Life is a road, and I want to keep going...

[Les Miserables] Marius and the Nine Princesses of the Amis, 1/5

bearit — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 19:25:23 GMT

Title: Marius and the Nine Princesses of the Amis, 1/5
Author: bearit
Rating: PG13
Genre: Humor, Parody
Characters: Marius, Friends of the ABC
Word Count: 2,142
Summary: Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a revolution sparks in a kingdom ruled by Prince Marius's father. He is sent on a journey to find nine princesses to help bring peace. The journey is nothing at all what Marius expects. Also known as, "The Universe Trolls Marius and Les Amis Help"

Notes: TCRegan on Tumblr requested this prompt: "The Amis are Disney Princesses. What happens after that is up to you." This happened. I make no apologies. I had fun. Poor Marius.

Also, there will be a bit of slash. If this offends, please feel free not to read.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. Also, the Disney Princess franchise and movies belong to Disney. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young prince by the name of Marius Pontmercy lived in a lavish kingdom. All was well, until one day, the people rose in revolution.

Not knowing what to do, the king turned to his trusted advisor, who implored him to send his son off on a journey to rescue nine princesses.

"Once the young Prince Marius rescues them, then peace will reign in your kingdom once more."

And so Marius went to rescue the first princess.

He was to attend a ball and find the most beautiful girl, dance with her, and kiss her before the stroke of midnight. He found her, but before he could gather up the nerve to ask her to dance, it was midnight, and she was gone. He chased after her as best as he could, but all he found of her was one glass slipper.

With the help of the city guard, he went to the house of each guest of the ball to try on the slipper. One of the guards gave him a dubious look but just rolled with it; surely Prince Marius would be able to recognize the girl with just one look. Surely Prince Marius realized that many women could fit into that shoe, not just the first one. But he said nothing and let the prince go about his search his own way.

They went to house after house throughout the day, but no luck. Finally, they wound up at one house whose two daughters were obviously much too ugly to have been the princess Marius sought, but Marius insisted that they try the shoe on anyway.

To nobody's surprise and yet Marius's exasperation, no luck. Or all the luck.

They were about to leave when a drunken voice slurred, "Wait! I need to try it on, too!"

Marius stopped, turned, and with a bemused expression stated, "You, sir, are not a woman."

"Please do not mind him," said the mother frantically. "He's just our housekeeper. And a rather useless one at that."

"Let me try on the shoe!"

"This shoe is made of glass, and your foot will not fit."

"Let me!"

Marius shot a glance at the guard, and the guard shrugged. The mother sighed. "Oh, please, Prince Marius, let him try it on. He will not shut up until you do."

Despite the man's large foot, the shoe fit.

Marius was speechless.

The man grinned. "Ha! I knew it! That spell might have gone away at midnight, but the shoe will always fit my feet! I was wondering where the other one had gone off too. Thank you, good monsieur!"

"Er... wait. Were you... a woman... last night?"

"Well, I'm a woman every night, as soon as the sun goes down and the spell disappears at the stroke of midnight. I was told I could break the spell if I kissed my one true love, which is what I was doing at the ball, but alas, he was not there."

"He?"

"But I suppose I shall try again another night. Thank you, Prince Marius!"

Then Marius remembered what his father's advisor had said, and he gulped. Was he, perhaps, this man's one true love? He had to kiss him, and yet... he had to kiss all the princesses.
It made no sense, but he went for it.

"Wha-what are you doing?" cried the man, blinking at him in confusion.

"I... you were the most beautiful woman at the ball last night and I--"

"You thought I was beautiful?"

"And I'm on this journey to save the kingdom and I thought that maybe... I don't know..."

"A journey? May I come with you?"

"Excuse me?"

The man smiled. "I think part of the reason I have not had any luck finding my one true love is that I am stuck here, cleaning and cooking for these ungrateful women when I could be out looking for the man I love! Please, let me come with you!"

Marius glanced at the guard again, who only shrugged again. Marius sighed.

"Very well. And you are...?"

"Grantaire."

---

And so, with Grantaire, who indeed transformed into a beautiful woman in a sparkling silver gown as soon as the sun set, Marius continued on his journey. The mother and daughters were not sorry to see them go.

Marius wished he could say that the worst part of the trip was the constant smell of wine, but in truth, it was Grantaire's nonsensical ramblings that caused him the greatest headache. Every once in a while, he heard hints of this man that Grantaire called his one true love, but he understood that little better than anything else Grantaire had to say.

Finally, they arrived at a tall tower surrounded by thorn bushes and a huge dragon. This was where the second princess slumbered.

Marius bid Grantaire to stay put, and he drew his sword and charged in, screaming. The dragon, however, slept. This fact, unfortunately, Marius did not realize until he came within earshot, and the dragon awoke.

Marius's eyes widened, but he stood his ground. At least, he stood his ground until the dragon's tail sent him flying against the wall of the tower. Marius stood, shaking his head to see clearly, when he saw Grantaire come running towards him.

"Here! Let the Green Fairy help you!" And he tossed a bottle, which Marius shielded himself from with his sword.

The bottle broke and sprayed the liquid everywhere, and Marius was shocked to see that his sword now sparkled green.

The dragon charged again, and for some reason Marius thought it would be an amazing idea to throw the sword at it.

It worked.

The sword pierced the dragon's heart, and the dragon fell to the ground in a cloud of dust.

Grantaire laughed. "That was lucky! Don't you have a princess to save?"

Indeed, Marius had the second princess to save, and he rushed up the stairs, Grantaire not far behind him. Finally, when they reached the room at the top of the tower, he opened the door to find said princess lying asleep in the bed, just as his father's advisor had told him. However, the princess was bald. And a man.

"This can't be right."

Grantaire nudged Marius in the ribs. "Aren't you going to kiss him?"

"I thought I'd be kissing a her."

"Apparently not." And Grantaire took another swig from a bottle that just seemed to have magically appeared.

Marius whined and approached the bed, staring down at the man upon it with a despaired look. Were all the princesses going to be men? But princesses were supposed to be women! And this was a particularly tall man! Marius sighed. Perhaps if he kissed this princess, he would wake up, and they could continue on their way.

So he did.

And nothing happened.

So he tried again.

Still nothing.

"It's not working."

"What's not working?"

"I kissed... the princess... and she... he... isn't waking up!"

"Did you expect him to?"

"Well, yes!"

"Why?"

And Marius had no answer. He sighed. Now what?

Grantaire approached, staring down at the bald princess while drinking. "He needs to come with us, right? Why not take him with us?"

"What, like kidnapping?"

"It's not kidnapping. You need to do this, right? And you're a prince! Or maybe he'll wake up if we shake him?" The princess did not. Grantaire shrugged and then swung him over his shoulders. "This will have to do. Come on, then. To the next princess!"

Marius sighed and followed Grantaire, but at the top of the stairs, the sun set, and he turned into the beautiful princess from the ball. The weight of the tall man was too much for her, and she fell over, the bald man tumbling down the stairs.

