Valentine's Day Fest: Gift for 
yet_intrepid
For: yet_intrepid
Story by:bearit
Title: For Love
Prompt: "Something featuring Jehan and/or Marius being up in the air about love, the soul, infinity, and someone making references to the historical St. Valentine, maybe Combeferre discussing which one of the many the holiday is actually named for."
Author's note: I tried to get it as close as I could, though the fic admittedly took a sadder turn that what the prompter intended for which I apologize, among other things.
The poems referenced in the fic are Parlement of Foules by Geoffrey Chaucer and A Farewell to Love by Charles, Duke of Orleans.
Cosette knew that look on Marius’s face. She knew what thoughts played on his mind whenever he stared pensively into the fireplace. She knew the place he visited when his eyes did not focus on the dance of the flames but somewhere afar. She knew the memories that stirred when his hands folded tightly to his chin, knuckles white and fingers trembling. She knew that when his eyebrows furrowed and his pursed lips curved like that, his heart was breaking, and she knew that she must not leave the room.
And so Cosette went to his side. She gently took his hand. His eyes met hers, and he returned with a soft smile.
“Tomorrow is Saint Valentin,” he started simply. Cosette only nodded but said nothing. “I have told you about Jean Prouvaire?”
“Yes.”
“He loved this holiday. He recited poems: traditional ones, obscure ones, ones he had written himself. He helped me with one for you. At the time, I was still…” Marius shook his head. “I thought I had lost it, and I thought it for the better. But I found it tonight.”
His eyes darted to the small table beside the sofa. Cosette followed his gaze and saw the piece of paper, carefully folded but crinkled as though it had been gripped tightly. She dared not ask for it; though it might have once been intended for her, it was not hers. Not anymore. She gripped Marius’s hand tighter.
“Tell me more,” she asked.
Marius’s eyes shone of gratitude and happiness. Cosette could not help but smile. At least tonight, the memories he shared with her were fond ones.
“I was living with Courfeyrac at the time, and I thought your name was Ursula. The fact that the day was Saint Valentin escaped most of us, I think, but not Prouvaire. He remembered, and he wished to celebrate the day with us gaily.
“He began with a line from a poem. An old one. ‘For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.’ But it was not for the day in February, Prouvaire pointed out to us, for birds mate in the winter. But the beauty of celebrating love in a season so close and yet so distant from spring was to give proof that such a thing can blossom even in the snow, in the rain, as the leaves change color and fall, in miserable heat and in terrible cold. Perhaps birds do not mate in February, said Prouvaire. Perhaps they fell in love in February, and they mated in March and April, celebrating a beautiful, but short-lived, romance.
“No one interrupted him. Those who would were still engrossed in their political discussion, or either too drunk or too sober to find his voice. Only half their ears were trained on Prouvaire, but that did not faze him. So he continued. How did the next poem he recited to us go again? Oh, yes.
“‘I am already sick of love, my very gentle Valentine, since for me you were born too soon, and I for you was born too late. God forgives he who has estranged me from you for the whole year. Well might I have suspected that such a destiny thus would have happened this day. How much that Love would have commanded…’”
Marius trailed off and sheepishly shook his head. “Forgive me, Cosette, I cannot remember it properly. But it was in that moment that Prouvaire looked upon me and declared that he should help me write you a Valentine. For my agony gave my romance beauty, for there is little worse than agony born of love found and lost before it could even be returned, but there is little more beautiful than happiness born of such an agony. And so, for this Saint Valentin, he proclaimed, he would help me profess my love to you.
“For Prouvaire, I suspect the task should not have been as difficult as it was, but the others helped little. Everyone wanted a say. Courfeyrac was especially unhelpful.
“Grantaire, even, had found his voice and chimed in, and though his words were contrary to the others Prouvaire could tell that I wanted to find the truth in them. And so he stirred up a poem of his own, each word written as he spoke, though not on paper. Not on that night, and that is a failing not only upon us but for the whole of France. I can only paraphrase it for you, Cosette, and it shames me that I cannot do more than that for him.
“Love may be painful, but it a pain that gives our souls strength. For it is out of love, both shared and unrequited, that gives us the courage to do deeds that we were too cowardly to do before. Love is the light in the darkness to help us carry on when we cannot find a reason to. And love is enough, for it may slip away from us, but it is never truly gone. It is a spark that cannot truly die, and it is the only thing in the world that can survive us.
“That is why Saint Valentin is a day to be celebrated, said Prouvaire. It does not matter if you are wed, or if you are in love, or if you are seeking it, or if you claim to have no interest in it. Love must always be celebrated, and it is wonderful that there is a day set aside for especially that.”
Marius fell silent. Cosette knew, though, that the memory was not yet over. She gently caressed his hand to remind him that she was still here and that she would not leave, and that she would stay so that he did not become lost in the past.
Then Marius continued, “It was when Prouvaire talked about the Roman emperor Claudius II and his banishment of marriage that Combeferre became distracted from his conversation with Enjolras and spoke to us the many legends surrounding the holiday. He confirmed Prouvaire’s tale of the martyr Valentine, put to death for performing secret marriages between young men and women in spite of Claudius’s decree. He spoke of another man named Valentine, who helped prisoners escape the torture of Roman prisons. Another tale suggests that Valentine was a prisoner himself and fell in love with the daughter of his captor. All of these men named Valentine died for what they believed in. And what they believed in, Prouvaire pointed out, was love.
