A/N: Hello and welcome back for those that are following the story! I hope you're enjoying it so far as much as I'm having fun writing it!

Chapter Nine: Never to Go Out There Again

THE bell ringer of Notre Dame, from his perch high above one of the rafters, the very same beam that allowed him to glance to his immediate left and overlook the entire city of Paris, pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins.

If he could just curl up into a ball, he would not have to face the harsh reality of his current predicament. He'd be protected from everything around him.

Master Frollo was right.

The outside world held no place for a monster, the demon that he was. He would never go out there again. Not after the horrific events of today. But still, he'd have to learn to live with the consequences of his actions today, with the wretched memories swirling around in his throbbing head, hearing the terrified screams of the simple-minded peasant folk that pounded against his eardrums. Damn him.

Quasi felt his face become rigid, his jaw clamped tightly shut, teeth grinding as he struggled to block out the sounds of the villagers' screams.

There was a scream from deep within that forces its way from his mouth, it is as if his terrified soul has unleashed a demon. All he felt was anger, all the boy felt was that he did not want to ever dare to step foot outside of these stone walls again, at all because then he didn't have to trust anyone, it'll be safer, easier to choose not to stay.

And he knew he was hiding the truth from himself, of how much this is really to do with sadness and the scars that just won't heal. Yet these fists clench and his teeth locked up once the sound is out

Damn his wretched soul to the seven hells below where he belonged. Why could he not have been content with his life as it was?!

His blue eyes, already red-rimmed and cracked at the irises, though his tears were well spent and puffy from his tears intermingling with that of the rain from outside, squeezed tightly shut to push even more tears out as he buried his face in his gloved hands. He let his head fall down to his knees and curled in on himself.

In the half-light, Quasimodo looked like the shadow he had become. Curled in on himself, he showed no signs of recovering from the emotional trauma anytime soon, much the concern of his gargoyles and the stone saints.

Though they knew not what to do for him, and favored silence as the only apt response, choosing to give their young charge the space he needed.

The desolation he felt was all-consuming. His mind became an icy wasteland, the wind howled in his soul and wrapped icy tentacles around his heart so tightly it almost stopped beating. The grief surged with every expelled breath, always reaching higher peaks, never sufficiently soothed by his long intakes of the frigid winter air.

Tears began to spill from his helpless eyes, drenching his thick woolen green tunic. The grief came in waves and threatened to consume him entirely. It was his master, for now. He was at the mercy of its whims and at times it bit at him with such ferocity he feared it would leave him an empty shell of a wretch. A broken, pitiful low little whine, more of a whimper, escaped the confines of his chest, throat, and lips, keeping his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

He just wanted these dark swirling vortexes of his thoughts to stop.

No matter what he did, he could hide from his stone gargoyles. Victor, Hugo, and Laverne had taken but one good look at the listlessness in his blue eyes when he had re-entered into the bell tower but did not press him to talk.

But there was nowhere that he could hide from the thoughts in his tormented mind.

They followed him, like a fly that he could not swat, whispering thoughts of malice. The dark, tormenting thoughts that plagued him were accelerating inside his head. For reasons that were unfamiliar to him, he could not seem to tamper down the images of the young blonde mademoiselle he had met in Notre Dame's town square today. Master's new hearth keep, he mused.

Damnation. Damn him to the seven hells below. He should have never dared to venture beyond his sanctuary. Because of him, Master would punish the girl, of this he was certain, and powerless to help her. Not that she would want his help, he thought bitterly, hating himself immensely. She really was quite pretty. A petite little thing, a good head or two shorter than him. At least.

Her serene face, those haunting azure orbs of hers that had looked upon him with no traces of disgust or horror that he could see, with his limited sight. It had been strange. How, for a moment, she had looked at him, as though…as though he were the only man in the town square.

"N—not a man," he growled angrily, pointing to himself, recalling how Master's sinewy arm would reel back with each blow anytime Quasi grew bold enough to refer to himself as a man. "Monster," he snarled softly, tugging on his thick woolen green tunic softly, and picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his white long-sleeved undershirt, needing something to distract himself with, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing himself to think of something else, something more pleasant.

He wanted to think of her.

"Madellaine."

The blonde's name left his lips without any sense of hesitation on his part, which surprised him. His neck stung with the heat of the declaration of just her sweet name, or perhaps the burning sensation that stung and sent swells of pain up and down his neck was the aftermath of the humiliation he had endured on the pillory, and he winced, reaching up a hand to rub gingerly at the pale column of his throat, feeling the indentations, the thick rope burns from where one of Master's own soldiers had attempted to strangle him. It burned. He drew in a sharp breath that pained his pitiful lungs.

