooth as marble.

Esmeralda picked up a broom and began to sweep cobwebs. The clattering of broken pottery and gentle whoosh of the broom were the only sounds in the tower. Esmeralda looked at the beams as she swept. Under the years of dust, etched into the wood, lay carvings. Birds, snowflakes, insects and anything else that could be seen from the tower. She set the broom down, her fingers following the lines of a winged unicorn carved into a beam. Scanning the tower, her eyes noted the many small works of art throughout the tower. Mobiles, wind-chimes and carvings filled each space. Some were simple, almost childlike, and clearly old. Others, like the unicorn under her fingers, were more recent.

"What did you find?" Phoebus dropped a bottle, its bottom missing, into the sack.

"He was alone. Truly alone, for the entire time." Esmeralda felt a chill pass through her body. "With only him for company."

Phoebus leaned the bag of broken pottery against a beam before walking to Esmeralda. Gently, he rested his hands on her shoulders. He studied the carving, then followed Esmeralda's gaze about the room.

"This was a prison, Phoebus."

Father Lacroix held the door open, motioning for Quasimodo to step through. Quasimodo placed his hand on the wall, for balance, and entered the chilled room.

"Quasimodo, bell-ringer. I was praying that I would see you." Archdeacon Chevrier smiled as Quasimodo's outline appeared at the door. His expression grew to a concerned frown as Quasimodo neared his bed. "Come, sit by my side. Tell me of Notre Dame."

Quasimodo walked toward a simple chair, his eyelids growing heavy and fighting to close. The air remained cool, thick with the scent of aired linen and wood smoke. He snugged Phoebus' cloak around his shoulders. White horsehair tickled his nose. He stood before Archdeacon Chevrier, who lay among a mound of cushions and blankets. The Archdeacon motioned toward the chair.

"Your arm. It is bandaged." Quasimodo scanned the Archdeacon, noting that one of his legs lay atop a stack of pillows, splinted with wood. His naked foot poked out from the blankets, its colour an unnatural shade of blue and yellow. "Your leg, as well."

"These will heal in time, Quasimodo. What of you? Is this why the bells sound foreign? " Quasimodo momentarily lowered his gaze to his hands, turning the bruised part of his face away from the Archdeacon. "Never mind, then. It is good to see that others are caring for you. I assume you received the books that were sent to the bell-tower?"

"Oh, yes." Quasimodo startled. "I like them very much. The Canterbury tales were wonderful. Never before have I read anything so unusual."

The Archdeacon laughed. "That is good to hear. My collection is broad and should be appreciated."

Quasimodo studied the Archdeacon as he adjusted his leg on the pillow.

"I've a niece and nephew that I've not seen in a long time, I may visit them." The Archdeacon smiled. "I've written to the Bishop, who has responded swiftly. A new Archdeacon will arrive shortly."

"What do you mean?" Quasimodo raised his eyebrow.

"Once I have healed, I am leaving Notre Dame." Archdeacon Chevrier motioned to his broken right leg. "This may not heal well. What will you do, Quasimodo? I trust that you received the letter from Bishop Cheron?" Quasimodo looked about the room, then to his own hands.

"I will ring the bells, as always." Quasimodo shrugged weakly.

"You are not ringing them now, nor are you working in the nave." Archdeacon Chevrier watched Quasimodo intently. "You're clearly injured, and it happened early Thursday morning. What happened, Quasimodo?"

"It was an accident." Quasimodo did not allow sound to pass his lips.

"It is not like you to be careless, especially with the bells. From the moment you first sounded the bells, you were careful. Something is devouring you from within."

Quasimodo parted his lips, as if to speak. He closed his eyes and turned away, toward the closed door. The door remained closed. He looked to his hands, then to the broken Archdeacon. Firmly placing the knuckles of his right hand to his forehead. He remained still for a time, each breath stifled. Archdeacon Chevrier remained still, intently watching the bell-ringer.

"This should not have happened." Quasimodo suddenly passed his fingers through his hair, his eyes wide. "None of this should have happened." His gaze fixed onto the Archdeacon.

"Quasimodo. What has you so certain of that?"

"It's all my fault." Quasimodo looked to Archdeacon Chevrier.

"Why would you accept fault for the actions of others? For the actions of the almighty?" Archdeacon Chevrier motioned to his injuries with his healthy arm."Claude Frollo did this, in his rage."

"Had I not attended the festival, had I not disobeyed Master, none of this would have happened." Quasimodo looked to his hands, to the Archdeacons bandaged leg. "My own envy of others, my disobedience, led to all of this. Were it not for my recklessness, you would not be in splints. Master would still be alive."

"Claude Frollo was a kettle under pressure. He's been that way for decades. This would have happened regardless of your actions." The Archdeacon nodded toward his splints. "You must confess to the Lord. Ask forgiveness."

"Why would God forgive me?" Quasimodo's eyelids began to swell. "I can't forgive myself. I willingly disobeyed him." Quasimodo knelt forward, his forehead resting on his palms. "Given the chance, I would do it again."

Quasimodo clenched his eyes closed, once again pressing the knuckles to his forehead. He sighed deeply. The Archdeacon reached out, resting his hand onto Quasimodo's wrist. He waited for Quasimodo's eyes to open, to turn to him.

"My son." The Archdeacon offered his hand. Quasimodo pulled away.

"I could not stay in the bell-tower any longer. The desire to leave, to step outside was overwhelming." Quasimodo lifted his hands, gesturing with his fingers outstretched, his words paused. "The temptation was there, and I was too weak to resist."

"Quasimodo?"

