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Happy Feast of Fools!

// OOC; sorry for inactivity! life got busy!

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Hi Quasi! I’m sorry I haven’t been back in a while. If you’ve finished the woodcut I can pick it up, and I am also going to bring you groceries. What do you want? Us at the shop were wondering what to get you. I mean, they don’t know it’s you, I told them I have a friend who likes carving.

I’ll make you a deal: if you stop worrying about me, I’ll stop worrying about you. Unless you think the Archdeacon would punish you for my misbehaviour… then I wont return so frequently. I’m still getting you something though. I’d love more carvings 💙💚🪵🐀 (sorry for the mediocre drawings, but I love the wooden rat. Her name is Jullie)

you named the rat!! jullie!! a beautiful name. oh, and yes, i finished the carving! i put it in our usual spot. as for groceries.. uhm.. honestly, don't worry about it! i have been quite stocked from when you delivered the first round. and there can be plenty more carvings! actually, i have been busy chipping away at practicing. if you have anything other you'd want me to make you? i would in a heartbeat.

as for.. my master, he would not punish me for anything that i did not deserve punishment for. i simply worried for you breaking rules, that's all. i don't believe there's anything specifically against what is happening.. that.. has been verbally said..

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OOC; what i'd do to visit notre dame at least once.

nathalie_ouaknine: Notre Dame de Paris, somptueuse la nuit dernière 🥰🤩💟🇲🇫

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OOC;

I'm late, but happy reopening Notre Dame :)

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tag.. game.. this seems like a neat concept!

last song: do the bells count?

favorite color: green!

last movie: what is a movie?

last tv show: what is a TV show?

sweet, spicy, or savory: sweet! i really enjoy sweet fruits such as grapes or strawberries. occasionally even blueberries.

relationship status: ... — i suppose "single"?

last thing i googled: what's google?

current obsession: this means hobbies right? i really enjoy woodcarving!

looking forward to: the festivities that occur at the church! i get to ring the bells even more on certain days.

tagging.. uhm.. @lustandrot and @dance-la-esmeralda enjoy?

tag game !!

Thank you @ihrtmichael for tagging me!! :D 💙💙

last song: We’ve Got You (ii - Comfort) by Vienna Teng, predictably

favorite color: navy blue 🫐

last book: … when’s the last time I read a whole book…,,…

last movie: I haven’t seen a movie in months, so possibly disney’s hunchback of notre dame? (go figure) But I’m not sure. OHHHH my roommate was watching Snow White recently and I was hanging around and saw a good chunk of it, so I guess that counts? And I was watching a documentary for class? Maybe that??

last tv show: Also haven’t seen much tv, so. Uh. Like I’ve seen individual episodes of someone else was watching them, but that’s it. I don’t know actually :D

sweet, spicy, or savory? Sweet! But I love all! I fucking love food

relationship status: single and happy!

last thing i googled: Some villa in Italy, for a school thing. Last non-school thing was “word count”

current obsession: take a wild guess :>

looking forward to: Christmas, and making my dad listen to Epic the musical, and getting my ao3 account up and running! And finally shedding my mortality. And drawing my wonderful boy again!

tagging @made-of-wood @lisimcpisi @hiraethstar @smitingthewicked @part-of-the-architecture + anyone else who wants to be is automatically tagged!! :D

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@lustandrot i like the new outfit

i’ve come in possession of him. enjoying a meal

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from what? :D

Quasimodo save me ..

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Heartbreak was an understatement when it came to describing Quasimodo's ache. No, this sensation in his chest was one that tore him from the inside out. His body ran cold, his face was bare of expression. No word to his knowledge could be used to describe this pain.

From the Court of Miracles to his belltower he never once uttered a word. His was as still as a statue as they put the rope around his ankle. He did not resist, instead he moved to kneel on the ground. His discomfort in the position was the least of his worries. He was barely conscious of his body. His mind taking priority as all he could do was relive the past. Each mistake he made was just another chip on his own stability. Where tears would have normally been shed, instead was a burning hatred for himself. 

A new kind of self-loathing. One that made him want to throw himself against the pillars of the belltower. One that filled his head with those looping memories. One that caused his stomach to become a knot. Everything he'd experienced put him so deep into this state. 

