3Author's Note
First, I know this is a repost of this one-shot. I lost my first file and then the story document timed out and I was no longer able to add new chapters or fix the old ones. Starlit Nights and Sunlit Days has been on my mind lately (along with the rest of my unfinished projects) and I recently wanted to go back and change some editing mistakes and a bit of the grammar. I just never found the time until now.
I had to delete the old story posted because you shouldn't have two of them floating around FFN and I just don't feel the need to clutter up my story page with a series of one-shots pertaining to the same story. I would rather it be all contained than spread out to the point that my readers have to look up all the stories. It makes it easier for you and it makes it easier for myself. I would like to continue working on this again. At some point. I hope.
Of Nightmares and Midnight Dreams
Paris.
The City of Lovers was glowing, bathed in the silvery shadow of the moon, and rustling with a light breeze which offered a much needed reprieve from a rather harsh, blistering heat wave. The night air shimmered with tranquility and peace, the inhabitants no longer fearing the shadows for guards and flames. Ease had found its way again, as it always tends to do, into war-torn hearts and comfort finally resting gentle hands on wounded flesh. However, the dreamscapes of a choice few still echoed with battles yet to be won.
Beyond a small bridge, in a modest home made just well enough, a young woman woke.
It was not the chilled night air nor the sound of whistling wind through tightly closed shutters which roused her from the depths of slumber. Her heartbeat, a now throbbing mass of corded muscle, thundered relentlessly in her chest; her body colder than the memory of stone, steel, and ash. A flicker of rapid color and a wave of muted, water-filtered echoes reverberated through her as if a lance had been thrust deep in her breast. A half-formed sob found its way to her lips yet her tongue refused its release, sending it away with a rough, painful swallow. She crumpled, twisting and curling herself further in her bed, willing for the smell of flame and the sound of sorrow to leave her.
Only two fortnights had passed and yet the images and screams still had not relinquished their hold upon her mind. Sometimes the events of that blood-soaked dawn would play out verbatim, each moment strictly accounted for and every word recalled in crystal clear clarity. Such nights were almost bearable and she rarely woke from them. However, even far more terrifying, the memories would sometimes change; becoming warped and untrue. He fell, fingers slipping from her too small hands, plunging into a pit of hellfire and a man with locks which shone as bright as gold held her from the edge. Away from him. Then, the silver haired demon would come with a smile which glinted of death and eyes so cold, they burned. Finally, a sword would find its' sheath in her heart; his voice ringing out in both terror and sorrow.
It was on these nights in which she would wake; cold, with a fevered mind, and a scream at her lips.
Tonight was one such night and she understood she would know no safety in her dreams. Not when the silver haired demon lie in wake for her the moment her eyes closed. Not when the smell of burning wood and hair still lingered in her nostrils. Not when her ears rang out with the agonizing cries of the bell ringer of Notre Dame.
Another sob, this one willfully set free from its confines. The young woman buried her weeping eyes within the smothering fabric of her pillow, seeking a refuge which would not come until the light of morning broke across the horizon.
"What could a monster like you ever hope to have?" His father mocked scornfully, his lips curling upwards in a devilish smirk. "Do you truly believe she cares for you?"
He took a hesitant step back and, to his horror, found himself pressed against the cold stone of Notre Dame's arched walkway. His heart beat furiously, fear lacing through him as the man paced with him, a gleaming red stained sword clutched in his fist. The muscle cradled within his chest stumbled and faltered at the sight of it.
"NO!" He cried out, fear mounting within his veins.
His father merely tilted his silver gray head and openly cackled in glee, exposing a set of once snow white teeth now rotting and decaying beyond recognition. The once water-gray eyes had become a hellish fiery orange. The scent of burning rope, wood, and hair promptly filled the air and he felt nausea rile his stomach and bile rise to his throat. Heat rose and his skin blistered at its intensity.
Where was she?!
His father's smirk widened even further, eyes glittering with madness; as if he heard his silent plea. He may as well have cried out aloud for all the good it did him.
"Oh, the girl?" His father's twisted appearance truly was nothing compared to the sheer coolness of his voice. If possible, it was even more frightful. "Is that what you seek, you ungrateful cur? Then you shall have her!"