Grantaire cringed. "Oops."

---

Luckily, the bald princess was still alive and yet still comatose, and they continued on their journey. The third princess was said to a maiden of the ocean, and a kiss was supposed to make her able to walk on land.

"So you have to kiss a fish," said Grantaire as he pulled Prince Marius's horse with the bald princess tied clumsily atop it. She... he... had taken a tumble off of it five times already today, and Marius worried that the princess would eventually perish, or suffer from severe head trauma when or if he ever awoke.

"You don't believe in mermaids?"

"I don't believe you're having much luck with women so far. Plus, you're a piss poor kisser. Maybe that's the problem! Should I try kissing this one?"

"No."

"You are right. For it may be my kiss that breaks this poor sap's spell, but I am afraid he could not break mine."

"How do you know?"

"He is not my one true love!"

Marius rolled his eyes.

After another two days of travel, they finally reached the raging shores of lore. Grantaire immediately began to ramble about Triton, and Marius left him and the bald princess behind to scout for the maiden of the ocean.

His father's advisor had been unclear on this part of the journey. Was there a call Marius was supposed to use to lure the maiden?

Before he could try a song he learned from childhood, a huge wave crashed and pulled Marius into the deep of the water. He flailed; he did not know how to swim. Before the lack of oxygen could overtake him, he felt two arms wrap around him and pull him to the surface and then to the shore.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a naked man staring down upon him. Marius shot up, nearly head butting the man in the nose.

"Where am I?" he cried, but the scenery around him was that of a beach with waves rolling upon the sand. He looked down and saw that he still wore his trousers, and he sighed in relief.

Then, next to him, he saw the tail of a rather large fish. He yelped and jumped to the side. The wider angle of view allowed him to see that the tail of the fish was attached to the man.

Marius gaped. The merfolk were real after all!

"Forgive me, monsieur," said the merman as he scratched his nose. "I hope I did not spread my illness to you. I have come down with the most awful cold, but I could not float by as a man of the land drowned to his death."

"I... thank you, I suppose," said Marius warily. How does one talk to a merman?

"You suppose? Surely you did not mean to kill yourself!"

"No! No, that is not what I meant. I, ah, really do truly appreciate you saving my life."

The merman smiled. "What were you doing so close to these shores anyway?"

"I was, uh, looking for a maiden of the ocean, if you perhaps know who... she is...?"

"A maiden of the ocean? I am the merman of the ocean! Do you perhaps mean me?"

"No, a maiden. That is what my father's advisor said. I am to rescue a maiden of the ocean in order to help bring peace to my father's kingdom."

"There is no maiden of the ocean. I am a merman of the ocean in desperate need of rescuing, however! And I will certainly repay you by helping you bring peace."

Marius frowned. "There is no maiden?"

"No maiden."

Grantaire laughed from behind Marius. "Looks like you have another man to kiss, Marius!"

Marius and the merman balked, but it was the merman who protested.

"No, no, no! That is not how I am to be rescued! I am in need to recover from my cold, but I cannot do that in the ocean, you see! And yet, I will not survive long on land like this. If you could help me grow legs, perhaps I have a chance to become healthy once more!"

"Well, Marius, you did say you needed to help someone from the ocean be able to walk on land."

"Yes, but..."

"If he kisses me, he might catch my cold!"

Grantaire grabbed the bald princess and gently placed him on the ground. "Then kiss him! He's in a coma. He will not be able to catch your cold."

"I don't think that's how it works..."

"What's the harm in trying?"

And so the merman sighed and kissed the bald princess. To Marius's surprise, the bald princess opened his eyes.

"You," said the bald princess. "You are my one true love!"

And the merman, Marius noticed, was no longer a merman but a stark-naked human man. He smiled down upon the bald princess, who smiled widely back.

"And you are mine!" the merman cried. "I am Joly."

"And I am Bossuet."

"What is happening?" Marius moaned.

[Katekyo Hitman Reborn!] four drabbles

bearit — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 19:06:24 GMT

Title: Crime and Punishment
Author: bearit
Rating/Warnings: PG13
Genre: Friendship
Characters: Giotto, Cozart

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

“Why would you do that?”

Cozart stepped away from the corpse, not bothering to turn to face Giotto. With a tight frown, he simply replied, “It was necessary.”

He could feel Giotto’s eyes burn into his skull. It was not rage, it was not judgment, it was only bewilderment and maybe a dash of horror. That was enough to stir a sense of guilt into Cozart, but it was easily pushed aside.

“Taking life is never necessary. He could have been reasoned with, he could have been—”

“Do you really believe that, Giotto?”

Giotto did not reply. Cozart finally spun to meet his gaze.

“Taking life is necessary, sometimes. This man needed to die so others can be freed, so others can live freely. You say that we could have reasoned with him, but what’s to say that he would not go back to the life he is too familiar with, that he always took pride in? What’s to say that the lives of the people he terrorized would not continue to be haunted with him merely being alive? Giotto, I’m not even sure his death will be enough to atone for the sins he committed against his fellow man, the terrors he brought down upon the women, the lives he ruined for the children.

“He needed to die. You know this as well as I do. Not everyone can be saved.”

Giotto said nothing, his look of horror and bewilderment twisting to a conflicted frown.

“This is our reality, Giotto,” Cozart continued. “This is the path we have chosen. We will have to take lives. There is no other way around it.”

They did not speak again for many months. Cozart heard from the others in his own family, who still spoke openly with Giotto’s Guardians, that Giotto had indeed heeded his words, and many mafioso were falling at the feet of the Vongola. And yet, Cozart could not smile.

He had done this to Giotto.

And for that, he knew he could never be punished enough.

Title: To the Grave
Author: bearit
Rating/Warnings: PG
Genre: Friendship
Characters: Giotto, G, Cozart

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Giotto and G stood at the grave, a flower in Giotto’s hand and an umbrella in G’s. Giotto set the flower down at the base of the headstone. Both their faces were solemn and unmoving.

After a moment of silence, G finally said, “I guess we really won’t see or hear from him anymore now.”

Giotto nodded. “He’ll know, though. He’ll know that he had to leave.”

G snorted. “Of course he will. Knowing him, he knew it before we did. I’ll put money on him already being in Japan by the time we get there.”

“He wouldn’t do that. He’s supposed to be dead.”

“He can be ‘dead’ in Japan.”

“But he won’t be.”

Another moment of silence passed, this time with Giotto smiling and G glaring between the headstone and man, annoyed.

“He’ll find a way to be dead in Japan, even if it’s when he’s actually dead himself.”

Giotto laughed. “And we will be dead with him.” And it was said with a finality of hope.

Title: Crimes of Man
Author: bearit
Rating/Warnings: PG13
Genre: General
Characters: Alaude/Knuckle

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Alaude scowled when he walked into the moonlit church and saw Knuckle back in his cassock and at the altar in deep prayer.