His head ached and throbbed, pounding against his skull until he thought it might very well break free. It seemed to shake his brain and for a moment, Quasi was tempted to crash his skull against one of the wooden beams up here in the rafters in order to get it to stop.

He rose, albeit shakily, balancing carefully on the beam, and with groggy steps, neared his wooden carving table, waiting until he was a few feet away before leaping down from his precarious perch positioned high above the upper mezzanine with surprising nimbleness.

Something his gargoyles always chastised him for, not wanting him to hurt himself, though he had been climbing since he was eleven years old. He knew he would never fall. With somewhat shaking fingers, Quasi reached for the tin flagon of water that rested at the edge of his wooden carving table.

Finding it empty, he cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and murmuring a half-hearted apology for swearing in a House of God, he let the tin flagon fall to the wooden floor by his boots with a loud clatter. And at last, on the other side of his table, was a goblet half full of water. Quasi immediately took hold of it and splashed the cold liquid on his burning face.

The relief was sweet and unimaginable for a moment. Quasi let out a haggard sigh while feeling the burning on his cheeks subside. The beads of water played alongside his two-day growing stubble on his strong jawline, and he winced, recognizing not having shaved in at least three days. Alice did it.

Alice. What she must be feeling! Sighing again, Quasi looked out onto the balustrade of the balcony of his north tower loft, not to see the white snowflakes quay in midair, but to think what he would say to the aging old nun. She would surely blame herself for what had happened to him out there.

And the girl. The young blonde woman. Madellaine. When she had touched his hand in the town square and had not seemed afraid to intertwine his arm with hers and had led him towards the front of the wooden stage platform to watch the festivities, it was as if she had kindled a fiery spark deep in his chest. A pleasant, tingling warmth that was almost unfamiliar to him, but a feeling that he welcomed nonetheless, and cherished it while the moment had last.

And when she had let go of her and their skin parted, it left an overwhelming ache that he did not know what to do about, and almost wanted to throw a childish tantrum, one that Victor, Hugo, and Laverne would scold him for saying.

But he could still smell her, and he traced one of his brown fingerless leather gloves with the pads of his fingers as he brought his hand to his nose. He could still smell her presence, which Quasimodo thought odd.

She smelled of lavender and eucalyptus. The very scent felt like it was flooding his senses. Quasi turned towards the balcony terrace, wanting fresh air, and then his brows furrowed. The strange scent was coming back, causing his nostrils to flare, a stronger wave this time. He turned towards the small wooden door as he glanced down the ledge of the mezzanine that led into his little living loft.

Frowning, he inhaled. It was real, all right. Quasi did not know how it was that he came to have such a strong sense of smell growing up here in this dusty, desolate tower, but he knew by this point in his life not to question it.

The gift only came to him with people's scents, at least the few in his life that he was fortunate enough to interact with. Master Frollo smelled of ink and old parchment papers. Sister Alice smelled of spiced wine and almonds. The Archdeacon Luc smelled of wax from the candles he lit, and of old pinewood.

And then, Quasi heard the door open and Alice's voice rent his silent tower. "Kid?" she called out cautiously, her footsteps coming closer now as she climbed up the wooden tower to his living loft. "I know you're up here, boy."

Quasi inwardly groaned, not wanting to deal with Alice (or anyone else) at the moment. He merely grunted in response, though he recognized that he sounded cold, and he heaved a heavy sigh and poked his head across the top of the mezzanine to silently announce to Alice that he was, in fact, up here.

"Alice," he murmured half-heartedly under his breath, his cheeks stinging with heat as they flushed, deciding that the stubborn nun set in her ways was not going to be content to stay at the bottom level of his tower.

Quasi let out a low growl under his breath, low enough so that Sister Alice did not hear as he heard the nun gasp and struggle to catch her breath, and begrudgingly he moved to stand at the ladder's ledge, kneeling slightly and extending a gloved hand to help her up. Alice's blue eyes were wide and round.

"Th—thank you," she gasped. "So many…bloody damned stairs," she murmured, straightening her posture, and turning her head to the side to cough. "Where else in the cathedral are there so many stairs but your tower, kid?" she muttered under her breath.

Quasi merely proceeded to offer a grunt by way of response, no verbal retort as he turned away from her, biting the inside wall of his cheek angrily.

Notre Dame's bell ringer heard as the aging nun set the basin of medical supplies down at the edge of his carving table, sighing in exasperation as she picked up the empty tin flagon that Quasi had let drop to the floor below.

