As she walked back to her apartment, the book clutched in her hands, which she held close to her chest, Renee furrowed her brow into a frown as she contemplated over what she had done. Surely, old Victor wouldn't mind. She had, after all, left a five-dollar bill in the book's place, just enough for a cup of coffee to catch up with Victor when she had finished this new book. And hopefully, her writing assignment. A thick wall had etched itself into her brain. Where a creative downpour of ideas would normally flow straight from her brain and onto the pages of Word, today, came nothing. The wall was blocking them.

Then Renee pondered something new.

"Oh!" she breathed, suddenly feeling breathless all of a sudden. "Why do people use walls?" she whispered to herself, feeling her blue eyes grow wide and round with shock. "To protect something. To stop something from escaping. To keep prisoners in a prison. To keep intruders out, but…"

Then why, Renee wondered, did it feel so wrong for her for nothing to escape her thoughts? Her thoughts and ideas and dreams were not prisoners.

They needed no protections. They were not intruders in this case. They wanted to escape. All throughout her college years she had been writing short stories for fun, and now that she had a chance to write a full-blown novella in place of a creative thesis for her graduation, she was utterly stuck.

She had writer's block. Glancing down at the book in her hands as she finally reached the front door of her apartment complex, she allowed the softest and tiniest ghost of a smile to form on her lips. "Maybe you'll help," she whispered affectionately. Renee shifted the book under her arm as she dug into her purse for her key, grumbling to herself as she wedged the key into the door's lock, as sometimes it had the tendency to get stuck, and kicked open the door with the edge of her sandal, careful to mind her pedicure as she didn't want to chip the polish, flicked on the light switch to her apartment's living room. Heaving a sigh, she plunked her purse on the little nightstand table that was next to her sofa and paused in the doorway a moment, to take it all in. This little minimalistic abode was Renee's home.

Glancing at the mirror, she regarded her own reflection for a moment.

Renee Barreau was a beautiful person, not only in looks, though she was pretty enough. It was like God had planted a seed of perfect caring in her soul and it was ripping her apart as it grew.

Every time she saw the imperfections of the world for humans, animals and the environment it was like a vice to her head. The pain built inside her until anxiety took her prisoner. How was she to change what she saw?

What was the good of enlightenment if there was no way to make a difference? Volcanic frustration balled inside her, only exploding around those she felt safest with. She ripped into her mother for every hair-line fault while her mind created reasons for the pressure in her head, attributing blame to friends and family. Her only talent was to write, create fiction; she wanted to take that seed of understanding and cast it far away. What was the point in seeing, feeling the pain of people in disparate parts of the globe?

Why couldn't she shut it out like everyone seemed to?

Frustrated, she broke her gaze away from the lonely girl in the mirror and turned to stare at the place she had called her home for the last few years.

The room was like one of those perfect magazine covers. The couch was a cream but inlaid with a fine green silk, covered by a thick blanket and afghan with several pillows for whenever she wanted to curl up with a book.

The white curtains were linen, the kind that were untouched by hands and devoid of dust, as Renee had a thorough habit of cleaning once a week.

A cursory look to the right showed her the almost hidden cords that were used to open and close them. There was a tiny television in a cabinet, though she rarely used it, except maybe on Fridays if she was feeling lazy and wanted nothing more than to curl up with a Netflix movie and a good pizza.

Two bookshelves which lined the television cabinet were covered with books and assorted little figurines, Funko's, a couple of Pokémon figures, a Pikachu that appeared to be sleeping, and a Cuebone, her personal favorite.

The floor was a high polished wood, dark and free of either dust or clutter. Letting out a content little sigh now that she was back in her place of quiet and comfort, Renee absentmindedly kicked off her sandals and set about making a cup of hot chocolate to drink while she settled in to read.

A soft mewling broke Renee out of her inner musings as she collapsed against the couch, letting her head rest against the pillow and clutched the new Disney Twisted book over her heart. She had heard of this series, and couldn't wait to dive in. After finishing up Les Misérables last week, she could use something that was a little lighter, with more of a happy ending.

