Where the hell is my happy ending? I'm starving. I'm cold. And my knees hurt. I thought this was supposed to be a Disney movie!

Amelia was cramped against the corner of a large cage, loaded in along with nearly twenty other gypsies. The thoughts ran disjointed and abruptly through her mind, startled birds leaving a branch, and with each passing minute she grew colder and more hungry. The crush of bodies was uncomfortably close, and due to the lack of space, Amelia had been pressed tightly against frigid metal bars for the entire night. They had loaded them like cattle into the wagons, and driven them to the Palace of Justice, where they were all promptly ignored. Amelia hadn't seen Clopin or Esmeralda all night, and she was worried sick about both of them. Any attempt to talk was silenced by the guards, who jabbed spear butts through the bars and whacked out at legs and ankles. So the gypsies sat, silent and frozen, the entire night, the icy January wind biting through their clothes. A baby squalled somewhere, and there was a brief attempt to quiet it, for the wagons were cramped and the guards were nasty. But now, they had been all pulled into the Notre Dame courtyard, where a pyre had been erected. A sick, terrified feeling grew steadily in Amelia's belly, and she whimpered a little against the bars. There was no doubt as to what was going on – kindling and wood was being piled at the base of a pole, and there were ropes piled loosely near it. Someone was going to be burned. The wagons stopped moving with a jolt, and Amelia gripped the bars hard, straining her eyes in the dusky predawn to catch any glimpse of Esmeralda or Clopin. Whatever Clopin had done, she wasn't going to lose him. She'd think of a good reason later.

And then they led her out.

Esmeralda, devoid of bright clothes and artful kohl, was still beautiful. A simple white dress hung to her knees, and her inky black hair roiled messily in loose curls over her shoulders. Those vivid green eyes were fearless, and her chin was a prideful jut as she marched slowly towards her death. She stood quite still as the guards bound her to the post, and it was then that the gypsies began to react. They shouted and yelled, sometimes in French, and sometimes in English, occasionally in a language Amelia didn't know, but the guards were having trouble keeping them under control. Amelia shied away from a spear point, yelping a little, and felt that familiar frozen feeling. She willed herself to shout something, defend her, but there were too many guards poking and jabbing, and she lost her nerve. There were so many people – guards, peasants, regular townspersons; they all carried torches and looked grimly at the woman about to be burned alive. They did not seem delighted by the festivities – on the contrary, there was a border of guards keeping them back. Evidently Judge Frollo's actions towards innocent gypsies were attracting too much attention.

Frollo leaned towards the beautiful gypsy woman, asking her something, and in response, Esmeralda tilted her head back and spat viciously at him.

It was then that Amelia found something to say.

"Atta girl, Esmeralda!" She shouted.

Frollo's thin cheeks flared red from both Esmeralda's defiance and the faceless jibe, and he backed away. Snatching a torch from a nearby soldier, he flung it onto the branches at Esmeralda's feet. Yellow and orange ribbons of flame danced instantly among the dry wood, and smoke began to fill the air. Thick plumes of smoke twirled lazily up against the sky, where the first streaks of pink were heralding the approaching dawn. The gypsies rattled the bars, roaring their horror to the skies, and Amelia was right there with them, screaming like a deranged beast, pushing mightily against the bars and clawing at the faces of guards. A gauzy layer of crimson shaded her vision, and she felt the numbness melt from her limbs as she shrieked in outrage against this injustice. Beneath the noise of rage, there was a deep, rumbling, cracking noise as stone crumbled someplace close. Esmeralda gave a weak, strangled cry, and Amelia thrashed against the confines of the cramped quarters, wishing she could see Esmeralda properly, wishing she was out of this cage and within punching distance of Frollo.