He had no patience. He stormed to the priest and grabbed his collar, jerking him to his feet. Knuckle stared at him, wide-eyed, before his gaze drifted to the wooden paneled floor.

“Please, leave me be.”

“You just saved them. Why do you regret?”

“I don’t regret saving my friends. I regret raising my fists.”

“Which means you regret saving them.”

“No—”

“Yes. What you did was no crime. It was no sin. Do not regret it.”

Knuckle gently took Alaude’s hands off his collar and stepped away, shaking his head. “I brought harm upon my fellow man—”

“Who would have killed your friends.”

“—and I vowed that I would never, ever do that again. Not with my fists, nor my words. Not for any reason. And yet…” Knuckle sighed. “And so I am to be eternally judged and damned.”

Alaude had had enough. He knew Knuckle’s past, and he knew Knuckle’s vows. They had this conversation so many times before but tonight was the last straw.

And so, he punched him directly in the jaw.

Knuckle fell to the floor. He cupped where Alaude had struck, bewildered.

“I raised my fist against you. I struck you. For no apparent reason. I did not do it to rescue anyone. I am to be judged more harshly than you, by both the law and God.”

“No, that’s not—”

“And why not?”

“B-because… I…” Knuckle bit his lip and closed his eyes. ”You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand? You said that you are to be eternally damned for raising your fists against another human being. Well, so have I. Under your laws, I am to be eternally damned as well. Is that not absolutely ridiculous to you? No one on this earth will judge you for what you did.”

“God will.”

“To hell with God!”

Knuckle’s face twisted into anger and he hopped to his feet. Alaude smirked.

“And now you will raise your fists to defend Him? Will He not judge you for that?”

“Get out.”

“No.”

“Now.”

“Make me.”

Knuckle grabbed Alaude, intending to escort him out of the church, but Alaude did not give him the chance. He pushed back. Knuckle pushed harder. Alaude set his foot behind Knuckle’s leg, and the toppled on top of each other.

Then Alaude pressed his lips on Knuckle’s.

Knuckle instantly punched him in the face.

Alaude stumbled back with another smirk, and Knuckle stared at him, horrified.

“I—I’m extremely sorry, Alaude, I—”

“I wouldn’t have arrested anyone for that,” said Alaude. “I wouldn’t have arrested you for fighting the men that were deadset on killing Giotto and the others. But I would have arrested me for punching you. Those are the laws as they stand. I imagine God’s might be the same. What makes you any different than any other human being? What gives you the right to pass harsher judgment on yourself than any law, mortal or immortal, would? Because you are a priest? A priest is no better or worse than any other man. You of all people should know this.”

And Alaude turned on his heel and left the church.

Title: The Cost of Victory
Author: bearit
Rating/Warnings: PG13
Genre: Friendship
Characters: Yamamoto/Tsuna

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

What Shoichi didn’t tell Tsuna, and what Shoichi probably didn’t expect, was that while the bullet made it seem like he was dead although he was not, he would still retain consciousness.

Or maybe it was an out-of-body experience. Gokudera would believe that. Tsuna wasn’t sure if he did; after all, wouldn’t an out-of-body experience mean that he was not physically in his body? That he could still see everything, including himself?

No. Tsuna could hear, and he could drift into his subconscious, but he could not move or open his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it too hard, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t breathing, either. That was a thought he was sure to drive him insane, after all.

Tsuna was in his subconscious when they found him, so he did not know what everyone’s reactions were. But he was awake for his funeral, and he heard everyone’s last words to him.

Except for Yamamoto’s, for Yamamoto did not speak. But when Tsuna discovered that he could also feel, for he felt Yamamoto’s lips upon his own, he knew what Yamamoto’s goodbye was.

It was a promise for revenge.

Tsuna hated that Yamamoto was slipping down this path. First his father, and now his fiance. Yamamoto was sure to snap, and he hoped that the Shoichi of the past would heed the orders he was given and the younger version of himself would arrive to bring Yamamoto back.

Sometimes, alone in his coffin and hearing the desperate pleas of Gokudera, who visited every day for hours at a time, Tsuna wondered if he should have told Yamamoto the plan. That way, he could have been spared the pain, spared the darkness, and not turn into a man no one but Reborn and Squalo meant for him to be. And yet, Tsuna knew it had to be this way. He had chosen who he told carefully. And their enemies were surely watching Yamamoto closely.

This was a fight that was bigger than the two of them, and even bigger than the Vongola. Tsuna hated it, but if losing Yamamoto to a lifetime of assassination and bloodshed was the sacrifice needed, he needed to make it.

He only hoped that when he awoke, Yamamoto would forgive him.

[Les Miserables] A Quiet Study Night

bearit — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 15:04:02 GMT

Title: A Quiet Study Night
Author: bearit
Rating: G
Genre: Romance
Characters: Marius/Eponine
Word Count: 369
Summary: Eponine visits Marius, as she normally does.

Notes: thedarkestnightwillend on Tumblr requested some more Marius/Eponine, so here is more! Musical-verse.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Sometimes Eponine came to visit Marius. The excuses she told him and herself were not false: she needed to get away from her parents, the babies in the apartment downstairs were too noisy, she was on this side of town running errands anyway. But she was lying when she said that was her main reason for knocking on his door at after dusk.

He never complained, always letting her inside with a big, welcome smile. They often talked at lengths until Eponine felt like she was intruding too much on Marius’s time and hospitality, excusing herself to return to the hell that was the small apartment she shared with her parents. But tonight, Marius only greeted her with a small, awkward smile and told her that he would not be able to entertain her tonight; he had an exam the next morning and he had to study for it.

She shrugged and told him that she didn’t mind. Her father was meeting with some of his friends tonight, and Marius knew what that meant, so he let her inside anyway.

“I’m not sure what you could do…” said Marius sheepishly.

Eponine grinned. “I can read, you know.” And she picked up one of his books and opened it up, sitting next to him and mulling over the text as Marius read his.

The words were difficult and beyond her comprehension. She knew what a lot of the individual words meant, but put them together and her mind spun. Her head started to hurt.

Eponine glanced up at Marius and smiled. He was lost in his book, his eyebrows knitted together as though the words made as little sense to him as it did to her. She then yawned, and felt her eyelids start to drop.

“Are you tired, ‘Ponine?”

“Mm. No.” And yet her eyes were closed anyway.

She heard Marius close his book and felt him take hers away, and he set them down on his bedside table. She thought that maybe he was going to have her go home, but instead she felt his arm wrap around her shoulder. He drew her into him, kissing her forehead gently.

Eponine smiled and let herself drift off to sleep.

[Les Miserables] The Interview

bearit — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 14:48:24 GMT

Title: The Interview
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters: Enjolras, Joly/Bossuet
Word Count: 481
Summary: Post-barricade A/U: A local newspaper interviews Enjolras, Joly, and Bossuet, and Enjolras notices something odd about his friends.