He would not have known his master had entered the belltower, if it were not for the vibrations sent from the trap door. His already splintered heart pounded in his chest. Each pump being another round of aches sent through his own body. Seeing his master made it all the worse. While the burning hatred simmered down, tears welled up in its place. Dehydrated tears were dangerous to shed. He kept them to himself to his best ability.

His face was livelier than before: a look with the weight of a thousand apologies was written all over his face. His hands fidgeted as they repeated the motion of the sign ‘Sorry.’ He did this subconsciously, before stopping when he realized his master was not here to scold him. There was a different tone about the man entirely. The tone frightened him.

He stopped his repetitive movement and instead tried his damndest to read his master's lips. A sentiment was read, but not felt. His eyebrows furrowed as the words confused him. He knew each meaning, but to lip-read it from his master in this moment changed the definition entirely. Although common in their signed language with those little shifts of expression changing a meaning, this was spoken. If he never wanted it to come to this, why wasn't he freed now? There was still a chance. No. No, his master did not mean the sentiment. There was a lack of genuine facial expression accompanying it. 

This is when everything shifted rapidly. As if today— as if this moment— had not sent him on a roller-coaster of emotions already, his master asked the unthinkable.

“Do you hurt for her, Quasimodo? Your heart – how much does it ache?”

He could not refrain from his own look of dumbfounded frustration. Was his master drunk? The way the man acted was already entirely too strange— stranger than how he acted when he first had been warned about Esmeralda. He remembered how that ended: a bruised cheek.

He knew he was meant to answer, and probably in a hastened manner, but he failed to find the words that could explain to his master. Nor did he truly want to. For he had long ago picked up on the way his master pined for Esmeralda. It frightened him, especially now. Why did his master need to know these things? What did he intend to do with the knowledge regarding his own suffering?

In an effort to avoid punishment, he signed ‘A lot.’

"Quasimodo..."

The Archdeacon uttered the boy's name quite faintly, his tone clearly giving away the fact that he was subconsciously distracted by other thoughts - thoughts of his own. Not as if the hunchback could pick up on any of that in the first place, but it was clear in the man's expression as well had the boy only looked at him.

With dark, heavy eyes falling to the thick rope that had been tightly secured around the boy's ankle, a direct reminder of the orders he had given his soldiers upon infiltrating The Court of Miracles just several hours prior, the Archdeacon continued on as he let his gaze finally wander away from the other's restraints - ignoring the subtle discomfort the sight caused him internally. It didn't matter anymore what had actually brought them here in the first place.

They were here now.

The man was not there to be weak, however, though weakness was the exact thing he felt in that moment, but it was not because of Quasimodo.

It was indeed very much because of Esmeralda, and for the unsuspecting, defeated hunchback, who now more than likely felt like he had nothing left to lose, it was only about to get more dangerous.

Little to Quasimodo's knowledge, the Archdeacon had just visited the gypsy girl in her cell to yet again, give her another undeserving chance at salvation -- at living. She had denied and mocked him for the final time and he had done the unthinkable in return -- but why?

It was her poison.

The gypsy witch had imbedded herself so deep within the confines of his very soul, that she had completely clouded his judgement. She had led him directly down the path to SIN and now -- this agony that he felt - this burning, searing ache that plagued him - it was his punishment. He had fallen victim to her vile corruption and her heathen sorcery and now he was forever damned. But what of the hunchback? Where was his soul in all of this? Had he not been just as plagued -- just as tempted? Thoughts ran rampant through the man's head as he stood there, his gaze hovering toward the belfry above, but not too long before falling once again to study the broken boy in front of him.

"Believe me, my boy, when I say .... that it brings me great pain to see you like this. I ......I.... never once wanted this for you. For us...." he began dryly, clearly having to coax the sentiment from actually leaving his mouth, as he now circled around the boy a bit more so that Quasimodo could properly hear him or at least read his lips.

He briefly wondered what the hunchback had been thinking in that moment or even in general. No doubt, he was upset, even perhaps ... heartbroken, but Claude was starting to wonder just what else the boy had been harboring when it came to feelings - feelings the Archdeacon only assumed he had known nothing about -- up until recently. While this should have very well been something the man should have left alone - he couldn't. In fact, it was only becoming a slow, painful obsession - something for his rattled mind to latch onto.

"Do you hurt for her, Quasimodo? Your heart - how much does it ache?"