"I was just coming to speak with you," Alice pressed, a note of caution and trepidation in her kind, quiet tone, taking a cautious half-step towards him. When she sensed that the young charge whom she thought of very much like her own son was not going to respond, she sighed and continued.

"May I, kid?" Sister Alice urged, and it became clear to Quasi from the sudden wavering note in the aging but still quite beautiful nun's tone that Alice Beaumont was a woman who was not used to asking permission and hadn't.

As far as he could tell, this was the first time she had ever asked him to enter into his loft, though he knew her nervousness stemmed from not knowing how he, given what he had experienced today, would respond.

Quasi sighed, carding his gloved hands through his thick tuft of red hair, wincing as they came away sticky, bits of rotten tomatoes sticking to his gloves. "Sure," he murmured after a moment of heavy, uncomfortable silence.

His tenor-like, quiet and reserved voice, the bell ringer was quick to recognize, sounded cold and uninviting, and Quasi visibly cringed, hoping that Alice had not heard it, though he could tell by the dejected way the nun stood waiting, the basin of medical supplies in her arms clutched tightly to her chest, that she had heard it, had seen the tense way that his posture was, and sighed.

"Is there…" he began hesitantly, wringing his gloved hands together and feeling his nails dig into the brown leather hide material of his gloves. "What do you want, Alice?" he managed to ask, hoping he did not come across as sounding demanding or hurt, and he saw Alice shirk away in surprising hurt.

Sister Alice bit her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout, and appeared extremely hesitant for a moment or two, before at last, she found her words. "What happened to you today, kid, was my fault. I shouldn't have…"

But her voice cracked, faltering as the words died in her throat, and she ducked her head in shame, allowing a lock of her gray hair to fall in front of her face like a curtain, and Quasimodo swore that he heard the aging nun whimper.

Quasi felt his brows knit together in a slight frown as he watched Alice turn towards something, looking at what appeared to be the closed wooden door, and by the time she turned back around him, he was momentarily surprised by the disappointed look in her shining blue eyes, which were looking at him with such grief and self-loathing that Quasi could hardly bear to see it.

"Alice," he murmured, closing the gap of space between them, seeing how badly the small wooden bowl in her hands was shaking so badly, gingerly lifting it from her arms and wrapping his strong arms around the nun's middle. "It is all right," he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "I am…fine."

Lies, the demonic voices, that snakelike voice that taunted him at the back of his mind, that sounded entirely too much like Master Frollo's droll baritone voice for his comfort. You're far from fine and you know this.

"No. You're not," Alice barked, her tone clipped and hard. "You are injured, and you need to let us help you," she commanded, a hint of steel in her normally quiet and reserved voice that told Quasi he had to listen to her.

"'Us?'" Quasi asked, feeling a sinking feeling began to churn at the pit of his swooping stomach, hating the tightening, constricting feeling in his chest.

"The—the child, the blonde lass that helped you inside, dear. She's here with me, too but she has yet to—" Though Alice was cut off at the sound of the door that led to his bell tower opened, and Quasi froze dead in his tracks.

The door that led to his bell tower, the same that he had seen a few hundred times and he was about to see it again, his curiosity piqued, as both he and Alice's heads whiplashed sharply up and looked to their immediate left.

Quasi remained unstirred, his feet in his boots felt like stone. Like a deer caught in the sights of an arrow, and unable to move at all. And then he heard the girl's shaky voice and hearing the soft susurrations of her sweet and timid tones as her voice wafted up to his bell tower almost made the man jump.

Master Frollo's new hearth keep, Madellaine, the girl he had been thinking of not even a breath or two ago until Alice had arrived in his tower, was just outside the half-opened door that led to the lower level of the mezzanine.

All she would have to do is climb the ladder. She would see him.

A sheen of perspiration started to throng upon his brow, beads of sweat starting to drip down his temples and breath hitched in his throat, a relatively poor attempt to calm himself down, and he felt a stab of a fear prick at his heart.

Biting his tongue in frustration and fear, he thought he was getting used to the constant swallowing of nothing, though he turned his head to the side and spat out a mouthful of blood, tasting the metallic tang of iron on his palate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alice crinkle her nose in disgust at the gesture, pulling a face though she said nothing.

At last, Alice managed to find her voice, albeit shaky. "I really think that you'll want to hear what we have to say, dear. What happened to you was a tragedy, but you cannot let this get you down, kid. Pick yourself back up and quit feeling sorry for yourself, love. Things will get better. Listen to me. I think you'll want to hear it, Quasimodo," she growled, a note of steel in her voice.

The bitter words that were laced in his voice tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could process what was happening and Quasi had a chance to stop himself.

