A Drop of Water and

A Little Pity

By Marie Noire

         He looked down at the cracking, wooden floorboards that supported him, trying desperately not to think about the slice of leather and metal across his back.  Instead he focused on the more mundane ache in his manacled wrists or the trickle of sweat that dripped down his rough cheek.

         Against his will, he counted the cruel lashes that cut through his skin; twenty total… each one doled out with such brutality that he was certain that the white of malformed bone had greeted the stormy air.

         "One hour of public display." Quasimodo heard the judge announce loudly to the crowds as he felt the turntable beneath him shudder and slowly turn.  Suddenly he felt the platform shift slightly under the weight of the leaving guards and a stab of renewed terror sliced through his heart.  Once they left, he would be at the mercy of the superstitious crowds… with his hands bound to the pillory, he would be helpless.

         He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to pass out before this new humiliation could scar him.  Blows met his sides and broken back, the wet splatters declaring them as nothing more than rotten fruit and vegetables.  But he knew this was only the beginning and thanked God that all of the commotion around him drowned out individual insults.

         My God, my God… why hast thou forsaken me? He thought dully as the vibrations of someone running up the pillory stairway radiated through him.  He swayed away slightly from this person's shadow, unable to contain the deep wish to be anywhere but at his or her mercy.

         No blows.  No slaps.  No noise.

         The crowds had silenced to the point where Quasimodo could hear his own breathing and heartbeat.  He hazarded a look at the stranger's shadow across the floorboards; a slender form in a dress with a riot of curly hair about her shoulders.  Tied as he was, he could look up no further than the hem of a brilliantly rainbow-hued skirt.

         The stranger knelt, slender hands and wrists be-dangled with bracelets entered his view and he found himself staring at the soft, brown skin. Those hands left his line of sight for the briefest of moments before returning, cupped together in a small basin under his chin. The smell of fresh water greeted his senses and he squinted his eyes at the proffered drink skeptically before looking up to find the stranger's face. No good, her head was just out of his extreme view.         

         A pain in his throat prompted him to trust just this once and he bowed his head, touching his cracked lips to the cool water that rested in the girl's hands. He drank handful after handful of the water, continually surprised when those beautiful hands returned to him with a fresh supply. He felt the boards shift slightly and knew that she had leaned over to look at him closely, more closely than anyone else ever had, and he felt compelled to return the gaze.

         His eyes widened at the sight of this young girl. She couldn't have been much older than fifteen and was as delicately made as the springtime flowers that graced Notre Dame's garden. Her large, blue eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, light gleaming off of them softly, like stars. Her lips were stained red, but their natural softness and moisture could not be denied. The riot of curls that fell gracefully over her shoulders and down her back was a deep chestnut brown, glinting golden in the sunlight and creating a halo of golden light around her head. For a split second, he thought that the Blessed Virgin herself had come to comfort him in his time of need.

         "Are you… an angel?" he asked, his voice roughened by the pain and the rawness of his throat.

         She smiled, a blessing in and of itself, and looked down briefly, a blush painting her cheeks. "No… I'm no angel…"

         He blinked, embarrassed at his rather silly question, but a soft hand stroking his gnarled hair banished those thoughts. "Please…" he whispered. "What is… your name?"

         She smiled again. If she kept doing that, Quasimodo knew he would forget all about the sliced flesh of his back. "Esmeralda… my name is Esmeralda." She whispered back, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel her breath next to his skin and he shivered despite the warm day.

         "Esmeralda…" he repeated. "Merci, Esmeralda, petite belle."

She bit her bottom lip and blushed at his term of endearment, nodding by way of welcome and gently stroking his hair before turning and descending down only a few of the pillory steps. She turned back to him and gracefully lowered herself to sit down on the platform, both blocking anyone else's path to him and remaining within his line of sight. Her blue eyes settled comfortably on him as he waited for his torment to be over.

            The crowds had ceased their noise and abuse when she had first set foot on the stage, and now they remained silent, content to watch Quasimodo sweat the rest of the hour away.

            He couldn't have told whether it was five minutes or fifty-five, but Quasimodo was relieved either way when he heard the judge announce that his time had been served and ordered the guards to release him. The gypsy girl called Esmeralda was at his side in an instant, apparently intent on making sure the soldiers didn't get any ideas and helping the weakened bell-ringer back into the blessed sanctuary of Notre Dame cathedral.