And if by his father's command, the unseen heat retained physical form. Flames sprung from the mortar beneath his feet in flashes so bright, it blinded him. He raised a hand to shield his face but, it had no effect. It kissed his hands in a searing touch and nipped at his hair as if in jest. Somewhere, his father laughed cruely, the sound echoing terribly around him.
He turned frantically about, searching, searching. . . and finding nothing but smoke and flame.
"S-Sophia!" His voice broke as he called for her; fear rising and clawing and suffocating! Then the tongues of fire surged as one and coiled round him; they flew at his face, choking him with smoke and heat. He could not breathe!
A scream, a terrible sound, filled the smoke clouded air, and then . . . the flames receded in unison. Darkness took hold in an instant and the air, though now clear of smoke, now cooled rapidly. A bitter chill hung in the air and he could not decide which of the two extremes was more horrifying.
"S-Sophia!" He forced the freezing air through his lips, but his voice was muted and did not carry. He gasped painfully, trying to see pass the blackness and the almost crippling, heavy silence.
Then a shard of light cut a river of the darkness away. He flinched violently, raising his arms to protect his only clear eye. A small sound then. A sob. His great limbs lowered and he glimpsed, within the pool of light, lying prone and unnaturally still, a small mass. Trepidation like none he had ever felt before wound its ice-like tendrils around his chest, taking away breath and voice. A bell chimed within him, urging him away from the light. A darkness lie within it. A danger. Yet, another sob echoed about the air; it begged him closer and he found himself answering mindlessly and without full awareness.
He crept closer, slowly.
And once he neared the very edge of the circle of light, he discovered, with great horror, that the mass was that of a small child.
No . . . not a child . . .
Again a bell chimed a warning.
"Sophia!" The sheer horror in his voice splintered, shattered, and cracked the air, sending pieces of his heart into the blackness.
He launched himself into the light.
She was cold in his grasp, so much so her skin burned his own where he touched. Her eyes, once so blue with joy and life, now gazed upon him with a likeness to pale water, empty and void. She was small and delicate; a broken, fragile object in his arms. There was no strength in her hands. No life in her breast. She was soaked in blood. A rich, bright hue which pooled about her and stained his hands, tunic, hose, and shoes. It poured from a wound at her side, great and wide; almost ripping her apart at the seams.
He screamed her name.
The corpse had no answer.
Again her name was ripped from his lips.
And again the corpse did not respond.
"You killed her!" He cried out to the darkness beyond, folding himself around the empty vessel. "You killed her!"
A figure emerged from the darkness before him. Yet, did not cross fully into the circle.
"You did that yourself."
He glanced upward, straining to see through eyes filled with tears and the faded red curls cradled in his hands. He stilled and his heart nearly stopped its frantic, erratic beating altogether.
It was her.
"Why did you not save me, Quasimodo?" She asked quietly, still shrouded in shadow. She raised a small, crippled hand and gestured to the corpse still held within his arms. "You swore an oath. I reached for you. Why did you not take my hand?"
And then he was falling.
Falling . . .
. . . falling . . .
and he could hear her voice, pleading for her life.
"Quasimodo!"
He woke; a heartbroken cry of utter hopelessness ripped from his chest, throat, and lips. His hands found purchase in a twist of sheets as his massive arms braced his monstrous body against the straw mattress. Tears fell in rapid sequence, quickly drenching his pillow and white night shirt. Raw, broken, shards of unbridled fear tore the night air, chilled with the lateness of the hour. He shook, rattled, as the memory of the dream flowed through him. A hitched breath, a poor attempt to calm himself, and the sobs renewed with an even greater force.
He collapsed, his body sapped of strength, and the bed-frame shook along side his own. He wept wholeheartedly, far too overcome by the storm ragging inside his belly. He was lucky enough to keep a pail beside him in such rare times as these.
A breath, this one deeper and more controlled. Another. And another. He kept on until his hyperventilating and tears had slowed to a lesser extent.
His dreams were never this . . . vivid.
He wiped a sweating palm across his face, as if to rid himself of the images; it made no difference. He sucked in yet another harsh breath, willing them away, yet still they remained. He shook his coarse, fiery head; carding back that one lock of hair only for it to fall once more over his lone good eye. He growled, yes growled, in irritation and unsteadily forced himself upright, yanking the sodden shirt from his back and tossing it into the far corner of his sleeping tent.
