A/N: Welcome back, dear reader! Quick FYI: The gargoyles won't be making an appearance in this story... I really can't have them around for certain scenes, and considering the general dislike for them in the fandom, that's what we're going with. Anyway, on with the story...
Chapter One
"And your flight into Egypt
May last your whole life long"
'Flight into Egypt', The Hunchback of Notre Dame
It was an overcast day in Paris, yet unusually warm for mid-October. High up in the bell towers of Notre Dame, sitting on a balustrade with his legs hanging over the side, Quasimodo watched the grey skyline.
There had been a commotion at the city gates earlier that day. He had been so excited that he immediately rushed down to the street and almost missed the ringing of Terce for his efforts. Sadly, it had been all for nothing. The motely band of travelers that swept through the gates were not the brightly coloured caravans he had been hoping for. Instead, he was greeted by the austere taupes, greys, and browns of a pilgrimage. Disappointed, he had walked back to the cathedral in silence, occasionally forcing a smile at the citizens who greeted him.
It had been months since Esmerelda and Phoebus left the city with the former's troupe. After the incident involving Esmerelda's arrest and the siege on the cathedral, the gypsies saw it better to leave Paris for the spring and summer seasons. With Frollo gone, the city had become a friendlier place to minorities, but news spread fast, and once the king caught wind of the insurrection in Paris, the Romani and their allies were liable to become targets of persecution yet again. And so, a few weeks after their initial victory, Esmerelda and Phoebus had bade Quasimodo a heartfelt goodbye and promised to return to Paris in the winter. Naturally, he had been sad to see his friends leave, but he knew it was for the best.
Still, acceptance did not necessarily mean contentment. As Quasimodo gazed at the city, watching the pilgrimage wind their way to Montmartre, he fought to keep his loneliness at bay. He reminded himself it was still autumn, and for all he knew, Esmerelda and Phoebus could have been on their way at that very moment. All thoughts of their safety and well-being were shoved aside in favour of the bittersweet memories of their time together.
"Soon," he murmured to himself, "we'll make some more memories.
Silence followed his spoken promise. Nevertheless, he was comforted by thoughts of the future and what he would do when his friends returned to Paris.
Quasimodo sat on the balustrade a little while longer, lost in thought, until it was time to ring the bells for the office of Sext. Up in the rafters of the North tower, he grasped the rope for three of the main bells – Jean-Marie, Etienne, and Emmanuel – and pulled down hard.
XXX
Three miles away, at the base of the hill of Montmartre, the tolling of church bells reached the ears of Sancha Bat Avram. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and listened carefully, tempted to tell the other pilgrims to hush. The sombre pealing must have been from the cathedral her mother spoke of, Notre Dame de Paris. She adjusted the veil on her head, patted her satchel to ensure she had everything, and silently stole away from the crowd, walking in the direction of the bells.
As she wound her way through the streets of Paris, Sancha reflected on her journey. She had escaped Toledo and the looming shadow of Tomas de Tavera easily enough. However, the fact that her parents did not meet her along the way induced in her a sickening worry that had prevented her from either sleeping or eating. Visions of her father flashed in her mind, chained up and accused of a terrible crime he did not commit. Thoughts of what became of her mother were even worse, as she doubted Tavera would keep Avram and Jeanne together. There were many times on the pilgrimage where she simply wanted to sit down in the grass and cry until someone came to her aid.
But, that was a childish thought, and she pushed on, telling herself her parents would meet her at the cathedral in Paris.
As she passed a road-side reliquary, she was reminded of the cross her mother wore around her neck and assured herself that if anyone was going to meet her at Notre Dame, it would be her. Jeanne de Beaumont was often called La Cristiana by their community in Toledo. She was a French noblewoman of Catholic birth. Surely, Tomas de Tavera would know that. Surely, it would be enough evidence for him to release her.