Looking to the left, she spotted the source of the noise and broke into a wide grin as her tiny little black kitten leapt up onto her lap and snuggled in.

"Hello, Binx," she whispered affectionately, though she was not quite sure why she was whispering. There was no one here but her, as she liked it.

The kitten held his head like he was the born ruler of the universe, yet the wobble in his walk showed Renee she wasn't yet in full command of his little limbs. He mewed with the same newness that a newborn baby cried, high pitched yet still soft, unable to protect the volume more developed lungs could muster. "I picked up a new book today," she said excitedly, flipping the book around so the little black kitten could see the book's cover.

Binx seemed to regard his master with inquisitive yellow eyes. Aren't you going to read it to me? He seemed to ask her as his tail flicked and he opened his mouth and let out a tiny mewl, which turned into a contented purr at the back of his throat as soon as Renee affectionately scratched his ear. Renee took on an expression of mock sternness as she petted Binx.

"Of course, I'm going to read it to you, Binxy," she scolded lightly. "As if I would even think about starting without you. Are you all settled in?"

Yes, he seemed to say to her. He was bedded down comfortably on her lap and would not be going anywhere for the next several hours, at best.

Renee gave a curt nod, signaling that she understood. "Good," she murmured, reaching over the arm of the sofa and taking a sip of her still piping hot chocolate, wincing as it burned her throat going down. Scrunching her nose and pulling a face as she set her mug back down on its coaster on the side table, she returned her attention to the little book in hand. Tracing a delicate fingertip over the gold lettering of the title, she smiled. "Very well, then. Let's get started, Binxy. 'Into the Sunlight,' by Chelsea Anne Kowalski," she started, raising her voice so Binx heard her.

She cracked open the paperback book to the first chapter and began to read. "The streets that once thronged with life now stood empty…"

The streets that once thronged with life now stood empty. Gone were the food vendors in the marketplace and the women in their brightly colored clothing selling handmade goods from carts and woven baskets. Gone were the young children who played among the crowds with their games and laughter. Now, even at dawn, all you would find would be the slightly dusty cobblestone streets with only the wind for company. Occasionally, there was the occasionally harried person, moving quickly with tense purpose. No one in the streets of Paris left their homes unless it was necessary, and the children were almost never seen, given the state of things. The parents did not want their children's lungs filling with smoke. The sun seemed to spit yellow venom on the tenebrific land where a broody mist always seemed to hang in the air, suffocating. The stock of the trees swayed lightly in the wind, these tall dark oaks that lined the edges of the village, seeped with sap like the beads of sweat that the sun saw fit to steal from underneath the man in black's skin. Paris, the City of Lovers, burned.

One lone figure clad in a thick black cloak dared to venture out into these streets, once teeming with life, now empty. The man's name was Jehan. Jehan Frollo tried not to glance around at the carnage before him, finding there no shortage of wreckage and blood, the substance that congealed and browned. The very air he breathed in was pungent with the odor of the thick black smoke that curled still in lazy plumes over the blood red sky. Jehan, for the life of him, could not quite figure out how Paris ended up this way, and he hoped, no, prayed to God above, he wasn't too late to save his brother. He hoped the rumors of Claude's madness weren't true, that he had not tried to burn down his city all for the sake of a woman. "Please don't let it be true…"

"What?" called out his squire from behind, giving Jehan pause.

He hadn't realized he'd spoken it aloud. "Nothing," he barked irately.

Thanks to Claude, the City of Lovers now lived moment to moment on cold ashes that fell with the gentle grace of snow, yet lay over everything living and dead, covering all that Jehan Frollo did not wish to see himself.

"Hurry up!" he snapped to his squire, a man in his early twenties by the name of Tristan, with sallow, sunken in cheekbones that gave him a haunted look and closely dropped dark hair that would need a trim soon. The younger man had purposefully lagged behind to give Jehan some space. Tristan was a man who had lost the traces of boyhood, and now had the clean-shaven square jaw and the beginnings of muscles underneath his dark green tunic to prove it. When he spoke, strangers tuned into his voice.