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He didn't need to hear to know the disappointment was there. The grab and yank of his messy hair was loud enough. He physically recoiled in pain from the grasp. His body was in the moment. His mind was not.

His mind ran over every scene once more. Questions filled his mind, failing to understand where he went wrong. He was so certain that he was doing the right thing going after her. Coming out here once again, only for it to once again prove just as disastrous as last time. Both of his excursions going awry was his fault. Both of them getting hurt. He caused Esmeralda and Phoebus to be taken away.

The feeling in his chest was as heavy as stone. He could not even look his master in the eyes. The stun, the despair, the fear for those who were hurt by his actions. He wished more than anything that this was one of his cruel nightmares. That there was hope yet. He could hear the stones words of encouragement already, but there was no alternative.

There was no saving anyone. He already proved he was too much of a failure. A disappointment.

A nuisance.

Like a scolded dog, he held his head lower when released from the hair pull. He stared into his masters expression, swearing there was a hint of twisted relief in there. His master expressed some sort understanding— or what he assumed it was meant to be. The only word he truly picked up being "temptation."

His master began to walk away, and instictively, he followed. His hands were clasped together, prepared to beg. Beg for their release. For his forgiveness. Yet, his master did not even look back. His gut twisted in silent suffering. He knew where he was meant to return to. A slight glance to the right of him and the soldier was right there. Just as it was the day of the Festival.

The shame was enough to make him wish he was invisible. He did not need to be dragged off, as he led his own way back up the stairs. Away from the Court of Miracles, the one miracle he desecrated. He climbed the steps. The only expression being that of defeat.

"My boy -- I'm very disappointed in you..."

Though those very words had been mostly a lie leaving the Archdeacon's mouth at that exact moment, the man had meant such words in every other manner otherwise.

The boy was indeed very much a disappointment and had been ...ever since day one. The very same day that the Archdeacon had stared into the one good eye that the creature possessed....and felt nothing but pure .....bitterness and hatred.

From those strangled, ear-splitting, colicky cries of the infant that never once seemed to shut up no matter how much the man had tried to coddle him or feed him, to the insufferable creature's night terrors as a child..... down to the forever whining and complaining about how it was bitterly 'unfair' that he had never once been allowed to attend that ridiculous annual peasant festival in the square. It was something that Claude had to hear every single year from the boy, no matter how many times he had been told no.

Yet, what the Archdeacon had actually been feeling now in this moment, twenty years later... had been something very far from disappointment. Perhaps it was even some kind of sickly twisted satisfaction for the poor boy's ignorance and instinct to be relatively easy and naive. It was such a thing that Claude now relied on - especially if he wanted to finally find that god-forsaken Court of Miracles.

It wasn't just about The Court of Miracles, however. It was also about teaching the wretched mongrel a lesson he'd no doubt ever forget. He had assumed the pack of ravenous wolves that had turned on him during the Feast of Fools had been enough to learn from and yet once more, he had been proven wrong. The boy still somehow possessed the ever-so-dumb instinct to go out there.... and moon over that gypsy girl yet again, though he seemed far too stupid to see that the girl had clear eyes for the ex-captain, instead. While the Archdeacon had his own thoughts about the boy's ridiculous infatuation with the girl, it was finally time that Quasimodo ultimately did something for him. Whether he did it knowingly or not was not a concern to the male.

After all -- a dog must obey his master ....for the dog would be considered useless, otherwise.

"Take him back to the Belltower -- and make sure --- he cannot -- leave it!"

As the man's grip left the ugly boy's mangled hair, he withdrew physically, taking a step back - now feigning a sense of disgust for the other's disobedience while he waited for him to be escorted away.

He had hoped Quasimodo was happy. Especially now. He got what he wanted, didn't he? He got to save that poor gypsy witch.... and now he was going to watch her burn.

@part-of-the-architecture

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Bells of Notre Dame.

Bells, bells, bells.

The ringing of the bells. The thud of the clapper against brass. The rope pulls the weight to one side. The gravity taking over the rest. The task at hand only held by one man.

Who was a bellringer without his bells?

Being defined by one job would be any persons nightmare. Not Quasimodo's. When you are raised alongside the bells, when you come to understand and talk to the bells, there's a certain fondness to the title. Not to mention, the honor of serving as the bellringer for the city of Paris.

