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Comme Si Je Suis Le Verre	By : jacktheripper Category: Titles in the Public Domain > The Hunchback of Notre-Dame / Notre-Dame de Paris Views: 1614 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
- 1-Death Is Only The Beginning
- 1
Comme Si Je Suis Le Verre
Chapter One: Death Is Only The Beginning
By: Efraeya

Notre Dame De Paris
1482
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A thundering roar startled the young Scotsman from his uncomfortable slumber. A man of eighteen years sat straight up from his bed, a small nap in between two houses; filled with rubble from a previous construction project upon the building. A brown ragged blanket much too short for his long legs lay over his stomach. Red locks fell in random cascade over his shoulders, several ends uneven and split.
His eyes were of a most mysterious color… a pale amethyst that seemed to shimmer in the cast of the moon. Many feared him as a sorcerer of a demonic force for such eyes, knowing all to well; eyes of such structure were no found in creatures of this Earth. He made a point to keep eye contact limited, only glancing for seconds at a time upon another. Luckily for him his red locks fell over his brow in sharp points, parting at the middle of the scalp in a brilliant widow’s peak. They helped to mask his tainted eyes from those who so happened to be looking when he glanced upon them.
Little did the Scotsman or the Parisian’s know that was such a color rare anomaly called “Alexandria Genesis”. Though he carried several traits of the disorder… pale skin was not one of them. His skin was an entrapping light mocha color, though not of Spain he assumed it was contracted from his father, who was rumored to have been a Gypsy. He still bore the common trait of a red head…freckles.
But the color of his skin nearly buffed them away, only to be seen from up close. The moonlight had shown bright upon him, making him appear almost inhuman as he rubbed his scalp.
Another thunderous roar and followed by the shouts of several men in disarray. The Scotsman turned his head. Fire met his eyes, cascading from the carved gutters of the magnanimous Notre Dame. Confused he stood, stumbling back upon the rubble. He caught himself by pressing his hand to the nearest wall.
“Wha' 'n th' bloo'y 'ell's goin' on, 'ere?” He said in frustration. He had only just arrived in this place called Paris, the magnificent city; serene, romantic, and poise. But even such a city of magnitude was not infest free. During the day peasants squabbled over the best loaf of two day old bread from the baker’s port while guard’s in shimmering armor patrolled. The Noblemen and women were scarcely seen. They preferred to remain tucked in their embroidered houses. Only venturing out in last resort. Then there were the beggars, some played magic tricks, others danced, some entertained the crowd with stories and humor, and some to weak to even lift their heads and show a toothless smile merely sat with a cup at their feet.
At night, that was where the most dangerous were afoot. Unemployed thieves stalked the alleys, the Scotsman being guilty of his profession. Crime lords awoke in their lofts and dealt their business to the highest bidder, removing those in the way. The women of the night prowled in search of drunken soldiers with full pouches. And the local taverns flourished with life.
The night was not a place for the weak of heart or the clumsiness of the righteous. The Scotsman knew that, so what on earth was all that clamor on such sacred grounds?
Curiosity caught the better of him. He bent down and wrapped his slender fingers around his bag. A precarious wing of a crossbow protruding from the flap. In that day swords and crossbows were seen only on soldiers. Making travel around the city ever more difficult. He either traveled with his daggers alone, safely tucked into his belt or unarmed. It made naught a difference to him. The crossbow was his grandfather’s on his mother’s side and he only used it when needing to cross a rather large gap. Hoisting his leather bag across his shoulders he carefully stepped down through the rubble.
A cat frightened by his shuffling arched its back brilliantly as he came into view. The coarse Bombay hissed fiercely as he stayed rooted to where he stood. “Kid’y Kid’y.” The Scotsman cooed as he moved around the frightened creature. Like a shadow running from the setting sun he ran through the cobblestone streets as nimble and silent as that frightened cat would. The streets were cold a frost, a winter snow was in the air for another day. His breathes puffed up as they interacted with the chilly air.
The towering Church grew closer as he slowed his steps. The sun began to peak over the rooftops casting a faint light over the city. Notre Dame how ever seemed to look murderous. The dark building stood high and tall. Engulfed in the eve shadows. Her doors were askew but still clinging feebly together, several men writhing in pain at her base. “Whit the…” Escaped the Scotsman’s lips as he stared over the scene. Notre Dame was built like a fortress any one could tell even from afar. What had possessed such an attack on her? The question continued to build as a few shadows caught his eye from above. He ignored them as he saw something white next, flopped over the shoulder of another man.
