Chapter Text
FOUR days. Four endless days of sitting beside her, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest, praying to every saint and angel he knew that she would open her eyes. Quasimodo hadn’t left Madellaine’s side except to ring the morning and evening bells, and even then, he’d rushed through his sacred duty with uncharacteristic haste, terrified that she might wake up—or worse, slip away—during his brief absences.
The physician’s small room had become his whole world, shrunk down to the size of her cot, the chair beside it worn from his constant vigil. His back ached from sleeping upright, his muscles protested from disuse, but none of that mattered.
Nothing mattered except Madellaine.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse, “please wake up. I-I don’t know if you can hear me, but…but I’m here. I’m right here.” He took her small, pale hand in his—so carefully, as if it might break. His massive fingers dwarfed hers, a reminder of how delicate she was, how close he’d come to losing her.
The memory of finding her in the catacombs, pale and bleeding, still haunted him. The way she’d looked at him, her blue eyes clouded with pain, the way she’d whispered his name before losing consciousness—he couldn’t escape it, even in sleep. His dreams were filled with dark tunnels and the sound of her struggling to breathe, the warmth of her blood seeping through his fingers as he’d tried desperately to stop the bleeding.
“I-I should have protected you,” he murmured, his thumb tracing feather-light circles on the back of her hand. His voice caught, broke, as tears threatened again. “I-I’m so sorry, Madellaine, I…I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when—when you needed me.”
In the silence of the little room, his words hung heavy, unanswered. From the window, he could see Notre Dame’s towers silhouetted against the brightening sky. Another dawn, another day of waiting, hoping, praying.
The bells would need to be rung soon. Isabel had spotted him last night when he’d been climbing the stairwell to his tower after Phoebus had relieved him, insisting he needed proper rest, proper food. He’d ignored her, working instead on the small wooden bird he was carving—something to give Madellaine when she woke. If she woke.
No. No, he couldn’t think like that. She would wake up. She had to.
“The physician says y-you’re getting stronger,” he told her, as if she could hear him. His voice had that nervous, rambling quality it always did when his emotions ran high, the words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. “Your—your color’s better today. And your breathing’s steadier. That’s—that’s good, right? That has to be good.”
He reached up with his free hand to brush a strand of pale blonde hair from her forehead, entranced as always by its softness. It felt like a sin to touch her, even this innocently—she was so pure, so good, and he was... well, he was himself. Malformed. Monstrous. Unworthy.
And yet she'd kissed his cheek that day in the tower. She'd held his hand without hesitation, looked at his carvings with genuine interest, and laughed at his awkward jokes.
"I thought," he began shakily, "I thought maybe you might like the bell tower. When you're—when you're feeling better." His voice rose slightly with nervous energy. "It's not much, I know. Not like a proper home. But there's room, plenty of room! I could make a space just for you—a bed, maybe some shelves for your things. And the view! Oh, Madellaine, the view at sunset is... is..."
He trailed off, realizing he was getting carried away. What was he thinking? She'd likely want to return to the novices' quarters, to continue her training, to take her vows. Why would she want to stay with him in his dusty, drafty tower?
And yet... he couldn't stop hoping. Couldn't stop dreaming of mornings spent watching her sketch the city below, of teaching her the names of all his beloved bells, of sharing his sanctuary with someone who seemed to understand, truly understand, what it meant to him.
"I don't know—if-if you can hear me," he whispered. "But I... I need you to know something. In case you... In case you don't..." He couldn't finish the thought, terror seizing his heart at the possibility. "I love you, Madellaine. I think I've loved you from the moment you didn't run away. From the moment you looked at me—really looked at me—and stayed anyway."
His voice broke entirely then, overcome with the weight of his confession. He ducked his head, his hair falling forward to hide his face as silent tears tracked down his cheeks.
“I-it’s silly, isn’t it? To love someone you’ve hardly known. But I do. I love how your nose crinkles when you laugh. I love how you get so lost in your sketches that you forget to finish your sentences. I love how kind you are to Pip, even though he’s just a little bird. I love…”
He shook his head, angrily wiping away his tears with the back of his hand. “I just…I need you to come back. Please.”
The quiet in the room was broken only by the sound of morning birds beginning their songs outside the window, the distant bustle of Paris coming to life. Soon Phoebus or Esmeralda would arrive to check on them, to give Quasimodo a chance to ring the morning bells—not that he'd take it. He wouldn’t leave her, not today. One of the monks could handle the ringing of the bells for at least one day.
“I-I just keep thinking,” he murmured, almost to himself, “about how much of Paris you haven’t seen yet. The baker’s shop at dawn, when the air is sweet with fresh bread. The flower market in spring, all those colors and scents. The Feast of Fools—w-well, maybe not that.” A nervous smile tugged at his lips, remembering his disastrous crowning. “But other festivals. Pretty ones. Happy ones.”
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a gentle caress. "I could show you," he whispered. "All of it. If you wanted me to."
Somewhere outside, a church bell rang—not one of his, but the smaller chapel near the river. It would be time for Lauds soon, time for the city to fully wake to another day. He should go, should fulfill his duty. But the thought of leaving her, even for those brief moments...
"I can't lose you," he said, his voice barely audible. "Not now. Not when I've just found you."
In the quiet of the room, her fingers twitched in his hand.
Quasimodo froze, hardly daring to breathe. Had he imagined it? But no—there it was again, the faintest pressure of her fingers against his.
"Madellaine?" he breathed, scarcely able to hope. "Can you hear me?"
Her eyelids fluttered, a small sigh escaping her lips. Quasimodo's heart leapt into his throat, his hand trembling as he squeezed hers ever so gently, scarcely believing what was happening.
"Madellaine?" he tried again, his voice cracking with emotion. "It's—it's me. Quasimodo."
Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the morning light. For a moment, she seemed disoriented, her gaze unfocused. Then her eyes found his, blue meeting blue, and a faint smile touched her lips.
"Quasi?" Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse from disuse.
Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him breathless. "You're—you're awake," he stammered, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. "You're awake."
"Your bells," she murmured faintly. "I—I-I heard them. Just like you said I would."
Tears filled his eyes, spilling over before he could stop them. "You heard them? Really? I was so afraid you... that you might not..."
"I’ll always find my way back to you," she whispered, voice steadier now. "Even if it’s just by the sound of your bells."
A sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and he reached for her hand with both of his, holding it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. And to him, it was. She was. "The physician said you lost so much blood. He wasn't sure if... if you would..."
"How long?" she asked, squeezing his hand as tightly as her weak fingers would allow.
"Four days," he answered, his voice breaking. "You've been asleep for four days. I... I was so scared, Madellaine. I thought I'd lost you."
She looked down at their joined hands, his so much larger than hers, yet holding her with such tender care. "I'm right here," she assured him. "I'm not going anywhere."
Quasimodo searched her face, his eyes wide and vulnerable, as if he couldn't quite believe she was there, really awake. "I should get the physician," he said suddenly, half-rising from his chair. "He said to call him the moment you woke up."
"Wait." She tightened her grip on his hand, not wanting to lose his touch even for a moment. "Just... stay with me, just for a minute longer. Please?"
Quasimodo hesitated, then settled back into the chair, moving it closer to her bedside. "Of course," he said softly. "Whatever you need."
"I heard you..." she whispered, eyes full of wonder. "Even when I couldn’t move... I still heard you. You didn’t let go of me."
Quasimodo ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck. "I-I didn't think you could hear me," he admitted. "I just... I couldn't bear the thought of..."
"I know." She squeezed his hand again. "And I—I wanted to come back. I think... I think I was fighting for you."
His eyes met hers, wide and vulnerable. "You did?"