"I think I won't, Alice," he grumbled, huffing in frustration, folding his arms across his chest, and turning away sharply from her in response. He swore he heard the nun growl in frustration with the effort to restrain her temper, and he heard Alice slam down the bowl of medical supplies on his carving table, a temporary release of her frustrations, but he didn't care.

Alice groaned in agitation. "Fine. I'll…leave you alone, then…"

Alice's tone was disappointed, though as she ascended the stairwell, his ears perked up at the sound of the young blonde woman's quiet, shy voice.

"Alice? H—hello? Is anyone here? Did I—did I lose you?" came Madellaine's voice, sounding timid and uncertain, fearful, even, he guessed, and he heard the young woman draw in a sharp breath of frigid cold air, courtesy of his drafty tower loft that was always cold up here, especially in the winter.

As if his legs now had their own minds, damn them, they led him towards the sound of her sweet voice, towards the edge of the mezzanine, his chest hardly pumping, though his heartbeats thrummed so damned audibly loud in his chest, threatening to break free, he was surprised the women didn't hear. Quasi did not want to see her, he knew this. It was useless.

He did not want Master Frollo's little slip of a hearth keep seeing him in a state like this. Though his need, it would seem, was not about to be assuaged, because Alice spoke to the girl in lowly tones, damn her to the seven hells below.

"He's up there, my dear, but good luck in getting him to cooperate. May God's light shine upon you and you have better success than I, my dear," he heard Alice grumble darkly under her breath, a comment which made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Quasimodo silently seethed.

He was angry with Alice, yes, but fearful of her seeing him again.

"Oh, but I need…excuse me!"

Quasi froze, listening to Madellaine's shy and sweet voice that sounded like a piece of sweet music to his ears, almost thinking himself unworthy to hear such a sweet, musical voice such as hers, figuring she was responding to Sister Alice quitting the scene of his tower, as the frustrated nun gathered the skirts of her robe to avoid tripping, and heading down the north bell tower stairwell without a word to Madellaine, unable to take further notice of her, murmuring something inaudible under her breath.

Quasi heard the young blonde lass sigh in immense disappointment, and the heels of her boots turning away, about to follow the nun's lead and disappear back down the stone stairwell to the main level of the church's sanctuary, but then her footsteps froze, and Quasimodo knew she paused.

She might have seen the shadow from high above her move, his movements as he dared to creep close to the ledge of the platform as possible. The girl might have seen him, might be struck with a sudden curiosity.

Don't. Don't come up. Just...don't. Quasi squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to God if He would have the grace to listen to a monster's prayer such as his. He heard the young blonde hearth keep's soft footsteps, a murmured curse under her breath that almost made him smile, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards slightly.

But God, it would seem, had other plans in mind for Quasi, as he heard her soft footsteps, the heels of her brown leather boots reverberating on the rungs of the ladder as she climbed it, coming even closer. He froze, panicked.

If he moved to hide in the rafters above, she would know he was here, and she had not seemed afraid of him earlier, and he figured his best course of action was, as unsavory as it was, for him to remain put right where he stood.

Damn. Damnation and to the seven hells below, he swore, grinding his teeth in anticipation, feeling his gloved hands clench and unclench, shaking violently at his sides, wondering if this would be the moment the lass from earlier would truly get a good look at him, in his natural element, this place of shadow and a truly desolate existence, and she would run from him.

Everything up here was laced with the biting feeling of cold. The bitter winter air of January hung in his spacious bell tower lofts, the long, dark shadows slinking along the walls, the only source of light a few lighted candles.

Quasi drew in a sharp breath that pained his ribcage. It stung and sent swells of pains from where the rope had cut into his skin, and he instinctively felt one of his gloved hands wander to the pale column of his bruised throat.

It hurt as hell.

His body felt fatigued and weak from what had transpired to him out there, and he wished for nothing more than to hide from the young blonde hearth keep of Master's that was currently climbing his tower's ladder to the top level of the mezzanine, to his living loft.

Quasi glanced out of the corner of his one good eye as the soft, amber candlelight danced over his intimidating and slightly misshapen body, sighing. There was no stopping the storm that was about to come. He instinctively felt his posture stiffen and straighten, his hands balling into fists, shaking violently, and he bit his tongue hard enough that he drew blood.

He had cared so damned bloody much about venturing outside, just once in his adult life, not caring if he was old and bent, as long as he had spent just one day out there, to see what his precious city of Paris had to offer him. And it had betrayed him. The townspeople had laughed at him, pelted him with bits of rotten food, and had attempted to strangle him to his death.

