A/N: Fulfilling my New Year's resolution to post more often and getting this piece out there: here's my rendition of this classic tale. Given Hunchback of Notre Dame's themes and time period I thought a Percico spin would fit perfectly with this story. Warning for homophobic, racist and ablest language/slurs.

The Damned of Notre Dame

Maester Nicolas froze in the churchyard, eyes riveted to the graceful figure flowing just outside holy grounds. The gypsy dancer clad in the sea's colors. Liquid fire sparked and bloomed in his chest, rushing through his veins, scorching his nerves. His loins stirred. Nothing could tear his eyes away. Enchanting. Aquamarine veils coiled around a body sculpted from a god's hands, enthralling him. Passion overcame his gentle heart, devoured by the hottest flames. No river so raged, no waterfall so crashed against stone as powerfully as blood surged through his body. He could hear nothing but it's roar and faintly the steady beat of Gypsy music the young man danced to. A face like a classical statue turned. Pink lips parted. Nicolas stumbled a step forward, pulled by the strings of lust.

Fingers snapped beside his ears.

Beauty of the heavens danced, grace of the sea itself rippling through lean muscles. Nicolas could not tear his attention away. Oh to stare for eternity in rapturous fantasy. Yet the priest ached for more. Pale silken robes brushed against him. Teasing. Blood roared like ocean waves, deafening him. His body thirsted for more. The warmth of flesh. Petal-soft lips. The beauty who danced before him like a Sultan's harem-girl.

Crack. A hand stung his cheek. The pain quenched his blood and warmed his face. Nicolas blinked, dazed. A familiar, bulbous nose enveloped his vision, framed with ragged blond hair. Short, blunt fingers moved deftly in the language of the dumb. Sign. A secret he had learned to speak to the one he raised like a daughter.

"Quasimoda? I'm fine." Another cooling breath. "Thank you, my child." He still longed to watch liquid grace, bronze skin. A statue brought to life. Sin's song still coaxed his eyes forward but now he was aware too of his reputation, of the picture a lone priest made gazing at such temptation.

The young woman signed again.

"A spell? I…I am unsure. Perhaps. I feel strange." Quasimoda turned him around and Nicolas staggered back toward elegantly-carved doors like the wine-sodden, clutching her hand. Was it a spell? Or curse? "Let us retire into the church. You have lessons to attend, yes?"

Quasimoda nodded enthusiastically as they entered Paris's grandest building, a master-work of art and architecture, pale against the dark city and Gypsy wagons. A white-haired nun greeted them in a flurry of fuss. "Nicolas! You shouldn't have let her out. Especially now." She aimed a disapproving glare at the Gypsys still dancing outside. "Don't know what things are coming to these days. Those heathens, dancing up sin right outside our door! Mark my words, they're spelling people under." Her voice dropped. "Devil's work."

Icy horror clutched his heart, spreading numbly through his body and snapping the Gypsy's spell like a fine cobweb. Nicolas shut the oaken door, blotting out that devil in angel's form, that daring dancer of holy ground. Peace rang. Choirs caroled softly. Faint candle-scent wafted in the church, calming his blood, soothing eyes with their dim glow. Tension drained. Raging vice died the closer he strode to the alter. Nicolas knelt, dark hair shrouding his face and clasped his hands in prayer.

Prayer for purity. For resistance against such depravity. Never before had he needed it but now, with the sight of graceful limbs swaying behind his eyelids, with the echo of a roar in his blood, he begged for salvation. For all who felt lust. How powerful an emotion, like the mighty Nile sweeping through the brain and heart. How impossible to resist. No wonder women were temptresses and men demons; no wonder people so easily fell. Even he, a priest, was helpless to sin's siren song.

"Please oh merciful Lord. Strength. Give us all strength."

Quasimoda gently laid a book beside him, the title worn to illegibility. "Architecture again? The Holy Bible would do the both of us good." He brought forth the sacred text of God, gold letters flickering in the candle-light.

His charge signed disobediently. Nicolas stiffened and glanced around at the other people, grateful only he understood the language of the dumb. His voice dropped to a hiss, "The Holy text of our lord is not a brick. And never to be used in construction." He tapped the cover. "A book one never outgrows. Even I sometimes need its teachings."

Nicolas di Angelo paced through hallow halls, sacred robes billowing around him, for once feeling neither hallowed, nor sacred. He felt like a crow in swan coloring. Lessons with Quasimoda—no doubt out sketching building plans—only stifled his burning lust briefly. Nothing quenched it. Bells couldn't snap the spell; candle-smoke couldn't sooth roaring blood; communion wafers didn't taste serene enough. Powerful was the Gypsy curse. He'd not sighted the dancer in days, yet demons still stirred his body. Awake. Asleep. At the edges of God's doors and deep within His holy house. No escape. The choir couldn't cleanse it. Seeing no other resolution, he fell to his knees before the hearth.

"Beata Maria, You know I am a righteous man. Of my virtue I am justly proud."

Choir voices echoed softly through distant halls. "Et tibit Pater."