Suddenly, swooping out of nowhere, with the fine aerobics of an eagle, Quasimodo soared down to the stage. He was swinging from a rope, and there were whoops of joy as he bulled his way through the smoke and flames, tearing Esmeralda bodily from the pyre. He threw her over his shoulder, and with one swipe of his arm sent the burning pole crashing towards the approaching guards. Sparks and embers flew in every direction, and Quasi hauled himself up towards Notre Dame. The crowd was gasping in fascination and delight as he rescued the woman he loved, and Amelia felt tears welling up in her eyes. Esmeralda was safe! But then what would become of them? Frollo was snarling something at the guards, and they began assembling themselves before the cathedral. Quasimodo reached the beautiful stained glass window, and just then the sun burst over the horizon in a glorious spray of dazzling white. The stained glass window caught every drop of the sun, spreading it into a fantastic array of jeweled colors. He held Esmeralda aloft over his head, her beautiful dark skin illuminated by the whiteness, and roared out to the crowd.

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!" He bellowed, and Amelia felt a ragged sob tear from her chest.

He disappeared, and Amelia knew that Esmeralda was safe. She would be fine. But what of them? Frollo was glowering at them, spitting orders at the guards. Amelia felt her stomach drop – they were going to rush the castle. Someone screamed, and Amelia looked up just in time – a chunk of stone, wider than a small bed, was plummeting from the roof of the Notre Dame. It landed with a grinding, smashing crunch on Frollo's carriage, and he looked up at the rooftop where Quasi was grinning at him. "Seize the cathedral!" He growled. "Break down the door if you must!" The soldiers leapt to do his bidding, grabbing a ram from somewhere. There was a crazed, frenzied aura to the air, and Amelia battered the bars, wanting to go out and fight, wanting to run away, far away, and hide someplace. She was torn, bewildered, and euphoric all at once. The steady, splintering wham! of the ram created a soundtrack to the horrendous din, but then Amelia heard a familiar voice break through the hubbub.

"Citizens of Paris!" Phoebus yelled. He was standing atop his cage wielding a spear – somehow, he had broken out, but Amelia wasn't quite sure how. "Judge Frollo has repressed our people, destroyed our homes, and now – now! Now he has declared war on Notre Dame herself! Will we allow it?"

People surged forward, war cries spilling from their lips, and Amelia cringed at the grating crack of metal against metal. The gypsies who had been pressing so tightly against her lessened, and Amelia realized that the door had been broken open. She rushed forward, tripping as she jumped from the wagon, nearly falling flat on her face if it wasn't for the person in front of her. People were running forward, fighting guards, and there were rocks falling, thick slabs of granite smashing to bits on the cobblestones. Someone thrust a spade into her hand, and Amelia looked at it, confused, for a moment, before she felt a hand clamp down on her arm. A guard was glowering at her, twisting the skin on her arm and trying to force her back into the wagon. Without thinking twice, Amelia gave a little yelp and swung the shovel. It connected with a dull clang, and the guard keeled over with a very dumb look on his face. Amelia hugged the spade, her blood lust evaporating, and poked the guard with her toe. He didn't move. "Hello?" She called over the roar around her. "Hello, are you okay?"

He caught sight of her holding a shovel and standing over a guard. Her red hair was tangled and dirty, and her haughty eyes were concerned as she bent over the guard. The idiot! She chose the most idiotic times to be worried about people. Clopin darted forward and seized her wrist, dragging her away from the unconscious guard. "What are you doing?" He snapped. "Run!"

"Clopin!" Amelia cried. "You're okay!"

He yanked her aside, dragging her at least ten feet to the left, and some bizarre wooden contraption splintered against the ground where they had been standing. Another chunk of rock hit it, and Amelia heard the pained screams of trapped soldiers beneath it. He gave her a little shake, forcing her to look at him. "Run, foolish girl!" He commanded, pushing her towards the edges of the fray. "Run, and do not look back!"

Amelia didn't obey people easily. But the noise and the cries of battle were grating on her ears, and for the first and last time, she did as Clopin told her, racing away from the battle, tears blurring her eyes.