Quasi took a heavily gloved hand and dragged it down alongside his face in anguish, trying to rid himself of the worst of the painful memories and anguish, grinding his teeth in anguish.

Seven hells, he pleaded. Save me this torment. Don't. Do not. Don't come up, he silently pleaded with the young woman.

The quietness in his tower, save for the noise of his ragged, labored breathing and the young blonde lass climbing the rungs of his ladder was almost deafening, filling his ears with a strange, fatigued ringing noise.

The attentive young bell ringer scanned the top of the ladder with an apprehensive eye, letting out a heavy sigh, raking his fingers through his thick tuft of fiery red hair, knowing full well the uneven, jittery last cast from the few lit candles that Alice had brought up from downstairs to make his tower more inviting and warmly illuminated his slightly misshapen body in such a way that it made the poor man look even more monstrous than he knew himself to be.

It's fine. You're fine. You're going to be, his conscience spoke to him, this time, it was Laverne's voice, reaching him somehow, though a quick glance out of the corner of his eyes told Quasi his stone companions were utterly still.

No. No. Everything was not fine! Why was she here?! She—she should not be up here. Damn you Alice, he thought, swearing under his breath angrily.

Quasi froze, feeling rooted to his spot as he saw the familiar thick tuft of her straw-colored golden blonde hair, as bright as the sun, come into view over the ledge of the upper level of the mezzanine, and he let out a little whine.

Though he had only the one interaction with the girl thus far, that was well beside the point. As he heard the girl grumble under her breath, mumbling something about so many bloody stairs that almost made him smile, or would have if the circumstances were not so damned bloody dire for him, he knew it was but a half-second away and his solitude would be interrupted.

Quasimodo swallowed and stepped back, ducking behind a wooden pillar beam, not wanting to allow himself to be seen, anticipating what came next. And he was bloody right. The young blonde hearth keep of Master Frollo's poked her head over the top of the ledge, the yellow of her hair the first thing the bell ringer saw with his wretched sight.

He often wondered looking down at the city from the top of the world up here why women wasted time on their hair, but even as short as this woman's hair was, he thought it suited her, then.

It was beautiful, but everything about Master's servant was. She wore the same dark blue gown, its hem, long flared sleeves, and collar embroidered with crisscrossing gold thread, suggesting she was otherwise a noblewoman.

The young woman glanced around, sky-blue eyes wide and round in awe, with an expression flitting in her eyes that Quasi could not quite identify, and then she noticed the basin of medical supplies Sister Alice had left behind.

Madellaine de Barreau took a cautious few steps forward towards his carving table, her curiosity piqued, though she dared not lift the tarp which covered his wooden scale model of Notre Dame de Paris and the town below.

He saw her from his place in the shadows pick up the wineskin of wine, probably disgusted with his tower, possibly in awe, but he did not know which. Quasi was so engrossed in thinking about this new she-stranger in his home and in watching her cautious movements that he stepped forward, cursing himself the moment the sole of his boot stepped on a loud floorboard.

Madellaine was startled at the heavy creaking noise and whirled around on the heel of her boot to see who it was, a horrified look on her face. He saw the blood drain from her face, making her even paler.

"H—how nice of you to visit me, m—mademoiselle," Quasi heard himself speak in a voice that did not quite sound like his, low and husky, hoarse, from where the noose of the length of rope had wound its way around his throat and squeezed. Hard.

He inclined his head from his place, shrouded in the darkness, though he knew she did not see it. However unfamiliar he was around girls, Master Frollo had taught him well in terms of manners.

Madellaine pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line and made a quick scan of the area where his tenor-like, musical voice had originated from, and for a moment, the redhaired bell ringer felt quite self-conscious all of a sudden, and he tried to convince himself that Alice had sent her up here for a damn reason.

Though what that reason or reasons might be, only the girl knew.

"I—I came to check on you, monsieur. You're hurt, and you require medical attention if you will allow me to help. What happened to you was m—my fault. I—I never should have let…" But her voice cracked, and her words failed her as she allowed her voice to trail off. Her voice was almost a whisper.

Quasi felt certain that if he had not already been hanging onto the young hearth keep's every word, that he was sure he would have missed it, as she seemed hardly able to speak as she took in the man's tower for herself.

"Um…." stammered Quasi as his nervousness threatened to implode, feeling grateful at least, that he was shrouded in darkness so the girl could not see the complete and utter fool he was making of himself. "I—I d—didn't realize that you, er…would be here," he murmured, and he clenched his teeth in ire.

As far as bad days and situations went, Quasi thought angrily. This by far, had to be the most awkward in his entire adult life he had ever faced.