Notes: I had a dream about this, and TCRegan on Tumblr requested that I write it out. So here it is. ^_^

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Enjolras could not believe he let Combeferre and Courfeyrac talk him into this. It’s good publicity, they said, to help quell the remaining monarchists who were attempting to start their own rebellion. The newspaper wanted to interview the leader of the Friends of the ABC, one of the groups instrumental in the June of 1832 revolution, and a couple of those who had followed his lead.

Enjolras had wanted Combeferre and Courfeyrac to be there, but they had other obligations. Feuilly was too busy as well. Grantaire had not been conscious for most of the revolution. Which left Bossuet and Joly.

Not that Enjolras particularly minded, except that Joly kept babbling about things that certainly the newspaper had no interest in. And yet, the interviewer humored Joly all the same, which was fine by Enjolras. At least that meant he was being ignored.

He glanced over to his other side, where Bossuet sat. Bossuet also humored Joly, smiling and nodding along to everything he had to say. Enjolras sighed, but then he noticed something.

That look in Bossuet’s eyes.

Enjolras had seen that look before.

In Grantaire’s eyes, whenever he looked at Enjolras.

He raised an eyebrow and looked back at Joly, who he noticed kept shifting his eyes over in Bossuet’s direction. And that redness on his cheeks… that was not the symptoms of another cold, now was it?

Enjolras looked back at Bossuet again. And then back at Joly.

And it clicked.

Enjolras grinned, but kept the smile hidden behind his hand. Unfortunately, the interviewer took notice.

“Enjolras, would you like to chime in with anything?”

“Hm?” asked Enjolras. “I am terribly sorry. What were we talking about?”

“The importance of the relationships of the people who stood beside you at the barricades,” said the interviewer. Ah, so Joly had eventually started talking about the revolution. Enjolras knew he could count on him to do so, but he was admittedly a little sheepish that he had not paid attention enough to notice. “Joly was mentioning how the Friends of the ABC were like brothers. More than brothers, even. Would you agree?”

“Of course I agree. I trust every single one of these men with more than my life. I trust every single one of these men with the fate of the Republic and the fate of France. The revolution certainly would not have been a success without each and every one of them. We are, to each other, more than friends, and more than brothers indeed. And for some of us—” Enjolras glanced between Joly and Bossuet, holding each of their gazes long enough to make a point. “—even more than that.”

Both of their faces turned scarlet, and Enjolras could not help but to grin more. Ah, yes, now he understood the appeal Courfeyrac found in this. This interview was not so terribly dull after all.

[Les Miserables] Turned Tables

bearit — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 03:16:22 GMT

Title: Turned Tables
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters: Joly/Bossuet
Word Count: 389
Summary: Normally, it's Joly who is sick. Now it's Bossuet's turn.

Notes: Anon on Tumblr asked for Joly/Bossuet, fluff.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

He had gone through all the handkerchiefs in the apartment. He huddled under the blankets, sneezing and coughing and reaching for a handkerchief that he hoped still had a dry spot left.

Joly snatched the handkerchief away from Laigle and replaced it with a new one. “I just cleaned this one,” he said.

Laigle poked his head out from beneath the covers and smiled through tired, watery eyes. “Thank you,” he croaked as he took the cloth from Joly, wincing. His throat was sore, too, and everything hurt from coughing to sneezing to speaking to sometimes even breathing.

“I also made you soup and tea, if you want it now.”

Laigle sat up and nodded. Joly handed him the bowl. Laigle took it and sipped gently at it, cringing as the liquid poured down his throat.

“The tea has honey in it. It will help.”

Joly watched as Laigle pushed through the pain of his illness to drink the soup and tea, the honey apparently taking no effect. He pursed his lips, trying to keep all the possible diagnoses at bay, for with Laigle’s luck he was bound to have the worst one with the worst prognosis which was often death and…

Joly shook his head. No. No, he will not panic. It would do him no good. And yet…
“Laigle, can you open your mouth wide for me?”

Laigle gave him a dubious look that said, But I already did for you this morning. And Joly had found nothing. But what if something had developed over the past few hours?

“I just want to double-check.”

Laigle shook his head and smiled again. “Just a cold,” he said hoarsely.

“Or it could be bronchitis. Or viral pharyngitis. Maybe a goiter or the mumps or scarlet fever or…!”

“Just a cold.” But Laigle opened his mouth anyway.

Joly inspected, and it was the same as it was this morning. Nothing unusual. Joly sighed in relief and told Laigle that he could relax.

“Are you sure you’re alright being here?” asked Laigle as he laid back down on the bed, concerned. “What if you catch this too?”

Joly grinned and kissed Laigle on the forehead. “Then I’ll have you to take care of me, won’t I?”

Laigle smiled as he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep. “Mm. Yes, you will.”

[Les Miserables] A Cycle Repeats

bearit — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 03:13:07 GMT

Title: A Cycle Repeats
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters: Enjolras/Grantaire
Word Count: 406
Summary: In the 21st century, Grantaire awakes from a nightmare with a very Bad Feeling.

Notes: Anon requested on Tumblr: E/R through the times

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

“Do you permit it?”

Then the gunshots resounded through the Corinthe.

Grantaire shot out of bed, and Enjolras instantly sat down next to him, abandoning the open document on his computer and the many instant messages that flooded his screen. He drew Grantaire into an embrace, running his hands through his hair and whispering soft words of comfort. Grantaire clutched him desperately, slowing his breaths but his mind racing with only one thought.

“Don’t go tomorrow.”

Enjolras held Grantaire tighter. “I have to.”

“No, you don’t!” said Grantaire as he pulled out of Enjolras’s arms so desperate eyes could meet serene ones. “You don’t have to go. The protest will happen without you anyway. You don’t have to be there. You can stay here. We can stay here. The point is made, the words spoken, and everything is in place. What good is your presence going to be? The protest will turn into a riot, the riot will turn into a bloodbath. It’s always the same!”

Grantaire did not speak of similar protests past, where students walked out of their classrooms with signs and chants and the police opened fire on them, and at the same time, he did. All their lives, Grantaire and Enjolras had dreams of previous lives that held their friends and each other, and through those dreams, they were able to pick up where they had left off only a lifetime ago. But the past two weeks, Grantaire had nightmares of Enjolras’s death, one by one, backwards, through this night.

“What was it tonight?” asked Enjolras softly.

“1832. Paris.”

Enjolras did not need to go to the Internet to know exactly what revolution Grantaire spoke of. He nodded. “Our first life together.”

“Our first death together,” Grantaire corrected. His eyes dropped. “Enjolras, please. Don’t do this. That was the last dream. I know it. You will die tomorrow. I don’t want to bear it. I can’t bear it. Even if I die with you, you will still be dead. Stay home. We can be together. Grow old together. You don’t always need to be at the front lines!”

“Yes, I do. You know I do.”