His was as deep as any man's, though sometimes he faltered over his words. Whenever Tristan smiled, it was with ease and made fluid arm movements to exaggerate his buoyant speech. He couldn't be older than twenty. Tristan Valmont flinched at the harsh bark in his master's tone.

There was no warmth in Jehan Frollo's voice and the orange tones from the sunset as well as the fading fires did nothing to warm Jehan's handsome face. Tristan stood stock still, shifting his armor to scratch at an itch near the breastbone, and felt his hand drift instinctively towards the hilt of his sword.

Jehan Frollo, the youngest of the two Frollo brothers, had thick dark hair, which was lustrous and beautiful, even in this smoky light, currently pulled back into a low ponytail. His eyes were a mesmerizing deep ocean blue, flecks of silvery light performed ballets throughout. His face was strong and defined, just as Claude's had been when the man was younger in his prime. His features molded from granite, the man had dark brows, which were currently sloped downwards in a serious expression as he wildly searched the streets for any sign, any meager hint, that his older brother was still alive. When the older man (Jehan was around age forty) turned to regard his best guardsman, Tristan visibly flinched, his good hand curling over his sword, ready to draw it if they should come upon any vagabonds or thieves.

"Sir?" Tristan called out, just as a gust of wind shocked both men to their core, sending an unusual cold chill down both their spines, which was rather odd, given the smothering heat that still lingered in the smoke-filled air now.

Jehan merely grunted in response.

Tristan swallowed down hard the lump forming in his throat as the fear traveled in the young guard's gaze, but never made it to his facial muscles or his skin. His complexion remained pale and matte, his green eyes steady and fixed on something unimportant behind his master's head. "What if we…?"

"Say it," he commanded harshly, not in the mood to beat around the bush. "What troubles you, Tristan?" Jehan drawled, sounding uninterested.

"What if we cannot find him, sir?" questioned Tristan and cringed. He hadn't meant to blurt it out so abruptly, but that was just what Jehan Frollo did to young Tristan Valmont. Jehan intimidated the poor boy to no end, really.

Tristan barely had time to let out a yelp of surprise as Jehan darted forward with lightning speed, so quickly that he was almost a black blur, and reached up a strong hand to grip Tristan's right limp hand in his grasp, and squeezed it tight enough to break it. His hand was useless to him except to move things by nudging them, and it had been this way ever since a riding accident. Though Tristan would be the first to admit he owed Jehan a debt.

Master Frollo had saved his life, taken him in and given him a chance when no one else would, for the others had laughed at his dream of one day achieving a knighthood status, given his crippled hand and short stature.

"Don't speak of such things in my presence, boy," Jehan growled, his blue eyes narrowing until they were practically slits. His grip on Tristan's injured hand tightened, and the guard flinched, though he made no sound.

"But…"

"Do you need a reminder of who you belong to, boy?" he snapped. "I'm your only friend in this life, kid. You don't have any friends, you're a fool. Nobody likes you. You're a liar and a thief. A murderer," he whispered poisonously into the shell of the younger man's ear, and when he pulled back to study Tristan's face, he knew that his words had hit their mark. "Where would you be without me? I saved you. You only survived because of me."

Tristan swallowed hard and averted Jehan's gaze, drifting his own gaze downwards towards his brown leather boots. "Yes, Master," he mumbled.

Jehan, satisfied that his guard had gotten the message, nodded, and released his ironclad grip on the man's useless hand. He scoffed and rolled his eyes as Tristan immediately cradled it with his good hand, forsaking his usual habit of keeping one hand hovered over his sword for protection.

"We'll find him. But we can't waste more time. Hurry up, Tristan."

Turning away from the young squire, Jehan shook his head in disgust.

Tristan knew that death wasn't kind. He knew that. It snatched wherever it could, taking people like his mother, and quite possibly, Jehan's own brother. "If we find him," he murmured darkly under his breath, careful to keep his voice low so that Jehan would not hear him. "I doubt that we will."