It was nearly noon when they found her, sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, proud, haughty eyes exhausted and damp with tears. Djali was standing there, with his funny goat-smirk on his muzzle, and pointing proudly at Amelia in her spot next to a dust bin. Amelia looked up to see the two small gypsy boys who she had first met when she came here. They were holding her violin case, and she saw that the case was badly dented and one of the brass buckles had been brutally snapped off. Pierre offered her a small, winning smile, and held up the case. "We found your pretty toy, mademoiselle," Pierre said soothingly. "Will you come out and play for us?" Amelia didn't move, but her eyes were fixated on the violin case. "The battle is over, mademoiselle, and Frollo is dead. There is nothing to fear."

"I'm not afraid," She said hoarsely, almost in spite of herself. "He told me to leave."

"Our mamas said we had to leave, too," Pierre said, scowling a little. "And we did. But it is over! And La Esmeralda is alive! Come play for us, please."

She crawled out of her little corner, feeling a little ashamed and silly as she picked up her violin. She stroked the smooth, buffed, rosy side of the instrument – miraculously, the violin was undamaged. This case must be lined with titanium, Amelia thought dimly as she pulled out her bow. She drew the bow across the strings, playing a smooth, low note, and listened for a minute. Somewhere, there were people singing – singing, in spite of the battle which had raged in the early morning. They were free of the iron grip of Frollo, unshackled from the repressing blows of his laws and commands. What could she play, what song could she think of which would suit this occasion? It took her a moment to remember the chords, and she positioned her fingers daintily over the strings. The song was completely improvisational, mostly high, swooping notes which blended with each other quite nicely. Part of her told her that she ought to be remembering this so she could write it down later, but another part of her didn't quite want to.

And when she finished, she heard the soft noise of gloved applause.

Those beautiful gold-green eyes rose and she saw him, in all of his lean, lithe, dark glory, lounging against the corner of a shop at the end of the alley. His plumed hat was dirty, obviously trampled, and his tunic was singed in more than a few places. He seemed to be avoiding putting any weight on his left side. But those dark, inky eyes were looking at her impassively, the dull gold of his earring winking softly in the sunlight. She stood awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do or say. Sitting beside the dust bin, she had tried to examine her feelings towards Clopin. Amelia had never been very good at the 'look-into-yourself' thing, and her success was limited. But she realized one thing – Clopin was fiercely passionate to protect his people. But he was a murderer, a thief, a gypsy, and a tramp. He was an entertainer, a trickster, a juggler, a puppeteer. He was a king, a leader, a man. He was Clopin. Undeniably, unequivocally, Clopin. And she couldn't fault him for that.

"Are we still friends, mademoiselle?" He queried, those dark eyes looking into her lazy gold-green orbs. She gave a defiant toss of her red hair.

"No."

His heart sank.

She pounced on him, then standing on tiptoe and attacking his lips in a kiss. The gesture was unexpected, but not entirely so. His arm settled around her waist, drawing her closer, and he broke the kiss. His voice was a velvety breath in her ear, accented with his Parisian twist and his light teasing. "Mon chere, wherever you come from, you do not kiss well. As a matter of fact, you are a terrible kisser. I, Clopin, shall show you how to kiss properly."

She pouted.

He could never resist her when she pouted.

And then he gave her a kiss so toe-curling, heart-pounding, dizzyingly perfect that Amelia thought she would simply melt, right there, in his arms. She was dimly aware that she let her violin clatter to the ground, was blissfully oblivious that Pierre and his friend were staring at the two of them with their mouths open, and had no idea that she had linked her arms around his neck.

In true Disney style, this is where we shall leave them.


A/N: For some bizarre reason, I thought I already finished this story. Then I was looking at my profile and realized it wasn't. Oh well.

Banner for this fiction can be found at http:/nanethblog(dot)wordpress(dot)com Just put periods where the dots are. xD