It could remain there in the shadows for all he cared.
He found a pair of clean hose, redressed, and drew back the flap. The clear night air swept against his face and chest, cooling the tears and sweat in gentle caresses. Once more he drew a deep, slow breath and released it carefully into the night. The affect was instant. He could already feel the tension and fear leaving his worn limbs and heavy mind. He sighed softly, closing weary eyes. With yet another deep, calming breath, he carefully found his way to his workbench. The moon was full and bright, throwing his loft into a soothing, pale, half-light. The stars shone and twinkled at him through the gables, as if offering thousands of tiny winking smiles. This enveloped him in the comfort he so desperately sought from his night terror.
Many thanks. He offered silently to the heavens. He was, truly. For his new friends and, most of all, for -
He hesitated to complete the thought, nearly stumbling into the table in the process. His hands braced himself against the familiar grain of wood, strong and stable. The dream was far too fresh a memory. How his mind could twist the truth! When he last saw her, her eyes were filled with life and her voice held no trance of accusation or vehemence. So, why did his mind invent such a horrid and disturbing image?
He shook his head once more and sought for the bucket of water which sat beneath the table. Placing it upon the bench, he pulled a clean cloth from the drying wire which hung nearby, and submerged it in the cool liquid. He proceeded to clean his face, arms, and chest, cleansing the drying tears and sweat; the only evidence of his nightmare. Once the task was done, he found he felt better than before. He stored away the bucket, rehung the cloth, and sat upon his stool to allow the night air to dry him. He was not yet ready to return to slumber.
The dream had left him severely uneasy, especially since Sophia had taken so much part in it. He had dreams of her before: falling into flames, dying in his arms, and, even once, watching as his father pierced her with his blade and witnessing the sheer joy he took in wrenching the young woman's life from her. He shuttered, unwilling to revisit anymore dreams of such nature; never had he dreamed such a vision in which Sophia herself accused him of allowing her to perish. It was an unfathomable thought. The day she woke, she spoke of things he needed to cease blaming himself for. She confessed to holding no ill feelings against him and scolded him for thinking such.
Nonetheless, he had failed. In that brief moment before she fell, she had reached out for him. Yet, his fingers had missed hers by a hair's breath. For all his promises and oaths, he could not keep a single one.
Quasimodo buried his twisted face in his hands, a sob rising within his throat. He could hear her cry his name yet still. The echo stung and he inhaled sharply, struggling for composure. His bones felt brittle within his flesh; his muscles sapped of his unnatural ten-fold strength, and his heart, crumpled and torn, like scrapped parchment. He wanted peace and rest and to be rid of such harrowing doubts. Yet, even above all the unrest and dreams, he found, almost startlingly, that he wished to see her most of all.
A small notion came to mind, like the rippling of a single droplet in the Seine. His heart pause over the ripple, as if to examine it, curious and yet, wary. Unthinkable as it was, he felt a small yearning for the ripple nonetheless.
He rose from his stool, slowly, and in that slight, cumbersome way which was solely his own, made his way toward his sleeping tent for a fresh tunic.
The night air whistled passed him as he leaped, in his usual grace, across the shingled roofs, along small planked ledges, and by wooden windowsills. He moved silently, cautiously, and with utmost care; unwilling to wake those sleeping comfortably within their beds. The moon, ever so bright, guided his movements; illuminating his path so he would not fall. There were no clouds, only the stars and their presence felt like a balm over his palpitating heart. Flying was always a pleasure he welcomed unfailingly and without guilt.
From the corner of his good eye, as he moved northward, the Seine sparkled playfully. The muscle within his chest quickened further; he was not far.
The tiny prick of uneasiness grew, winding its way through his belly and further up into his breast. It felt awkward and unsettling yet, he found himself pushing it away save he lose courage. His tower, his friends, his Notre Dame was no longer enough to ward away the fear, the pain, and the sorrow which continued to cling to him. His universe had expanded and with it, so too had his heart. She would doubtless be fast in the slumber of her own mind. Yet, he needed reassurance; if it was but only to see her face. Yes, that alone would be enough.