"Beata Maria, You know I'm so much purer than, the common, vulgar, weak, licentious crowd."

How he had once scorned the feeble fortitude and filthy eyes of others. A glance lead them from church. His virtue was strong, the most seductive coquettes and tempting prostitutes lit not a hellish spark in his soul. Had others not prayed enough? Not dedicated enough to God?

Softly came choir's tones. "Quia peccavi nimis."

Pride cometh before the fall and now he plummeted. All the lust of a lifetime, what he should have felt for hundreds of women, all condensed to one.

"Then tell me, Maria. Why I see him dancing there. Why his smold'ring eyes still scorch my soul!"

A man. No greater devilry or terrible sign of sin. Punishment tenfold for his thrice-damned pride. Lust was sin enough and a Gypsy was a whore and thief. But a man! Homosexuality was an abomination by every sacred belief.

"Cogitatione," the choir echoed.

Days, weeks of purging the Gypsy who danced through prayer and thoughts focused only on God. Till this morning when he rose soft and serene. Cured. Ready to face the world…but whom did he see?

"I feel him, I see him, the sun caught in his raven hair is blazing in me out of all control!"

He'd failed. Brought low by both sins. He could still feel lust surging through priestly veins on holy ground. "Like fire. Hellfire. This fire in my skin. This burning desire has turned me to sin!"

"Mea culpa," the choir chastised.

"It's not my fault." He amended. "I'm not to blame."

"Mea culpa."

"It is the gypsy man, the witch who sent this flame!"

"Mea maxima culpa." The choir rebuked.

"It's not my fault," he protested again. A hundred prayers morning and night, skin scrubbed raw with holy water was not enough. What would rid him of this sin?

"Mea culpa."

"If in God's plan," he began.

"Mea culpa."

"He made the devil so much stronger than a man!"

"Mea maxima culpa."

Nicolas lowered his fist; anger drained from him. No, one mustn't blame God. That was the sin of heathens and heretics. The devil spawned weakness but he succumbed. The Lord had nothing to do with it. "Protect me, Maria. Don't let this siren cast his spell. Don't let his fire sear my flesh and bone." His face twisted in a sneer. The dancer inflamed his passion. Twas not God's fault but the Gypsy conspiring with the devil. "Destroy Perceus and let him taste the fires of hell or else let him be in purity alone."

A guard burst in, fully armored, a blood-soaked strand of dark hair in one eye. "Minister Nicolas! The gypsys are being arrested."

Nicolas broke off, "What?"

"Those still alive are to be brought before you for judgement."

So this was God's answer. A test. "Very well, thank you Mikael. Set up court, tomorrow morning I shall pass judgement. Dawn is wiser than dusk."

"Very good Maester." Mikael bowed and left. Resolution and salvation were his just as he had prayed, if only he kept to purity. "Hellfire. Dark fire. Now gypsy it's your turn. Choose God or, your pyre. Be holy or you will burn."

"Eleison."

"God have mercy on him."

"Eleison," the choir echoed.

"God have mercy on me."

"But he will be holy—or he will burn!"

"Order in the court." The gavel clashed against the podium. A crack echoed across stone walls. Spectators shifted like rough seas, one lit torch from mobbing. They were packed tighter than furs in a shipping box; the court was standing room only. The stench was putrid. Their bodies frayed guard's nerves. The metal-clad men stood betwixt judger and judged. Only their leader, Mikael, and God knew whom they protected.

Pressed in mid-room were Gypsys. Airy fabrics torn, bright clothes stained brown, dark skin bloodied from the crowd. Filthy. Already they smelled guilty.

Nicolas avoided Perceus. He needed clarity now more than ever and Gypsy curse or no, he dared not look. This was a test. A failed one if he dared allow lust to overpower him. And he knew sin's true might. Even battered and beragged, the dancer tempted. A glance would take him. The devil would win. In church. In courtroom. Satan had to lose: for the sake of Nicolas's soul.

A mother stared with hopeless, dead eyes, her baby—a scrawny little thing with bowed stomach and gaping ribs, so like Quasimoda at that age—shackled to her. A young girl's face twitched and trembled, trying to hold back tears. Others stared listlessly, swollen-eyed. An older boy sniffed with a bloody nose. Another held their broken arm close. Tokens from a vengeful crowd. Hopelessness rippled through slacken faces and bowed heads. They had given up.

Did they not think him a worthy judge?

A young man, nearly drowning in voluptuous robes, stood and unrolled a scroll of parchment. His voice broke like a bad flute. "Accusations towards the Gypsys as follows: theft, vandalism, debauchery, lewd attitudes, the corruption of virgin youth—female and male—multiple abominations unto God."

"No!" Perceus stood. Nicolas couldn't help but stare down to tempting lips. Look away. Before all sense died. "Maester please—"

Those words did things to his manhood it had no business doing in the middle of a crowded, noxious-smelling trial. Those were words for privacy. Or fantasy. Nicolas fought to focus on the words spoken, not the alluring tone.