"Yes," she whispered, gathering her courage. "For you," she repeated quietly, as if it were the only truth that mattered.
Quasimodo’s heart seemed to stop, then start again with twice the force. Had he heard her correctly? For him? The words were so simple, yet they contained everything he’d never dared to hope for. Before he could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps and excited voices echoed from just outside.
“I-I think we have company,” he said softly, reluctantly drawing back from her, though he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her hand entirely.
The door burst open, and Zephyr’s small figure darted into the room, his face alight with excitement.
“Mama! Papa! She’s awake!” he shouted over his shoulder before barreling toward the bed. “Auntie Maddie! You’re awake!”
Quasimodo quickly moved to intercept the boy before he could launch himself onto Madellaine’s injured side. “C-careful, Zeph,” he cautioned, catching the child gently. “Madellaine’s still healing.”
"Sorry!" Zephyr said, immediately slowing his approach to a careful walk. "I got excited." He peered at Madellaine with wide, curious eyes. "Are you okay now? Uncle Quasi was really, really worried. He didn't even want to ring the bells!"
Madellaine's soft laugh made Quasimodo's chest tighten with joy. "I'm okay now," she told Zephyr gently, managing a smile. "Just a little tired, that's all."
Phoebus and Esmeralda appeared in the doorway then, their faces transforming with relief when they saw Madellaine awake and talking. Djali trotted in behind them, bleating softly in greeting.
"Madellaine!" Esmeralda rushed forward, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. "Oh, thank God! We've been so worried."
“How’re you feeling?” Phoebus asked, his usual confidence softened by genuine concern as he moved to stand beside his wife. “You gave us all quite the scare, you know. You’ve been out nearly five days.”
Quasimodo watched as Madellaine smiled weakly at their friends, a faint pink blush coloring her pale cheeks at being the center of attention.
"I-I didn’t mean to scare anyone," she said softly, glancing down. "But I do feel better. I promise."
“Quasi hasn’t left your side,” Esmeralda said warmly, placing a hand on Quasimodo’s shoulder. “Not for more than an hour at a time.”
Quasimodo ducked his head, embarrassed by the praise but unable to deny it. “I-I just wanted to be here. When she woke up.”
"And here you are," Phoebus said with a knowing smile that made Quasimodo's flush deepen. The captain's gaze softened as he looked back at Madellaine. "The whole city's been talking about it, you know. The bell ringer's brave rescue of the novice kidnapped by the circus master."
Esmeralda shot her husband a look. "Phoebus, please—"
"It's alright," Madellaine assured her, though Quasimodo noticed how her hand tightened slightly around his at the mention of Sarousch. "I'd rather know what people are saying than wonder."
Before anyone could respond, more footsteps approached, and a breathless Isabel appeared in the doorway with Peter close behind her.
“It’s true!” Isabel exclaimed, her face lighting up at the sight of Madellaine awake. “Oh, thank the Lord! When Zephyr came tearing through the prayer hall shouting that you were awake, I could hardly believe it! We had to come and see for ourselves.”
Peter remained in the doorway, a relieved smile on his face. “The Archdeacon and the other sisters will want to know,” he said softly. “They’ve been leading prayers for your recovery every day.”
Quasimodo watched as Isabel hurried to Madellaine’s other side, noticing how careful the novice was not to jostle her, and how Peter’s eyes followed Isabel’s every movement. It reminded him of how he must look when watching Madellaine, and the thought sent a wave of heat to his cheeks.
“I’ve been taking care of Pip,” Isabel was saying excitedly. “His wing is almost healed now! He can hop around and everything, but he refuses to leave the bell tower. I think he’s been waiting for you to come back.”
"Thank you," she said earnestly, a little overwhelmed. "You’ve all been so kind... I don’t know how to thank you enough."
"That's what friends are for," Isabel replied, squeezing Madellaine's free hand.
The room felt suddenly full—full of warmth, of friendship, of love. Quasimodo found himself overwhelmed by it all, by how many people had come to care for Madellaine in such a short time. She'd carved out a place for herself in their hearts, just as she had in his. The thought filled him with a strange mix of pride and wonder.
The tender moment was shattered by the sound of heavy, thundering footsteps rushing down the hall, so powerful they seemed to shake the floor. Quasimodo tensed instinctively, his grip on Madellaine's hand tightening protectively as Phoebus moved to block the doorway.
But it was too late—the massive frame of Brutus burst into the room, nearly knocking Peter aside in his haste. The strongman's scarred face was twisted with emotion, his small eyes wild as they fixed on Madellaine.
"Girl!" he bellowed, his deep voice rattling the windows. "You're alive!"
Before anyone could react, Brutus had pushed past Phoebus and was reaching for Madellaine with his enormous hands. Quasimodo’s heart lurched with panic, images of the catacombs flashing through his mind—Madellaine’s blood, Brutus’s massive fists.
“N-no!” Quasimodo cried, half-rising from his chair. “Don’t—!”
But Brutus was already pulling Madellaine into a bear hug, his hulking arms engulfing her small frame. Madellaine let out a surprised “oof” as the air was squeezed from her lungs.
“Careful!” Phoebus shouted, grabbing Brutus’s shoulder. “She’s still injured, you great oaf!”
Quasimodo was already on his feet, his protective instincts overriding his usual timidity. “Stop! You’re—you’re hurting her!” His voice rose with panic, his hands reaching to pry Brutus’s arms away.
To his surprise, Brutus immediately lowered his grip, looking stricken. “Hurt? No, not hurt. Not again.” He backed away from the bed, his massive hands held up apologetically. “Sorry, little one. Brutus forgets. Too strong.”
“It’s okay, Brutus,” Madellaine said, wincing slightly as she readjusted herself on the bed. “You—you just surprised me, that’s all.”
Quasimodo hovered anxiously beside her, scanning her face for signs of pain. "Are—are you sure? Should I get the physician? He said no excitement, and—"
"I'm fine, Quasi," she assured him, reaching for his hand again. "Really. Just a bit sore."
Brutus hung his head, looking genuinely remorseful. "Didn't mean to scare. Didn't mean to hurt ya. Just... happy."
Quasimodo's panic subsided, though he remained wary. He knew Brutus had helped save Madellaine, had carried her out of the catacombs when he saw what Sarousch had done, but the sight of those massive hands near her still made his heart race with fear.
“It’s good to see you, too, Brutus,” Madellaine said gently. "Are you... alright?" she asked, her voice soft with concern. "They’ve been treating you fairly?"
The big man's face brightened at her concern. "Yes. Captain is fair. Let me help hunt for Sarousch." He straightened suddenly, as if remembering something important. "That's why I come. News! Big news!"
The room went still, everyone's attention focusing on Brutus. Quasimodo felt Madellaine tense beside him, her fingers tightening around his.
"What news?" Phoebus asked sharply, his hand automatically moving to rest on his sword hilt.
"We found him," Brutus announced, his voice rumbling with satisfaction. "Found Sarousch."
Quasimodo's breath caught in his throat, and he looked quickly at Madellaine. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
"Where?" she whispered.
"Trying to flee on river boat," Brutus explained, his grammar simplified in his excitement. "Heading north. Guards caught him with stolen things. Gold and jewels. Said they were payment for performances." He snorted derisively. "Lies. All stolen."
"He's been arrested?" Esmeralda clarified, moving to place a protective hand on Madellaine's shoulder.
Brutus nodded vigorously. "In dungeons now. Locks and chains. Can't escape."
Quasimodo watched a parade of emotions cross Madellaine's face—relief, fear, uncertainty, and finally, a kind of cautious hope.
