Chapter Text
Morning in Paris, the city awakes to the bells of Notre Dame. The fisherman fishes, the bakerman bakes to the bells of Notre Dame. To the big bells as loud as the thunder, to the little ones, soft as a psalm. And some say the soul of the city’s the toll of the bells — the bells of Notre Dame…
Listen, they’re beautiful, eh kiddos? So many colors of sound, so many changing moods — because ya know, they don’t ring all by themselves.
Well of course they —
Shush, Cassie. Up there, high in the bell tower, lives the mysterious bell ringer. Who is this creature?
Creature? I thought —
What is he?
What?
How did he come to be there?
But you said —
Hush up a second, Cassie, I’m not talking to you. Alright, kiddos, Gabriel will tell you. It is the tale of a man — and a monster.
Dark was the night when our tale was begun on the docks of Notre Dame.
A few frightened travelers slid silently under the docks of Notre Dame.
But a trap had been laid out for psychics, and they gazed up in fear and alarm at a figure whose clutches were iron as much as the bells — the bells of Notre Dame.
Judge Azazel longed to purge the world of vice and sin.
And he saw corruption everywhere, except within.
Take these creatures to the Palace of Justice. We will determine which of them are psychic in the morning.
You there! What are you hiding?
Demonic talismans, no doubt. Take them from her.
No!
Mary!
He chased her through the streets of Paris, to the very steps of Notre Dame herself. And when he caught her, the bundle she’d protected was his, while she lay dead on the snowy steps. But inside the bundle, Azazel found more than he’d bargained for.
A baby.
A baby whose eyes flashed yellow as he cried.
Not a baby.
A psychic.
So Azazel did the only thing he could think of — he found a nearby well, and prepared to hurl the creature down it.
Stop — cried Jim Murphy, Archbishop of Notre Dame Cathedral.
Azazel showed no guilt. This is an unholy demon. I’m sending it back to Hell, where it belongs.
See there the innocent blood you have spilt, on the steps of Notre Dame, Jim said, gently cradling the broken body of the blonde woman.
I am guiltless, Azazel insisted, she ran, I pursued.
But Jim is not finished. Now you would add this child’s blood to your guilt on the steps of Notre Dame.
My conscience is clear!
You can lie to yourself and your minions. You can claim that you haven’t a qualm. But you never can run from nor hide what you’ve done from the eyes, the very eyes of Notre Dame!
And for one time in his life of power and control, Azazel felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul. What must I do? he asked.
Care for the child, and raise it as your own, Jim ordered.
What? I’m to be saddled with this demonic— Azazel was affronted, but remembered himself a moment later. Very well. But let him live with you, in your church. He did have a reputation to maintain, after all.
Live here? Where?
Anywhere. Just so he’s kept locked away where no one else can see. The bell tower, perhaps. And who knows? Our Lord works in mysterious ways. Even this evil creature may yet prove one day to be, of use to me.
And Azazel gave the child a cruel name — Samael, poison of God, for that is what Azazel intends him to be.
Now, here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame —
Who is the monster and who is the man?