Grantaire shook his head and fell back into Enjolras’s arms, burying his head into his shoulder. After a few long moments, Grantaire finally conceded, “Then let me come with you. Let me stay with you.”

Enjolras smiled and kissed the top of Grantaire’s head. “I permit it.”

[Les Miserables] Broken Olive Branch

bearit — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 03:09:45 GMT

Title: Broken Olive Branch
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Enjolras/Javert
Word Count: 341
Summary: After Javert is found out by the revolutionaries, the leader decides to find an ally in a man just as stubborn as himself.

Notes: Ancslove requested on Tumblr: Enjolras/Javert

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

The two men held their cold, hard stares for a long time. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. Though to be fair to one, he was bound to a pole, held captive by the traitors he wanted to see defeated. The other sat on the other side of the room, carefully studying the inspector as though he was considering the words to say.

Finally, Enjolras spoke. “We do not have to be enemies.”

Javert stayed silent, unblinking.

“Surely you must want what is best for the people of France as well. You could help us fight the oppression.”

Javert’s mouth twitched.

“It does not have to be this way.”

“You would trust me?” challenged Javert with a smirk. “You would trust me, the man came here as a spy and whose goals are clearly opposite of yours? Why do you bother trying to convert me? You must know that I will not bend, just as I know you will not.”

Enjolras stood, his expression unchanging. “Is that why you do not try to convince me to surrender?”

“It does not matter. You have committed an act of treason. Even if you surrendered, your fate will be the same. But I see you. You will not surrender, even if all this is futile. I have no interest in wasting my breath any further.”

Enjolras approached Javert, only a few inches between their faces. “You see me.”

“Loud and clear. Which begs the question: why do you try to talk me onto your side?”

“Because I like to think I see you, too.”

Javert snorted. “You do not.”

“Enjolras!” a student called from outside the Corinthe. “You’re needed.”

Enjolras regarded the boy with a nod and stepped away from Javert. “You will see. The people will rise. A republic will dawn upon France. The true traitors are the king and all who help perpetuate this government. You do not need to be one of them.”

Before Javert could retort, Enjolras was out of the tavern.

The two would never speak again.

[Les Miserables/Aladdin] The Untold Story of Aladdin

bearit — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 03:06:21 GMT

Title: The Untold Story of Aladdin
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Les Amis, Aladdin
Word Count: 1,394
Summary: After his encounter with Prince Achmed, Aladdin meets an underground resistance that will forever change the face of Agrabah.

Notes: Ancslove requested on Tumblr: Les Amis in Aladdin. Here is an actual crossover, but it is not crack.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit. Aladdin belongs to Disney.

---

After Prince Achmed disappeared behind the palace gates and the crowd dispersed, Aladdin was approached by a man his age with a dashing smile.

“That was impressive, standing up to Achmed like that,” he said. “You’re Aladdin, right? My name is Courfeyrac.”

“You know who I am?”

“Who doesn’t know who you are? In any case, I’ve been watching you today. I saw you giving up your bread to the children. And, of course, what happened with that prince. Come with me. I’d like to introduce you to some friends of mine.”

Aladdin was suspicious, but he gave Abu a shrug and followed Courfeyrac anyway. If the guards were truly intent on capturing him, they would not do it so clandestinely. He doubted they were smart enough for that, and besides, they had the perfect opportunity after the scuffle in the street. This could not be a trap.

Courfeyrac led him to the cellar of a local watering hole, where he was greeted with the sight of a more young men, drinking, and more importantly, talking intently.

“What is this?”

“We’re an underground resistance group to the current government,” said Courfeyrac as he shut the door behind Aladdin. “You saw it for yourself, didn’t you? Children starve in the streets, and all our sultan cares about is marrying his daughter off. And that Achmed is only one brand of the villainy the princess has for a choice. Imagine ifhe is the one she chose!”

“But she has denied so many already,” said another man, “who is to say that she won’t deny him?”

“Who is to say she will?” said yet another. “We all saw it. He is no better than the rest, but she is running out of time as the current law stands.”

Aladdin’s head was already spinning. “Wait. I don’t understand what you’re saying here.”

“Revolution,” said a man who was clearly the leader of the group. “We speak of revolution.”

—-

The next morning as Aladdin and Abu broke their fast with stolen watermelon, Aladdin thought about the group of people he had met the previous night and the words they had said. Enjolras, the leader, and Combeferre had spoken to him at lengths about the current laws and the injustices the people faced every day because of them, but Aladdin could barely keep them straight in his head. It was Aladdin’s childhood friend, Feuilly, who simplified it for him: they wished to have the sultan step down and put a new government in his place.

“It will be one where the people decide who represents them in matters that concern them. There will be no sultan, no princesses who need to marry a prince from another kingdom, and we will be governed by those out for all of the people’s best interests.”

It was treason they spoke of, Aladdin knew. The guards would have a field day if they found out he was involved in an underground resistance like that. But Enjolras and Courfeyrac both told Aladdin that he could think it over before joining them. It was a lot to take in at once.

Could they really make life easier and better for everyone? Would there be less streetrats like him because they all would have made their way into honest living? Would there be no more children picking food out of merchants’ garbage? Could they really do that?

Aladdin sighed. He did not know what to do. But as he gazed out into the street below him, his gaze caught the sight of the most beautiful woman he ever laid eyes on.

—-

“We have trouble. Aladdin was captured.”

—-

They were getting ready to move their plan of retrieving Aladdin from the palace dungeon into motion when another prince made an exuberant entrance into Agrabah’s marketplace.

“Look at him, showing off his riches and… and… slaves like that,” said Bahorel with a scowl from the top of the building closest to the palace walls.

“Never mind that,” hissed Feuilly. “This distraction is exactly what we needed. Toss me that rope.”

Courfeyrac squinted his eyes as he looked upon the man atop the elephant. “Is it just me, or does this Ali character look awfully familiar to anyone else?”

—-

Sure enough, Prince Ali was none other than the street urchin Aladdin that Courfeyrac had introduced to the revolutionary group. They sat in the cellar, eight deep in thought and debate about the boy’s intentions, how he escaped, and what to do next. Only one kept to his drink by himself, leaving the others to their discussion.

Someone raised the theory that perhaps Aladdin had been a spy, but that was thrown out the window very quickly, for not only was Courfeyrac a good judge of character, but if Aladdin had wanted to expose the group, they would have been arrested and executed already. Perhaps he thought to enter the palace and try to overthrow the government from within? But if that was the case, why did he not come to them first?

“He can’t be an enemy spy from a foreign land, can he? Feuilly, you said you knew him as a child.”

“Yes. We only lost track of each other last year when I met you all. I cannot imagine how he would have amassed such wealth over the course of even a year, much less overnight.”

“And that is the other mystery, isn’t it? Where did he acquire those riches he displayed in front of the crowd?”

“And the slaves,” Bahorel spat.