"—my people are innocent. Not thieves. And if we've stolen anything, we'll repent and pay back twice over for every taken item." Percy's sea-green eyes met his boldly. Nicolas swallowed. "We haven't broken or burned your property in performance…or private." Perceus smirked. "The other accusations? Well, we've never taken the unwilling."

The crowd's outraged bellow covered Nicolas's gasp. To be so bodacious. In the middle of court. How could he proclaim innocence after such a speech? How could Nicolas give clemency? Would he want to?

"He is an abomination!"

"Filth!"

"Gypsy scum!"

"Wretched witch."

People lunged between the guards, trying to shove metal-clad shoulders away. Nicolas, behind his podium, couldn't stop them. A blow hunched Perceus over, chained and soiled. Bronze skin was tarnished with sickly darkness. A limp marred liquid grace. And the podium before the priest seemed to disappear. Still the dancer was a vision of loveliness. Hastily, he signed a cross. Oh sly devilry, to slither in here? He gripped the wood before him, his only barrier and clung.

Perceus continued. "What's wrong with love? Two men. Two women. A woman and a man. Is love an abomination?"

Perceus was tearing apart his own defense with the greatest of vices. Surely no heathen could be so brazen. Yet Nicolas's heart swelled with something tender. Not lust. Surely this heady, light feeling was not devilry. Rather than fogged, his mind was blinded with a wholly new light. He feared this shade admiration more than any sin. Surely Perceus spoke a lie, the Bible was right. He knew not which idea frightened him more.

"—witched!"

"What?" Nicolas whispered, coming out of his head and focusing on the prosecutor. Sharp fear like winter's chill bit his heart.

"—bewitched our priest and judge!" The accuser shouted. "A devil granted dark powers from hell!"

Nicolas felt only his frantic heart. Blood moaned lustlessly in his ears. Palms slicked against podium. He fought for speech against the dizzying fog of fear. "Thank you…good persecutor." His voice strengthened. "However the house of God is about forgiveness. The church is for sinners. For those who strayed. To help them back."

He glanced at hopeful faces. At irritated ones. Some more familiar to the church than others, most grumbling low and angry so their voices blended together. "Crimes of theft shall be paid for and that which was stolen returned. But we all sin. A fling with a mistress, a brief, coveting glance at a neighbor's fat cow. Or a noble's." A few tentative smiles. "A horrible day's work invites wrathful curses on our tongues. But that doesn't mean tomorrow we can't gently bid the mistress goodbye, wish our neighbor well and give blessings to families and strangers. We all want to do better. That is why we are good. Not because we were born so, but because we are all born in sin and choose to be good. We stumble and fall but still struggle toward His Light and He loves us for it. He has opened His house to everyone…and I'll not rescind the holy invitation."

The crowd quieted. No more angry shuffling as Nicolas continued. "I invite everyone to church. Occasional drunkard. Habitual thief. Adulter. Come and know God's love. Come and know God's forgiveness."

Gypsys, guards, spectators and court workers alike stared silently at him.

Until a lone voice broke holy hush. A damnable voice. "Turn our sacred church into a whore-house! Into a thieves' den? A murderer's sanctuary!"

"They are abominations!"

"—soil our good daughters!"

"Bring our best sons to sin!"

The accusations, insults and fears of hundreds of people rose in volume. Their voices their only outlet. Noise overtook words until nothing could be understood among bestial bellows. The mass of screams blended into one wordless utterance of hate. Nicolas stood disbelieving. How? What had happened to turn a thoughtful group of people into a mob trapped only by its own numbers. "Everyone should have a chance!" He shouted, striving to recapture that spark of kindred spirit. "Salvation!"

His words drowned in spat insults. One man turned toward him, dark-eyed and wild-haired. He had heard. A finger jabbed like a spear. "Abomination. That's why you're forgiving them. You want a whore. You are the devil disguised as an angel."

All feeling left Nicolas's heart. Olive cheeks paled. Blood left him in a dizzying rush as fear quickened his veins. His heart beat violently. No. This wasn't happening. How had the man seen? One pale-knuckled hand clutched the gavel like a war-hammer. Another curled around the bible, pressing the book to his chest. "No. Mercy is my mission. Justice my cause." Red flooded his cheeks as the first guards gave way to the mob's hate. And how he'd failed both.

Another stood to his defense. "Speak not foolishness." Nicolas relaxed. "Our good Maester is bewitched."

Oh not again.

"An abomination!"

"Bewitched!"

Mikael seized Perceus with metal-clad hands, shaking him like a great cat would a hare. "Break the bewitchment. Cease the curse and set Patar di Angelo free! Or burn."

"There isn't any curse!" Perceus protested.

"Then Di Angelo is guilty as well. Burn him with them!" To Nicolas's fearful ears the whole mob took up the cry.

"No!" he shouted.

The crowd turned against him. Faceless. Vengeful. A shower of sparks falling upon dead, dried wood weakened with rot. Mortal fear gripped the priest. He was found, his greatest sin bared. Grasping hands reached out, fingers curved claw-like. All Nicolas saw were teeth.