“It is nothing extraordinary to die for love, I realized. It has happened since the dawn of civilization, perhaps even before that. It continues even today and will continue into eternity. And yet, as I murmured this, I met Prouvaire’s eyes and knew, and wholeheartedly agreed: it was because it was nothing extraordinary that it was the most extraordinary thing of all, to die for love. Love is selfish and selfless all at once, but dying for it makes it the most selfless act of all.
“And it is they—Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and everyone—who made me realize in the months to come that it is not only limited to the love one shares with another. To die for the love of country, of people, of ideals and of beliefs… if you die for love and with love in your heart, you have died a worthy death.”
Marius eyes fell to his lap. His mind no longer held the images of a time not too long ago, and his heart was now filled with a longing sadness. Cosette moved closer to him and rested her head upon his shoulder, both of her hands grasping both of his. She held tight, and he even tighter.
They stayed silent for a while. Then Cosette’s eyes traveled to the folded paper on the table, and she imagined all that transpired after Marius had written what Prouvaire and the others so earnestly assisted him with. Were the wrinkles in the paper from Marius holding the Valentine too closely to his chest as he walked home that night? Or were they from his friends as they playfully teased and read what Marius had written? Did the others write their own notes to the women in their lives? Did Prouvaire write poetry that night beyond what he had recited to the others? Or maybe, just maybe, he had remembered what he had said and had promptly returned home to transcribe it for prosperity’s sake.
How many of the words on that note on the table were from Marius himself? Perhaps she could find traces of Prouvaire in them. Of Combeferre, of Courfeyrac, even of Enjolras. Would Joly, Laigle, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire be present? She could not see why not. They must have had plenty of words to offer Marius themselves.
And yet, she still did not bring herself to ask Marius to read it. It was once intended for her, but if his friends existed in every word written on that page, that Valentine was now for Marius from the Friends of the ABC.
So Cosette smiled. As she lifted her head from Marius’s shoulder, she gently suggested, “Perhaps tomorrow we can visit them. And tonight, I can help you compose a Valentine for them.”
Marius turned to Cosette, his eyes searching hers for a moment, and then he kissed her.
The Valentine that was placed on the headstone of Jean Prouvaire the next morning was addressed to all of them at once and each of them individually. And Cosette made absolutely certain that every single last word came directly from Marius’s heart.
yet_intrepidStory by:
bearitTitle: For Love
Prompt: "Something featuring Jehan and/or Marius being up in the air about love, the soul, infinity, and someone making references to the historical St. Valentine, maybe Combeferre discussing which one of the many the holiday is actually named for."
Author's note: I tried to get it as close as I could, though the fic admittedly took a sadder turn that what the prompter intended for which I apologize, among other things.
The poems referenced in the fic are Parlement of Foules by Geoffrey Chaucer and A Farewell to Love by Charles, Duke of Orleans.
Cosette knew that look on Marius’s face. She knew what thoughts played on his mind whenever he stared pensively into the fireplace. She knew the place he visited when his eyes did not focus on the dance of the flames but somewhere afar. She knew the memories that stirred when his hands folded tightly to his chin, knuckles white and fingers trembling. She knew that when his eyebrows furrowed and his pursed lips curved like that, his heart was breaking, and she knew that she must not leave the room.
And so Cosette went to his side. She gently took his hand. His eyes met hers, and he returned with a soft smile.
“Tomorrow is Saint Valentin,” he started simply. Cosette only nodded but said nothing. “I have told you about Jean Prouvaire?”
“Yes.”
“He loved this holiday. He recited poems: traditional ones, obscure ones, ones he had written himself. He helped me with one for you. At the time, I was still…” Marius shook his head. “I thought I had lost it, and I thought it for the better. But I found it tonight.”
His eyes darted to the small table beside the sofa. Cosette followed his gaze and saw the piece of paper, carefully folded but crinkled as though it had been gripped tightly. She dared not ask for it; though it might have once been intended for her, it was not hers. Not anymore. She gripped Marius’s hand tighter.
“Tell me more,” she asked.
Marius’s eyes shone of gratitude and happiness. Cosette could not help but smile. At least tonight, the memories he shared with her were fond ones.
“I was living with Courfeyrac at the time, and I thought your name was Ursula. The fact that the day was Saint Valentin escaped most of us, I think, but not Prouvaire. He remembered, and he wished to celebrate the day with us gaily.
“He began with a line from a poem. An old one. ‘For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.’ But it was not for the day in February, Prouvaire pointed out to us, for birds mate in the winter. But the beauty of celebrating love in a season so close and yet so distant from spring was to give proof that such a thing can blossom even in the snow, in the rain, as the leaves change color and fall, in miserable heat and in terrible cold. Perhaps birds do not mate in February, said Prouvaire. Perhaps they fell in love in February, and they mated in March and April, celebrating a beautiful, but short-lived, romance.