“This just doesn’t seem like him,” said Feuilly. Courfeyrac, only having known Aladdin for two days, agreed.

“Well, we cannot ignore that he is here to woo the princess, whether under a guise or not. Do you suppose he’ll have any more luck than the others?”

Courfeyrac smiled. “I imagine he might.”

“Then let us wait and see what comes of it. Best case scenario, we will be granted an audience, and perhaps the sultan will listen to reason, and the people will not need to rise. Worst case, we continue as we have before. I believe we can put faith in Aladdin not exposing us.”

—-

Nobody expected the Grand Vizier, Jafar, to launch his own coup.

Aladdin was exiled, and there was no better timing. It was time for revolution.

Unfortunately, the people lived in fear of Jafar’s power, but the group knew that they could not abandon them. If only eight people rose to fight for them, then so be it, eight it would be. It was a pity Grantaire had drunk too much and fallen asleep, but no matter.

They erected a barricade in the middle of the marketplace, but the guards who fought against them were not enthused to do so. However, they were enchanted and had no choice but to fight. They cried for mercy from the revolutionaries, but nobody knew how to help them. Combeferre, for all his studies, could not decipher the spells Jafar had used upon them, and Jehan knew of no plant to cure them.

“Kill us!” they pleaded.

Enjolras hesitated.

And then he fired the first killing blow.

—-

Aladdin did not wait to become sultan to honor his fallen friends.

He told his future father-in-law about his friends who believed that he had little interest in the starving children in the streets, and the sultan immediately set about doing something about that. He told his future father-in-law about what the people wanted from their government, and the sultan immediately set about learning what it was that made his people unhappy. Jasmine helped by continuing her incognito trips into the marketplace, and Aladdin often accompanied her.

They erected a monument for these men that had once asked Aladdin to join their fold, and even after Aladdin became sultan, he kept their teachings in his head. While he could not create the exact government he wanted, he kept many advisors from all walks of life and made sure to consult each and every one of them before making a decision.

Every night, Aladdin went to bed wishing he had returned to Agrabah sooner, that he had tricked Jafar sooner, that he had never gotten himself exiled. But he freed the Genie, and the Genie could not bring people back from the dead, anyway. Could he have turned back time?

Sometimes, Aladdin wondered.

[Les Miserables] When Ears Can't Hear

bearit — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 03:00:02 GMT

Title: When Ears Can't Hear
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Romance, Friendship
Characters: Enjolras/Bahorel
Word Count: 358
Summary: Bahorel loses his temper and struggles with his feelings for Enjolras.

Notes: Anon requested on Tumblr: Enjolras/Bahorel.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

“Well?”

“Well…?”

“Aren’t you going to tell me that I shouldn’t have lost my temper, that antagonizing them is detrimental to what we are trying to achieve? Aren’t you going to—” Bahorel hissed as Enjolras dabbed at the cut on his forehead with a cloth. “Aren’t you going to reprimand me? I was in the wrong. We both know it. I shouldn’t have lashed out them like I did. I shouldn’t have knocked their leader’s head with a chair, I shouldn’t have shouted, I shouldn’t have—”

“Why shouldn’t you have done those things?”

Bahorel had an answer, but he kept it to himself. There was no use in trying to explain to Enjolras that if Enjolras hadn’t had been there, he would have regretted nothing. That if Enjolras hadn’t had been there, he would have done much worse, and he would have stumbled away feeling good about himself. That if Enjolras had been Enjolras and not… Enjolras, Bahorel would not have been ashamed to report on it all the same.

Enjolras dipped the cloth back in the water and wringed out the excess, dabbing Bahorel’s cut up face again. ”Then, tell me, Bahorel. Why did you do those things?”

As Bahorel recalled the events of the afternoon, he felt his blood boil again. “Because they have no right to disrespect the wishes of women who decline their advances. Because they have no right to corner them into submission. Because they have no right to insult Feuilly’s jobs, his education, his background. They have no right to point out the flaws of our friends when they are plentiful amongst themselves. They call themselves republicans! Pah!”

“And you believe I would have disapproved of your reaction?”

Bahorel started. Enjolras only smiled down at him gently.

“They are not the allies France needs. Maybe they will evolve, but they are not ready yet. And they demonstrated that they are men whose ears are still closed, and so your actions were not uncalled for. You did well, Bahorel.”

Bahorel smiled back and gladly accepted Enjolras’s offered hand. “Thank you.”

“No,” said Enjolras as he lightly kissed Bahorel’s hand. “Thank you.”

[Les Miserables] Enjolras in Wonderland

bearit — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 02:38:13 GMT

Title: Enjolras in Wonderland
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Friends of the ABC
Word Count: 5,645
Summary: Enjolras sees a White Rabbit in the form of Robespierre. He follows him into a world where logic plain does not exist.

Notes: An Anon requested on Tumblr "Enjolras in Wonderland," because people in Tumblr-land are INSANE and somehow like my Les Mis/Disney parody/crossovers. Think of this more of a "Alice in Wonderland" episode of Les Miserables, featuring the Friends of the ABC.

... I really don't even know what I wrote here.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit. The version of Alice in Wonderland used belongs to Walt Disney, and the original story belongs to Lewis Carroll.

---

Upon Combeferre’s advice, Enjolras agreed to abide by his mother’s invitation to visit the family for Easter. Time away from the city would be good for him, Combeferre said, for he had been working much too hard and too long lately. Had it been anyone else, Enjolras would have vehemently disagreed with the suggestion, but he trusted Combeferre’s judgment.

The holiday was boring and loud. His cousins produced a litter of children each since the last time he saw them. The screaming and the pulling and the shrieking and the constant thumping of footsteps above his head, below his feet, outside his bedroom door, and sometimes inside his own closet were enough to drive him mad. So without a word to his father, he grabbed his coat and went for a walk in the woods behind his parents’ villa.

Ah, this was peace. It was not that he appreciated the birds chirping and the soft sway of the leaves in the spring breeze. That was Prouvaire’s job. But it was silent, and he felt his headache start to slip away when he caught sight of a man in a red waistcoat and a pocket watch run past.

Enjolras thought the event strange, but even stranger was that the man’s face was too familiar from the portraits Enjolras had seen in his many books and studies. But it couldn’t be. If this was truly him, he would be an old man by now, around Enjolras’s grandfather’s age. And yet, there was no mistake.

“Robespierre!” Enjolras whispered in awe, and he made haste after him.

It wasn’t long before Robespierre disappeared into a cave that Enjolras had never seen in the woods before. Perhaps Robespierre had managed to escape his executioners, and this was his hideaway. That still did not explain his youthful appearance, but no matter. Enjolras knew that if he followed, he could meet Robespierre, a dream he never thought that he could attain.

He peered into the cave cautiously. Surely Robespierre would be wary about any pursuers, and that was why he was in a hurry in the first place. Perhaps he was being chased by those who had faked his death to save face!