The hooded vale of death had hung over the city of Paris, ever since the fire. It had never touched young Tristan quite so close. Death had ripped away a part of him when it had taken his family in the fires, the part of him that was most loved as it had taken away his parents and brother and now…

"Claude," he whispered, horrified, as he realized Jehan had become quiet and still. Tristan prayed to God that they did not find whatever was left of the distinguished judge. It would utterly destroy Jehan's spirit, and who knows what kind of rage the man would fly into, what he would do then.

He'd be unstoppable. His face sunken in and haunted, Tristan's mind cold and empty. The more time passed, the more Paris became like him.

Many were snatched away, and those who were left, like him, would wish it had been them. Anything to escape the torment and the hazy burning fires.

The world had gone cold, and all because of the actions of one fanatical judge, driven mad by lust and power over a single woman, a Romani girl.

Tristan had never really liked dead people. Not that he did not respect them, he just preferred them six feet underground. The squire had no problem with dead bodies if they were nowhere near him. So, you could imagine the boy's utter disgust and terror when he tripped over one of them, and upon getting a better look at the person's face, let out a horrible scream. Tristan screamed so hard that his throat almost went dry, but he did not stop. He fumbled backwards, almost barreling straight into Jehan. Jehan Frollo's face was a storm of rage and contempt as he bellowed right in his face, but his squire could not hear his curses and obscenities, as he was still screaming at the sight of Jehan Frollo's older brother's body, beyond recognition, the judge had fallen to his death into a pit of molten lava, and…

He did not even need to think the rest. It was far too horrible and grotesque.

Jehan followed where Tristan had lifted a shaking hand and pointed and snapped his head to the right towards the body that lay alone in the street. His expression changed first into one of furrowed confusion, but his eyes started to widen as he realized what it exactly was, they were gawking at. "No," he whispered. His voice was full of anguish and pain as he realized it was him.

Claude was Jehan's brother—his only brother—and he could not be gone. Even from the top of the villagers' homes, shutters were twitching as the people craned their necks to locate the source of the screaming sobs they heard. Tristan tried with his good hand to hold Jehan back from doing anything rash, to calm him, even as his tears fell thick and fast, though for an entirely different reason than Jehan's. He was glad Claude Frollo was dead.

He deserved it, he thought. Repeat that to yourself until you believe it.

Unable to stand anymore, he felt the strength leave his legs as he collapsed on the front stone steps of Paris's Lady of Peace, Notre Dame herself. "Who did this?" Tristan mused out loud, to no one in particular, as he buried his head in his hands, trying his hardest to knock out Jehan's screams. One of the passing villagers, who had exited the cathedral, having come from Vespers, a simple Parisian man, a farmer by the look of him, pointed upwards.

His brow furrowed into a frown; Tristan followed his fingers. "Up?"

The man nodded. "The demon killed the judge. The judge was hiding it under our midst for the last twenty years in secret. Raised him as his son."

Jehan, who had joined his squire on the front steps, felt his head whiplash and follow the man's gaze, where his blue eyes settled on the north bell tower. "What?" His tone was clipped and hard, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. This news could simply not be true. It just could not.

Claude, in his letters to Jehan, had told of a boy that he had taken in, orphaned and left to die on the steps of Notre Dame by a pair of filthy gypsies. He had, on more than one occasion, called the foundling an 'accursed wretch,' but from what Jehan could tell, the boy was quite kind…

But never in a million years did Jehan think his brother's ward would be the cause of Claude's death. This was news to him. The farmer nodded.

"The boy's a wretched curse. Threw the judge off the balcony terrace."

In his hysteria, Jehan was too strong, too wild for Tristan to even have the hopes of a prayer to control his master, and he knew better than to try.

After whirling about, unable to look through his red-rimmed eyes at the body in the street, he tumbled a few feet away onto the rain-kissed street.

Tristan watched Jehan go, dissolving into the kind of despair that could take one's mind prisoner and never give it back, and he knew such was happening to Master Jehan Frollo. Once in the open, he watched as the older man sank to his knees in the middle of the war-ravaged street, clutching his brother's lifeless body, bathed in the light from the slowly setting sun, his howls of misery worsening and continuing into the late hours as night fell.

His wailing carried into that damp air, almost seeming to freeze it.

Tristan did not move from the steps of Notre Dame all night.