"So... it’s over?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "He’s not going to find me again... is he?"
"Never again," Phoebus promised her firmly. "I'll personally ensure he faces justice for what he did to you, Madellaine. For all of it—the kidnapping, the stabbing, the years of exploitation."
"He'll swing for it," Brutus added, making a grim hanging gesture with one massive hand.
"Brutus!" Isabel gasped, scandalised.
"What? Is true," Brutus muttered, crossing his arms.
Before anyone could respond, Madellaine spoke, voice quieter but no less certain. "I want to see him."
The room fell utterly still.
Quasimodo turned to her so fast the chair creaked beneath him. "What?"
She looked at him, her gaze steady. "Just once. I want to look him in the eye. Not as his puppet. As me."
"No," Quasimodo said immediately, his voice sharp and panicked. "No—Madellaine, you can't. You just woke up. You're not strong enough. You shouldn't even be sitting up, let alone—"
"I'm not going to him," she said softly. "I would never ask that of you. I just want him brought here."
"That’s worse!" Quasimodo shot to his feet, clearly unraveling. "You want him here, in this room? After what he did to you? How I found you?! I—he stabbed you, Madellaine!"
"Quasi," Esmeralda said gently, reaching for his arm.
He pulled away, his hands shaking. "You don’t understand. I held her while she was bleeding. I thought I was too late. And now you want him here?"
Isabel stood too. "She needs this, Quasimodo. Not to punish him. To reclaim something. Her voice. Her choice."
"She's safe now!" he said, his voice cracking. "Why—why would we let him near her again?"
"Because," Madellaine said quietly, looking up at him, "he took my voice. My will. My name. And I want to take them back."
He stared at her, torn between terror and love. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.
Esmeralda moved closer to him. "She’s not alone anymore. She has all of us. And she has you. If you stand beside her, she won’t be facing him—she’ll be defeating him."
Quasimodo’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. His gaze found Madellaine again, her pale face determined despite the weakness in her limbs.
"You're sure?" he asked hoarsely.
She nodded once. "Only if you’re beside me."
A long silence passed before he finally gave a tiny nod, sinking back into the chair and gripping her hand tightly.
Phoebus turned toward the door. "I’ll bring him in. He’ll be chained. Two guards. You say the word, and he’s gone."
The door opened a few minutes later with a low creak, and two guards stepped inside, flanking a man whose chains clanked with every footstep.
Sarousch.
His once-elegant coat was stained and torn, his posture no longer proud but brittle. Yet as his eyes settled on Madellaine, that same practiced smirk curved his lips.
"Ah... my little trinket. I see you’re up and about. Or rather, up and propped."
Quasimodo stiffened. Esmeralda moved to his side.
Madellaine didn’t flinch. Her gaze remained steady.
"You’re thinner," Sarousch continued, casually inspecting her as if nothing had changed. "But still pretty enough to be worth something, I suppose. Is this the grand finale, then? One last reunion for the fans?"
"I’m not yours to talk about anymore," Madellaine said. Her voice was low, even. "I never was."
Sarousch’s smirk twitched. "Oh, come now. Everything you are—your poise, your style, the applause—it all came from me."
"No," she said. "You taught me fear. Shame. How to lie with a smile. But everything good? That came despite you."
He chuckled darkly. "You think the hunchback makes you brave now? That thing’s a novelty, a charity case."
Quasimodo flinched, but stayed silent, his fingers clenching Madellaine’s tighter.
"You don’t scare me anymore," she whispered. "You looked so tall before. But now I see what you are. Just... small."
Sarousch blinked, caught off guard.
"You thought you’d break me," she continued. "But I’m still here. Not your star. Not your thief. Not your trinket."
"You’ll regret this, girl," he snapped suddenly, dropping the charm. "You’ll come crawling back. They always do."
"I have nothing to crawl back to," she said. "You’re the one in chains."
"Take him away," Phoebus said flatly.
As the guards dragged him toward the door, Sarousch twisted his head one last time. "You’ll miss it! The lights, the magic, the stage—"
Madellaine leaned forward slightly. "No," she said. "I won’t miss the illusion. Because I finally found something real."
And as the door slammed behind him, she let out a slow breath. Quasimodo was already moving to her side, brushing the hair gently from her face.
"You okay?" he whispered, wide-eyed.
She nodded, her voice barely a breath. "I think... I am."
He pulled her close, careful as always, and she leaned into the warmth of his chest.
It was over.
Really over.
The silence lingered for a few beats after Sarousch was taken away, as if even the air needed a moment to breathe again.
Madellaine closed her eyes briefly, letting the weight of it all settle—and lift.
Quasimodo’s arms stayed around her, warm and grounding. No illusions. No lies. Just the truth.
When she finally looked up again, her eyes found his, and she smiled—grateful, steady, and real.
Quasimodo felt something expand in his chest at the trust in her gaze. She believed him. She trusted him. That they all would keep her safe now.
After a beat, Madellaine turned her head, her focus shifting. "What about you, Brutus?" she asked, her voice gentler now. "What will happen to you?"
Brutus shifted uncomfortably, his massive shoulders hunching. "Don't know. Helped guards, so Captain says maybe no prison. But..." He trailed off, looking lost. "No circus now. No job. No home."
"You could stay in Paris," Phoebus suggested, surprising everyone. "There's always a need for someone with your strength. The stonemasons at Notre Dame, for instance—they're always looking for capable hands to help with the restoration."
Brutus's face lit up with unexpected hope. "Work at church? With bells?"
"We'd have to ask the Archdeacon," Phoebus cautioned. "But I don't see why not. You've helped us capture Sarousch, after all. And you saved Madellaine's life."
Quasimodo watched the exchange with mixed feelings. On one hand, the thought of Brutus working at Notre Dame made him uneasy—the man was still intimidating, still a reminder of the terror in the catacombs. But on the other hand, he'd carried Madellaine to safety, had defied his master to help her. And now he looked so hopeful, like a child being offered a chance at something precious.
"I-I could show you the bells," Quasimodo heard himself offering, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "If... if you'd like."
Brutus turned to him, his scarred face breaking into a childlike smile of wonder. "Really? Big Man would show Brutus bells?"
"Big Man?" Zephyr giggled, earning a gentle shushing from his mother.
"Yes," Quasimodo said, surprising himself with his certainty. "I could... I could teach you their names. How to care for them."
Madellaine squeezed his hand, her eyes shining with pride. "That's very kind of you, Quasi," she said softly.
Quasimodo ducked his head, embarrassed by her praise. "It's... It's nothing. The bells have room for more friends."
The moment was interrupted by a discreet cough from the doorway. The physician, Monsieur Laurent, stood there, his eyebrows raised at the crowd in his patient's room. "I believe," he said dryly, "that I prescribed rest and quiet for our patient. Not a social gathering."
"Sorry, monsieur," Isabel said quickly, already backing toward the door. "We were just so excited to see her awake."
“And understandably so,” the physician acknowledged, his stern expression softening slightly. “But she still needs very careful treatment and observation. Perhaps you could continue your celebration…elsewhere?”
“Of course,” Esmeralda agreed, gathering Djali and Zephyr. “We should let Madellaine rest.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Phoebus promised, steering Brutus toward the door with a hand on the big man’s arm. “And I’ll bring news from the Judge as soon as I have it.”
As the others filed out, offering final well-wishes and promises to return soon, Quasimodo remained beside Madellaine’s bed, suddenly unsure. Should he leave? The physician had said she needed rest, and he didn’t want to tire her, but the thought of being separated from her now, just as she’d woken up…
"You may stay, young man," Monsieur Laurent said, noting his hesitation. "I'm well aware that trying to pry you away from her bedside would be a futile endeavor." The hint of a smile softened his words. "Besides, your presence seems to have a calming effect on my patient."