The cave was very dark. Enjolras took a step inside, calling for Robespierre gently, but as soon as he moved into the shadows he lost his footing and slipped further into the darkness.

The darkness gave way to red, white, and blue light. Enjolras saw the images of revolutions past, and he saw moving portraits of kings and queens, and he saw citizens of France living, suffering, and dying.

Finally, he landed with a soft thud in an empty room with nothing but a table with biscuits and coffee and a door that only a cat could pass through.

Enjolras climbed to his feet. A familiar voice called out to him: “Are you perhaps looking for Robespierre?”

Enjolras turned. “Feuilly?” But the man was nowhere in sight.

“Down here.”

Still nothing. In fact, the floor was level with no holes or slopes.

Feuilly sighed. “Here! The door!”

Enjolras went to the door and knelt down to peer through it, but before he could he saw the face of his friend on the knob. “Feuilly! What happened to you?”

But Feuilly ignored him. “Are you looking for Robespierre?”

“Yes, of course, but what happened to you?”

“He’s in here, but you are much too big to come through.”

“But why are you a doorknob?”

“Why are you not a doorknob?”

And Enjolras had no answer.

Feuilly sighed again. “Look, if you want to come through here, you’re going to need to shrink down a few sizes. You’re not going to fit. There are some instructions on the table if you’re so inclined to follow Robespierre.”

Feuilly, even if he was a doorknob, was another whose judgment Enjolras trusted with his life (even if he was acting odd, but then, he was a doorknob, so Enjolras could hardly blame him), so he looked on the table to see a note on the bottom of the cup of coffee that simply said, Drink me. The plate of biscuits sat atop another note that said, Eat me. Enjolras also noticed a key on the table, and he took it and decided that to first take a sip of the coffee.

With luck, the coffee worked to shrink him down to size. Feuilly applauded his foresight in grabbing the key. After unlocking the door, Enjolras thanked Feuilly for his help and stepped through.

Before he could turn around and ask Feuilly how he could turn him back to a human, the door had vanished into a mist and Enjolras found himself in a forest. There, he took a glimpse of Robespierre hurriedly rushing away, and Enjolras followed, calling after him.

And then, Robespierre vanished again.

Enjolras scowled. Could Robespierre simply not hear him? This was beginning to become a little infuriating. Surely whoever was in pursuit of him before was no longer! Unless, of course, Robespierre thought Enjolras was that person.

A different approach, then, once he figured out which way the man had gone.

He wandered a bit more into the forest, only to be approached by two figures in what even Prouvaire would call ridiculous outfits. And yet, he knew the two men, and the style just simply didn’t suit them.

“Joly! Bossuet!” Enjolras called as he approached them. The two simply stared at him, unmoving and expressionless. What, now even they must act odd as well? Even so, surely they would be as helpful to him as the Doorknob with Feuilly’s Face was. “Have you seen Robespierre come by?”

Still nothing. They weren’t even blinking. Were they even real? This place certainly was very strange indeed!

Enjolras had no time for this, but when he tried to move past them, the two, in unison, hopped right back in front of him to block his path.

“You’re being rude,” said Bossuet. “No ‘Hello’ or ‘How are you today?’”

“Sick, if you must know,” said Joly. “My nose is itchy and my eyes are watery and my throat is awfully sore!”

“And as for me, I’ve nearly been trampled by a horse and suffocated by a cat, and all before getting out of bed this morning!”

“How could you have been nearly trampled by a horse before even getting out of bed?” asked Enjolras incredulously. But, knowing Bossuet’s luck, it was not impossible.

“He came trampling in through the front door and across my bed!”

“Our bed.”

“Right.”

Enjolras pursed his lips and nodded. “I… see. I am very sorry to hear that, but very relieved to see that you are alright. Joly, I hope you get better soon. But have you seen Robespierre come by?”

“How are you, Enjolras?” asked Bossuet with a grin.

Why were his friends acting so odd? “I am well, thank you, but I have seen Robespierre with my own eyes, and I must find him! Will you help me? Have you seen him?”

“Why?”

What sort of question was that!

“I wish to ask him many questions. I wish to ask him about his survival, about his intentions to help the people of France once more, about the Republic, and why he has chosen such a strange hiding place, and why he looks as though he hasn’t aged in nearly forty years!”

“Why?”

No, this was infuriating.

“Because I wish to know! Do you not want to?”

Joly and Bossuet both shrugged. “We’d rather play.”

Enjolras really had no time for this. “Good day to you both, then. I must be on my way.”

It was not long before Enjolras came across a cottage. Had he not looked at the window the precise moment he had, he might have missed the sight of the familiar red waistcoat of Robespierre.

This must be his home! Enjolras walked to the door and gently knocked. Hopefully, Robespierre would think this a friendly visitor and not his pursuer.

The door opened, and finally, at long last, and no mistake about it: it was Robespierre, the man himself. Enjolras smiled, but before he could open his mouth in greeting, Robespierre ushered him inside.

“Quick, you must help me find my notes!” he exclaimed. “I am running especially late!”

“Late? For what?”

“Hurry!”

Having no interest in hindering Robespierre from making his engagement on time, Enjolras did exactly that. As he searched through Robespierre’s desk (now, really, why was he not looking here but at all?), he came across a tin can full of biscuits. He ignored them and continued searching.

“Oh, please feel free to help yourself to the biscuits,” said Robespierre as he frantically searched through the trunk.

Now, Enjolras recalled Feuilly the Doorknob and how the coffee made him shrink. Perhaps the biscuits would make him grow? And so he politely declined the offer, for finding Robespierre’s notes was vastly more important.

“No, no, don’t mind it all. Besides, I have found them!” said Robespierre as he held a bundle of papers in the air. “Please, they are from my great aunt and they are simply to die for!”

Well, since Robespierre insisted…

…

Oh. Now his arms and legs were coming out of Robespierre’s cottage. Fortunately, the man had escaped the house in time, but unfortunately, he was calling for help for his home needed an exorcism.

This was not certainly the Robespierre that Enjolras had expected, but he could hardly blame the man. What other conclusion could someone draw from this?

He knew he shouldn’t have eaten the biscuits.

Ah, but now there was Joly and Bossuet! Surely they could clear this up!

“We can get him out through the chimney!” said Joly.

“I’ll go!” Bossuet volunteered.

Well, at least they weren’t going to try to kill him or exorcise him. But this logic was not Joly’s. The man was smarter than this!

As Bossuet climbed the ladder to the roof, Enjolras said as gently as he could, “Actually, Joly, perhaps if you could find a way to shrink me down to size…?”

Bossuet nearly fell off the ladder. “Joly! It spoke!”

“Like I said: it’s a demon!” cried Robespierre.

“You must make haste, Laigle! I would help, but I’m afraid my fever has worsened.”

Enjolras really had had enough, but unfortunately, were he to try to escape himself, Bossuet would lose his balance and fall. Even if he was acting strange, Enjolras could not bring himself to do that to his friend. So he tried to explain himself, more softly this time, so as not to startle Bossuet off the ladder.

