A/N: Hello, dear reader! Excuse the slight tardiness of this chapter - It's been a busy weekend! I hope the length of the chapter will make up for it, as this was a long one!

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, PM'd me, and to those who simply read. You all bring a smile to my face :)


Chapter Eight

"Entre la mar y el pinasco

Mos creció un arbol de clavo

Ay, échate a la mar

Échate a la mar y alcansa"*

'La Galana y El Mar', Al Andaluz Project

Sancha was whistling out loud. As she walked down the street, people glanced at her, but she tried not to care. It was a bright, sunny afternoon, and she had a song in her head. After spending time with Esmeralda yesterday, Sancha had decided she was no longer going to care what anyone thought of her. And, she decided, she would have the confidence to reveal her secret to Quasimodo tonight, after dinner, when they were both relaxed and idle. Her only worry was that he would feel betrayed by her secrecy.

But, Sancha refused to let that deter her, and she continued to whistle her worries away. She only stopped when she heard a deep voice float up and over her shoulder; it was singing the lyrics to the song she whistled.

"Avrix, mi galanica, que ya va'menecer!

Avrir yo vos avro, mi lindo amor!

La noche yo no durmo, pensado en vos…"

Sancha froze and glanced over her shoulder. She was alone on the street, save for a bearded beggar off to the side, who looked to be around her father's age. He was looking up at her from below the brim of his hat, a grin breaking the surface of his weathered face.

On any other day, Sancha would have been deeply offended if any man had serenaded her with those lyrics in public. But in that moment, she broke out into a toothy smile.

"Mi padre'sta meldando, mos oyera," she sang back, fighting through her excitement to keep in tune.

"Amatalde la luzezica'si se dormira," the beggar returned.

"Amatalde la luzezica'si s'echera!"*

They finished their verse together. Sancha hurried over to him, laughing and clapping her hands, and if she were applauding the greatest bard she had ever heard. "You're Sephardi too?" she asked in Ladino.

The beggar winked at her. "Shalom, mi hermana."*

Sancha could have jumped for joy. After weeks of waiting far from anything even resembling Toledo, here was a little piece of home. And it had come in the shape of a homeless vagrant. Sacha didn't care; she was just happy to hear someone call her 'mi hermana' again.

"And how does mi hermano call himself?"

"Lazar Jimenez, of León," the beggar said, rising to his feet. "And you are…?"

"Sancha Bat Avram, of Toledo."

Lazar smiled and bowed, low and respectfully, before her. "Such a lovely name. Whatever are you doing here, señorita? You are a long way from home."

"I might say the same of you, Don Jimenez," Sancha said.

Lazar hissed through his teeth, as if pained. "Well played. The choice to leave was not my own, though. Our dear Queen Isabella saw fit to run her holy dogs through León's judería about a year ago. I came here and have been living hand to mouth ever since. Before that happened, I was the hazzan* at our congregation."

"Mercy," Sancha murmured, her hands over her heart. "My condolences, sir. I've also come here because of the Inquisition."

Lazar's face fell at her words. "Toledo was hit too?"

Sancha frowned, absently fingering her last remaining ring – The emerald her mother had given her for her baptism. "All of Spain has fallen… Under Isabella and Ferdinand, anyone who isn't fully Christian is seen as an enemy…"

She sighed and shrugged off her sorrow. "But I am not worried. My mother and father will meet me here soon, and all will be right in the world."

"And where are your parents now?"

"They…" Sancha bit her lip as the sorrow crept back into her heart. "They were caught up in the emptying of our own judería. My mother helped me escape and told me to go to Paris."

Lazar grunted, all the mirth fled from his face. Crossing his arms, he asked, "And who headed this emptying, if I may ask?"

"Tomas de Tavera," Sancha said, wincing. The name itself brought a chill to her bones. "He arrested the entire community on a trumped-up blood libel charge."

"The Tomas de Tavera?" Lazar asked. "The Grand Inquisitor himself?"

Sancha nodded, and her stomach dropped as she watched Lazar's mouth settle into a deep frown. With a shake of his head, he murmured, "Now may I offer my condolences to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm happy your mother had the wits about her to see to your escape," he said, "but I'm afraid your waiting here for them is for naught. No one escapes the grip of Tavera or the Inquisition."

Sancha stared at him for a beat. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true.

"You don't know that," she said. "Y-You couldn't possibly know that!"

"Perhaps not, little one, but I would bet my last livre on it."

"You don't know what you're talking about! My mother promised to find me!"