Relief washed over Quasimodo, and he settled back into his chair as the physician began examining Madellaine, checking her bandages and feeling her forehead for signs of fever.
"The wound is healing nicely," Monsieur Laurent announced. "No signs of infection, and your color is much improved. A few more days of rest, and you should be able to return to Notre Dame—provided you continue to take it easy."
"Does that mean I can go home soon?" Madellaine asked hopefully, her eyes brightening.
Home. The word sent a rush of warmth through Quasimodo. Was Notre Dame truly her home now? He hardly dared to hope it might be so.
"Soon," the physician confirmed. "But not today, and not tomorrow either. You lost a great deal of blood, mademoiselle. Your body needs time to recover its strength."
"I'll be good," she promised, though Quasimodo didn't miss the hint of impatience in her voice.
As the physician finished his examination and prepared to leave, he paused at the door. "Try to get some sleep," he advised. "Both of you. You look as though you haven't slept properly in days. You need rest and sunlight, boy, your eyes are darker than my dead brother's soul," he added, fixing Quasimodo with a pointed look.
"I-I'm fine," Quasimodo protested, though the dark circles under his eyes told a different story.
"Hmm," was all the physician said before departing, closing the door gently behind him.
Alone once more with Madellaine, Quasimodo found himself suddenly shy again. There was so much to say, so much to ask, but he didn't know where to begin.
"They're quite a group, aren't they?" Madellaine murmured, her voice touched with affection. "All of them... so different. And yet..."
"They care about you," Quasimodo replied, watching her with quiet intensity. "Everyone does."
She gave a small, tired laugh. "Even Brutus, apparently," she said, a playful lilt in her voice. "Though he’s a bit more... dramatic than most."
Quasimodo chuckled, the sound rough from disuse. "I-I thought he might hurt you. When he grabbed you like that."
"He wouldn’t," she said quickly, her voice turning serious. "He's... rough around the edges, but there’s kindness there. He saved me, Quasi. When Sarousch..." Her voice trailed off as her hand drifted instinctively to her healing side.
Quasimodo’s expression darkened with memory. "I know," he said softly. "I'll never forget that."
Madellaine studied him, her eyes warm with curiosity. "You offered to show him the bells," she said gently. "Even after everything. Even though he scared you."
He looked down, flustered. "H-he helped you," he mumbled. "And I think... maybe he just needs someone to believe in him."
She reached out and brushed her fingers over his hand. "Like you do for me," she whispered. When he looked up, startled, she offered a shy smile. "You don’t just see who we’ve been, Quasi. You see who we could be. That’s... that’s a rare gift."
The words struck Quasimodo with surprising force. Was that what he did? Saw beyond her past, beyond her fears, to the person she could become? If so, it wasn't because he was wise or insightful—it was because he'd been looking for beauty his whole life, finding it in the cathedral stones, in the city below, in the bells above. Finding it in her had been as natural as breathing.
"I just see you," he said softly, the words simple but heartfelt. "That's all."
Madellaine's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "And that's everything," she whispered.
The moment stretched between them, delicate and precious. Quasimodo's heart pounded in his chest, his gaze locked with hers. All the fear and worry of the past four days seemed to melt away, replaced by a tentative hope, a fragile joy that he scarcely dared to trust.
"You...you should rest, Madellaine," he said eventually, reluctantly breaking the spell. "The physician said—"
"Will you stay?" she asked, cutting him off gently. "Even while I sleep? I don't... I don't want to wake up alone."
"Of course," he promised without hesitation. "I'll be right here. I won't leave you."
Madellaine smiled, relaxing back against her pillows. "Tell me something," she requested softly. "About the bells, or the city, or... anything. I just want to hear your voice."
Quasimodo's heart swelled with tenderness. "What would you like to hear about?"
"Tell me about your favorite time of day in the bell tower," she suggested, her eyelids already growing heavy with exhaustion. "When everything feels most peaceful."
He thought for a moment, his thumb tracing gentle patterns on the back of her hand. "There's a moment, just before dawn," he began, his voice taking on the musical quality it always had when he spoke of things he loved. "When the night is almost gone, but the day hasn't quite arrived..."
As he described the quiet magic of those predawn hours, Quasimodo watched Madellaine's face relax, her breathing growing deeper and more even. She was fighting sleep, he could tell—her eyelids would drift closed, then snap open again, as if afraid she might miss something.
"Sleep," he encouraged gently. "I-I'll be here when you wake up. I promise."
"You'd better be," she murmured, her voice thick with approaching slumber. "I didn't come all this way to wake up alone."
"Never alone," he whispered, bringing her hand to his lips in a gesture so reverent it felt like prayer. "Not anymore. For either of us."
Quasimodo continued to speak softly, describing the way the morning light turned the bells to gold, how the pigeons would gather on the stone ledges to greet the day, the patterns of shadow and light that moved across the wooden floor of his loft. He spoke of Paris awakening below, a living tapestry of people and sounds and life.
And as Madellaine drifted into peaceful sleep, her hand warm in his, Quasimodo felt something settle in his heart—a certainty he'd never known before. No matter what challenges lay ahead, no matter what the future held, they would face it together.
She had found her way back to him. And he would never let her go again.
THE morning sunlight filtering through the window was what woke her. Madellaine blinked slowly, her mind still foggy with sleep as she tried to orient herself. Four walls, a small bed, the faint smell of herbs and medicine—the physician’s house. She was still here, but something felt different today. The constant pain in her side had dulled to a manageable ache, and for the first time in days, her head felt clear.
A soft snoring sound jolted her more awake, drawing her attention to the chair beside the bed as she quickly realized she wasn’t alone in the room. There, slumped in the chair that proved far too small for his frame, was Quasimodo. He was still here, just as he’d promised, though he’d finally succumbed to exhaustion.
His head was tilted at an awkward angle that would surely leave his neck feeling stiff, his red hair tousled, his massive hands folded loosely in his lap. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his clothes were rumpled. One large hand still stretched toward her bed, as if reaching for her even in sleep.
Her heart nearly burst at the sight. How many nights had he spent like this, keeping watch over her?
The dark circles under his eyes told their own story—he’d hardly slept at all, too afraid she might need him.
Everything she’d realized in the darkness of the catacombs from days ago came rushing back—the certainty that she loved him, that her place was here in Paris, with him, that nothing else in the world mattered as much as this kind and gentle soul who had shown her what real kindness looked like.
She tried to speak, to call his name, but her throat felt like sandpaper, and all that emerged was a faint croak. She swallowed painfully and tried again.
"Quasi?" she whispered, unable to resist reaching out to brush a strand of red hair away from his forehead.
He startled awake immediately, nearly toppling from his chair in his haste to reach her. “M-Madellaine! Are you—is everything alright? Are you in pain? Should I get the—”
“I-I’m fine, Quasi,” she assured him, smiling at his familiar nervousness. “Really. I feel much better today.”
Relief washed over his face, his bright blue eyes searching hers. “Y-you’re sure? You don’t need anything? Water? Or—or maybe some breakfast? I could go—”
"Quasi," she interrupted softly, her voice more fond than firm. "What I need... is for you to stop fussing over me quite so much." Her smile grew, warm and teasing, taking the edge off her words. "You look so tired. Have you even slept at all these past few days?"
He ducked his head, the familiar gesture making her heart ache with affection. "I-I slept a little. Enough. It's not important."
"It is to me," she said, catching his hand in hers.
Before he could respond, the door opened, and Monsieur Laurent entered, his expression brightening when he saw her awake and alert.
