Title: Sanctuary

Author: brobdignagian

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Disclaimer: I am not the owner the Hunchback of Notre Dame, either the book, which is owned by Victor Hugo, nor the animated movie, which is owned by Disney.

Summary: What if Clopin and Quasimodo had met before the Festival of Fools?

Notes: This story is based on the Disney version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as I have not yet finished reading Victor Hugo's book.

Clopin is still around 20.

Quasimodo is still around 13.

Clopin huffed and gasped, and yet he still continued to run. He couldn't stop—no way could he stop now! Whipping his head behind him (A moment, a moment, only for a moment) It was gaining! Flinging his head back around, he momentarily closed his eyes, desperately pushing himself harder, faster. His breathing increased, his muscles ached, he became increasingly weary, but still he continued.

His surroundings morphed. He was in the graveyard! Considerably brightening, he glanced around for the right one…There it was! Hurrying over towards the biggest grave there, he threw open the opening. Glancing about him once more, he climbed into the grave and hurried down the steps.

But it wasn't the Court of Miracles he dropped into—it was the town square. And just there, was his wagon, surrounded by children, waiting for his almost-daily puppet show. He took a step towards them with a smile, quickly deciding which story he was going to act out (Perhaps one with a prince and a princess…), but his steps quickly stopped at the sound of hooves.

There stood Frollo, mounted on his black horse, sword in hand.

Turning around, the children were still there, but now looking up at him with those big eyes of theirs. "Clopin? Mr. Clopin? Oh, please tell us a story, Mr. Clopin! Please?"

"You must get out of here!" He yelled at the children, but they still grinning innocently up at him, plead for a story in their eyes. Frollo's horse started towards him, first at a walk, then trot, then a run. Clopin unsheathed his dagger, standing in front of the children, eyes narrowed at the oncoming horse.

Amazingly, the children did not seem afraid of the approaching horse. Instead, they latched onto his arms and legs, clung onto his middle, and chanted, "Story! Story! Clopin! Clopin!"

The horse continued to rush towards them. Clopin fought to break free of the grasp of the children. Upon accomplishing this, he turn and sped the opposite direction. The sound of hooves intensified. The children screamed his name.

He scrambled down the street, past the butcher, the candlestick maker, the baker, the candlestick maker, the butcher, the baker, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker…

The cobblestone street started to thin out. He jumped from rock to rock, the sound of hooves never ceasing, until he started to fall, falling, falling, falling…

Clopin gasped and shot up in the pew he had fallen asleep in. He glanced around the building—stone walls, stone ceiling, he was enclosed in this prison with no way out!

He found he couldn't breath. Air, air, he needed air! He shakily stood up and blindly, quickly made his way to the main doors of the church, attempting not to break anything as he knocked them over. (The walls were entirely too close for his liking. His breath intensified as the grey stone walls of the Church refused keep away from him! He was shaking, shaking…This was too much! He needed to go back to the Court! He needed to help little Esmeralda for her upcoming dance (A dancing eight year old was cute and, more importantly, brought money for his people.) He needed out of this Church! He needed air.)

He hand found the handle of the Church, and he threw open the door, took another blind step and ran into…

…the candlestick maker?

The candlestick maker was a tall old man, with graying hair (it used to be black), a kind face and deep blue eyes. And he looked just as surprised to see Clopin, as Clopin was to see him.

Claustrophobia hitting him once again, Clopin pushed pasted the candlestick maker (He had forgotten what his name was...), closed his eyes and took a deep breath of clean, cool, fresh air. Upon opening his eyes, he saw guards that Frollo had, no doubt, planted around the church in order to keep an eye on him. The guards too, caught sight of him, and started towards the church. Clopin, eyes wide, scrambled backwards and into the candlestick maker once more.

The candlestick maker looked down at Clopin, and gently grabbed his arm before he fell to the ground. "Woah there, steady, steady…" He said.

The guards were coming closer to Clopin…They held up their weapons, a smirk upon all four of their faces. Clopin moved backwards, against the candlestick maker's hand, and back into the Church, the one place where he knew he could be safe.

The candlestick maker, with a confused look on his face, followed him inside the church, closing the door as he did so. He took a step closer to Clopin, bent down and put a hand on his shoulder, "Are you alright?" He questioned, honest concern shining in his eyes. Clopin, simply nodded, unsure as to how to answer.

It was then that the candlestick maker must have realized exactly whom he was talking to, as recognition flashed in his eyes. "Say…you wouldn't happen to be the gypsy from the Festival of Fools, would you?" He question. With a barely perceptual wince (He would throw him back to the guards now, he knew it). Clopin nodded. But, instead, the candlestick maker's face simply brightened, and informed Clopin that, "Oh man. My wife simply adores you!"

Clopin blinked. What the…

Clopin was, thankfully, saved from answering when the Archdeacon entered, and saw the candlestick maker. A smile came over the Archdeacon's face. "Oh, Arthur, I thought I heard you enter. How are you?"

The candlestick maker—Arthur—smiled and answered, "Why, I'm just fine. How about you? I see you've got another one of those gypsies that like to hang around here, huh?" he was still smiling, which meant that he was joking, or it was an inside joke of some sort between the two of them.

The Archdeacon laughed, further proving Clopin's theory. "Yes," The Archdeacon agreed. "Frollo's really after this one." He explain, sobering a bit. "Quasimodo saved him, but now he's trapped here…"

Clopin, tired of being discussed as if he wasn't there (just like everyone else did…), walked off in an attempt to find all the other entrances that he could use to escape. He wandered from the front to the back, to the side doors, all with no avail. He slammed the last door shut, and, kicked the door, much to the amusement of the guards. With a sigh, he headed back to the front of the Church.

The candlestick maker and the Archdeacon both looked up when he entered again. "Oh, Clopin, there you are. We were talking about you (Clopin rolled his eyes; he hadn't noticed), and we think we've figured out a way to get you back to your home."

Clopin stopped all eye rolling and sarcastic thoughts. "You…have?"

Blarg.

I apologize for the lack of weekly updates. AP test are coming up (They should have been this week...), and the whole Swine Flu crap has put all of us school, and then BACK in school in the middle of the week, and generally messing everything up (I live in Texas--it's quite a problem, really.). So, I deeply apologize.