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[A/N]: Translations, if you need them, in the description!~ :3

Male! Esmeralda x Reader: The Watcher and the Wanderer

You sighed deeply and pulled your hood further down your face. It had been a very, very long time since you last set foot in Paris. It seemed that no matter how hard you tried, there was always something that pulled you back – whether you wanted to or not. You had tried so many times to leave the city for good… Never had it felt like such a losing battle, before.

Shrieks and cheers and music met your cautious hearing. Judging by the lack of people milling about the usually filled streets of the residential area, there was some sort of festival occurring. Perfect. You smiled to yourself and chuckled bitterly. There couldn't have been a better time for you to arrive, then. The guards would be more distracted by handling the masses, rather than looking for one, otherwise innocuous woman.

Passing through the residential area and into the commercial, you pause outside a bakery, La Boulongerie-Patisserie de Loïc, and peer into the window of sweets. You ate each little tiny morsel with naught but your eyes, longingly staring at an eclair that was silently screaming your name. Being on-the-run meant you had to forgo many delicacies and treats you used to enjoy on a regular basis, back when you were small. There were many things you missed – having a stable home being one of them – but at the moment, nothing sounded better, more heavenly than a bite of your favorite pastry…

“Buy something or get on, you ragged little mutt!” a stern man, his arms considerably muscled from all those hours spent wringing bread dough, scowled from the doorway.

Out of habit, you pulled the hood of your cloak further down your face. “Ah, forgive me, Monsieur. I was just about to be on my way, but your wares caught my eye. I have rarely seen such masterfully crafted desserts such as yours – even within the walls of Paris,” you nodded, stepping away from the window bashfully.

The man's eyes narrowed at you. “… Merci, étrangère. But I stand by what I said – buy something or leave.”

“Of course…” You made to leave, but on a whim, you stopped and looked back to the man – who was only trying to make a living, after all. “Pardon, Monsieur, but could you tell me what festival is being celebrated? It has been a long time since I was last in Paris, and I'm afraid I have lost tracks of the days...”

“Bah, c'est Le Festival des Imbéciles, étrangère! The gitans are putting on a farce, and for today, no one – not even le juge Frollo – will stand against them,” he growled, taking the time to spit in disgust off to the side. “Those mongrels will take any opportunity to make a fool of us, étrangère, so take my advice and stay as far away as you can from them.”

You nodded absently, but inwardly cringed. He made it sound as if the Gypsies were some sort of sickness, like vermin. But you knew better. In fact, some of the nicest, most giving people you'd ever met were Gypsies, and they had even helped you learn how to hide yourself from the public eye in such a way that you'd be less noticeable – amongst other things… “Merci, Monsieur. Au revior,” you murmured.

The baker grunted and slammed the door to his shop closed behind himself. With a shudder, you pressed on. You had a festival to avoid and a cathedral to enter, after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Avoiding the crowd turned out to be much harder than you thought it might. The gathering place turned out to be very close to L'Île de la Cité, and that was exactly where you needed to be. In the end, you were pulled by some overzealous children, all of whom claimed to be “the boss” of you because everything was “Topsy-Turvy” during the Feast of Fools. They hadn't wanted anyone, especially the mysterious stranger, to miss out in watching the festivities. For your part, you had been a touch curious about why everyone was so eager to see everything turned right on its head, and went along with their demands.

And you were quick to see why. It was all so strange…

Beggars became kings. The ugly were beautiful. The rich were poor. The Gypsies were the directors of all the excitement. And you, a stranger, were welcomed by all like an old friend. Still, no matter how welcoming everyone became to the strange woman hidden in her cloak, you did not remove your hood. Just because Frollo and his men were distracted with keeping the peace didn't mean that the more perceptive guards might not recognize you…

But really, the Festival of Fools, the memories of it you had from your childhood, were beginning to come back. Slowly, but surely.

All of a sudden, a Gypsy, clad in the brightest of the gayest colors and wearing a purple mask, began hailing the people over to a very large stage. It was something the people were obviously looking forward to, for their surging towards the stage nearly knocked you off your feet. Somehow, you ended up directly in front of the stage, where the King of the Gypsies proudly announced the the next performer being a man named Esmeraldo.

An awed hush fell over the large crowd for a split moment, allowing the lithe form of a man clad sensually in scarlet and gold and violet to be absorbed in their minds. As for yourself, your breath was taken away by the sheer talent and beauty of the man performing above you. The Gypsies you had befriended in your travels had trained you to be flexible, but nothing like this stunning Esmeraldo.

