Mardis Gras, 1482

The door to the Hotel Dieu opened, a lone nun standing in the hallway. Her gaze remained fixed to the floor, her right hand shielding her eye as she looked in his direction. As soon as he entered, she closed the door behind him. She motioned for him to follow, leading him down a narrow hall, around several twisted passages and into a large, airy room. She opened the oak door and directed him inside.

"You sent for me, Father." Quasimodo's words were soft, his gaze fixed on the Archdeacon as he spoke.

"I did, didn't I." The old man laughed. "You are looking much better. Seeing your face brings much joy. There is almost natural colour in you again."

The corners of Quasimodo's lips upturned for a brief second before he softly sighed.

"Brother Rocher was here earlier, as was Father Lacroix. They presented a strong case, and I must say that I agree with them. Pray, repent and give alms." Archdeacon Chevrier gestured his fingers toward Quasimodo. "There will be no fasting and no flagellation."

"I must." Quasimodo bowed his head, before stepping back, his eyes wide. His focus darted about the room before his widened eyes contacted the firm gaze of the old Archdeacon. "What did you..."

"You never had a choice, we both know that." The old man shook his head, frowning. "We both know you've never left a mark on your own skin. To put it bluntly, it's outdated, disgusting and unnecessary."

Quasimodo pulled his cloak tight to his shoulders and turned away. The old man's fingers reached out, gripping Quasimodo's arm and causing him to turn.

"Whatever Claude Frollo did to himself, it matters not. For him to..." He watched as Quasimodo again turned away, his cloak remaining snug against his back.

"I'd rather not discuss it." Quasimodo choked. The old Archdeacon pulled on Quasimodo's hand, forcing his attention to him.

"How many times? For what reason?"

Archdeacon Chevrier fixed his gaze into Quasimodo's eyes. Quasimodo was nearly frozen, his eyelids trembling over a narrowed gaze. The pained look was too much for him to bear. He let his hand fall away from the bell-ringer.

"It does not matter, I suppose. He is gone." The old man sat in silence, his attention turning to the birds that flitted about on the dormant bushes. "This year, it will be different for you. There are many changes to come. Embrace them, my son. Don't hold onto your fear."

Quasimodo turned away, his gaze shifting to his elbow.

"Of course, this is not why you were summoned." Archdeacon Chevrier reached out his hand, grasping Quasimodo's fingertips. "I am leaving today, and felt I should see you once more."

Quasimodo looked to the old mans leg, then to his gray eyes. He slowly shook his head.

"The sisters say that I'm not healing as quickly as expected." The old man pulled the blanket away from his bandaged leg. Quasimodo's attention drew to the swollen toes emerging from the thick linen bandage.

"The bodies of old men don't heal well." The old man chuckled. "Brother Rocher has reported that you are still recovering. Father Lacroix and Father Vanier have informed me that you intend to fast during Lent."

"Everyone does." Quasimodo nodded. "It's proper."

"The very young, the very old, women with child and those recovering from injury may abstain." Archdeacon Chevrier motioned to the garden. "What do you see outside the window?"

"Branches, some snow, a stone wall?" Quasimodo's voice trailed.

"A flock of birds are eating the seeds from the shrubbery. Birds are not meant to be caged. They belong outside, with their own kind."

"I will never be one of them."

"You are correct, you are different. However, you are still part of them, part of the community." Archdeacon Chevrier pulled himself up on the bed, allowing him a full view of Quasimodo. "What you will do during Lent, it will be more difficult for you than the most restrictive fast. You must leave Notre Dame every day. Whether there is rain, snow or sun, you must go outside. Walk through the streets and have a conversation with someone you've never met. Take a friend with you, if you wish."

"I could never."

"Abstain from seclusion, Quasimodo. You must engage in one conversation outside of Notre Dame, with a different citizen, every day. It does not matter with whom you speak, or for how long."

"What if they refuse to speak to me?" Quasimodo momentarily looked to the window, to the birds hopping among the branches. He turned his attention back to the Archdeacon. "Who would ever want to speak with me, anyhow?"