If he even did arrest her, Sancha thought to herself. There was no doubt in her mind that Tavera would be more suspicious of her father. Avram was a converso, a Jewish doctor who nominally converted to Christianity when Sancha was five years old. Unlike Jeanne and Sancha, he had lived thirty years openly as a Sephardic Jew. There was no way the Inquisition wouldn't know that about him. For one morbid moment, Sancha wondered if the Catholic Church had somehow found out that her father was still observing shabbat and attending the synagogue in secret up to the day of his arrest.
She shoved that worry away just as the ringing of the bells died down. Sancha cursed under her breath. She was still in the middle of the city, with no cathedral in sight. She would have to ask someone for directions now.
Swallowing down her apprehension, she approached a woman standing by an open door. Only when she got closer did Sancha realize the woman, with her bold gaze and painted face, was a common woman. Her cheeks burned something fierce. In another life, Sancha would have never deigned to even look at such a girl. But, desperate times called for desperate measures, and she disregarded her pride as she approached.
"E-Excuse me," she stammered.
The woman arched an eyebrow at her but said nothing. Sancha cleared her throat.
"T-To where is the… church? Notre Dame?"
The woman's eyebrows pulled together, and Sancha suddenly wanted nothing more than to disappear. Although her own mother was French, the only languages spoken at home were Spanish, Ladino, and Hebrew. Jeanne had taught her daughter enough French to carry a conversation, but Sancha rarely used it. Now, her carelessness was coming back to haunt her in the form of a whore laughing at her.
With a little smirk, the woman pointed down the road and rattled something off in rapid-fire French. Although she showed little regard for Sancha's discomfort, the latter understood the gist: Go down the road and follow the path at the first left.
With a nod, Sancha gave the woman a curt "merci" and walked off. She followed the directions she had been given, keeping an eye out for cutpurses and thieves. She clutched her satchel and kept her head down, praying she was heading the right way. The longer she walked, the more she worried she had been misled
But, when she emerged from the back alleys and into the town square, she was relieved to see the common woman had been truthful in her directions. Before her very eyes, a massive church, with two hulking bell towers, stood proudly in the middle of the city. There was no more doubt in Sancha's mind: This was the cathedral her mother had told her about.
The girl wasted no time in entering the breath-takingly beautiful gothic cathedral. After a few minutes of aimless wandering and gaping, she found the archdeacon and presented him with a half-fictional telling of her situation: She was on a pilgrimage and had been separated from her parents along the way. Would he be so kind as to let her wait at the church until her mother and father came to find her?
The archdeacon, a kindly old man with an aura of genuine religiosity, was more than happy to allow Sancha to stay at the cathedral. However, there was just one condition.
"The dormitories are reserved for the monks and lay brothers," he explained in slow French. "You'll have to sleep in the church itself, perhaps in transept. I'm sorry, my dear, but it's better that way."
Sancha agreed with him. She missed her own bed and her own room back in Toledo. But, if she had to choose between sleeping on a stone floor alone, or surrounded by a number of men, she would choose the former. She thanked the archdeacon as much as she could with her limited French, and after Vespers that night, Sancha found herself alone in a dark, empty cathedral
A thunderstorm rolled into Paris that night. Despite her fatigue, Sancha could find no peace in the church. She lay prone on a straw pallet, a thin blanket covering her legs, staring up at the domed ceiling above her head. Rain slapped at the stained-glass windows, giving the various Biblical character the appearance of mourners, tears streaming down their faces. With each flash of lightning, the stone busts and icons surrounding the young woman lit up, jumping out of the shadows to scare her with their stern and condemning expressions.
Sancha rolled onto her side and shut her eyes, desperate to sleep, but she was too uncomfortable. Her legs ached after nearly two weeks of walking, and thoughts of her parents, her home, and the angry face of Cardinal Tavera plagued her. She almost felt like crying, but what good would that do?
Shivering, the girl sat up and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. The dark abyss of the empty cathedral stared back at her, momentarily alight with the lightning outside. Thunder rumbled overhead, threatening a roar, and Sancha wondered briefly if the sound came from one of the statues around her.