"Ah, good morning, mademoiselle," he greeted her, setting down his medical bag on the small table. "You're looking much improved today."
"I feel better," she confirmed. "Almost like myself again."
The physician examined her carefully, checking her wound, her pulse, and her eyes. His satisfied nod sent a flutter of hope through her chest.
"The wound is healing nicely," he announced. "Your color is good, and your fever has completely broken." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I believe you're well enough to return to Notre Dame today—provided you continue to rest and avoid any strenuous activity for at least another week."
"Today?" Madellaine couldn't keep the excitement from her voice. "I can go home today?"
Beside her, Quasimodo practically vibrated with joy, his face lighting up at her use of the word "home."
"If you feel strong enough," the physician confirmed. "Though I wouldn't recommend walking the entire way. The journey might overtax you."
"I-I can carry her," Quasimodo offered immediately, then froze, looking embarrassed by his eagerness. "I-I mean, if that's alright with you, Madellaine? I'd be very careful, I promise."
The way he asked—so hesitant, so concerned with her comfort despite his obvious strength—made her smile. "I'd like that very much, Quasi."
The physician nodded approvingly. "Good. I'll send word to the Archdeacon that you'll be returning today." He turned to Quasimodo, his stern expression softening slightly. "And you, young man—once you've delivered her safely, I expect you to get some proper rest. Understood?"
"Y-yes, monsieur," Quasimodo promised, though Madellaine suspected he had no intention of leaving her side anytime soon.
After the physician left to prepare some medicines for her to take back to Notre Dame, Madellaine sat up carefully, testing her strength. There was pain, yes, but nothing like the searing agony of a few days ago. She could do this. She could go home.
Home. The word settled in her chest like a warm ember. For so long, she'd never had a true home—the circus had been a place of fear and pretense, not safety and comfort. But Notre Dame... Notre Dame had become everything she'd ever longed for. Peace. Sanctuary. Acceptance.
And Quasimodo. Most of all, Quasimodo.
"You're smiling," he observed, watching her with a curious tilt of his head.
"I'm happy," she said simply. "I get to go home today. With you."
The shy, pleased smile that spread across his face was worth every moment of pain she'd endured.
THE sunlight was almost blinding after days in the physician's dimly lit house. Madellaine squinted against the brightness as Quasimodo carried her out into the square, his arms secure beneath her knees and shoulders. He'd been so careful helping her dress, turning his back respectfully while Isabel, who'd arrived to assist, helped her into a fresh dress. Now, cradled against his chest, Madellaine could feel the strength in his arms, the careful way he held her to avoid jostling her injury. She'd expected to feel self-conscious, being carried through the streets of Paris, but all she felt was safe.
"Is this—is this alright?" Quasimodo asked anxiously as they left the shelter of the physician's doorway. "I'm not hurting you?"
"It's perfect," she assured him, resting her head against his shoulder. "You're perfect."
His blush was immediate and endearing, the tips of his ears turning pink. "N-no, I'm not—I mean, that's—"
"Well... you are to me," she said, her voice hoarse. "Even if you don't see it yet."
As they crossed the square toward Notre Dame, Madellaine became aware of the people around them. Merchants setting up their stalls for the day, women carrying baskets of bread or laundry, children chasing each other between the cobblestones. They turned to watch as Quasimodo passed, and Madellaine tensed, expecting the usual reactions—fear, disgust, cruel whispers.
Instead, she saw something entirely different. Respectful nods. Small smiles. One older woman even made the sign of the cross as they passed, her weathered face kind.
"They're not afraid," she whispered, wonderingly. "They're not laughing or staring."
Quasimodo glanced around nervously, as if he couldn't quite believe it himself. "Phoebus says... he says the whole city knows about what happened. About S-Sarousch, and the rescue." He swallowed hard. "They know you almost died."
A young girl darted forward suddenly, making Quasimodo tense. But instead of taunting or cruelty, she thrust a small bunch of wildflowers toward Madellaine.
"For you, madame," the child said shyly. "Mama says you're very brave."
Madellaine's throat tightened with emotion as she accepted the flowers. "Thank you, little one," she managed, clutching the simple blooms to her chest. The girl smiled brightly before running back to her mother.
"They respect you," Madellaine realized, looking up at Quasimodo's stunned face. "Both of us."
"I-it's you they respect," he demurred, ducking his head. "Not me. I'm still just the bell ringer."
"You're not 'just' anything," she corrected gently. "And they see it now, too."
His pace faltered slightly, his eyes wide and vulnerable as he looked at her. The sunlight caught in his red hair, turning it to fire, gilding the edges of his face. For a breath, a heartbeat, Madellaine forgot about the square, the people, the world beyond the two of them. All she saw was him—Quasimodo, the kindest soul she'd ever known.
The moment broke as Notre Dame's massive shadow fell over them, the cathedral's entrance just ahead. Quasimodo's steps quickened with eagerness, and Madellaine couldn't help but smile at his childlike excitement to be home.
The Archdeacon met them at the doors, his dignified face warm with welcome. "Welcome back, my child," he said kindly, placing a gentle hand on Madellaine's shoulder. "Our prayers have been answered. God has brought you safely back to us."
"Thank you, Father," she replied sincerely. "For everything you've done."
"It is Quasimodo you should thank," the Archdeacon said, his gaze shifting to the bell ringer with unmistakable pride. "He has hardly left your side these many days."
Quasimodo shifted uncomfortably under the praise, but didn't deny it. "C-can I take her upstairs, Father? She—she needs to rest, and I thought... my loft might be more comfortable than the novices' quarters. For now," he added hastily, as if afraid his suggestion might be refused.
The Archdeacon's eyes twinkled knowingly. "I believe that would be most appropriate, yes. Sister Marie has prepared some broth and bread for when you're hungry." He gestured to a basket sitting nearby. "And I believe there's someone rather anxious to see you."
"Pip!" Madellaine exclaimed as a familiar cheeping sound echoed through the cathedral. The little sparrow hopped along the rafters, chirping excitedly before carefully making his way down the wooden beams and ledges that Quasimodo had arranged as a pathway for him.
He finally reached them, fluttering his good wing while keeping the injured one close to his body, bouncing eagerly between Quasimodo and Madellaine.
"He's been waiting for you," Quasimodo said, a smile in his voice. "Isabel's been taking care of him, but he refused to leave the bell tower. I think... I think he knew you'd be back."
Pip settled on Madellaine's shoulder, rubbing his tiny head against her cheek with enthusiastic affection. The simple greeting from her feathered friend brought tears to her eyes.
"Oh, Pip," she whispered, gently stroking his bright feathers. "I missed you, too."
With the Archdeacon's blessing, Quasimodo carried her toward the tower stairs. Madellaine could feel his nervousness growing with each step, his heartbeat quickening beneath her ear.
"Is something wrong?" she asked quietly.
With the Archdeacon's blessing, Quasimodo carried her toward the tower stairs. Though they'd climbed these steps together many times before, there was something different about today—a feeling of homecoming rather than just visiting.
"I've missed this view," Madellaine said softly as they ascended. "Even after just a few days away."
Quasimodo smiled, though she noticed a hint of nervousness in his expression. "I-I made some changes," he admitted. "To my living space. I hope you'll like them."
"Changes?" she asked, curious. "What kind of changes?"
"You'll see," he replied, a shy excitement replacing his anxiety. Despite his broad shoulders and the added weight of carrying her, he moved with practiced ease through the familiar passages, navigating the twists and turns that had become so dear to her.
The higher they climbed, the more Madellaine could feel excitement building within her. Though she'd been to the bell tower several times before and had grown to love its soaring heights and magnificent bells, this felt different. Now she was returning not just as a visitor, but as someone truly welcome—someone who belonged here.