He landed, a tad bit unsteady, and had to clutch hurriedly at the corner ledge of the roof to prevent his stumble from becoming fatal. He drew in a harsh breath through gritted teeth, the cool air hissing as it passed. Another breath, more of relief, and he carefully side-stepped his way across to the casement.
It was hers.
When he stepped closer, ever so careful of the limited space, he found the shutters closed. His heart fell, he had hoped . . .
Then a sound.
Tiny, nearly misplaced for a creak of a shutter or the quiet settling of a house upon its foundation, yet audible. Once more the sound repeated. He frowned, ginger brows drawling together in thought. It came from the other side of the shutters.
He had become all too familiar with that particular sound.
Quickly, he lay a gentle hand against one of the panels; his fingers finding holds in its tilted slots and tested for security. One pull, two, and it gave. Swinging the shutter out, and careful not to lose his balance in the process, he peered inside.
As soft moonlight spilled across the tiny room, the cut of his figure now the only darkness to mar it, he found her bed beneath the window, blankets tossed and thrown about in harsh, almost violent twists. Her mass of short curls were thoroughly rumpled from restless slumber, flying about her face and spilling, only just, across her pillow. Her small, oh so tiny, hands, still yet bandaged, clutched near desperately at what sheets she could reach with trembling fingers.
Yet, it was her face which brought the final blow upon his heart.
Tears poured endlessly from tightly closed lids, flowing across pale cheeks and down the gentle slope of her temple. Her color resembled dying ashes, the healthy pink glow startling absent. The delicate skin of her brow was pulled taunt across bone in disturbed sleep, her expression filled with a mixture of pain, horror, and utter brokenheartedness, a sure result of hidden visions he could not glimpse. Her breaths hitched in uneven intervals, sending quivers along her sorrowful frame, and feeble mews of unplaced fear and denial tumbled from delicate shaking lips.
A word found its way into the open air, pleading.
His name.
Unable to bare her sorrow a moment longer, his heart crumpling entirely at the meek cry, he reached out and freed the second shutter. He braced himself against either side of the casement's frame and lifted himself to the sill. He sat, rather awkwardly, nestled within the opening and, with the utmost caution, leaned over the restless, slumbering form and laid a gentle hand there upon her cheek.
She flinched away, violently so, and sky blue eyes flew wide in fright and with them a shriek of alarm upon trembling lips. Her shift, a tangle about her body, both from dreaming and from her sudden movement, slid from one small shoulder to expose the freckled, ivory skin beneath. Her breast rose and fell heavily in rapid succession, her breath hitching further. She sat there, curls askew, amid a sea of rumpled quilts and a prisoner of her own dress. His large hand hovered between them, making no move to advance or pull away.
"Y-you . . . were d-dreaming," he offered quietly, forcing his eyes away from her figure. He had no right to see her in such a way. The trepidation returned full force and he was reminded once again of how forward his coming here had been.
Silence filled the night air, hanging like a weighted curtain between them. She blinked, once, twice, but made no move towards him or his hand, staring owlishly at his figure sitting there upon her sill. He knew not what he should do, to stay or to take leave. Yet, after several moments of such heavy silence and of no positive sign she wished him any closer, he at last turned and made to remove himself from the casement.
Instantly, there was the fluttering of cloth and a muffled grunt of surprise. He turned round in time to see her scramble across her mattress only to fall to one side due to her twisted attire. He immediately reached out to her, offering his previous hand in aid. She stretched out her own and seized it quickly, using it as leverage to pull herself upright before blindly launching her person into his breast.
"Do not leave," She murmured near desperately against the column of his throat. She burrowed further into him, her small arms wrapping tightly round him. "Please, if you be no dream, do not leave me."
Stunned at the sheer openness of her request, how raw and emotional, he felt his great arms carefully enfold her. She felt warm against him, the thin fabric of her shift bleeding her very life into his own. Her cheek found the hollow of his throat, resting comfortably there; curls tickled the skin of his jaw and her heart, which laid firmly upon his, resounded a beat not unlike that of a wayward sparrow. Her timid hands clutched at the back of his tunic, as if fearing he would vanish before her without warning. He felt her sigh against him, a contented sound, and his arms tightened around her waist in response, pulling her ever closer.
"Is this a dream?"
He felt her words more than heard them and could not refrain from answering with his own response. "Then, it is a good dream, is it not?"
