Rays of sunlight passed through the cloudless sky, casting it's light from high above. Light filled every street in the bustling city. The noon bells had sounded, scattering birds throughout the sky.
Away from the light, a young man drew his cloak over his head and shoulders. Wool itched at his skin as he drew the cloth around his neck, in a weak attempt to hide his unfortunate shape. He placed his hand on the large red door, allowing his hand to feel the coolness of the iron handle. He lifted the handle, then let it fall away from his hand. He stepped back, away from the portal.
He stood in the darkness, a step away from the door. He turned, taking in the dim rainbow light behind him. The air was cool and still. Two monks walked silently, their robes stirring dust into swirls as they walked. He drew his hands before him, his palms placed against each other. His eyes remained closed, his breaths deep. Today would be the day. He'd been waiting for so long.
Reaching out with both hands, he grasped the iron handle and forced the door open. The sunlight poured onto him, blinding him with its brightness. He clenched his eyelids shut and turned his face downward. Tears leaked from his eyes as the sunlight scorched his vision.
Using his hands for shade, he slowly opened his eyes to see the square at ground level. Buildings towered above his head. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, he relaxed his hands to his sides. Street performers, nobility, peasants and merchants filled the streets. Everything appeared larger, more active than ever before.
Moving one leg, he tentatively placed one foot onto the warm stone. The heat from the stones passed through the thin leather of his shoes. He wiggled his toes, kneading the leather and feeling the smoothness of the stones, before placing his weight forward. Following with the other foot, he stood in the sun. Odors of fresh bread and roasting meat passed through the air. Closing his eyes once more, he breathed in the new smells and lifted his chin upward. Sunlight passed through his eyelids as a rosy red glow.
Cautiously, he took another step away from the door. Through his feet, he felt the ground tremble as the red door slammed closed. His eyelids sprang open, his eyes wide. Arms outstretched behind him, he felt for the wooden door and the iron handle. Fingers anxiously coursed over the aged door and the many iron bolts. No handle adorned the door, it was smooth. Turning, he pushed on the painted wood, leaning onto it with his weight. The door remained closed.
His eyes turned toward the market once more. Sweet and savory odors tickled his nose. Horses, dogs and people flitted about, consumed in their tasks. So close, a mere stone throw away. He drew the hood of his cloak over his head, it's rim resting gently on his eyebrows. Drawing one more deep breath, he stared out at the people. He exhaled, his chest shaking as the air escaped his lips. He could not turn back. He stepped away from the safety of Notre Dame and into the market.
Carts and merchants passed before him, seemingly unaware of his presence. Ladies, some with children, walked about carrying baskets. Merchants waved fabrics, dishes and tools in the air. Brightly coloured apples, breads and grapes lay out on tables. Slowly, he passed through the crowd, drinking in his new surroundings.
Tarts, flaky pastries and marzipan lay out in the patisserie. His feet led him into the small shop, toward the table of treats. Delicate, sweet smells filled the room. Coins jingled in his pocket.
"Monsieur. Your tarts look wonderful. May I sample one?
"Four sou." The baker grumbled, only turning his face slightly.
The bakers watch remained on the oven. He counted four coins onto the table. Without looking up, the baker swept the coins into his pocket. The baker lifted a single apricot tart from the tray and placed it into the over-sized palm that lay waiting.
Looking at the tart, he smiled. The dates and apricots glistened in the sunlight, their sweet honey glaze almost glass-like. Such treats were not meant for the likes of him.
"Merci." Looking up for a moment, his eyes met those of the baker. Before his eyes, the bakers face grew pale, then red. Dropping his cloth on the floor, the baker seized his broom.
"Demon!" The baker rushed forward, swinging his broom. "Hell-spawn!"
Stepping backward, he stood in the street. A sharp pang struck his arm. Apricots and dates fell onto the ground, the sweet filling joining with the dust. Using his arms, he blocked the broom handle from striking his head. Welts began to rise as he backed away.
Once the bakers strikes ceased, he lowered his arm to find himself surrounded. Reaching to his shoulders, he found that his cloak had vanished. Anxiously, his eyes searched for a space in the crown, for an escape. Angry faces surrounded him, the crowd grew larger with each passing moment. Insults began to echo from the crowd.
"Demon bastard!"
"Half-faced bellringer."
Out of the crowd, a young man bounded and danced. The boy circled him and stabbed a pin into his hump before running off in a fit of laughter.
"Mangled lout!"
Although he could hear nothing, he could see their words as clear as the crumbled tart.
" I have done nothing to anyone." He spoke softly. His eyes continued to scan the crowd. He looked toward Notre Dame, it's bell towers far beyond his reach. "I've done nothing to anyone."
A rock struck his left shoulder. Another followed. He raised his arm to guard his face.
"No one wants you here. Leave."