He brought his only weapon down. Wood clashed against wood. The pack halted, restrained only by a fragment of civilization within their own souls. In a second they would be upon him like wolves upon a wounded stag.

Words leapt before thought. "Gypsy magic," he blurted.

"He's guilty!" the prosecutor shouted.

The priest shut his mouth and dared not look anyone in the face. Words of damnation! He couldn't take that yellow-tongued phrase back. His sentence. Gleeful hands seized men, women, children. Clawed at Perceus. Dragged them all away. Some Gypsys screamed and cried without hesitation or pride. Others stayed awfully silent. Nicolas closed his eyes, unwilling to watch the condemned, damned by his own words.

"How could you!" Perceus bellowed. Nicolas covered his ears. It wasn't enough. "I'll burn a heretic. Better than kneeling before a coward!"

Each word struck hard as the gavel. Then all quieted as the crowds dispersed to take their attention elsewhere. Beneath his eyelids and behind cupped hands all was still and silent. Until a smell. Familiar, it faintly suggested church. Then a cloud of noxious smoke seared his nose and choked his lungs. Flames crackled hungrily. He could barely hear the cries of the burned but the smell. It clung in his nostrils, in his mouth, on his tongue. He fled. Away from the courthouse; away from the mob; away from the stench he couldn't get out of his nose or off his tongue.

Seared meat.

Unable to bear the reek, he flew—head down, arms pressed around his head like some demented crow. No distance was enough from those terrible screams, from that stomach-churning smell. His guts erupted, splattering his last meal against a neatly-trimmed lawn. Empty and broken, he staggered into the church. His final sanctuary. The aisles were deserted; bells tolled the hour but among the images of the saintly he was alone.

Candle-smoke wafted gently but only stirred the smell of seared flesh in his mind. Bile tasted like ash on his tongue. The softly flickering lights brought forth jagged visions of the bonfire eagerly consuming Perceus and all his friends and family with him. Burned to death. Nicolas felt not a judge nor priest. He'd granted no justice, no mercy.

"If they only had converted." He whispered.

Those words invited their shadows to haunt him, the ghosts of their accusing glares branding his skin. No. He jerked his sleeves away from hungry flames, heart hammering. Oh, only the hearth-fire. Perceus's words rang louder than his pulse; a final curse. Was the gypsy wrong or the Bible? Nicolas shook his head, did such things matter when he had surely committed abomination in murdering so many. And for what? To hide his own sin. What could be more cowardly?

No! Twas the crowd. They'd forced his hand. It was their fault the gypsys hadn't been welcomed in the cathedral, that Perceus wasn't by his side in the holy order. Never together. But better the soul saved than the body. The mob…

…Didn't slam the gavel down. Hadn't uttered those unforgivable words. A moment's weakness with a cowardly tongue and God's test he'd failed. Perceus he'd damned.

The mob had found him out. His abomination. His sin. They would have thrown him into the fire beside Perceus and there he would have burned, first in life, next in Hell.

Nicolas collapsed by the hearth, guilt's noose squeezing his throat. "Tis my fault." He choked to dying fire. "I am to blame." Misery over-ran him like a swollen river. "It is the gypsy man, the witch whose of holy flame."

"It is my fault," Nicolas croaked. "I played to the devil's plan." Satan could've contrived such theft. To steal so many innocent souls.

The devil! Their souls! Nicolas collapsed before the hearth, hands clasped till his knuckles turned white. "Oh take me," he begged, "Not the innocent souls whom I have damned!" He reached out with his blackened soul to anyone who would listen. "Protect them Maria. Don't let my sin cast them to hell. Don't let hellfire sear their flesh and bone. Destroy me and let me taste the fires of hell but let them be saved and left alone…"

Doors burst open. Nicolas fell silent as Mikael rushed in, though he desperately wanted to snap at the guard. "Maester Nicolas, the Gypsys have escaped."

"What?"

"No bones in the ashes. Nowhere in the cathedral. They're gone."

"But how?"

"Their leader," Mikael spoke with a little heat. Nicolas noticed the guard favoring the left side. "The bewitcher helped the others escape. But worry not, we will find them and we slew their leader. He's at hellgates now."

"God works in mysterious ways." Nicolas whispered to himself. Once more his prayers had been answered. The gypsys had escaped dreadful damnation…all save one. The one he'd fixated on. Was this God's price for granting his prayer, the death of the one who evoked…no, who he had sinned against? A price without justice or mercy, so like the sentence he had passed. Curse his treacherous lust. "Take your leave. We'll not find them. Not if we burned down all of Paris."

Mikael hesitated only a moment before bowing, turning and leaving him alone with his thoughts. Whatever the unjust price—the one he should have paid—once more his prayers had been answered. Nicolas turned shining eyes heavenward. "Heaven's light, oh gypsy it's your turn. You chose well in your fight. Either way you won't burn."

He bowed. "Lord I thank you for your mercy. God have mercy on him. He will be free in earth and heaven's light."

"Can't make up your mind? Can you."