            The chains removed at last, Quasimodo tried to stand upright, but his legs had gone numb from being curled under him for so long and he stumbled at once. He managed to catch himself on his callused hands, but was once again shocked when Esmeralda supported him by the shoulder.

            "Here…" she whispered in his ear. "Let me get under your arm and I'll help you to the church."

            He stared at her dumbly for a minute and then nodded, shifting his massive weight to one hand so she could slip under and maintain his balance on her slender shoulders. What was left of his shirt was in tatters and the gypsy's arms were bare almost to the shoulder; the tremor that ran through him at the skin-to-skin contact nearly toppled them both.

            Esmeralda hazarded one glance up at the bell-ringer, hoping that he wasn't foolish enough to try and rest his entire weight on her. The man was simply enormous, easily the largest man she'd ever encountered in her travels; taller than her by half over and as thick as an English oak tree, his bicep was larger around than her waist. His skin was brown, but bore a grayish cast, like one of a dark race that had never seen the sun. His tangled and messy hair was a muddy brown that looked as though it might have a reddish cast when cleaned. His face was like nothing she'd ever seen before; shaped almost like a mastiff dog's and slanted to one side with a large growth of some sort almost completely obscuring his left eye. He probably hadn't shaved in several days and rough, uneven stubble coated his chin and cheeks. The one eye that was clear and free from obstruction was a bright emerald and, although glazed with pain at the moment, bore the unmistakable focus of intelligence. Those seemed to be his only physical attributes, his single eye of intelligent green and the strength obvious in his well-used muscles.

            She managed to help him across the square and up the set of twelve stairs to the cathedral doors. There, he collapsed to the other side in the alcove of the middle set. This was done deliberately to waylay the disaster of his actually falling on her slight form; he feel to his knees and caught himself on both hands, panting his pained lungs' need for air. Blood streamed down his back and over his sides in tiny rivulets, a good part of the wounds having already closed up slightly.

            "Monsieur!" she exclaimed as he fell, afraid that he might pass out after his ordeal. "Look at me… look in my eyes."

         He looked, relieved by the opportunity to concentrate on something, anything other than his throbbing back.  Her eyes were as dark as the nighttime sky, the points of light glistening like bright stars.  They touched him, showing neither fear nor disgust… but only emotions he wasn't sure he recognized; compassion, concern, kindness.  Never before had a woman looked on him in such a way, most screamed and ran, or spit at him, or gasped and turned away.  He could easily drown in this gypsy girl's eyes, their blue-black waters swallowing him within their warmth.

         "Belle…" he whispered under his breath, voicing his thoughts in one raspy word.

         She smiled at him and he thought his heart might burst. No one had ever smiled at him like that before! "Think you can make it with my help?" she asked gently, tugging at his arm slightly in encouragement.

         "Yes…" he sighed, struggling to stand. His legs were no longer numb, but each movement pulled the skin of his torn back taut, rewarding him with twists of intense pain. She slipped under his arm again, providing some much needed balance. Together, they made it into the church and Quasimodo looked longingly at the small door that led up to the bell-tower. He couldn't ask this sweet angel to help him up the stairs… but he couldn't reach his sanctuary by himself either.

         "Father…" he panted when she laid him down near the decorated altar.

         She looked at him curiously, wondering what he had said. "Should I fetch someone for you?" she asked, dropping to her knees at his side and stroking his shoulder gently with one hand.

         "Yes… father… the archdeacon…" he whispered disjointedly, although whether from the pain and exhaustion or from the gypsy's gentle touch was impossible to say. 

         "The archdeacon?" she repeated. "Where can I find him?"

         "His tower… through that door… up the stairs to the top." He pointed briefly in the direction he wished her to go.

         She nodded to signify her understanding and gave him a pat on the cheek before running off to said portal and dashing through it.  Several minutes later, she was back with Frollo close behind, his eyes not focused on his prostrate son.  The gypsy all but ran to his side, kneeling down and cupping his cheek in a gesture of compassion.

         "I've brought him.  Will you be all right now, monsieur?" she asked softly, her eyes shimmering in the candlelight of the cathedral.

         He nodded shakily, barely noticing Frollo's presence.  "Yes… thank you… Esmeralda."

         She smiled and rose, glancing at Frollo briefly before beating a hasty retreat out of the cathedral.  Quasimodo watched her leave, entranced by the sway of her hips and the reflexive waves her skirt produced with her movement.  Even when Frollo bent and helped him stand, leading him to the door, Quasimodo continued to watch her sunlit silhouette.

         "Belle…"