The young squire was not sure how much more of the hostility he could take. Ever since Claude's funeral, which had passed about a week ago, his master had retreated into his study, becoming more and more withdrawn. Tristan visibly cringed as he drew nearer the study and felt the panic well within his chest as he carried the flagon of wine Jehan had requested. Normally, this was a job for one of several women he kept around for such purposes, but Jehan had specifically requested Tristan's presence in his study, so the young fearful squire had no choice but to obey his commands. Gingerly, he raised his knuckles to the door and knocked, waiting with bated breath.

"Enter," came Jehan's curt voice from the other side of the door, sounding thoroughly cross and disgruntled and slightly muffled.

Nudging open the door with his limp hand, Tristan found his master seated in his black armchair, which was facing the roaring fire in the hearth. Though the flames danced and flickered in various shades of orange and reds across the man's handsome features, it did nothing to warm the ice-cold stare Tristan found himself almost immediately subjected to upon entering. "You summoned me, sir?" Tristan asked hesitantly, hating how meek his voice sounded. He disliked getting this way around Jehan, but he couldn't help it. It was just what Jehan did to him. He was afraid of him, no denying it.

"Wine," he commanded, holding out his empty goblet for the young squire to take. Tristan was not the man's personal cupbearer, he had Ingrid for that, but he couldn't very well deny the man his request, so he poured.

It felt like several moments before Jehan Frollo spoke to Tristan again.

"I cannot let my brother's murderer," here he spat the word as if it were poison that had settled on his tongue, "be allowed to get away with this, boy."

"What would you do about it, sir?" Tristan asked, and he watched as Jehan's head swiveled lazily in his armchair to regard his squire in silence.

Almost instantly, Tristan regretted asking such a question.

"I'm going to kill the boy," he growled darkly through gritted teeth, lifting his cup and studying his concerned squire over the rim of his goblet as he drank heavily. When he finished, he slammed his goblet down hard enough on the table that was near him hard enough to crack and splinter the wood.

Tristan flinched, but Jehan gave no notice or indication that he either noticed or cared. "I have the perfect job for someone like you, Tristan. Most of my other knights would give their right hand to perform this task for me. You do this for me, and I swear by God, I will knight you, boy. I want you to go to Notre Dame at once and find out where this wretched curse lives, which of the bell towers he spends most of his time in, and report back to me. I'm going to find a way to lure him out of his precious sanctuary in which he's holed himself up in, and then I'm going to take his head for what he's done."

Tristan was rendered speechless. He could practically feel the beads of sweat forming on his brow and it was a miracle he could even find his voice.

"I see," he began hesitantly, setting the flagon of wine down. Though on a normal day, he would have jumped at the chance to prove his worth, something about his master's tone gave him pause. "Yes, sir." He dipped his head and offered an awkward little bow in acknowledgement. "I will go at once, sir, if that is what m'lord wishes of me. Thank you, Master. You are good to me, Master Frollo. I shall not fail you sir, you have my word."

Turning away, Jehan felt the corners of his lips twist into a satisfied smile, though in the half-light from the fireplace, it looked more like a grimace. He dismissed his squire with a curt wave of his hand. "That's a good lad, Tristan. I knew you'd do this for me, boy. You leave in morning, pack only what you need. You're going to make a wonderful knight someday kid, if you do this for me, I can even see about getting you an appointment with His Majesty our King, King Louis the Prudent. You would never want for anything else again."

Tristan swallowed hard. Jehan's promise had potential, he would give him that, though he could not deny there was a certain level of him that felt great unease at the thought on having to spy on this bell ringer of Notre Dame. Ever since the fire, he had heard horrible rumors of the hellish imp.

How the reviled, deformed man was nothing, but a demon sent to plague the Parisian citizens for all they had done wrong. They say that perhaps once he was a person, before…the fire. The villagers say that he was a person with scars and bruises all over his body, with red trickling, crimson blood running down his sides; the perfect picture of misery, reflected both on the outside and inside. Beauty to me was never that skin deep, that is, if it's even called that. They say that time can heal things. But the monstrous bell ringer never healed, after the attempted siege on the cathedral that claimed his master's life, the late Judge Claude Frollo himself. He never healed, or even became better, as a matter of fact. The rumors that swirled through the marketplace about this redheaded devil that lived in the north and south bell towers swirled until the squire's head was a jumble of tired thoughts. Tristan didn't know what to believe, which rumors were true, and which were falsehoods. Tristan just did not know.