The voice made Nicolas's heart skip. Were his ears deceiving him? The priest's eyes flew open and he whipped around. No. Here was Perceus before him, back from the dead. Blessedly alive. His bared chest heaving with hard-won breaths. Sopping rags clung to bronze skin that water had purified, trailing the curves of lithe muscles.

Nicolas swallowed. "What are you doing here? Do you court death!"

"Looks like." Perceus managed a single step before his leg gave out and he clutched his thigh. Rags were stained dark. "I've nothing to lose. Help me as you promised…or condemn me as you did. Your choice."

Priest knelt before gypsy and Nicolas had to suppress the desire to kiss him. "I have greatly wronged you and words cannot possibly make things right again. Thank God…and thank you for this chance. I'll right my sin. Come. I have quarters deep inside. We'll not be disturbed."

"You know I need healing. Not sex."

Nicolas's cheeks bloomed with color. "I mean…where we won't be caught. For healing. Just healing." More smoothly he added, "I've a most skilled healer." He gestured to the ceiling.

"You're not used to courting," Perceus teased faintly.

"I'm a priest," Nicolas hissed. "Vow of celibacy."

From the rafters swooped a whirl of white and black, descending in silent grace. Perceus gaped. The girl rose on unusually short legs; arms over-long for her body; toes twisted ape-like. A flattened face turned toward his, dominated by a massive nose. One gawky ear hung high, the other low; limp, greasy blond hair hung ragged as a rusty ax. How had one so twisted moved so elegantly?

Oddly pale sharp-flint eyes scrutinized the scene instantly. She wiped up the tell-tale blood and water, leaving unblemished stone.

"Thank you," Nicolas said with pride. "Leave no trace. Rendezvous at my quarters, we need your medical expertise."

"I need it," Perceus interjected. "He's fine."

The young girl nodded, face grave.

With Perceus against him, Nicolas led them both deeper into the cathedral. Into places no layman was allowed and through darkened halls. To safety.

"Wh—who is that?"

"That was Quasimoda, A foundling left to the mercy of the church's doorstep." He trailed off in memory. "Our doctor had declared she wouldn't make it through the night. I was twelve? Thirteen? My heart went out to that baby and I begged to care for her."

"What's with the signs?"

"She cannot speak. Never could. In place of words we use signs." His voice dropped. "Sometimes it has been convenient for others to believe she could not understand." In a more severe voice Nicolas added. "Do not underestimate her. She combines woman's skills and man's learning with ease greater than both."

"She will not betray—?"

"I would trust no better with my life."

"What about the other priests? Nuns? The people who spit-polish this floor?"

Nicolas took a turn through a smaller door, down a hallway without a single candle or window, but one he could navigate by touch. "No, she shan't. She's a good heart," more softly he added, "Better than mine."

"True. But priests are human too." Perceus allowed.

Pushing aside the feeling of abject failure—Perceus was here and alive now, the other gypsys safely away—and opened a door. "Only a few more steps."

Quasimoda awaited them. The bedsheets of his mattress were folded aside. Bandages torn and set in neat rows. A small hearth warmed the whole room nicely. Water steamed from hot coals. Medical supplies laid out on a tray. Perceus collapsed the second they entered the room. She caught him. With uncanny swiftness the thirteen year old girl hauled a man twice her size to the bed. The wound gaped, despite its shoddy bandage. She closed it with a poultice and raised a potion to parted lips. Nicolas shifted uneasily in the middle of the room.

"You are no help fretting," she signed once the potion was gone. "Change clothes and rid your quarters of evidence. Let others see you lest they suspect."

Nicolas sighed, "My righteous daughter."

"I am always right."

His face darkened. "Beware, pride comes before fall. Perceus nearly died from my pride."

"Takes a lot more than that to kill me."

Quasimoda looked down and nodded seriously. Nicolas slipped through the doorway to remove his blood-stained robes and change into a fresh set, but paused. "Thank you Quasimoda."

"You are my guardian. There is no need for thanks."

"Twas my joy to raise one so bright. You've helped save two souls, his and my own. Thank you, most blessed daughter." He kissed her cheek gently before throwing his bloodied robes into the hearth.

Quasimoda blushed. Her stomach felt as though a thousand hammers were all clanging at the same time. Wary, she stifled the feeling. Was it lust? Love? A crush? Surely a sin. Nicolas was her father.

Not by blood, a little voice whispered.

Her stomach still felt queasy. And her guardian wouldn't ever return the feeling. No one would. Quasimoda was keenly aware of her horrific ugliness. To others it encompassed her wholly. They saw nothing of her sharp mind or planned sketches or her grace and agility and good heart. Nicolas praised those. But he saw her as a daughter. Never an equal.

She shook leaden thoughts away. Her patient needed her, the gypsy Nicolas had been pinning after; this one's death would break his heart.

"Thank you," Perceus rasped. "From my heart's depths milady…thank you for saving my life." He propped himself on one arm and bowed as though she were a real noble-lady.

Again her cheeks flushed. Quasimoda turned attention to finishing the tea she was making, a special blend of herbs to help the body heal faster. With that hanging over the tiny hearth, she dug through Nicolas's things. Priest robes. The voluptuous clothes wouldn't disturb the wound. She laid them over him like a blanket.