Lazar said gravely, "I saw my entire congregation be taken into Tavera's custody. Not one of them made it out alive. I know very well what I am talking about."

After a tense moment, he sighed and gave her hand an empathetic squeeze. "Quit waiting, Sancha Bat Avram. Live your life, marry a man you love, bear him many children… Just don't go back to Spain or spend your life waiting on a miracle. The Inquisition will not rest until the likes of us are stamped from the face of the Earth, and it would pain me to watch another one of our people waste away on false hope."

"… But…"

Sancha tried to speak, but her throat had closed in on itself. She moved her mouth soundlessly, searching for words of denial and any evidence that Lazar was wrong. But, she found none. Instead, the beggar's pitying gaze broke through the fragile walls she had build around herself, dashing her hope and exposing her to the truth: It had been months already, and her parents had still not found her at Notre Dame.

"I'm sorry, mi hermana."

Lazar gave Sancha a parting tip of his hat and shuffled away, leaving the girl to stand in shocked silence, attempting to digest the truth she had just been force-fed. She calculated the time it had taken her to get to Notre Dame since leaving Toledo, and her heart sank. It had taken her two weeks. Even if her parents had been rerouted, they should have shown up by now.

Sancha's vision blurred, an invisible vise around her chest tightening to squeeze the breath out of her lungs. The buildings of Paris rose up around her like ominous sentinels, threatening to collapse with a slight change of the wind. Sancha took an unsteady step forward, then another, and another…

She imagined her father, bound in shackles, as he was dragged from their family home. She reached out with her hands but couldn't get to him. In the same vision, she saw her mother, weeping into her hands as flames ignited at her feet. She raised her head and regarded Sancha with red-rimmed eyes as the fire licked up her skirts.

I love you, Sancha…

Before she knew it, Sancha was running. Tears blinded her, and her breath came out in shallow, distressed pants. She careened around the corner, nearly crashing into the baker, but she didn't stop to apologize. The girl ran and ran, not knowing where she was headed. All she knew was the world had stopped making sense not even ten minutes ago.

XXX

As the sun set on Paris, Quasimodo began to worry. Sancha had been gone all day, and if she wasn't back before nightfall, she would be breaking curfew. Everyone knew what happened to women who weren't indoors by a certain time, and the thought almost drove him mad with worry.

Had something happened to her? She had navigated the city by herself before, and she always came back to the bell tower, perfectly fine and ready to make dinner or mend something of his. But she was nowhere to be seen, and it was becoming harder to deny that something was wrong.

Before his anxiety got the better of him, Quasimodo threw on his cloak and left the cathedral to go searching for her.

As twilight threatened, he hurried to the gypsy caravans set up just off the town square. He gave Clopin and the others a distracted greeting as he found his way to Esmeralda and Phoebus's caravan.

Luckily for him, neither had turned in for the night. Esmeralda washing the supper dishes in a small bucket on the steps, Djali dozing at her feet. Phoebus was just around the corner from her, fixing a shutter that had fallen from its sill. They both looked up from their respective chores at the sounds of Quasimodo's approaching footsteps.

"Quasi, what's wrong?" Esmeralda asked, setting her bucket aside.

"It's Sancha. She hasn't come back to the cathedral yet." He glanced at his two friends. "You haven't seen her, have you?"

He was hoping against hope Esmeralda would know. Though there had been some initial tension between her and Sancha yesterday, the two of them had returned from the blacksmith practically arm-in-arm, laughing and talking in rapid-fire 'Frespañol'. Maybe Sancha had told her where she would be that evening.

Nevertheless, Esmeralda shook her head. "No, I have no idea where she is. I haven't seen her since yesterday."

Phoebus, who had met Sancha upon their return from the blacksmith, glanced up at the sky with a frown. The first star had appeared in the sky.

"She didn't tell you where she was going at all?" he asked the bell ringer.

"She went out to run some errands, but that was hours ago."

Phoebus's frown deepened as he rubbed the back of his neck. "That isn't good. I'll get Achilles and see if I can find her. Try checking the Northern part of the city, and I'll go South."

Quasimodo thanked him as he went to fetch his horse. Esmeralda rose from the steps and approached her friend.

"I'll ask around to see if anyone has seen her," she said. "I know you're scared for her, but promise you'll be careful."

Quasimodo promised and smiled in thanks at Esmeralda. With that, he continued down the street, listening to the beat of Achilles's hooves echo into the night.