Then, all at once, the voices of the crowd returned in full force, nearly deafening you. Their excitement and strange desire aimed towards the young man was overwhelmingly large. Still, you also found yourself hypnotized by the Gypsy. He was wonderful and exotic and beautiful…

“Beguiling,” you snorted to yourself with a flick of your head. “I'd wager he's full of himself, too.”

As if he heard you, your sole, hushed words amidst the roar of the mob all around, the Gypsy man contorted himself directly above you, hovering over you with a faint smirk. Close enough to look into your face, you realized uneasily, Esmeraldo took in the breath you shakily let out. “Something on your mind, chère?” He twisted in such a way that warmth flooded your face, all unbidden. Indeed, this Esmeraldo was a man to behold. “I hate it when the woman I find the most interesting doesn't pay attention when she watches me dance… ”

“ … Yep, self-absorbed. ” And with that, you melted into the crowd, moving slowly enough to not cause a ruckus, but quickly enough to draw the attention of the Gypsy man on the stage. He pouted, and his redirected attentions did not go unnoticed...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Peering about the church, you took note of the forsaken atmosphere. Everyone was either hiding away in their own homes or celebrating in the Festival of Fools. Notre Dame was quiet, a little too quiet for your taste. Without a word, you removed the hood from your head and placed your cloak in one of the pews in the back row. Sighing, you looked to the main crucifix at the front. A sense of melancholy washed over you as you stared, along with penitence and sorrow.

“Forgive me that I am not strong enough,” you whispered. “I'm doing all that I can, trying to follow in Your footsteps with kindness for all… But I am still a sinner, too impure…” Your throat swelled with unshed tears, but you gulped down the tightness and forced a smile to your lips. “All that I can do to praise You like I should is through song. May I do so now, for You?”

The tones began to flow from deep within you, never stumbling the slightest over the foreign syllables of the Latin lyrics. A song of Deity's love and charity, of his kindness and mercy, spilled lovingly from your lips as you approached the alter. And as you finished with the final notes of the prayer-like hymn, you knelt humbly and prayed silently, only your lips tracing the words which you invoked in your mind. You prayed for mercy. You prayed for the strength to go on, and for safety. You prayed to keep your wits about you to help keep those involved with you safe. And, most importantly, you asked for guidance so you could be a better servant for Him. Ending with a note of thankfulness and humility, an “Amen,” ghosting into the air all around you, you stood and turned to face the one who had sent for you – the Archdeacon.

“You may have to hide from soldiers and the hasty lusts of men, dear Daughter,” he smiled warmly, “but it is obvious that les Yeux de Notre Dame have been watching over you. You have grown up to be very beautiful. Your mother and father would be so pleased.”

You returned the smile and curtsied before the man. Your utmost respect belonged solely to him, as much as he would allow it. He was the reason, after all, that you were able to leave Paris in the first place, with your head still attached to your body and not burned to a crisp.

“Merci, Archdeacon. I have traveled very far and learned much about the Father's children and creation… But enough about me. In your letter, you mentioned that things have been bleak for the Wanderers. What would you have me do?” You looked to the holy man in concern. You knew of his affection and care towards the downtrodden of Paris. But you were just one woman. Naturally, you would do everything you possibly could to help, but you only had two hands, one body, one voice. There was only so much you could do.

“Your spirit is a strong one, Daughter… Walk with me, will you? Indulge an old man, just this once.” He offered his arm to you, like the true gentleman he was.

You smiled and took his arm, only too happy to walk with the man that had saved your life and soul so many years before. “It will be my pleasure, Archdeacon.”

“… As I said,” he continued, “you are a strong woman, in spirit and mind. The Gypsies are a proud people, as you may know from your travels, that will rarely – if ever – ask for the help they know they need. It is in their nature to never take anything for granted. And their 'king' has been consulting with me about their situation. Naturally, they cannot all come to the Church for Sanctuary, should the need arise, nor would they consider doing so. The Wanderers, as you have so aptly named them, would not fare well behind these stones walls…”

“… I've known some Wanderers that decided to wander no longer,” you voiced softly, a frown creasing your brow. “They lost those things which gave them so much life and vitality. They ceased to be that which they were, once. They became almost as proud as the people that habitually turned them away in their wanderings…” A sigh escaped from your lips, one that the Archdeacon echoed on a deeper level. “It grieved me to see them, so I didn't stay more than an hour before I continued on my way…”

“Probably a wise decision, dear child… But I digress. What I want to ask of you is to act as a guide to the Wanderers.” The two of you stopped alongside the statue of the Blesséd Virgin Mary. “Show them the ways you have learned to escape the torments. I know how dangerous it is for you to return, especially since le juge Frollo's power always seems to increase with the people, but they need you, dear child.”