"Oh. You want me in these?"

She nodded. Why save him from fire only for him to catch his death of cold.

He stripped his rags off, baring himself. Quasimoda quickly turned away, focusing all her attention on the shredded rags as though they were the most important thing in the world. Her fluttering stomach tensed. Not again.

Well, at least they weren't related.

"How is he?" Nicolas asked softly, dropping his outer robes. He moved like a guard who had just shed all his armor. Dark bags built beneath his eyes. What a long day of searches and questions and discussions of exorcisms and sermons and always in the back of his mind the worry that everyone else could read his secret etched on his skull.

"Warm, stitched, bandaged and not sick." Quasimoda signed.

"No doubt the blessing of the sacramental wine." Nicolas said.

She thought the fire she passed her tools through burnt any sickness off them. Heat killed almost everything. But her guardian insisted on sacramental wine or holy water too.

"Well done." He threw off his robes.

"Awake," She signed during the most damnable part. Nicolas stiffened, ankles bristling with cold. For a moment. Then like a startled cat he leapt behind his robes. One foot went through a sleeve, his heel on the trim. He tumbled into a heap of cloth. Quasimoda's face beamed with laughter.

Laughter Perceus's voice echoed. "Don't stand on ceremony," he chuckled.

Nicolas scowled, cheeks dusted red, first at the gypsy, then at his cheeky charge. She signed, "I shall leave you to it."

The door closed, leaving both men alone. The atmosphere tensed. Patient and priest stared, both terribly aware Perceus owed his life to the Maester. And Nicolas had endangered him in the first place. Guilt weighed like bile in his throat; slender fingers played with the stiff collar choking his throat. The dancer kept eyeing him expectantly.

"I was a horrible judge." Nicolas forced out. "Words cannot express…if I could only take it back."

"You can't," Perceus said. Running a hand gently over the gash in his side, he asked wearily, "Why?"

"I make no excuses. In God's test, my moment of truth, I failed and spoke only to save my own unworthy hide." He swallowed. "The others. Did they all escape?"

"I was wounded early on but bought them enough time. But that's not what I meant. You've been so fixated on me." He shook his head, "What did I do?"

Blood scorched Nicolas's face. Not this. Not in his church. Not alone with this man, in his bedroom. The priest desperately wanted to turn their conversation back to his damned decision. "I am not certain I understand you?"

Perceus's handsome face hardened. "Yes. You do. I've seen you before. Many times. The priest who stares…" Nicolas's ears reddened. "Oh…oh. You like me?" The dancer let his face fall into the mattress. "Hell of a way of showing it," he grumbled. "Hey?" He shot up again. "Doesn't your god say that's a naughty idea? Does someone need a spanking." Percy teased.

The priest's face turned so red it purpled. "Yes!" He snapped. "It is. He does. I've had nothing but torment ever since…" he trailed off. Shame took the place of anger. "It's not your fault, only mine. My feelings. My sin." Desperation gripped him. "But I shall regain my virtue. Sinners can be good as saints if they overcome their sins and I will not let this vice drag anyone else down with me."

"Bravo. Wonderful holy sermon Father. I'm applauding. But seriously what's so wrong with love?" His voice turned serious, "That everyone I know must be burned to death."

Nicolas gaped at the most brazen creature on earth. "Of course it's a sin. By God's holy book, the Pope's proclamation! Every single teaching of the Church and Christ—"

"Do you believe that?" Perceus asked softly. "Do you really believe genuine romantic love between two men should be punished by murder?"

Nicolas looked to the floor, it's smoothed, chilled, neatly fitted stones, then the hearth's gentle flickering flames. "I…" his tongue felt like lead. A mob of humanity ready to rend him apart wasn't as intimidating as that question. What did he believe? That the holy word inscribed in God's book was a lie? That Perceus, who was willing to give his life for his fellow human beings, ought to die? That the greatest of these, love, could in any form be an abomination? That two men could feel love for each other rather than mere perverse lust?

"I do not know."

For a moment Perceus looked the wise elder Nicolas strove to grow into all his life. With a thoughtful nod, he said, "I'll forgive you for nearly getting me killed. But only me."

Nicolas smiled weakly, relief bringing him to his knees. "Thank you for your generosity."

He meant it.

Quasimoda left the pair alone to talk. They needed it. And she needed alone-time away from a room so tense a cough would shatter it. Thoughts of them planted lust deep inside her heart, though Perceus didn't believe it sinful and he was a good man. Right? Risking death for his people. And Nicolas felt something similar for the gypsy dancer so how could it be sinful? Maybe they could stay together? She would have two…well even two handsome friends had to be better than one moldy old husband.

"…den deep in this very Cathedral."

Snapping out of fantasy, she cocked her ears toward the tense voice. Below the rafters two figures walked among a crowd, voices blending in with the hustle and bustle of many others. She strained her hearing beyond the clink and clang of Mikael's every step. Beside the guard, speaking in an inconsequential tone of voice, was Maester Octavian.