He lifted a hand from her waist so as to stroke comfortingly along her spine, allowing his fingers to ghost over the folds of her shift. A new feeling worked its way through him, warm and welcoming, and unlike any he had previously felt before. In that moment, he found the young woman in his embrace to be the most beautiful creature he had ever had the blessing to behold with his wretched sight.
"B-beautiful." He whispered reverently against her hair, yearning to speak of what was in his heart.
"Hmm?" She intoned, still quite buried in the comfort of his arms.
"Thee."
"Oh." Her voice sounded far away and slightly startled. She leaned back in his arms, her face now flushed a healthy pink. "Truly?"
"Aye." He answered with absolute surety and he brushed back a stray curl from her face.
Her color deepened and her eyes flitted shyly away from his, as if to think further on his words without distraction. "I think the same . . . about you, that is."
He smiled gently and reached out a careful hand for her cheek. "Yes, I do remember your words. They mean . . . more to me than you know."
If possible, her color flushed an even darker shade and he could find no reason to feel ashamed for causing it. It looked so much more appealing than milk white or ashen gray. Abruptly, her expression shifted from deep embarrassment to outright concern. Her brow furrowed and her hand reached upwards to timidly tuck away his one, ever straying lock of ginger.
"You are here."
He drew in a harsh breath and looked away from her ever searching gaze. "Aye."
"You dreamed." It was not a question.
But he could not lie, not tonight. "Aye."
Her gentle hands were upon his face in an instant, smoothing his brow and resting her cheek against his own. He dared not move, least he somehow disrupt her.
"I am sorry," she whispered softly. Her voice was the balm he so desperately needed and he took a deep, settling breath to steady himself. "It must have been awful, to bring you all the way here."
"T'was a lie," was all he had the heart to say.
"That does not make it any less painful," she reasoned. One of her hands lowered to his breast, finding his heart. Her sky blue eyes found his pale ones. "You are safe. That is what matters."
"As are you." He replied, gazing at her with unexpressed emotion. He lifted his hands to her face, stroking her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. "I would be lost without you, Sophia."
She smiled as he broke away, her eyes lighting up from within.
"Would you like to stay?" She asked quietly, in that gentle way of hers. "So you are not alone when you dream?"
He shook his head; it was not proper. Her gentle words and her loving touch was enough this night, more than enough to stop the dreams.
"Nay, I must return to the bell tower. The marrow approaches and the bells . . ." He trailed off.
She merely smiled and carded comforting fingers through his coarse, fiery locks. "I understand. You need the comfort of your own bed."
He reached up and rested his own hands upon her own, ceasing their remonstrations. A question burned in his mind, yearning for an answer.
"Sophia," his voice barely above a whisper. "Your dream - ?"
"Also a lie," she supplied reassuringly, bringing his fingers to her lips. "Nothing to dwell over."
His good eye narrowed in concern, the memory of her pained face still within his mind. "You cried out for me."
"Quasi -"
"I cry for you as well," He admitted quickly, watching as astonishment spread across her face. "My dreams are filled with your death, your pain, and there is naught which I can do to spare you of it. Tonight," he paused for breath and strength. "Tonight when I dreamed, you accused me of allowing it."
"Oh, Quasimodo." Horror replaced astonishment, fresh tears sparkling in her eyes, and he regretted his admittance instantly. He took her delicate features in his hands once more, gently wiping away the sorrow. Oh, he should have kept such knowledge from her! Now she would blame herself, though no fault was hers. "Shh, shh. I am sorry. I should not have said – oh, do not weep, Sophia, please. It pains me to see you do so."
"I-I c-cannot." She sobbed, blue eyes flitting closed. Yet she did not shy from his grasp. "Not when – Oh, I do not blame you!" Her hands found purchase in the folds of his tunic, balling the fabric tightly in her tiny fists. "Not a bit! None of this t'is your fault! I do not! I do not -"
"T'was a dream, Sophia." He murmured softly in the shell of her ear, drawing her close. He rubbed comforting circles upon her back, willing her to calm. "Only a dream. Above all else, a lie."
"Y-you saved m-me, did you k-know?" Her words came in choked gasps, muffled by his tunic. Yet, he heard all the same. "W-when you held me in the d-dark. I-I could hear your v-voice, calling to m-me. Y-you were c-crying and I, I was so tired and hurt! All I wanted was to sleep and not wake up."
