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Quasimodo is a pious man, for his master expects it of him. His master brings him food and thought, keeps him safe from the treachery of Paris inside the aging walls of Our Lady, of Notre Dame. He would surely be killed for his face or his frailty if he dared go outside, master always reminds him; he knows nothing of cruelty, as does a lamb bred for the slaughter.

Claude Frollo is burning, writhing, melting alongside the sins of the city. Of course, one thing is really not so different from the other, when everything burns. And, oh, it will burn.

The boy with the key leads the fight. Quasi watches him from the bell-towers, from the balconies. He dances like Esmeralda, kicking and twisting with light in his eyes. There is a half-familiar lilt to his voice that Quasi recognizes as laughter, though he's bleeding in several places and hungry flames are licking at his limbs. When he smiles, hellfire glints off his teeth. Paris is dying, and he is glorious.

Quasimodo is a pious man. He believes in angels yet.