Suspicion prickled the hair on her arms.

"—rial you seek to inflame. No simple crime. Nor a simple man you accuse." Octavian warned.

"I know, but I've heard. Go yourself. Bring guards and see the proof of his—."

"—with guards?" Octavian turned away, "Have a care, as though any peon is allowed within the central chambers of the Cathedral." Mikael hastened a few steps. "No. If you speak the truth, it will out." The blond's light eyes turned sharp, like water to ice, "And if you speak lies…"

"No lie milord, I swear on the grace of God—"

"Do you ever relieve yourself of that metal shell?" Mikael's immobile face grew dark. A sly smirk came to the fair-skinned Maester. "Oh wait, you can't risk it."

"I lie not," Mikael whispered harshly.

A couple of nuns looked up, frowning at the duo. Octavian nodded courteously and the pair slipped outside to the gardens.

"Let us be silent on both matters, for now." The priest's features softened. "I shall ponder the matter and its execution. Know that you did right. Your news is appreciated. Fear not, God's wrath falls upon sinners."

Mikael's lips twisted in discomfort. "Of course sir," the guard said in a neutral voice and reluctantly departed. Octavian, unhelpfully, didn't muse aloud. Instead he slipped back inside toward the priestly quarters. His room. And Nicolas's. Quasimoda raced to catch up. If he saw her guardian and her patient, Percy would be put to death and Nicolas…

Octavian froze suddenly, twisting his sharp, skinny face around. He looked up.

She froze. Had he heard a careless footstep? The priest was scanning the rafters warily. Did he know? She didn't dare move, for the smallest flinch could catch the human eye. Even her breath stilled in her lungs. She dared not look at him lest he feel her stare.

Booted feet padded softly against luxurious rugs. He was leaving—she dared a glance—toward his rooms. Letting loose a silent breath, she waited patiently until there was neither sight nor sound of the other priest before creeping away. To Nicolas's room.

There she found him sharing a tender kiss with Percy. Fantasy made reality. They heard her burst in and immediately leapt apart. Quasimoda again admonished herself for the noise.

"M-my daughter," Nicolas stuttered, face flushing deeper still. "Um…about this."

"No time," she signed, pushing aside her own wild emotions. "I overheard something disturbing." The whole of the eavesdropped conversation rushed out of her like water, but as she moved her hands Quasimoda felt uncertain. Their words weren't that threatening. They could've been discussing anyone. But Octavian's ambition consumed him as her intellect consumed her. Yet other people sinned. Especially high-ranking priests and nuns; perhaps it was nothing.

Her guardian gave her his full attention. Percy looked puzzled as Nicolas translated. "Um, no offense," the dancer said, "But that could have been anyone. We haven't even…that was our first kiss."

Nicolas explained worriedly. "Octavian is extremely ambitious and has a gift for verbal combat such that he could turn white to black. Saint to sinner." More quietly he added. "Nor would he need much." To Quasimoda, "Are you certain 'twas I?"

She hesitated. There was no evidence. Only a feeling. Maybe they were discussing another. But Nicolas was in Octavian's way and Quasimoda never favored lady luck.

"Yes."

Nicolas accepted this, "I shall watch closely. Percy, you might move elsewhere soon. The rafters? With Quasimoda's permission?"

She nodded. Percy would make a wonderful room-mate. But just in case she left once more to prepare.

Darkness swallowed the sun. The church settled to sleep. Beneath the cover of shadow Nicolas met his charge. Awkwardly. "I know the church's teachings about sin. About two men…uh…" He trailed off, flushing again.

As if she would condemn him. "You saved me, not the church." She signed. She almost added 'Not God' but that might be too much. "Love is not an abomination. It is the greatest of these three, hope, faith and love," she quoted. It was also fire. Destroying. Like wildfire. Or warming and comforting like hearth-fire.

Which was Nicolas and Percy? Time would tell.

"Thank you," he sighed. "No matter what happens or who else I fall for, I'll always love you."

Daringly, she signed back. "I love you too."

Blood red splayed against white. A cloying stench overtook Nicolas's quarters. Percy was motionless before the Maester and—how had Octavian arranged this—the visiting Cardinal

"Nicolas?" Octavian pleaded. "Say this gypsy broke into your quarters."

Despite his shock, her guardian looked the Cardinal—who just happened to step into the wrong room whilst Percy was present—straight in the eye. "This young man is innocent of any crime and is as welcome within our Cathedral as an angel."

The Cardinal looked from Nicolas in his priest's robes to Percy, wearing those same robes like a costume, and turned redder than his rank. "Arrest them!"

Percy seized Octavian and threw the scheming rat into the hall. Quasimoda launched herself and slammed the door so hard into the Cardinal's face, she could hear the thud of his skull hitting the floor. More distantly rhythmic clanking echoed. Steel against steel. Guards. No doubt Octavian's loyal toady Mikael lead enough to 'accidentally' kill the three of them. They had seconds.

"Follow me." Quasimoda signed.