A loud thud and sharp inhalations met the both of your ears, all of a sudden, emanating from the great doors to the chapel. Your heart quickened, and while you scurried back to the pews to retrieve your cloak, the Archdeacon moved to receive the soul gasping for breath. Your hood now up, you bent to hide your face, and none too soon. A Gypsy lad and the Captain of the Guard were all of a sudden in view, though you couldn't make out for sure what they were saying. You wanted nothing more than to cozy up closer to hear the exchange, but you noted just how quick the Gypsy man was to act and react to the Captain's advances with astounding agility, trading blow-for-blow with equal intensity.

You watched from the shadows as the Captain of the Guard made false claim to the Gypsy's call for Sanctuary… and the following confrontation with Judge Frollo. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched the roguish man struggled not to shiver in disgust as Frollo made his dark interest known. There was no way… Not in a church!

But just as quickly as Frollo had arrived to make his threats, he disappeared back into the outside world, his mask of benevolence back in place.

You had recognized the Gypsy while he fought with the Captain of the Guard, but even as you examined his exhausted, slumped form resting against the pews nearest your hiding spot, you couldn't believe your eyes. While the Archdeacon fretted over the handsome Esmeraldo, you tried to slip away further from them. This was going to be trouble with a capital 'T.' You needed a moment to contemplate the meaning of this…

“Daughter? It is safe to come out… Please, [Y/n], meet one of the pinnacle members of the Gypsy Court – Esmeraldo!” the Archdeacon gestured, offering a hand out to you.

You took the Archdeacon's hand and slowly removed your hood as you approached, meeting those startlingly bright emerald green eyes straight on. And you watched those brilliant, gorgeous eyes widen in recognition. You smiled sheepishly, “Bonjour, monsieur. Je m'appelle [Y/n].”

“Bonjour,” Esmeraldo nodded in return. “Pardon moi, mais… vous? You are the one that was sent for to help us? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” He huffed and tossed his hair over his shoulder, his arms folded over his chest.

“Oui, c'est moi,” you confirmed with a sigh. “Believe it or not, I have experience with escaping from Frollo's ire. If nothing else, I can offer a means of escape if it becomes that Paris is too dangerous for your people.”

“Escape?” Esmeraldo snorted, shaking his head scornfully. “What of Justice, then? Who will stand for what is right if everyone it has been denied is gone? No, there is no way you can help us.” He made to storm off, but you intercepted him.

Scowling, you took a challenging step forward into him. “Do not assume that running away is all I can do!” you frowned. “While I believe that your people are deserved their due processes, there is no need to involve the children and mothers when there is a chance that it may come to bloodshed. Frollo has done it before, and as soon as he is able to gather the support of the people strongly enough, he will do it again. I can offer asylum to the aged and the young while the able adults sort out the unpleasantness. Meanwhile, you can do your freedom-fighting. I will support you where I can. After all, I can go places and do things that you and your people cannot. Would it not help to have an ally such as this?”

Those hard, passionate eyes stared deeply into your own, reading into the very depths of your soul and holding you hypnotized in place. He blinked slowly, allowing you the chance to exhale shakily as he approached closer, examining you closely but not in a way that was altogether uncomfortable. More than a glance to assure him of your integrity, you knew it was to make note of your physique and the way you carried yourself. It was all about body language with the Wanderers, and you knew that if you could pass the inspection of a man that manipulated his own body language as a way of life, you could be accepted by those Gypsies you had yet to meet and convince.

“… Show me a way to get out of here without being seen by the Guards waiting outside, and you have yourself a deal, mademoiselle,” he uttered at long last.

A grin stole itself upon your lips. “Easy,” you giggled. “All we need to do for now is wait till the sun goes down. Think you can handle being inside stone walls for a few hours longer?” You were teasing him – lightly, but still teasing.

Familiar with teasing, though usually being on the giving rather than the receiving end of the it, Esmeraldo smirked and leaned casually on one of the stone pillars. “For this once, I might find that saintly patience I'm always being scolded for not possessing. I do hope, chére, that what you say is true. I'm trusting in you. And I do not give that lightly.”

“Excellent!” the Archdeacon cried, “all is as it should be, for now. At this moment, my Children, take rest and breathe easy. The Eyes of Notre Dame are watching over you, standing guard against your enemies…” And with those words, the Archdeacon returned to his duties and began to prepare for a ceremony with the other priests.

You and the handsome, young Gypsy man were left staring at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move as new allies. In the end, it was you who made the first move, pulling a small hunk of bread from your supply satchel and offering him a piece, your expression a well-trained blank. “Care to join me for supper while we wait, then? No use in escaping while our bellies are empty.”

END?