He searched the dim streets, peering down alleyways, scanning roadsides, and asking the occasional passer-by if they had seen a small, brunette girl with a burgundy dress. Occasionally, Quasimodo called for Sancha, and his fear only worsened whenever silence answered him. He was just beginning to panic when he came across the baker, Gilles, who was just closing his shop for the day.

"I did see her," Gilles said, when Quasimodo asked him if he had seen Sancha. "Plum near ran into me."

"She did?"

Gilles nodded, and removed his hat to give his head a pensive scratch. "Yeah, and she didn't look right at all…"

Quasimodo's heart leapt into his throat. "What?"

"Poor girl was weeping something fierce. Never saw anybody cry that hard in public before, not even a child. She upped and ran off before I could ask what was wrong."

"Where did she go?" The promise of an answer was all that was keeping the bell ringer from running off into the city again.

"Last I saw, roundabout that way." Gilles pointed to a dark side street a few feet away. "Don't make yourself sick now, lad. I reckon she didn't go far."

With a nod and a hurried goodnight, Quasimodo left Gilles and moved as fast as his bowed legs would carry him through the dark street. The alley led out onto the main walkway next to the Seine, where laundresses, children, and fishermen would mingle during the day. Now, it was practically abandoned, and the pink and lavender sky gave it an ominous, haunting appearance.

Quasimodo hurried down the length of the walkway, scaring himself by watching the calm waters of the river, praying Sancha hadn't somehow fallen in. He drew another breath to bellow her name, when a little noise downriver silenced him: A mournful, broken weeping.

A few feet ahead, sitting curled up on the wharf, was Sancha. She appeared unharmed, but it was hard to tell with her face buried in her arms, which were wrapped around her legs. Her shoulders quivered, and muffled sobs were lost in the folds of her dress. Her hair fell in dark tresses over her shoulders, but nothing could mask the bitterness of her weeping.

Quasimodo wanted nothing more than to run over and sweep her up in his arms. But, he forced himself to approach her calmly. The last thing he wanted to do was startle her while she was in such a state. After all, for all the times he had seen her almost cry, he never saw her completely lose her composure.

"Sancha?"

She raised her head at the sound of his soft voice, and the look on her face almost physically hurt him. Her eyes were red and glassy, fresh tears streaked down blotchy cheeks. She had clearly been crying for a long time and showed no signs of stopping.

Quasimodo eased himself down beside her, trying as hard as he could to keep a respectful distance.

"A-Are you hurt?" he asked, fearing the worst.

She shook her head. "No. I-It's… My parents are dead."

His concern melted away to something quieter and sadder. As he watched Sancha struggle to reign in her grief, Quasimodo found nothing to say in response. He racked his brain in silence, but he was too distracted. All he understood was that someone he cared for was falling apart in front of him, and he didn't know how to help.

"How do you know?" he asked eventually, his voice hushed.

"I-I knew it for a while, but I did not want to say it was true. It is only today that I… that I cannot lie anymore. They are d-dead. Tavera killed them, and I… I…"

Sancha's face crumpled, and her head dropped back into her folded arms. Hesitantly, Quasimodo moved closer to her and wrapped his arms around her shaking form. Sancha immediately turned and buried her face in his chest, where she let herself cry without restraint.

As his tunic grew damp with her tears, Quasimodo tried to understand exactly what she had just said. Who was Tavera? Why did he kill her parents? How was she so sure that was what happened?

He didn't give the questions a voice, as much as they burned for answers. All he could do was hold her quietly and let the waves of sadness pass through her. Absentmindedly, he rubbed small circles over her back until her body ceased to shudder with sobs.

"I want to go home," she said, "and I want to talk with you. I only hope you will f-forgive me for what I've done…"

More questions arose, and not without a measure of anxiety. Nevertheless, Quasimodo pushed them away and reminded himself to be patient. Sancha said she wanted to talk, and so they would.

After a moment, he drew away from her. She looked up at him with sad, hollow eyes, her tears now spent. A stray hair was stuck to her cheek, and Quasimodo brushed it away with a careful tenderness.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go home."

XXX

Half an hour later, Sancha was sitting on her palette in the bell tower, a mug of warm cider in her hands (a gift from Esmeralda, who the pair had briefly visited after Sancha was found). Quasimodo had found a warmer blanket for her up on the higher levels of the tower, and he stooped to wrap it around her.

"Nights get cold in the winter here," he said. "You'll freeze if you go out without a cloak."

Sancha gave him a weak smile in thanks, though it looked more like a grimace. "I scared you tonight. I'm sorry."