Unwilling to admit she was frightened, she stood up and pulled her blanket around her like a cold weather cloak. Refusing to meet the eyes of the Kings of Israel, Sancha pattered out of the transept and down the aisle, barefooted and bareheaded. She headed for the back of the church, where she had seen a winding staircase that led up to the bell towers. Though she knew there would be gargoyles and grotesques waiting for her up there, it was better than being surrounded by the immobile and life-sized statues of real people in the dark. At least amongst the demons, she could watch the storm until it blew over.
The staircase was pitch black, the torches having been put out earlier in the night. Sancha made her way upwards in the dark, her hand on the cold stone walls, listening to her heavy breaths. She ascended for what felt like an eternity, until she came to a small landing. She followed it, squinting in the dim light, until she came upon another staircase. Faced with the choice to either ascend again, or continued down the corridor into pitch darkness, she opted to climb. What Sancha found on the platform above made her freeze on the last step.
There was a table across from the staircase, framed by a few discarded statues, and a stack of shelves off to her right. A curtain hung haphazardly to conceal the table, and when Sancha pulled it back, it revealed the table was that of a craftsman.
Even in the dim light, Sancha understood she was looking at a diorama of Paris. The replica of Notre Dame was the biggest piece on the table, and it was surrounded by smaller versions of the townhouses, businesses, and even people of the city. Sancha brushed away some wood shavings and sat down on the bench, appreciating the craftsmanship every time lightning darted in from the nearby window. With each flash, she saw a new detail, a new colour, a new character. As her fear receded, she couldn't help but to giggle.
"Amazing," she murmured to herself. "I wonder who…"
She trailed off as she ran a finger over the baker character, the carving so smooth she needn't fear getting a splinter. She assumed this was either the work of an incredibly bored monk or a lay brother with too much time on his hands. Funny that she would find such a charming display in an otherwise austere place of worship, but she was grateful for it. Her amusement was enough to outshine her trepidation, and she gazed out at the storm with a calm heart, suddenly taken with the beauty of the rain and thunderclouds over the dark city.
XXX
Quasimodo wasn't sure what had woken him up. It couldn't have been the storm; he had slept through louder things than a little bit of thunder and lightning. It couldn't have been the pigeons or other creatures that occasionally made their homes in the bell towers; they had all migrated or gone into hibernation. No, it was something different, something ethereal, as if some unseen force had shaken him awake just in time to –
He froze. There was a creak somewhere on the floor below him. Then, another followed.
Footsteps?
Slowly, he pushed back his covers and rolled off his palette to peer over the platform upon which he slept. He held his breath as he listened to the rhythmic pattering of someone walking up the stairs. A figure moved in the darkness, and Quasimodo moved back into the shadows, ready to either hide or fight.
Then, a relieved little laugh cut through the gloom. It was high and musical, like the tinkling of decorative bells on a woman's skirt.
"Increíble," the stranger murmured. "Me pregunto quién…"
Quasimodo furrowed his brow and peered over the platform again. The intruder – who was now confirmed to be a woman – sat at his worktable, admiring his diorama of Paris and occasionally looking up to watch the storm. She appeared to have a shawl or blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her long hair fell down her back in soft waves. The darkness obscured anything else about her appearance.
As his fight-or-flight instinct receded, Quasimodo was left with a profound sense of confusion. No one ever came up to the bell tower, let alone this late at night. And the presence of the strange girl who spoke a strange language only created more questions. Perhaps she was a pilgrim who got lost on her way to Montmartre?
Quasimodo thought about staying the shadows until she left, but the idea of falling asleep with a stranger in his midst unnerved him. Instead, he quietly lit a candle and made his way down the platform. The creaking of the stairs were drowned out by the thunder that cracked overhead, and by the time he reached the mezzanine, the girl still hadn't noticed him. Left without much choice, Quasimodo gently cleared his throat.
"H-hello?"
Thanks for reading! Since the story has already been written, I'll be editing and posting a new chapter every weekend. Until next time, dear readers...