"I'll go. They'll blame me Nico," Percy gave his once condemner and future lover a tender smile. "You keep priesting."

"You must both go. They're after you both. Mikael comes with many guards!" She signed. Gestures forceful as blows.

"No," Nicolas clasped Percy's hands, "I broke the rules and must pay the price for my true sin. I tried to avoid it by throwing Perceus and his people to the wolves. No more."

Quasimoda wanted to scream at the righteous arguments. Now was not the time to die noble heroic deaths.

Crack! The argument halted as steel met wood. The solid oak door stood no chance. With a second blow it was felled from its hinges and halberds invaded the room.

Percy wrenched an ax-bladed spear from one of the guards while Nicolas threw a bed-curtain to the hearth, then onto the incoming guards. Quasimoda grabbed them both, her guardian around the waist, her gypsy over the shoulder and hauled them both to the trap-door Nicolas had helped her install so many years ago. Her secret doorway, he called it.

Every fiber of muscle felt like a string straining to hold a brick. She could feel the burning of tissue parting in her arms. An ax-head bit into one shoulder, slicing a deep gash of agony so painful air touching parted tissue stung like acid. Quasimoda sagged. Percy wedged one arm through the half-open door and together, they heaved themselves and Nicolas into the rafters.

Spears stabbed through the ceiling. Percy hissed as one clove into him and rolled through grime and cobwebs, leaving splatters of blood nearly invisible against the shoddy flooring. "Damn it! I just healed from the last one."

Mikael wrenched an arm through the trap-door, climbing up, another hand gripping a halberd.

Percy lunged with his stolen weapon, catching a chink between breastplate and throat. The sharp blade tore into vulnerable flesh and blood spilled like strength down Mikael's breasts as the guard clawed into the room. "Wait…no." The weapon caught a rafter. A tug from the weapon stopped her desperate crawl. Bloody lipse moved soundlessly and Nicolas knelt, hands automatically moving in last rites.

"No time, others are coming," Percy pulled the priest to his feet.

Quasimoda led the way as more guards took Mikael's place, through an odd, revolving door she'd designed. Tearing off part of her tunic, she shoved it into the turnstile. Catching onto what she was doing, the other two stabbed the broken shaft and half of Nicolas's voluptuous robes, staying the door.

"It won't stop them for long," Percy warned. Already they could hear more pounding, a second charge. Quasimoda tucked her injured arm to her body and burst through the nearest door, for once grateful for her mis-shapen body. As strong and stealthy as it was ugly.

They snuck through the labyrinth of Quasimoda's architecture practice. A maze of hallways. Doors of the strangest types in the strangest places. Rooms small enough for a child and others large enough to hold a trial in. At first there'd been no rhyme or reason to anything but as she aged, the budding designer had begun piecing everything together with a long-term plan in mind. With the certainty of a lifetime of exploration and building, she took them through another door into a whole room full of them.

"Woah." Percy halted. Even Nicolas looked around, shocked. She'd managed to fit no less than twenty different ones within the floor, ceiling and walls while experimenting.

"This one," she signed, diving for one corner of the ceiling. It opened into a stairwell consumed by darkness.

A breeze cooled their cheeks. "We must be nearing the roof," Nicolas mentioned.

Quasimoda nodded, though the darkness was so bad none of them could see. By feel alone she found the hinge which opened this next door. They entered another room full of light. And supplies. A bolt-hole.

"What a maze you've built." Nicolas said admiringly.

"The story of Daedalus inspired me." She signed back.

"Story of who?" Percy was still learning sign and the stories of classical cultures.

"Ancient Greece's Quasimoda." Nicolas answered absently. "You knew this would happen," he said to her.

"Intuition is logic on wings." She signed.

"No kidding." Percy glanced at the dried food, the currencies organized by origin. "You've got stock." Quasimoda nodded, hoping they wouldn't inquire as to how she had accumulated such supplies. "So oh Master planner. What's the plan?"

"We hide here," Quasimoda signed. "They believe we flee in darkness if we have not already. We slip out during the daytime and blend into the crowds." She frowned, disguising her face would be difficult.

"So shall we," Nicolas said, glancing at his robes, "All my life I've been a priest. Can I be mistaken for anyone else?"

"These will help," Quasimoda tugged at the stored clothes, the sort every commoner wore. "I hadn't the time to plan further." And she had never left the city.

Percy finished bandaging. "Getting us away from the city? No problem." He smirked, "I was born on a ship."

"We should depart during the morning rush. We shall more likely be run over than discovered," Nicolas mused.

"Better death by horse than death by fire." Percy joked.

"You need not flee." Nicolas told his charge. "The church shall not blame you for my actions. My sins."

Quasimoda scowled. "They don't think me enough of a person to blame. I'll miss this building more than they." It was a marvel of architecture, but there must be other such marvels out there in the wide world. "Besides, you are both my boys." Even if she could never have them in the way she wanted them.

"That we are. Long as you'll have us." Percy said.

A/N: Hope everyone enjoyed! The whole thing started with me listening to the song 'Hellfire' while reading a Percico story. Everything else spiraled from there.