Quasimodo said nothing as he took a seat in front of her. She was right. He was scared for her, but it was nothing compared to the relief of finding her before anything bad happened. Eclipsing everything, though, was the worry ignited by what she said after being asked to be taken home. That "home" was now the bell tower to her was not lost on Quasimodo, but it did nothing to ease the knots in his stomach.

They stayed silent for a moment. He watched Sancha nurse her drink and gather her thoughts. Outside, the wind picked up and blew a howling draft through the tower.

"I do not know where to begin," Sancha said eventually.

She spoke into her mug, her downcast eyes brimming with shame. Quasimodo leaned his elbows on his folded legs and took her hand in his.

"Start from wherever you want," he told her.

And so, Sancha started at the beginning.

In her best French, she told him a story that would inspire even the most jaded of court minstrels: A French noblewoman, born and raised just outside of Paris, and a Spanish med student fell in love. Even when the student confessed to his lover that he was Jewish, the lady didn't care. She escaped an arranged marriage to a miserly old count by eloping with the student, scorning her noble roots and earning disownment from her family. A year later, they had a daughter, who was much too Jewish to be accepted by the Catholic majority, but not Hebrew enough to be completely accepted by the Sephardic community. And so, the girl grew into a woman, never knowing her place in society.

Sancha spoke of tension mounting between the Christian and Jewish communities, her hand tightening in his as she pushed on. The breaking point was an accusation of blood libel, made against the father's community by a powerful cardinal. Every Jew and convert had been arrested, except for the half-caste daughter, who escaped thanks to the foresight of her mother. She left her hometown with instruction to follow the Montmartre pilgrimage to Paris and stay at Notre Dame. By the time Sancha was done the story, she was shaking.

"I understand if you will not forgive me," she said, her voice calm but her eyes shiny with unshed tears. She stared at an empty space on the floor, but she never let go of his hand. "I kept this part of my life secret because it is dangerous to speak of… But I know now it was a mistake not to say it to you, and… I am so sorry…"

As she took a few shaky breaths, Quasimodo turned her story over in his mind. It all made sense now. Her worry for her parents, her evasiveness about her life in Toledo, why she reacted so badly to any slight against herself or people she cared for…

It would have been easy to be angry with her. She had, after all, lied by omission to him. But, Quasimodo couldn't find it in him to work up the emotion. In light of her story – and the fact that she was apologetic – the young man could only pity her fate and thank God that she had escaped the clutches of this Tomas de Tavera.

When she picked her gaze up to check his reaction, there was a terrible vulnerability in her eyes that made Quasimodo ache with protectiveness. She needed something from him – anything – that would indicate he understood. She wasn't seeking forgiveness; only empathy.

And, he empathized more than she knew. After a moment, he said to her, "You'll have to forgive me too. There's something I have to tell you now."

Just as Sancha had painted him a picture of where she had come from, Quasimodo did the same for her. He told her of a woman – a Romani – who tried desperately to save her child from the tyranny of a monster. Despite the mother's efforts, she died trying to save her son, and the babe fell under the care of her very murderer. The child grew into a man, sheltered but isolated, and only dared to defy his domineering master when he was twenty years of age by attending the Feast of the Epiphany (or, as it was colloquially known, the Festival of Fools). There, he met a girl from his mother's tribe, who was kind to him and taught him a valuable lesson about inner beauty and true monstrosity.

Just as Tavera had done to Sancha's community, the young man's master tore Paris apart in search of his charge's new friend. When he caught her, he almost burned her at the stake. Had the young man not acted in defiance one more time and saved the gypsy girl, his master would have succeeded. The act of heroism almost cost him his life too, but it had been worth the risk.

When Quasimodo was finished, Sancha was holding both his hands, squeezing them as if she was afraid he would let her go. Her lips were parted, and her eyes were wide with incredulity, despite the tears that dried in red tracts down her cheeks.

"You saved her life," Sancha whispered reverently.

Quasimodo looked away. He didn't like taking credit for such a grand statement. He had only acted as any good friend would.

"You did," she insisted. "It is nothing to deny, Quasimodo. You…" She touched his cheek, bringing his gaze back to her. "You risked your life for Esmeralda… If I had known, I would have never feared to tell you about my past. Truly, you are a good man."

He didn't know what to say except, "I'm sorry."

She blinked, taken aback. "No… No, no, do not apologize. It is me who is sorry. I should have had more faith to say…"

"I don't blame you for keeping what happened to you a secret, Sancha," he heard himself say.