He was carrying her toward the Gibbet, a noose around her neck. His expression turned grim as he continued to stare at the young Gypsy girl. She reminded him of someone he had long forgotten. The girl looked frightened and …broken hearted. What possible crime could she have committed to deserve a hanging? Especially at her young age?
“Ye bunch o’ barbarians.” The Scotsman seethed his voice dripping with venom as he dropped his bag. Kneeling down he tugged the crossbow free from the leather bag. Holding the crossbow down he put his foot through the stirrup. Drawing out a peculiar arrow next he set it upon the contraption, standing up slowly the string pulled and holstered the arrow perfectly.
He saw the ladder kicked from under the young Bohemian next, her body convulsing. He raised the bow slowly, pointing it towards the rope that dangled the girl over the stone. In the blink of an eye the rope snapped, sending the girl falling to the ground. Her knees buckled under the strenuous fall. She fell, rolling a few times before coming to a stop. As the man that had strung the girl up stared stupidly another arrow was released, driving deep into his shoulder. He howled in pain as the force of the impact sent him falling from the Gibbet as well. The small crowd that had gathered all gasped in alarm.
The Scotsman ran forward next; leaving his belongings behind, like a flash of lightning he has taken the girl up into his arms. The crowd all instinctively drew back in fear, as the galloping of horses through the cobblestone streets grew louder. They all assumed the odd looking man would rush her back into Notre Dame and claim sanctuary but he did not. As soon as he had stopped to grab the girl he was gone again. No one had seen where he had gone; some would say he was a ghost if not for his belongings that he had abandoned.
Why he had taken the girl? That I suppose was his own business…but he did not keep her as other had tried in the past.
No, his reasons to give her life were purely selfless. The girl had fainted as soon as she had realized she had been kidnapped again. He carried her through the streets, staying to the shadows. He had caught sight of a few Truands running away from Notre Dame. He followed them in cold silence as they lead him to the far side of town. They disappeared into a tavern where many voices were heard.
Setting Esmeralda down nearby he snuck up to the tavern window, staring through the smoky and dirt stained glass. There was what lay left of the Notre Dame attackers. Some burned; other’s cut from the silvery sword of the Parisian guards. One that caught his eye was lying upon the bar, an old woman dressed in bright skirts tending to him. It seemed the man had fallen from something or had been cut down by a guard.
He was dark skinned and clean-shaven and his body was well built. His hair was however not taken care of very well. His jet-black locks were clumped together in thick tube like appearance. He had seen this type of hairstyle many times before. But this man wore it strangely well. He had taken pride in smoothing the locks back and tying them off with a band. Another object that caught his eye was a deep purple hat with a single feather lying next to him upon the bar top.
He was dressed in a deep red shirt most likely having been white only hours before. A vast amount of necklaces laid upon his naked chest, glimmering in the candlelight. The elderly woman hastily shoved them side as she reached to his wounds. He concluded this man must have been their leader, though only about thirty-six years of age, his face betrayed him. His sharp features and smooth skin made him appear much young then that as the other men and a few exotically dressed women crowded around him in worry. His expression how ever…was somber. He lay still upon the bar top, staring blankly up to the rafter. Dark shadows from the firelight flickered over his skin. The Scotsman had begun to wonder if he was indeed dead.
But soon he shifted, yelling a slur of harsh things to the careless elderly woman as she prodded around his wounds. She however ignored him like a tired mother to her screaming children.
“Aye…” Devil nodded slowly. “Gypsies.” He added with an entranced and almost obsessed tone, turning off the front stepped and walking back to Esmeralda. “Ah thinks ye'll be safe the'e, lass.” He said calmly to the unconscious girl, oblivious to the fact that she indeed was part of the Truands herself. Carrying her to the tavern door he set her down upon the step as if a mother would to leave her child. A sharp knock was set against the door and the Scotsman slipped off into the shadows.
One of the women inside moved to the door slowly as Clopin sat up, ignoring the old woman’s threats against him if he did not lie back down. As the door was opened the Gypsy’s woman blinked in confusion. Clopin tilted his head, staring at the almost naked form of Esmeralda upon his doorstep. “Its Esmeralda!” He heard a few men whisper. The same girl he had tried to save before. His face brightened up as he observed the young girls breast rise up then down slowly. The Gypsy of sixteen that would dance in the Notre Dame square with a small goat by her side, his Gypsy girl. Alive. He found himself staring.
“King?” The woman asked, turning to him. Clopin snapped out of his thoughts and smiled widely. “Bring her in and set her in my bed.”
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Comme Si Je Suis Le Verre