Sharp pains shot through him as a brick struck his right shoulder. Laughter escaped the crowd as he cried out in agony. Stones began to fly out of the crowd and strike him. From under his raised arm, he continued to search for a way out, a path to safety. Every move forward resulted in larger objects striking him. From under his arm, he could see the insults directed toward him.
"You don't belong here, monster!" His eyes widened as he saw the words. Immediately after, a sharp rock struck his right eyebrow. Redness clouded his vision. He wiped the blood away with his right hand, then looked into his palm. The insults continued, he could feel the words.
From his hand, his gaze looked toward Notre Dame. It appeared on the other side of the island, much farther than a few steps. Burying his face in his hands, he began walking toward safety. Objects continued to strike him, some of them soaking through his clothes. Gone were the sweet smells of morning.
Partially blinded by the blood in his eye, he walked unevenly. Struggling to keep his balance under an onslaught of stones, bricks, garbage and horse feces, he stumbled on. A loose cobble caught his toe, causing him to fall forward onto the street. He lay face-down choking, gasping to find his breath. He rolled to his side and looked over the crowd. Where was Notre Dame? Through the narrow street, he could see that it was now on the other side of the river.
The crowd advanced, soldiers parting them. Three chestnut horses stood over him, their armoured riders staring down at him with disgust. Two of the soldiers dismounted, their boots blocked his vision.
"Come here you puking maggot."
"I only wanted to see the market." He looked to the ground. "I meant no harm to anyone."
A boot struck his stomach, then his ribs. He felt his left eyebrow and nose drag across the sand and stones. Rough hands forced his elbows behind his back, causing his shoulders to throb in agony. Rope cut into his elbows and wrists, burning his skin as the knots were pulled tight. The spurred heel of a boot pressed into his lower back.
Moving away from the pavement was impossible, the soldiers held him. Robbed of his strength, he lay on the cobbles struggling to breathe through the blood that dripped over his mouth. His lips parted in an attempt to speak. He stared toward the sky, toward the crescent moon between the soldiers boots.
"I can't breathe." No sound escaped.
The moon grew in size, he continued to stare. He watched as the sky darkened. Sunlight swirled toward the moon, leaving the sky a deep purple. After the last ray of sunlight disappeared, a bright flash emerged from the moon.
Struggling against the ropes that held him, he forced his chin forward. A black dot appeared over the moon and advanced before him. He remained on the cobbles, unable to stand. The black dot grew into the shape of a large bird. He strained his eyes against the bright light of the moon. There was no bird, but a winged horse, and it was flying toward him.
Broad wings outstretched, the winged horse landed before him. Her coat was so black that it glimmered blue. Her mane and tail floated like mist around her, shimmering as bright as a starlit sky. The horses' hooves bore silver shoes in the shape of Fleur-de-lys. Struggling, he rolled to his right and peered up at the horse with his left eye. A long horn adorned her crowned head. She folded her wings, then raised her head beyond his line of vision.
"To your feet, Quasimodo." Her words were clear and deep, her tone firm.
Weakly, he shook his head. His red hair fell over his downcast eyes. "I can't." The words escaped him as a gasp.
"Are you sure?"
Rolling his shoulders, he felt the grip on his elbows lessen, the tension of the ropes fade. Bringing his knees forward, he rolled to his side. Air rushed into his lungs and he breathed deeply. As he lay, he felt his arms warm and regain their strength. He brought his left hand to his face, to clear his eyes. No blood soiled his hands.
He pushed himself from the cobbles to find the crowd had frozen and was now fading.
"What is this?" He looked toward the unicorn. "Who are you? Why do I hear you?"
"I am the princess of the night. Part of my duty is to enter the dreams of others." The unicorn fluttered her wings. "You are asleep, Quasimodo."
"It seems so real." He turned, only to find himself back in the bell tower with the unicorn. Using her horn, the unicorn lit the small room. She looked into his eyes, then smiled at him. "You are asleep, over there."
Indeed, he saw himself. He lay alone on a bed of wooden planks, a moth-eaten blanket bundled at his feet, breathing deeply. He looked at his own face for a moment, his hair falling over his closed eyes, the lump over his left eye sticking out. He couldn't even lay straight while sleeping, he shifted constantly. He turned away from himself in disgust. Luna frowned.
"When you awake, what you fear most will still exist. Indeed, your fear is overwhelming you." Luna stepped toward him. "I am not of your world, yet I have seen your dreams and could no longer watch you suffer."
"This is my sanctuary. I belong here."
"Is that so?" The unicorn lifted a small figure from the miniature street on the table. It was hunched over with roughly painted red hair. Gently, she placed the misshapen figure into his palm. "Then why do most of your dreams begin with leaving this place?"
His eyes rested on the figure for a moment, it's featureless face staring up at him. He placed the figure back into the miniature Cathedral. "It's not that simple. Master has forbidden me from ever leaving the towers. I mustn't disobey him."
The unicorn tilted her head. "Master? One does not simply own another." She brought her face close to his, uncomfortably close, looking into his eyes. He turned away.