She shook her head, a single tear running down her cheek. She didn't seem upset anymore but moved. "Ay, I have wanted to tell you for so long. That it is now…"

She was close, much closer than before. Sancha was leaning towards him, one hand on his cheek and the other splayed out by his knee. Her proximity made his heart race.

"Sancha…?"

"You do not… hate me, do you?"

"No!" Quasimodo let his hand fall over hers. "No, not at all. I could never…I-I hope you don't either."

"How…?" she breathed, her eyes searching his face.

"How what?"

"How could I hate you?" The very idea seemed to disturb her, if the stricken look on her face was any indication. "Because you did not tell me of your horrible master? Or that your parents were gitanos? After I tell you my father was a hebreo* and my mother was a disgrace to her family?"

The bell ringer tried to think of a response, but Sancha wasn't finished yet.

"Ay, Quasimodo, you are a difficult man to hate. When I had no friends in this city, it was you who stayed with me, even after I acted as an idiota*. When I lost my sleeping place in the church, it was you who let me rest in your tower. And it was you who came to look for me this night when I would not have given a care if I froze to death. You are kind, even when you do not have to be, and it is that thing that makes you hermoso*…"

She shook her head and swallowed down a sob. "Guay de mí, but you do not see what I see…"

Silence filled the bell tower. Even the pigeons stopped rustling, and the wind died down. Quasimodo stared at her, speechless, his mouth open but without words at the ready. He couldn't remember a time in his life when anyone spoke to him like that. Not even Esmeralda had said those things to him. His first instinct was to deny everything she said, but the look in Sancha's eyes warned him against it. In fact, he had never seen such an expression on her face: A potent mix of sadness, sincerity, and… something else he couldn't name. Something that both frightened and enthralled him.

The intensity of her gaze made him self-conscious. The young man looked at his lap but didn't dare move away from her.

"Quasimodo?"

Sancha said his name gently, her voice barely above a whisper. The sound of his name on her tongue made his heart throw itself against his chest. Swallowing down hard, he looked up only to brush her nose with his. He saw his incredulous reflection in Sancha's dark brown eyes for only a moment before she closed them and pressed her lips to his.

Quasimodo froze, his eyes wide and unblinking. He completely expected Sancha to recoil and explain away the slip in her balance at any moment.

But, that moment never came. The girl kissed him, tearing down the walls of denial he had formed around anything and everything having to do with her. Her lips warmed him through and thawed him out the initial shock. Quasimodo almost didn't want to close his eyes, half-worried she would disappear if he did. Nevertheless, something told him to follow her example, and the world faded to black. Only her touch kept him anchored in the darkness.

Quasimodo tried to kiss her back, though he had no idea what he was doing. Sancha didn't seem to notice or care. She leaned into him, enticing him to hold her as close as he dared. A wonderfully terrible ache bloomed in his chest and spread through him, stifling his breath and colouring his cheeks. When Sancha bit his lower lip, he gasped in surprise. She reeled back instantly, her eyes round and alarmed.

"I'm sorry!" she panted. "Did I hurt you?"

He blinked, momentarily disoriented. He was back in the bell tower, sitting on Sancha's palette, while the firelight from a single candle lit up her concerned face.

"N-No," he stammered.

She was quiet for a moment, staring up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. This time, Quasimodo couldn't look away, even if he tried.

"Would…" She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Would you let me do it again?"

Do what again, he had to wonder. Bite him? Kiss him? Prove to him again that he wasn't dreaming? Whatever it was, he found himself nodding. Sancha could have asked him to bring her the moon, and he would've said yes.

Smiling, the young woman all but threw herself into him, her lips crashing against his in a passionate kiss. This time, he didn't hesitate in drawing her as close as he wanted.


*Entre la mar y el pinasco: "Between the sea and the stone"

Mos creció un arbol de clavo: A clove tree grew

Ay, échate a la mar: Alas, throw yourself into the sea

Échate a la mar y alcansa: Take to the sea and go to him"

*The second song (the one Sancha and Lazar sing) is a lot to translate, but if anyone is interested, it's called "Avrix mi galanica", and there are plenty of translations on the internet

*"Shalom, mi hermana": "Hello, my sister"

*Hazzan: A Jewish musician who leads the congregation in songful prayer

*Hebreo: A Hebrew (male)

*Idiota: An idiot (female)

*Hermoso: Beautiful / handsome (male)

Phew! Any more notes, and I'll need a separate fic just for the glossary... Anyway, as always, thank you so much reading! Until next time...