"There are people who will want to meet you. If someone turns away from you, approach someone else."

"That could take the entire day. What if my..." Quasimodo tapped his ears with his fingers "What if this prevents it?"

"We both know that is not what's holding you back." The Archdeacon raised his hand, two fingers pointing firmly at Quasimodo. "Your broken ears have not hindered you since you were sixteen. Ask that people look at you when they speak."

"Who wants to look at me? I can't... I can't even say it. For them to know that one more thing is wrong with me..." Quasimodo placed his hands to his ears, shaking his head. "No. I must not."

"Be mindful of your pride, Quasimodo."

Quasimodo laughed, tears nearly forming in his eyes as laughter quickly turned to sadness.

"Pride?" Quasimodo's voice strained. "...I am not holding myself above anyone. If only they see me as less pitiable and more... more normal."

"Promise me that you will do as I ask." Archdeacon looked into Quasimodo's eyes. "Step outside of Notre Dame each day. Have a conversation with one stranger each day. Look after yourself. Let others help you when you seek help."

"I..."

"This is what's best for you." The old man pushed onto Quasimodo's hand. "You matter, Quasimodo. Your soul and your well-being matter."

"I will." Quasimodo nodded.

"You have a promise to keep." The old man pulled away the blankets and moved his working leg to the edge of the bed. "Now then, would you help me to the carriage?"

"Now? You are leaving now?"

"The carriage is waiting."

Archdeacon Chevrier grasped Quasimodo's shoulder, lifting himself from the bed. Quasimodo wrapped his arm around the Archdeacon's chest, grasping him firmly, afraid he would fall.

"I only wish that I were able to stay, to hear those bells ring as they should. To hear you heart carry through the bells, I will miss that."

"You c… could stay, you know."

"I must leave." Archdeacon Chevrier began to slip from Quasimodo's grasp, seizing with pain as his swollen toes touched the floor. Rather than let him slide, Quasimodo scooped him into his arms. "Father... Archdeacon Tremblay will arrive in a few days. I've written him and he has expressed gratitude for this promotion. "

"Where will you go?"

"To a warmer place, near the sea and nearer my family." He sighed, while being carried out of the Hotel Dieu. "I feel that God will have our paths cross again, Quasimodo."

Quasimodo held the old Archdeacon, bringing him to the square where a team of horses waited. Assistants lifted the Archdeacon from Quasimodo's arms, setting him in the carriage. He cried out in pain as his leg struck the door. Once seated, he turned to Quasimodo.

"Look after yourself, my son."

Quasimodo stood in the street, snow twisting into spirals around his ankles. He watched the carriage shake and jostle on the cobbles. The cold wind blew his hair in every direction. Snow sprinkled onto his neck and face. He snugged the hood of his cloak tight to his skin, shutting out the cold that chewed at his useless ears. He watched as the carriage disappeared over the bridge and out of Paris.

Having fulfilled his duty, Quasimodo looked around. Costumed citizens were appearing in the streets. Some of the disguises were the same as those at the Feast of Fools. Men walked about in women's dresses. Women appeared in the clothes of clergy. Children ran about, screaming with joy, wearing masks and silly hats. Mardi Gras was beginning.

The path to Notre Dame was difficult and convoluted, with elbows striking him as he wove through the populace. A few weeks before, the crowd has parted for him, squeezing him into the Cathedral. Today, each step toward Notre Dame became smaller, his path more twisted. Quasimodo pressed through the crowd toward Notre Dame. No one ran away, no one pointed him out. For that, he was grateful.

Quasimodo climbed into the north tower, intent on remaining in the tower for the rest of the day. As he reached the top of the steps, he noticed a basket with boiled eggs, some cheese and a few rolls. He retreated into the belltower, enjoying the stillness and space under the bells.

He smiled to himself, at the absurdity of being grateful for solitude. Only yesterday, he'd been lonely.