Finally, they emerged into the open air of the bell tower. Sunshine streamed through the arched openings, and the familiar silhouettes of the massive bells hung like silent guardians overhead. The breeze carried the scent of stone and wood and the faint tang of metal—a scent she'd come to associate with Quasimodo himself.
"Here we are," he said softly, carrying her toward his living space. "I-I made a few changes since you were last here. For... for your comfort."
Madellaine's eyes widened with touched surprise as she noticed the little additions to his familiar space. Fresh flowers in a simple clay vase near his small cot. A new blanket, softer than his usual ones, was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Several of his tiny figurines had been rearranged to make room for what appeared to be a small painting area, complete with a makeshift easel.
"Quasi, you did all this...for me?" she breathed, genuinely touched by the thoughtful adjustments to his already familiar space. "It's so sweet of you."
He ducked his head, pleased but embarrassed by her reaction. "I-I wanted you to be comfortable here. I know it's still just a bell tower, but..."
"It's perfect," she assured him as he carefully lowered her onto his cot, making sure she was comfortable with extra pillows supporting her back. "I've always loved it here."
Quasimodo fussed with the blankets, clearly uncertain what to do now that they were here. "Are you—are you comfortable? Do you need anything? Water, or—"
"Just sit with me," she said, patting the edge of the cot beside her. "Tell me about your carvings."
He hesitated, then perched carefully on the edge of the cot, mindful not to jostle her. "W-well, this one is Zephyr, see the little cap? And this one is—"
A voice broke in: "Well, it's about time you brought her back up here, big guy! We were startin' to think you'd never make it back with her!"
Madellaine jumped, her head whipping around to locate the source of the unfamiliar male voice. "Who—?"
Another voice, deep and refined, chimed in: “I do believe proper introductions are finally in order, Quasimodo, my dear boy.”
And a third, gruffer, “Yeah, don’t be rude, sweetie! Aren’t you going to introduce us to your pretty lady friend?”
Quasimodo's face had gone pale, his eyes wide with alarm. "Oh no, no, no, no—" he muttered, looking frantically between Madellaine and... the empty corners of the loft?
"Quasi?" she asked, looking around, thoroughly confused. "Is someone else up here? I thought we were alone..."
Her words died in her throat as something impossible happened. The stone gargoyles perched around the loft—the ones she'd assumed were just decorative statues—began to move. Not just move, but full-on animate, climbing down from their pedestals and waddling toward the cot.
"Is she seeing us?" the smallest one asked, a female with a kindly face and a stout body. "She can hear us!"
"Of course she can hear us, Laverne," the large one replied, flexing what appeared to be stone wings. "The question is whether or not she believes what she's hearing."
"I think we broke her," the third one observed, waving a stubby hand in front of Madellaine's shocked face. "Hey, blondie! You in there?"
Madellaine's mouth opened and closed several times, no sound emerging. She looked at Quasimodo, who seemed utterly mortified, his hands over his face.
"I-I'm so sorry," he stammered through his fingers. "I should have warned you, I-I didn't think they would just—I mean, they don't usually—"
"Your gargoyles," Madellaine managed finally, her voice faint. "Your gargoyles are alive."
"Not alive, technically speaking," the refined one corrected. "More... animated. Sentient, if you will."
"Can everyone see you like this?" she asked, still trying to make sense of what was happening.
The three gargoyles exchanged knowing looks. "Just Quasi," the female one said gently. "And now you, dearie."
Madellaine looked at Quasimodo, who had finally lowered his hands from his face, though his expression remained anxious. "They're... they're my friends," he explained hesitantly. "They've always been here. Since I was small."
Understanding dawned slowly. The gargoyles were his companions. His family, in a way. In his isolated life in the bell tower, they had been his connection, his comfort. And now they were showing themselves to her.
"I'm Laverne, honey," the female gargoyle said, patting Madellaine's hand with a cold stone one. "And these two knuckleheads are Victor and Hugo."
"Charmed, mademoiselle," Victor said with a formal bow.
"Heya, blondie!" Hugo greeted her with significantly less decorum, giving her a wink.
Madellaine's shock was giving way to wonder. "Oh—um... It’s lovely to meet you all," she said, blinking rapidly. "Even if I... wasn’t e-expecting you. Quasi's never mentioned you before."
"Well, he wouldn't, would he?" Laverne said with an understanding smile. "Not easy explaining that your best friends are talking chunks of rock."
"I thought I was imagining things," Quasimodo admitted quietly. "For a long time, when I was little. Frollo always said I was—" He stopped, pain flickering across his face. "He said I was simple. Seeing things that weren't there."
Madellaine's heart ached for the child he had been, doubting his mind under Frollo's cruel manipulation. She reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly.
"They matter to you," she said quietly. "That’s more than enough for me."
The tension drained from Quasimodo's shoulders, relief washing over his face.
"We've heard so much about you, dearie," Laverne said, settling herself on a nearby stool. "This one hasn't stopped talking about you since the day you arrived."
"Laverne!" Quasimodo protested, his face flaming red.
"What?" Hugo retorted, fluttering his eyelashes at their bell ringer. "It's true! 'Madellaine's so kind, Madellaine's so patient, Madellaine's eyes are like the sky—'"
"Please stop," Quasimodo groaned, covering his face again.
Madellaine couldn't help it—she laughed. The sound burst from her, bright and unexpected, and though it made her side ache, she couldn't regret it.
"You... said all of that, Quasi?" she asked, cheeks flushing with bashful surprise.
"And more," Victor confirmed, adjusting his monocle. "His poetry was quite... prolific."
"We couldn't shut him up," Hugo added cheerfully, clapping Quasimodo on the shoulder. "But hey, looks like it worked out, huh? She's here now!"
"She is," Madellaine agreed warmly, her heart full to bursting. This was who Quasimodo truly was—a soul so gentle and loving that he'd befriended stone itself, brought it to life with the force of his imagination and loneliness. And now he was sharing that most private part of himself with her.
It felt like a gift. Like trust.
Like love.
THE rest of the day passed in a gentle haze of conversation and rest. The gargoyles, sensing that Madellaine needed time to adjust to their existence, eventually made themselves scarce, though Laverne insisted on fussing over her first, making sure she was comfortable and had everything she needed.
Quasimodo rang the evening bells, moving between the massive bronze instruments with a grace and confidence that still took Madellaine's breath away. She watched from his cot, wrapped in a warm blanket against the evening chill, as he performed his sacred duty, each pull of the rope precise and deliberate, creating music only he truly understood.
When the last echoes faded, he returned to her side, his face alight with the joy bell-ringing always brought him. "Was it... was it alright?" he asked, still seeking her approval despite his obvious mastery.
"It was beautiful," she told him honestly. "I could listen to you ring the bells forever, Quasi."
His smile was shy but pleased. "They—they were welcoming you home," he admitted. "I told them you were back, and they wanted to sing for you."
The simple sincerity of his words made her heart swell. To him, the bells were alive in their way, friends as real as the gargoyles. And he'd shared their music with her, made her part of their song.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. For finding me when Sarousch—" Her voice caught, the memory of that night in the catacombs still raw.
Quasimodo's expression darkened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Don't," he pleaded. "Don't think about him anymore. He can't hurt you now. I won't let anyone hurt you ever again, I promise."
The fierceness in his normally gentle voice surprised her. "I know you won't," she assured him, reaching for his hand. "That's not what I meant. I wanted to thank you for saving me. For never giving up, even when I was so close to..."
She couldn't say the word, but she didn't need to. The shadow that passed over his face said he understood all too well.