Hundreds, thousands— All dependent on him for the music in the air. He was glad to give it to them. He was blessed by God. He thanked the bells for allowing him to ring them. He held no resentment over his loss of hearing. He would go through it millions of times again.

The bells made him who he was.

So, why did he want for more beyond these walls? Beyond the bells. A taste of a day out there was all he asked for. So, he could know who he was ringing for. A moment to cherish and tell the bells about. Their reverbs would answer him back with distinct responses like always. He needed a story to tell. He needed—

To be content.

To be more than a title. More than a monster. More than a bellringer.

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"𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓.."

The hunchback had never been good at seeing himself other than a monster. The twisted flesh and bone of his body giving him the title. A title that his master reminded him of time and time again, especially when asked to go beyond the beyond the walls of Notre Dame. He never knew a monster had so many limitations. So many restrictions. He was ashamed of being born to this body.

Yet, when dealing with a body like this for your whole life you come to make use of it. Shame or not. He counted his blessing as, without it, he would not be as strong. Nor, would he have an appreciation for the beauty around him. He was given what God deemed a punishment, he was expected to serve out this punishment. He would, but who said it had to be one filled with hatred for those around him?

Those blessed with the.. normal appearances of everyday people. He was grateful to be alive. That was all he needed. He need not envy his fellow man. He watched it plenty with their shouting and bickering. Not to mention, he was not entirely alone in his appearance being frightening.

The gargoyles, his friends, were made like him. Purposefully made to be scary. He was like them. They were like him. He simply was made of flesh rather than stone like them. He preferred it that way. He enjoyed breathing, he enjoyed eating, he enjoyed all the sensations that others would take for granted. With the loss of his hearing, he shifted all his appreciation into touch.

After all, monster or not, he was still a man somewhere deep inside. A man with wants, desires, emotions, likes, and dislikes.

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Bayeux, France (by David Nicholls)

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Oh! Oh prints like, printmaking? Woodcuts, you would probably love it! I can bring you a block, you can carve it, and if you leave it for me I can print it for you. They can print as many copies as you want. Maybe you could carve the inside of the belltower, because us folk down here never get to see it. Only if you want to! And don’t be silly, I’m sure you’d be a wonderful muse. Oh well, I can’t draw you if I can’t see you! You’ll have to stick around downstairs for a bit some time :)

Your master? You mean like… the master of the belltower? Or your teacher? Or something? I hope you don’t mean Dom Frollo, he better not make you call him that. Ah, I… had heard something about the feast of fools��� I didn’t realize that was you. People mustn’t have been telling very truthful gossip… oh. Oh I’m so sorry. Listen, I’d love to say hello to you, I’ll hide in the satchel if I have to. Of course you can carve me something else, if that makes you happy. It makes me happy! 💚💙

so much to answer, where to begin..

i did not know it was possible to print.. wood carvings! i would gladly do that. make the inside of the belfry. ot is beautiful. as for being a muse, i am already not meant to be out too long— i would not want to disturb you neither.

i do mean Frollo when i speak of my master. he is the one who took me in from a young age, and he raised me. I owe him. why would I not call him master?

the feast of fools was.. my own mistake as well. do not worry or feel bad..

...

i would like to say hello to you too— .. i fear for you, though. this already has gone way beyond what i.. know would be acceptable behavior. i.. i can carve you more, though! as i stated previously.

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I love it. I. Love. It. I need to name the rat, it’s on my bookshelf with my other treasures. I’ll bring you some prints, we have so many, what do you like? Do you want some landscapes? I don’t know what you look like either, not up close, but I’ll have to draw you 💚

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. The food will keep for a long time, put it in a box so the animals can’t get at it. I’ll bring you more wood, that will be inconspicuous enough. And you don’t have to make me anything else, although if you want to I love the things you make. Does the Archdeacon not let anyone up there? Or would he not mind? Would you mind?

i-

oh my, this is a lot.

prints? do you mean as in paintings? i do not think any landscape can beat the view i have up here, i appreciate the offer! if you made them, i will always gladly cherish whatever you want to give me. as for drawing me, i do not make a great.. canvas.. you would be much better off painting the townsfolkd

.. on the other hand ..

i appreciate the extra wood. i can use it to carve storage for the food. that was a wonderful idea. i would love to make things for you as well, please, allow me to show you this courtesy. i have no one else to carve for.