The baker and his wife claimed to have seen the demon. How he is nothing but a predator, who only comes out and stalks the streets of Paris at night. How his eyes are better than that of any hawk's, his teeth sharper than steak knives, how the creature moved in the shadows until his victim was in reach and then the monster's massive arms would shoot out from behind wherever he lurked and pull the unsuspecting person into his grasp, where he would then dart off into the night, and the poor unfortunate soul whom he had kidnapped was never seen nor heard from ever again.

For the most part, they didn't even have time to call out and all one could claim to hear from inside the sanctity of their own homes was the crunching of bones as the monster of the cathedral feasted upon their flesh. How the creature was so violent, he would snap your neck if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. And as for Tristan? He wasn't so sure if he did.

He had never been one to partake in gossip, but the conflicting thoughts he'd heard all week were certainly not helping him in the slightest, especially now that Jehan had given him a new assignment and he must not fail Master.

Tristan knew all too well what would happen if he did.

Jehan waited until his squire had vacated the study before dipping a hand into his black linen shirt, which had hung open slightly to reveal the hollow of his throat and pulled out an ornate rosary adorned with a black and red jewel.

The Frollo family colors. "Brother," he whispered, once he was certain that he was alone, as he brought the tips of the cross to the edge of his lips and kissed it. "I'm so sorry I could not be there for you to protect you. But I'm here for you now, and I promise you, your pain will be paid for a thousand times with the boy's death. I wish that you could be here to watch…"

High above in the north bell tower of the illustrious structure known as Notre Dame, oblivious and unaware of the pending doom that was heading his way, the cathedral's bell ringer awoke from a jolt from another nightmare.

The sun rose through Paris, filling the sky with shades of orange and pink. Peach and magenta, amber and rose, radiating hope, a new beginning…

Another chance to live. The start of a brand-new day. But for the isolated lonely bell ringer, it was just another day trying to survive and be happy. His nightmares His nightmares were more of night terrors, because it felt as though he might die from the pain in his brain.

He was desperately trying to wake up, screaming for help, but as usual, no one was coming as he watched his friend, and perhaps the one woman he would never get over, Esmeralda, hanged to death in front of the church. He had to failed to save the one woman who had dared to show him an ounce of kindness, and now she was dead, never to return to him. Paris had heard Quasimodo call out to Frollo on the pillory, after endless torment and torture, and only she, the beautiful Esmeralda, had dared to show him a single ounce of kindness in return. She had offered that poor devil on the pillory a simple drink of water, and she had forgotten that poor devil.

Nevertheless, that devil remembered her. As he lay awake, his brain feeling shot through and through, coughing from the tail end of a fall cold. It was the most intense nightmare and he was never gladder to wake up and witness the light of a new day, yet again. Esmeralda's ghost in his dream had been more silent than the grave she arose from, staring with heavy lidded eyes and a slack mouth. Her cheekbones accentuated the skeletal look and the smell of charred burning flesh reached his nostrils, and he fought back the urge to be sick. In her gaze, poor Quasi's mind was robbed of emotion.

Instead of running or screaming, the young bell ringer stood more still than the mossy statue in the heart of the graveyard and just as cold. She beckoned to him with fingers that rapidly faded to only a suggestion of form. He passed each stone without taking account of the path until he stood in a place that was unrecognizable. She became more solid this time, but this time Esmeralda's burnt skin bore now several silver and red scars, thick, jagged, and harsh, not unlike the own gash that was on his cheek, so cruelly given to him by Frollo after daring to stand up to him.