"I would never give up on you," he said, his voice low but intense. "Never, Madellaine."
The air between them seemed to still, charged with words not yet spoken. Madellaine knew what she wanted to say—what she needed to say—but courage failed her at the last moment.
"The sunset," she said instead, nodding toward the open archway. "You said once it was your favorite time in the bell tower. Would you... Would you show me?"
Quasimodo's face softened. "Of course." He helped her to her feet, supporting most of her weight as they walked slowly to the western side of the tower. "Here," he said, guiding her to a stone bench built into the wall. "This is the best spot."
Madellaine eased down onto the bench, mindful of her injury, and gasped softly at the view. Paris stretched before them, a tapestry of rooftops and spires, all bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The Seine glowed like molten metal, winding through the heart of the city, while the distant countryside faded into soft blues and purples.
"Oh, Quasi," she breathed, mesmerized by the beauty of it. "It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen."
"Almost," he agreed quietly, but when she turned to him, she found him looking not at the sunset, but at her.
Her heart skipped a beat. There was something in his eyes, something so tender and vulnerable it made her breath catch. But before she could find words, he looked away, his gaze returning to the horizon.
"Sorry," he mumbled, color rising in his cheeks. "I didn't mean to stare."
"Don't be sorry," she said, finding her voice. "I... I like it when you look at me that way."
His head jerked back toward her, eyes wide with surprise. "You do?"
"Yes." The word came out stronger than she expected, bolstered by a certainty that had been growing inside her since she first woke in the catacombs, Quasimodo's name on her lips. "I like everything about you, Quasi."
He looked down, a familiar gesture of disbelief. "You shouldn't," he said softly, the shadows of a lifetime of rejection darkening his words. "I'm not—I know what I am, Madellaine. What I look like. I know I'm not much to look at."
"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" she asked, reaching up to turn his face back toward her. "I see someone brave and kind, and talented. Someone who gives his whole heart to everything he does—to the bells, to his carvings, to the people he cares about." Her voice softened. "To me."
Quasimodo swallowed hard, hope and disbelief warring in his expression. "Madellaine—"
"I love you, Quasi," she whispered, her voice catching. "I think... I think I realized it the moment I thought I might never see you again."
His whole body went still, his eyes wider than she'd ever seen them.
"Y-you... you love me?" he echoed, his voice hardly more than a breath. "But you can't—I mean, I'm not—"
"You are," she insisted, taking his large hands in her smaller ones. "You're... everything, Quasi. Everything I didn't even know I was looking for. You’re everything I never thought I’d deserve," she said softly. "And everything I’ve ever needed."
Tears filled his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks. "I-I love you too," he confessed, the words tumbling out as if he couldn't contain them any longer. "I've loved you from the moment you stayed. From the moment you looked at me—really looked at me—and didn't run away. I love your kindness and your courage and the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. I love how you see beauty in everything, even... even in me."
Madellaine felt her tears start, joy rising in her chest like the morning sun. "Not 'even' in you, Quasi. Especially in you."
Slowly, giving him every chance to pull away, Madellaine leaned in, her lips just brushing his. The kiss was clumsy—too soft at first, then almost missed entirely when he startled—but she didn’t mind. It was gentle, unsure, and full of trembling affection. A question asked in silence.
Quasimodo froze, eyes wide, as though the world had stopped spinning. He blinked once, twice—his lips parted in stunned wonder—then leaned forward a fraction, just enough to meet her again. This time, his mouth moved against hers, tentative, almost shy, as if afraid he might somehow get it wrong. His hands hovered uselessly in the air near her shoulders, flexing and curling, unsure of where they belonged.
Madellaine pulled back slightly, laughing breathlessly. “It’s alright,” she whispered, her voice like a shared secret. “You can hold me, Quasi. I won’t break.”
His brow furrowed with worry, and he glanced down at her side. “I—I don’t want to hurt you,” he stammered, wringing his hands. “I might—what if I—”
“You won’t,” she said softly, guiding his hand to rest against her waist. “You never would.”
He swallowed, his touch feather-light, reverent.
She kissed him again—this time slower, more confident—and he melted into it, his arms winding carefully around her as if memorizing every inch. The city fell away. The bells, the cathedral, the sky—all distant echoes compared to the way she fit into him like she'd always belonged there.
When they finally parted, both breathless, neither spoke for a long moment. The sun had slipped away behind the rooftops, and the first stars twinkled in the velvet sky.
Quasimodo stared at her, lips parted, like he was afraid the moment might vanish.
She smiled up at him, her nose brushing his. “Still with me?”
He blinked again and nodded, cheeks glowing. “Y-yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Still here. I...I never thought," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "I never dreamed anyone could—that you would—"
"I do," she breathed, her forehead resting against his. "With all my heart, I do. And I'm not going anywhere."
His arms tightened around her, as if to make sure she was real. "Does that mean..." He hesitated, hope and uncertainty battling in his eyes. "Does that mean you won't be taking your vows? Becoming a novice?"
Madellaine shook her head, the decision one she'd made long before this moment. "I used to think I needed the chance at becoming a novice to give me purpose," she said gently. "But I found something better. I found home. Here. With you. If...if you'll have me."
"If I'll—" Quasimodo broke off with a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Madellaine, there's nothing I want more."
Joy bubbled up within her, pure and bright. "Then I'm home," she said simply. "Truly home."
As darkness fell over Paris, they remained on the tower ledge, wrapped in each other's arms, whispering dreams and hopes and plans for a future neither had dared imagine before. Madellaine knew there would be challenges ahead—her recovery, finding her place in Notre Dame beyond the novitiate, and navigating the stares and whispers that would inevitably follow them.
But none of that mattered now. Not when she was here, cradled in the arms of the bell ringer of Notre Dame, surrounded by the bells and gargoyles and the city they both loved. Not when she had finally found where she belonged.
The moment was broken by Hugo's voice floating up from somewhere below: "Are they still kissing? Because if they are, I don't wanna interrupt, but also, dinner's getting cold."
Quasimodo and Madellaine broke apart, laughing despite their embarrassment. "We hear you, Hugo," Quasimodo called back. "We'll be right down."
"No rush," Laverne's voice chimed in. "Take your time, lovebirds."
"I think this means they approve," Quasimodo whispered conspiratorially.
"I'm glad," Madellaine replied, squeezing his hand. "I want your family to like me."
The radiant smile that bloomed across his face was worth everything—every moment of fear, every pain, every tear.
"They love you," he assured her. "Almost as much as I do."
As he helped her to her feet, supporting her weight with the same tender care he'd shown from the beginning, Madellaine knew with bone-deep certainty that she had made the right choice. There was no sanctuary more sacred than the love they shared, no calling more holy than the life they would build together.
Here, among the bells of Notre Dame, she had found not just refuge, but home. Not just safety, but love. Not just sanctuary, but belonging.
And that, Madellaine thought as she leaned into Quasimodo's steady embrace, was the greatest miracle of all.
EPILOGUE
THREE months later, Madellaine stood at the western ledge of the bell tower, paintbrush in hand, smiling as she tried to capture the brilliant oranges and pinks of the sunset. Her side had mostly healed, though the small scar remained—a quiet mark of how far she'd come.
"It's changing again!" she exclaimed with delight, dabbing more golden yellow onto her canvas. "Every time I think I've got it just right, the sun moves!"
The bells of Notre Dame had become the soundtrack to her days—no longer startling but comforting, like the heartbeat of Paris itself. Each morning she'd wake to their gentle melody, and each evening they'd sing the city to sleep.