"Within a day, I found myself lying. I couldn't obey him any longer, not after seeing what he was doing to others. Still, without regret. When given a choice to allow God to have his will, or to interfere, I did the unthinkable."

Quasimodo bowed his head, redirecting his gaze to the floor. The Archdeacon watched him breathe, waiting for him to look up.

"Master killed people with fire. He burned Paris, he burned Esmeralda. Her feet...have you seen them? They are still in bandages." Quasimodo looked at his palm. "I saw what he was doing and knew it was wrong. Then, I did the same as him. I used fire. The lead for the pipes, for the repairs was there. I poured it out, spilling it onto the street. Three soldiers died."

Quasimodo lifted the misshapen piece of lead from his pocket and placed it into Archdeacon Chevrier's palm.

"I killed him and three soldiers, with my own hands. People already think me a monster. Were they to know I'm a murderer as well."

The Archdeacon frowned, observing Quasimodo slumped in the chair before him. His posture lacked strength, as if every part of him had been drained.

"What would happened had you not broken those chains, Quasimodo? Your friend Esmeralda was going to burn. Hundreds of innocent Roma were in cages, awaiting the same fate."

Again, Quasimodo's eyes grew wide. He closed his eyes, breathing in silence for a few moments.

"No." His lips moved, his head slowly moving from side to side. Focusing on his callused hands, he grasped at the air, watcing his fingers close toward his palms. His eyes only lifted after he felt the Archdeacons hand move.

"Hundreds would have perished." The Archdeacon looked into Quasimodo's right eye. "Claude Frollo was never remorseful for his most cruel actions. God himself helped you break those chains, the same chains Claude Frollo had placed on you."

"The columns are broken, Archdeacon Chevrier."

"They will be repaired in time, as will the chimeras and gargoyles. Think nothing of lifeless stone. God acted through you, Quasimodo. Horses could not break chains such as those. A few broken sculptures saved many lives." He leaned forward, drawing Quasimodo's attention to him. "From what I've heard, you tried to pull Claude Frollo to safety."

"I tried, and I failed." Quasimodo sighed. "I loved him. Then, I killed him. Now, I am to bear his name for the rest of my life?"

"Quasimodo, what has your life been since the 11th of January."

"I don't understand." He looked to the Archdeacon, who remained still. "Nothing is as it was."

"What have you been doing, how have others been to you? Don't tell me. Think about it for a few moments. There is ointment in your eyebrow. Your tunic is new, and fits you well. The cloak on your shoulders is not yours, yet that of a soldier. Four people made considerable effort to bring you here, to this room. Their opinion of you has not changed due to a name."

"If they knew what I'd done, they would think differently."

"What makes you say that?" A worried expression crossed his face. He watched as Quasimodos gaze darted away for a moment.

"Quasimodo, have you asked for forgiveness?"

"What use is confession without contrition?" Quasimodo looked to the Archdeacon.

Archdeacon Chevrier turned to the window, unable to look at Quasimodo's pained expression. He watched as daylight fell upon the city, a fine dusting of frost twinkling away from the window. He closed his eyes before turning back to Quasimodo. Firmly placing his good arm on Quasimodo's shoulder, he looked directly into his eyes.

"No one is born to live their life alone. Those who do so make the choice consciously, when they have reached the age of reason. You were not given that choice."

Quasimodo opened his mouth, his finger raising slightly. The Archdeacon drew his hand between them, lightly grasping Quasimodo's massive hand and pressing it downward.

"Remember the education Claude Frollo bestowed upon you. Hold dear the gifts of reading and knowledge. Forgive him the rest, as judgement is the duty of God alone. Regarding your own sins, ask God to forgive you. Although, your eyes say more than you have. You have already asked God to forgive you, many times."

Quasimodo's eyes remained fixed on the Archdeacon. His brow furrowed, his breathing becoming sharper. Worry crept across his bruised face.

"Quasimodo, go to the Altar. " The Archdeacon once again lifted his hand toward Quasimodo, pausing his speech. "Go to the altar, at any time of day or night. Explain to God what you did, and why. He will forgive you."

"No man who has any defect may come near: no man who is blind or lame, disfigured or..." Quasimodo's lips hurriedly motioned the words, his attention drifting from the Archdeacon. His focus drifted to the floor, away from the old man that lay before him. His skin began to pale as he trembled. The Archdeacon grasped the arm of the chair, startling Quasimodo.

"Quasimodo. Look at me. Go to the altar in Notre Dame. Confess. Pray." Quasimodo swallowed nervously, his expression one of shock. "That is your penance. When you have done so, I absolve you."

"I will." Quasimodo nodded nervously.

A knock at the door caused Archdeacon Chevrier to shift on his bed.

"You must return to the infirmary. Brother Rocher will be fuming when he finds you missing." Quasimodo turned to see Father Lacroix, who offered his hand.

Wordlessly, Brother Laurent and Father Lacroix guided Quasimodo back through the Hotel Dieu. Within moments, Quasimodo was shuttled through the gardens of Notre Dame and behind the choir. The nave was filling, a few Parisians catching a glance of Quasimodo as he moved toward the infirmary.

Once alone, Quasimodo looked about the room. A few coals cracked in the fireplace. The cell had been tidied, the blanket smoothed. A small meal of ale and porridge waited on the table. On the bed sat a leather-bound book titled "Apicius," two of his carving knives and a block of wood.

Quasimodo picked up the wood, noting that it was hard, knotty and unsuitable for carving. The book was worn. He passed through the pages noting the Greek titles and Latin text. He set the book on the table, moving the porridge aside. He smiled weakly. Leaning back, he allowed his body to fall into the mattress.

Within moments, and atop the blanket, Quasimodo slept.