"He saved my life. Without Master, I would have died. I owe him my life." He wrung his hands. "Besides, I will never be accepted out there." The unicorn sighed.
"How could you know without setting one hoof outside?" She raised one foreleg as she spoke. Tilting her head, she attempted to look into his eyes. Each time he turned away.
She walked towards his bed, his sleeping, shivering self. Peering from below his lowered brow, he watched her examine him as he turned in his sleep. Using her horn, she gently lifted the blanket and placed it neatly over him. The blanket glowed blue as it tucked itself around his many odd angles. She drew a drape from the rafters and wrapped it around him, as well. His sleeping self stopped shivering. Luna turned toward him.
"What do you suppose is causing your nightmares?"
"I am ungrateful. I do long to see what lies beyond these walls." He gestured towards his own sleeping face. "Yet even I can't bear to look at my own ugliness. How could anyone stomach my presence?"
"Appearances may be hidden. They are also misleading." The unicorn stepped around him, he cringed. "Are you certain this is what bothers you most?"
"What does it matter? Master is right. This is where I must stay. I'm hideous, a beast."
"I see a man trapped in a nightmare." Standing square before him, she lowered her head to the level of his eyes. Her stare probed beyond his skin, through his eyes. Chills tingled through his crooked spine as he felt her peering into his soul.
"Please, no more." He drew his hands before him, cutting the air.
"Very well." Luna touched her horn lightly onto Quasimodos shoulder. "If you can't accept who you are, then your life will always be like a bad dream. Look inside yourself, Quasimodo. Be what is in your heart. "
Turning her body away from him, the unicorn continued to look into his eyes. Feathers fluttered as she spread her wings. She stepped out of the tower and drifted away into the night sky, toward the moon. Quasimodo watched her disappear into the sky. The bell tower grew dim.
Drawing his fingers across his eyelids, the sleep loosened. Few rays of sun pierced the darkness of his tower. Even less light passed through the dusty cloth that covered his crude bed. Kicking his legs, he released himself from the blanket, drapery and nightshirt that firmly cocooned him.
On the edge of his plank bed, he sat for a time. Uneven knees supported mismatched elbows and a misshapen chin. Using the fingers of his right hand he combed through his red hair, causing it to fall back onto his neck. He pulled his hair back from his left eyebrow, guiding it behind his ear. The floorboards held his attention, he looked beyond them and into nothingness.
The unicorn was so beautiful, so strange. She had not turned away, as magical and pure as she was. A dream was the only way such a thing could happen. A half smile crossed his lips, this had been his only reasonably good dream in months and he'd willed it to end. His eyes turned to the drapery, complete with cobwebs, that lay surrounding him. The figures on his table had been re-arranged. Had it truly been a dream?
He remained still, his forehead in his hands and his eyes fixed beyond the floor. What could someone as worthless as himself possibly be bothered by? He knew his place, it was hidden in Notre Dame, ringing the bells. He was not made to walk among the rest.
Master would be furious if he knew his thoughts. Regardless, he sat and thought. The bells would not require attention for some time.
Eyes drifting back to focus, he stared at his naked feet and crooked legs. They were almost like those of a normal man. Almost like. His name was appropriate.
Feet placed firmly on the floor, he stood. He extended his arms to each side, turning his palms up. As his arms turned, he could feel his joints release and pop. Using his fingers, he massaged the back of his neck, his knuckles brushing his hump. His face distorted further as a yawn escaped. Another morning had arrived.
Still in his yellowed and over-sized nightshirt, he walked to his small shelf of books. Carefully, he lifted the English Bestiary from its resting place. He gently laid the book on his table, opening the pages to the center. His large fingers gently turned the pages, leading him to the unicorn. Reading the passages, he found no words about unicorns appearing in dreams. None described them with wings, either. He was no young, lovely virgin maiden with a pure heart. His youth would not summon such a magical creature. He continued to read.
"They believe everyone, every living being has the right to live free."
He stared at the text for some time, then turned to the wingless, goat-headed and cloven hoofed unicorn opposite from the text. She has been more graceful, her horn and hooves so elegant and horse like. Did he have the same right to live free, as everyone else?
Gently, he closed the Bestiary and moved it aside. His right hand lay open. He brought it to his left shoulder, where the unicorn had touched him.
"How I would love to believe that. " His words echoed in the tower, heard only by the pigeons.
Using his knives, Quasimodo scratched the outline of a winged horse onto the wooden beam, near his bed. He etched the wood, leaving a taller, more elegant creature than the one in his book. Her feathered wings stood tall, extending over a crescent moon. The princess of the night, whomever she was, would not be forgotten.
Author's Note
"Everypony has fears. Everypony must face them in their own way. But they must be faced, or the nightmares will continue." - Princess Luna
This story was inspired by those words. It's a one shot and possibly my only submission. I hope it was worth the read. :)