"That's what makes it special," Quasimodo's enthusiastic voice came from behind as he bounded across the tower with surprising grace. "It's—it's never the same twice. Like snowflakes! Or—or the way light plays through the rose window!"
He appeared beside her, eyes bright with excitement as he gestured toward her painting. His enthusiasm was infectious—the way he found wonder in everything around him still made her heart skip.
"You nearly captured it, though," he added with earnest admiration. "The colors... they're perfect."
Madellaine laughed softly. "You say that about everything I paint."
"Because everything you create is beautiful," he insisted, the sincerity in his voice making her blush.
She set down her brush and gazed out over Paris. From up here, the city looked like one of Quasi's miniatures—full of light and possibility. Children played in the square below, their laughter drifting upward on the evening breeze.
"The children loved your bell demonstration today," she said with a warm smile. "Little Marie asked if you'd teach her someday."
Quasimodo's eyes widened with surprise and hope. "Really? —She wasn't afraid? Of me?"
"Not at all! She said you have the most wonderful hands for making music." Madellaine gently took his large hands in hers. "She's right, you know."
From their usual perches, the gargoyles looked on. Laverne nudged Victor, who cleared his throat dramatically. Hugo pretended to wipe away a tear.
"Did you hear that?" Hugo stage-whispered. "Our boy's gonna be a teacher!"
"A most noble profession," Victor declared with a flourish.
"Ah, pipe down, you two," Laverne scolded, though she was beaming with pride. Laverne had taken to calling them "her kids," while Hugo made exaggerated gagging noises whenever they became too affectionate. Victor simply quoted poetry, more romantic than either of them would ever be.
They weren't the only ones who had found happiness. Just last week, Peter and Isabel announced their plans to leave the novitiate.
After months of quietly growing closer—Isabel visiting Peter's scriptorium each day, Peter finding excuses to attend Isabel's choir practices—they had finally admitted their feelings for each other. They would be married in the spring, with Quasimodo and Madellaine standing as witnesses.
Madellaine smiled at the memory of Isabel's radiant face as she shared the news, how Peter had looked at her with such adoration. Even now, as her gaze drifted to the square below, she could see the couple sitting by the fountain, heads bent together over what must be wedding plans.
Isabel looked up, caught Madellaine's eye, and waved enthusiastically. Their quiet romance had blossomed alongside her journey—proof that even the most unassuming love stories could flourish in unexpected places.
Not far from the couple, another kind of love story was playing out. Phoebus was showing little Zephyr how to march like a soldier, while Esmeralda laughed and shook her head. Djali pranced around them, occasionally butting Phoebus playfully. They visited often, Zephyr always eager to scale the tower and ride on Quasimodo’s shoulders. Djali, of course, came too, though the goat still eyed the steep stairs with suspicion.
They had become like family, sharing meals in the courtyard on warm evenings or gathering in Phoebus and Esmeralda's home when the weather turned cold.
Perhaps most surprising was Brutus. The former strongman had indeed found work with Notre Dame's stonemasons, his incredible strength making him invaluable to the ongoing restoration. Quasimodo, true to his word, had taught Brutus about the bells, and while the big man would never have the bell ringer's delicate touch, he'd developed a genuine reverence for them. Often, Madellaine would spot him sitting quietly near the massive instruments, simply listening to their fading echoes after Quasimodo had finished ringing them. The cathedral had given him purpose, respect, and for the first time in his life, honest work that harmed no one.
They were an unusual family, Madellaine reflected—a bell ringer, a former circus performer, three stone gargoyles, newfound friends who understood the courage it took to choose love, a captain and a dancer, their spirited son, a goat with attitude, a gentle giant finding his way, and an ever-increasing number of birds that seemed to find their way to the tower. But they were hers. They were home.
"Family dinner tomorrow night," Madellaine reminded him. "Esmeralda's making her special soup. Brutus promised he'd bring the bread and some Brie cheese. And Isabel wants to show me her wedding plans."
"I—I finished a new toy for Zephyr," Quasimodo said excitedly, pulling a small wooden horse from his pocket. Its joints moved smoothly, each detail lovingly carved. "Do you think he'll like it?"
"He'll love it!" Madellaine assured him, marveling at the craftsmanship. "You have such a gift, Quasi."
As the sun dipped lower, Quasimodo lit the lanterns around the tower. Their light cast a warm glow across the small space they now shared. Colorful curtains separated their sleeping areas, and her easels stood alongside his workbench.
Pip had a beautiful cage that Quasi had built, though the bird preferred to perch on either of their shoulders or with the pigeons in the rafters, now that the little sparrow's wing was fully healed and he could fly again.
"I, um—I have something for you too," Quasimodo said, suddenly nervous, his hands fidgeting. "I've been working on it for a while."
He carefully withdrew a small wooden box from his pocket. Delicate bells were carved into its surface, each one different, just like those in the tower.
"It's beautiful," Madellaine whispered, tracing the carvings with her fingertip.
"Open it," he urged, his voice quivering with anticipation.
Inside was a simple gold ring, worn smooth with age.
"It was my mother's," he explained, his voice filled with emotion. "The Archdeacon kept it safe all this time. He—he gave it to me recently. Said it should belong to someone who would treasure it."
Madellaine's eyes welled with tears. "Oh, Quasi..."
"I thought—I mean—if you wanted—" He stumbled over his words, blushing deeply. "It doesn't have to be right away! But someday, maybe..."
She placed her hand gently on his cheek, guiding his eyes to meet hers. "Yes," she said simply. "Whenever you're ready, my answer is yes."
His smile could have outshone the sunset. "Really? You—you mean it?"
"With all my heart," she assured him. "I never imagined I could be this happy. That I could find someone who sees me, the real me."
"I never thought anyone could... could love me," he admitted, wonder in his voice. "But you do, don't you? Even with all my—"
"Because of all that makes you you," she corrected gently. "Your kindness, your talent, your heart. Especially your heart."
The stars began appearing overhead, twinkling like scattered diamonds. The evening bells would soon ring, but for now, this moment belonged just to them.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, noticing her gaze lingering on the city below.
Madellaine smiled softly. "About journeys. About how I once fled out there," she gestured to the sprawling Paris streets, "searching for sanctuary in here." Her hand rested against the stone parapet of their tower.
"When I came to Notre Dame as a novice, I thought I was hiding from the world," she continued. "I never imagined I'd find something so much more precious than escape."
He took her hand gently. "Do you ever miss it? The life you might have had?"
"Never," she said with certainty, squeezing his fingers. "I came here looking for walls to keep the world out there away from me. Instead, I found you. And with you, I learned what freedom feels like."
Below them, Paris continued its evening dance of lanterns and laughter. The city that had once seemed so intimidating now felt like home.
"I love you, Madellaine," Quasimodo said, the words still new and precious on his lips.
"And I love you," she replied, certain of it as she was of the stars above. "Always."
The gentle evening breeze carried the scent of baking bread and blooming flowers through the bell tower. It ruffled Pip's feathers as he settled onto a nearby perch, watching over them.
And in this place where she had once sought refuge from the world out there, Madellaine had discovered something more profound than sanctuary. She had found love with someone who understood what it meant to exist between two worlds—neither fully in nor out. Together, they had created something new: a home built on kindness, strengthened by love, and filled with promise.
She no longer feared what waited out there beyond the cathedral walls. With Quasimodo, she had found the courage to bridge both worlds—to teach her art in the square by day and return to their tower by night, carrying stories and colors and laughter back to him. Madellaine had set aside her borrowed novice’s habit from Isabel long ago, trading it for the gold ring that now warmed her finger.
She had come seeking sanctuary—and found something better. A love as enduring as Notre Dame itself.
THE END