...

finally— my.. master does not really know that i have even left to receive these gifts. i am not meant to leave, and i try not to anymore. i am unsure if you know about the feast of fools and the events that.. occured as of recent. you being up here would be unsafe. i would not mind you being here.. i would rather you only come if necessary. if you need sanctuary.

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OOC; you always hurt me. this just really nails the coffin.

'....We'll be together in our holy ..sanctu-ary --'

A trickling yet still almost ... looming sense of desperation lingered inside of the confused, newly-appointed Archdeacon. It regrettably also came with a sense of ....guilt as he stared into the broken... tired, and lost eyes of his brother. The one he had tried so hard to save.

He was dying, wasn't he...? This was it. This was what he was going to leave him with. Absolutely nothing but the stinging reminder of failure.

......But then ....he rejected the man he had always called 'brother-dear.' Why? He had mocked him, even. Insisted that it was too late for him... It was obvious that he would have preferred to die surrounded by drunks and criminals rather than by the side of his own older brother, the one who had raised him since infancy. It was also clear that Jehan preferred whatever this place was ... rather than returning to Notre Dame to die in the place that had always been their sanctuary - or at least it always had been to Claude. He didn't understand it. He had given Jehan everything, even when it often ended in his own embarrassment, instead. He had even been ridiculed and judged by the people that surrounded them. - the people that had also watched them grow up within the very walls of the cathedral that he had watched his brother turn his back on years ago.

......and yet, even in that moment ...and at death's door, Jehan .... has still found a way to burden him with the consequences of his poor choices. His selfish choices. He was to be burdened with this ---- thing. Something that could have only very well been created out of of such pure filth. How Claude had long wished to see the day in which his reckless brother would have to answer for his sins and for how long he had strayed so far away from God. This..... thing .... this monstrous creature, now swaddled within his embrace would no doubt anchor him for the rest of his life.

Just by the look of the mongrel who squirmed so innocently... so helplessly in his arms, the deformities in which the baby had been cursed with had been very far from innocent. So cruel it had almost seemed to Claude -- to cast such a curse on an infant.... when it had been the parents who had actually sinned against God in the first place. Still, the Archdeacon somehow couldn't help but feel cheated .... as if Jehan had stolen HIS life and left him with something that was meant to be his own punishment.

This thing -- The Archdeacon would name it Quasimodo and it would be raised and taught how to be the farthest thing from his wretched, weak father. He would not be another....... failure.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

OOC// A really long Jehan post for no reason. I had to stop myself. I don't have one to write with. I wish I did ... a lot, but that does not stop me from musing and head-canoning all kinds of hfdkhfhdkfh things about these two who make me weep so much.

/ Also a @part-of-the-architecture mention cause I have to hurt him too since it's only right.

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His excitement caused him to fall into the classic routine of acting before thinking. Of course, his master would want him to show restraint. His immediate realization of wrongdoing didn't even need to be heard. The slight pullaway from his master, the raised eyebrows, the look of disapproval.

He retreated back almost immediately, smacking his hand in his own form of self-discipline. Often, this seemed to provide proof to his master that he was apologetic for acting out of line. He took a moment to reflect while his master spoke. He was told of self-control, a concept he was well aware of, before being offered the strawberry again.

He paused this time, thinking of the appropriate manner to go about taking the strawberry. He slowly raised out his hand and gently took the strawberry. He devoured it practically immediately. He was worried any more misdoings, and the strawberry would have been taken back. He looked towards his master who added on additional instruction.

"And with manners.."

The strawberry had already been in his mouth, though. Was he okay to keep on chewing it? Or did he— With no time to finish that thought, he spat it out onto his hand.

"Thank you, master."

Sometimes he wondered.. should these gifts be considered blessings? Blessed to receive anything at all. He questioned the tie between the Archdeacon and God. With how close they were— was the image meant to blur?

"𝑩𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅, 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅. 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅."

Each piece of food given is a blessing. A blessing by the Lord, and his Father. Each piece of clothing is God's charity upon him. With each blessing, he must keep in mind his own sins. He knew his sins in and out, his Father having reminded him time and time again. The things he need be wary of. His lack of restraint, his lack of manners, but most importantly his appearance. His existence was a punishment in itself. He would prove himself to his Father.

@lustandrot

(𝟏/𝟐)