“No one interrupted him. Those who would were still engrossed in their political discussion, or either too drunk or too sober to find his voice. Only half their ears were trained on Prouvaire, but that did not faze him. So he continued. How did the next poem he recited to us go again? Oh, yes.
“‘I am already sick of love, my very gentle Valentine, since for me you were born too soon, and I for you was born too late. God forgives he who has estranged me from you for the whole year. Well might I have suspected that such a destiny thus would have happened this day. How much that Love would have commanded…’”
Marius trailed off and sheepishly shook his head. “Forgive me, Cosette, I cannot remember it properly. But it was in that moment that Prouvaire looked upon me and declared that he should help me write you a Valentine. For my agony gave my romance beauty, for there is little worse than agony born of love found and lost before it could even be returned, but there is little more beautiful than happiness born of such an agony. And so, for this Saint Valentin, he proclaimed, he would help me profess my love to you.
“For Prouvaire, I suspect the task should not have been as difficult as it was, but the others helped little. Everyone wanted a say. Courfeyrac was especially unhelpful.
“Grantaire, even, had found his voice and chimed in, and though his words were contrary to the others Prouvaire could tell that I wanted to find the truth in them. And so he stirred up a poem of his own, each word written as he spoke, though not on paper. Not on that night, and that is a failing not only upon us but for the whole of France. I can only paraphrase it for you, Cosette, and it shames me that I cannot do more than that for him.
“Love may be painful, but it a pain that gives our souls strength. For it is out of love, both shared and unrequited, that gives us the courage to do deeds that we were too cowardly to do before. Love is the light in the darkness to help us carry on when we cannot find a reason to. And love is enough, for it may slip away from us, but it is never truly gone. It is a spark that cannot truly die, and it is the only thing in the world that can survive us.
“That is why Saint Valentin is a day to be celebrated, said Prouvaire. It does not matter if you are wed, or if you are in love, or if you are seeking it, or if you claim to have no interest in it. Love must always be celebrated, and it is wonderful that there is a day set aside for especially that.”
Marius fell silent. Cosette knew, though, that the memory was not yet over. She gently caressed his hand to remind him that she was still here and that she would not leave, and that she would stay so that he did not become lost in the past.
Then Marius continued, “It was when Prouvaire talked about the Roman emperor Claudius II and his banishment of marriage that Combeferre became distracted from his conversation with Enjolras and spoke to us the many legends surrounding the holiday. He confirmed Prouvaire’s tale of the martyr Valentine, put to death for performing secret marriages between young men and women in spite of Claudius’s decree. He spoke of another man named Valentine, who helped prisoners escape the torture of Roman prisons. Another tale suggests that Valentine was a prisoner himself and fell in love with the daughter of his captor. All of these men named Valentine died for what they believed in. And what they believed in, Prouvaire pointed out, was love.
“It is nothing extraordinary to die for love, I realized. It has happened since the dawn of civilization, perhaps even before that. It continues even today and will continue into eternity. And yet, as I murmured this, I met Prouvaire’s eyes and knew, and wholeheartedly agreed: it was because it was nothing extraordinary that it was the most extraordinary thing of all, to die for love. Love is selfish and selfless all at once, but dying for it makes it the most selfless act of all.
“And it is they—Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and everyone—who made me realize in the months to come that it is not only limited to the love one shares with another. To die for the love of country, of people, of ideals and of beliefs… if you die for love and with love in your heart, you have died a worthy death.”
Marius eyes fell to his lap. His mind no longer held the images of a time not too long ago, and his heart was now filled with a longing sadness. Cosette moved closer to him and rested her head upon his shoulder, both of her hands grasping both of his. She held tight, and he even tighter.
They stayed silent for a while. Then Cosette’s eyes traveled to the folded paper on the table, and she imagined all that transpired after Marius had written what Prouvaire and the others so earnestly assisted him with. Were the wrinkles in the paper from Marius holding the Valentine too closely to his chest as he walked home that night? Or were they from his friends as they playfully teased and read what Marius had written? Did the others write their own notes to the women in their lives? Did Prouvaire write poetry that night beyond what he had recited to the others? Or maybe, just maybe, he had remembered what he had said and had promptly returned home to transcribe it for prosperity’s sake.
How many of the words on that note on the table were from Marius himself? Perhaps she could find traces of Prouvaire in them. Of Combeferre, of Courfeyrac, even of Enjolras. Would Joly, Laigle, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire be present? She could not see why not. They must have had plenty of words to offer Marius themselves.
And yet, she still did not bring herself to ask Marius to read it. It was once intended for her, but if his friends existed in every word written on that page, that Valentine was now for Marius from the Friends of the ABC.
So Cosette smiled. As she lifted her head from Marius’s shoulder, she gently suggested, “Perhaps tomorrow we can visit them. And tonight, I can help you compose a Valentine for them.”
Marius turned to Cosette, his eyes searching hers for a moment, and then he kissed her.
The Valentine that was placed on the headstone of Jean Prouvaire the next morning was addressed to all of them at once and each of them individually. And Cosette made absolutely certain that every single last word came directly from Marius’s heart.