Quasimodo began to think new things, like, "I want to stay here with her, forever." The thought became a desire and his insides lit with an intensity to make it possible. His body crumpled to the dirt as the strength left his legs, and mud met the side of his face. It was then that he heard an unknown woman's voice calling his name—was it her? For the last several nights in a row, he had been dreaming of an unknown woman, a beautiful blonde woman, but he could never quite make out her face. Her profile was always to the side, or she was always too far away. He could remember her eyes though. Haunting and beautiful.

A bewitching blue color, like the sea or the sky after a fresh rainfall on a summer's day. Those eyes glanced his way only once, and even if it was just a dream, ensnared him from that moment in a net of intrigue. And he never learned her name, but right now this angel, she was shouting his name, over and over again, trying to get to him. Ho opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came. The blonde girl was frantic, yelling, scared. Her face was the last thing he saw before the fires consumed him and he burned…

Quasimodo woke as if it were an emergency, as if sleeping had become a dangerous thing, and for him, it had. Very much so. When he slept, he dreamed of Esmeralda's death. But when he stayed awake, he was able to think of other more pleasant things, at least most of the time, that's how it was.

He supposed he should be happy, for in actuality, he had managed to save his friend from a gruesome death. Esmeralda was alive and quite well and now happily married to Captain Phoebus de Marten of the cathedral guard, his position having recently been reinstated by His Majesty the King himself.

Waking up these days for him was harsh, especially since his dreams were better than his pitiful reality. The saddest part of it was, though, that eventually even the memories of his dreams began to fade—if he was even lucky enough to remember all of them that was, given how the poor boy was practically working himself to death. Then he was left with this lonely feeling of detachment, left to explore in the empty void of emotions, the only proof he had ever experienced these nightmares in the first place.

He bolted out of his meager cot, beads of sweat forming on his brow, his wild tuft of red hair tousled, the blankets on his bed a tangled mess. He had been thrashing in his sleep. Quasi groaned at the stiffness in his joints as he padded over to the mirror by the basin where he washed up in the mornings. He froze when he saw his reflection in the simple mirror, he had hung on the wall of his south bell tower, his knuckles going white with the effort to steady himself as he stared, unable to help it, like always.

Quasi flinched as his eyes drifted upwards to his face, God's curse upon him for his parents being wicked and corrupt, or so Frollo had said to him often. The bedeviled man never allowed his charge to leave the sanctuary of his precious bell towers, but…Frollo was gone now, thrown from this very balcony itself by none other than Quasimodo himself. The poor secluded bell ringer of Notre Dame had been cursed upon his birth with a slightly hunched back, though for his build he was considered short at around five foot eight, and he had somewhat of a deformed but still handsome face, or would have had had it not been for a slight contusion over his left eye, which caused his left brow bone to sit slightly crooked, which gave his features a slightly lopsided look. However, the shadow of a handsome face danced across his features in the right lighting, and one could not deny on those incredibly rare occasions when the young man smiled, that he had one of the warmest smiles around, like that of a gentle sunset or sunrise.

The young bell ringer was especially strong and well-toned after over twenty years of ringing the massive iron bells of Notre Dame, a fact he hid. Choosing to hide and downplay his strength beneath thick long-sleeved linen shirts and heavy brown and green tunics was how he went unnoticed. The morning wind ruffled his wavy fiery ginger hair lightly, and he reached up a gloved hand and brushed away that one stubborn lock of coarse red hair that continuously annoyed the poor bell ringer to no end. The man kept his hair on the shorter side and closely cropped to his head, easier to keep out of the way, given one of their resident nuns, Sister Alice and perhaps the only other in the church besides La Sachette and the Archdeacon who went out of their way to talk to him, trimmed it for him as was her custom every single Friday over a wine glass. He let out a heavy sigh and rested his head in his chin as he leaned against the railing of the balcony. The large south bell tower loft he occupied was nestled tightly within the proud cathedral's walls. All sorts of nick nacks and intricacies littered the whole abode, courtesy of Alice and Sachette. Over the years cooped up here in solitary isolation, he'd done his best to make his cold, dark towers feel as homely as he could, and between Sachette, or her real name Gudule, if you feeling brave enough, and Alice, the two women frequently visited the lonely bell ringer and brought him new trinkets, gestures of kindness that did not go unnoticed.