He felt his heart clench at the thought yet, he remembered the state she had been in. The amount of pain and torture she had endured. He recalled thinking it would have been better for her to have already succumb to her wounds than for her to cling to what little life she had left.
"Yet, you were crying," she continued on, her voice stronger, steadier. "I could not leave you in the dark like that. Not when you were pain and crying for me not to leave." She inhaled sharply and tilted back her curly head to gaze at him, her eyes shinning. "You gave me a reason to come back, Quasimodo. I came back . . . for you."
If there ever was a moment in which he so desperately wished to kiss her, truly kiss her, it was now. Heat flooded his limbs and engulfed his heart, a gentle hand releasing her only to bury its seeking fingers deep within her mass of copper curls; the other winding itself further about her waist, drawing her closer so he could cradle her tenderly to his breast. How this woman could possibly exist, he could not fathom. For her to endure such pain and terror, only to return from the brink of God's embrace for that of his own – oh, how did he ever come to deserve her?!
Yet, as it was, his courage failed him in the end and his lips lingered upon her cheek instead.
"How is it, after ten long years of knowing you, I never saw it?" He asked pitifully, voice like bells breaking against her soft skin. His arms tightened, refusing to release her. He was never going to make such a mistake again. "How is it, I never saw you?"
He felt her smile, rather than witness it, as her hands found the nape of his neck. "You did see me. You only did not know where to place me. I knew you cared for me, yet I waited for you to discover it for yourself."
Finding no words to express himself in that moment, he merely held her close until the gentle rise and fall of her breath slowed and evened out. He carefully turned her in his arms, discovering her to be fast asleep in a deep, peaceful slumber. With the utmost care, he lowered her resting body back into the safety of her bed; laying her blankets evenly and securely around her. Then, as if to further rid her of any nightmares, he pressed a careful kiss to her brow.
"Sleep well, Sophia. May you have no more dreams tonight."
He smoothed back a stray curl from her face and took his leave.
As he crawled into his own bed, Quasimodo allowed himself to further reflect upon his feelings for the young woman and he found, with no guilt whatsoever, that he hoped to hold her again in such a way. He enjoyed the feeling of her against his heart, as if that was were she had belonged along. He turned over onto his side and allowed his eyes to close to such a dream. There would no longer be any further dreams of his father or of steel and ash. Not when he had the memory of Sophia's small arms around him and her gentle voice to call upon.
In other news, I wish to inform all my fans of these characters and their stories that I will be starting another chapter in their lives. I hope to cover the missing year and more while in the process refining some parts of the epilogue that weren't quite fully realized or need a bit more expanding upon. Seeing as I wrote those stories sometime ago, I see a few structural issues and other nitpicks I hadnt noticed before. Of course, everything is better with hindsight and the truth is, I wrote "The Light Within Us" with no real intention of going further. The epilogue was supposed to be the end at the time but now with so many still, after all this time, wanting more of Quasi and Sophia, I feel that I should continue their story.
Of course, that means I might have to change a few things since I didn't expect the story to be so popular nor did I think I would ever come back to it. Mostly, the changes will be born out of the epilogue and how that chapter is organized and set up. Events leading up to it might change how its presented. Like I said, I wrote this a long time ago and I wasn't expecting to ever revisit this story.
The next story will be called, "A Symphony of Heaven" in order to play upon what I now will call "The Heaven" storyline. Since the first step in this story was a one-shot and the next a full blown novel, I can't call it a Trilogy really nor a Saga. I guess its a Duology since this next step is another novel? I guess I never really thought this through when I started writing this particular storyline. In any case, look forward to "A Symphony of Heaven" and I will probably incorporate this particular one-shot into the story going forward so when I do I may take this down when it reaches that point. Or I could just leave it up because its a nice stand alone piece. Whichever, really.
I hope you enjoyed this revised version and found it better than my first draft. Please, let me know how you liked it and keep your head up for the further continuation of "The Heaven" storyline.
Your humble and very non-consistent/terribly sorry for continuing to fall of the face of the internet/author who really needs to finish her damn plotlines/servant to all of you ridiculously loyal readers who I have no idea how or why you continue to support me,
Lady of Myth and Legends