The young man on this particular morning had awakened not long ago from yet another nightmare. His father's face. Frollo's, as he fell to his death, where the cold hard stones waited below, bashing his skull inward. Though a few years had passed now since the judge's death, Quasi could sometimes swear to his friends, his gargoyle statues, that he could still see the faint traces of red, his father's own blood on the stone steps. Try as he might, he simply could not get those horrid images out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. He wondered why God had forsaken him so.

In a groggy stupor, the young bell ringer stared at his reflection, or more specifically, his right cheek. Though his was a somewhat handsome face with strong chiseled features that looked as though God Himself had molded the boy's face, minus the unsightly contusion over his eye that tended to give his features a lopsided look, there was no hiding of his scar. A long jagged red scar snaked down his right cheek, starting at the tip of his nose and snaking its way down to the corner of his lip, still red and cruel looking even after eight years. It was an unusual looking scar, an odd mixture of pink and red. The skin around the scar was also slightly discolored, suggesting to those who were unfortunate enough to look upon his face that it did not heal properly. Quasimodo slowly unclenched one of his hands from the basin and lightly brushed it down his scar, tracing the jagged line slowly with the tips of his fingers. He sighed and averted his gaze from the shard of mirror, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed.

It had been almost a year since he had gotten the scar, but he was still unable to look at it for longer than a minute. The young bell ringer hung his head, shame washing over the twenty-one-year-old as he stood alone in his bell tower, watching the sunrise on a new day. He sighed and wandered out onto the rose window balcony to watch the sunrise, hopping up to sit cross-legged on the balcony's railing, casually sitting on the edge of the ledge as though he did this every day of his life, and what do you know, he did. Quasi's thoughts drifted towards Esmeralda. As usual. Esmeralda had connected to a part of Quasi others never saw. In return, he had seen a part of her soul she never wanted to let out. They had touched each other in their friendship and saw each other's reactions, beautiful and raw. For those moments, she was more real than the blood in his own veins, and he felt her like the beating of his own heart. He had called out for her, letting his face become wet with untold tears, but she would or could not return his love. She had chosen Captain Phoebus over him, and it hurt.

After her marriage to the captain, his world became blacker than it ever was before, darker for her absence, loneliness crippling his every thought. His lungs struggled for breath against ribs of stone and his feet had since lost their wanderlust, content to stay up in his tower until his death. Before he met Esmeralda, his heart was soft; with her, it became strong and vibrant, now it was simply broken. Heartbreak is a funny thing, he thought, resting his head in his hands, his elbows against the balcony's railing. We all know it's going to happen, but we're never prepared for it. We underestimate its power. We believe it will never happen to us. Hearts should not be crushed. They should be cherished and protected. I wish someone would have told me that before I dared to fall in love with you, Esmeralda, Quasimodo thought, despairing.

"I wish you could've known," he whispered, keeping his voice low enough so that only she could hear him, wherever she may be, though why would she ever listen to what he had to say? She had always been Phoebus's, right from the start. He would never find someone to share in the simple joys of life with. "I wish you would have cherished and protected my heart. When you told me you were in love with Phoebus, it would have been kinder just to kill me, Esmeralda. Just end this." Quasi sighed as he left the tranquility of the balcony. He could stall no longer. He had to ring for Lauds. His heartache was like a wolf eating at his chest, tearing its way to his trembling heart. It threatened to devour him, eat him whole and leave nothing but scraps behind. But he refused to be the scraps she would leave. He would rebuild himself and fight off this wolf, but right now, he did not know how.

So, he did his best to ignore it, going about ringing the bells as though nothing was wrong, even sitting down to carve one of his latest additions to his wooden model of Notre Dame and the town below: the baker. However, he found he had little appetite for it, just as he had little appetite for food or for anything else these days. Still, the wolf tore at him, threatening to consume him. Little did he know the woman from his dreams was real and facing her own bout of problems at the moment, but he could not shake this inexplicable feeling that his life was about to change. Whether or not that would be for the better, he could not say. Only time would tell.

One day, they would be fated to meet…