Unfortunately, neither Bossuet nor Joly nor Robespierre would hear him, and Enjolras could hear him making his way down the chimney. Then, a puff of soot emerged from the fireplace and tickled Enjolras’s nose.

And then he sneezed.

And then from the window, he saw Bossuet flying away.

“LAIGLE!” Joly cried, and he took foot after his friend in flight.

Enjolras felt awful, but things took a turn for the worse when Robespierre decided to take matters into his own hands and burn his own home down.

There was no reasoning with a man in a panic. Before Enjolras could try to maneuver himself out of the house, for now Bossuet’s safety was no longer a concern, he noticed a garden. Perhaps something there could help him shrink down? Or at least, if he grew to an even bigger size, the house would break and he could escape death by fire. So he plucked a carrot from the garden and took a bite, only to quickly shrink down to a size smaller than he was before.

Enjolras decided not to put faith in Robespierre noticing that the “demon” in his house was no more and made his way out of the cottage. He ran into the garden, the grass and the flowers towered over him now, and tentatively looked to see if he could not find the man. Perhaps he could find a way to grow back to a normal size? But would Robespierre have anything more to do with him, thinking him a demon?

Did Enjolras want anything more to do with Robespierre, since he was not the man that he had expected? Ah, but could Enjolras expect himself to act any differently if such an event were to happen to him? He supposed he could, now that he thought about it, but no matter. Robespierre had looked for notes, and he was late for an engagement of some sort… perhaps he was to give a speech! Perhaps he was to go into Paris or another city to bring about a Republic! This, Enjolras knew he could not miss.

“My, but you are the most beautiful flower!”

Enjolras froze. “Prouvaire?”

He should have been less surprised to see that his friend Jean Prouvaire was a daisy.

Enjolras sighed. “Do I look like a flower to you?”

Prouvaire the Daisy chuckled. “Yes, of course!”

And Enjolras was not surprised by that answer at all. That certainly was something that Prouvaire, flower or not, would say.

“You are a flower in Robespierre’s garden.”

“I am.”

“So you must know his comings and goings.”

“Oh, yes, I most certainly do! He is always leaving in a frenzy, and when he returns he is no less intense but more calm and focused! Though I do not see him coming very often, for when the sun is asleep so am I. But the going! Oh, he is always so determined, so passionate!”

“Do you know where he goes?”

“Alas, I do not. I cannot follow, and he does not speak to the flowers about where he goes when he is going. He is often too busy to.”

Enjolras wondered how a man as busy as Robespierre had time to maintain a garden, but Enjolras supposed that, even if Prouvaire was a flower, he probably did a good job of it himself. Enjolras honestly could not tell, though, especially from this size, and when he was bigger his focus was elsewhere.

“Do you know which way he goes?”

“Oh, he goes every which way!”

“Did you see where he went now?”

“Oh, no, I did not. I was much too focused on you, New Flower.”

“My name is Enjolras.” Though Prouvaire knew that.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Enjolras.”

Or not.

“It was a pleasure to meet you too, Prouvaire.” This was ridiculous.

“I did not tell you my name!”

Extremely ridiculous.

“Right. I must be going now.”

“But you do not know which way you must go.”

Enjolras shrugged. “I will figure it out.”

“Or you could ask the caterpillar! He knows everything! He is that way, if you are curious.”

Well, that was the most helpful anyone around here has been since Feuilly the Doorknob. “Thank you kindly, Prouvaire,” said Enjolras, heading in the direction Prouvaire the Daisy had pointed with his leaf.

Enjolras moved through the grass and flowers and weeds, staring down any insect whose gaze lingered too long on him and keeping a sharpened twig on hand in case any of them thought to attack. None of them did, always scurrying off as soon as Enjolras made eye contact with them. Soon, he stumbled upon a mushroom with a caterpillar reading a giant book upon it. This must be Prouvaire’s caterpillar.

“Excuse me, sir? I was told that you could help me find Robespierre.”

Enjolras felt his face go white when the caterpillar turned and had the face of none other than Combeferre.

Only but of course.

Combeferre said nothing and turned back to his book. Enjolras frowned and felt a little hurt. Combeferre never brushed him off like this before.

“Combeferre!”

Combeferre the Caterpillar kept reading. Enjolras made his way in front of the book, hoping that perhaps Combeferre did not see his face clearly enough and that if he did, he would not treat him with such disdain.

“Combeferre, it’s me! I am in need of your help!”

Combeferre took his gaze away from the book and frowned. He studied Enjolras’s face for a long moment, but when he spoke, it was not what Enjolras had hoped for. “Who are you?”

That stung. “Combeferre, it’s me, Enjolras!”

“Hmph.”

“Combeferre…”

“I am very busy right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

Enjolras knew that Combeferre did not like to be interrupted while reading, and he often avoided doing so if he could. Still, even if he could not, Combeferre never treated him scornfully.

Suddenly, Enjolras found himself no longer wishing to be in this strange world anymore. It was doing horrible things to those he held dear.

But not before he saw Robespierre once more.

“Combeferre, I was hoping if you could help me find Robespierre.”

Combeferre the Caterpillar looked down upon Enjolras once more. “He is far from here. You’d never make it in time.”

“So you suppose I should grow bigger?”

“Why would you want to be bigger?”

“Because humans are not meant to be this small. I was originally much taller.”

“Hmph, so you were, human.” Combeferre patted the mushroom. “Eat a piece of this. It should help you.”

“Thank you,” said Enjolras, and he took a piece of the mushroom and did just that. He was not sorry to get away from the caterpillar with Combeferre’s face and voice but could not be Combeferre himself.

It did not take much of the mushroom for Enjolras to grow back to his right size, and he still had some leftover. Pocketing it, for who knew when he would require it again, he took a glance at his surroundings. Somehow, he had wound up in another forest and was no longer near Robespierre’s cottage. Just as well then. All he needed to do was go the direction that—

Wait. He had forgotten to ask the caterpillar where to find Robespierre in his haste to get away.

Not one to be disheartened, Enjolras wandered a bit before he found a path. That was rather convenient. What was inconvenient were the signs pointing every direction: right, left, straight, backwards, up, and down. He half-expected and hoped that a sign would point him to Paris, or Arras, or even a sign that said Robespierre. But nothing.

Determined, Enjolras decided to take some way, because it was better than no way, when he heard a light chuckle from the trees. All he saw when he looked, however, was a crescent of teeth in an impish smile.

He frowned and kept moving. He had no time for this nonsense.

“Where are you going? The fun has only just started!”

Enjolras halted. “Courfeyrac.” Of course it was.

He turned to see Courfeyrac’s eyes above the crescent of teeth, also full of laughter. Enjolras crossed his arms as Courfeyrac sang a little tune. What nonsense was going to come this time…

Oh, Courfeyrac was a cat now. A Cheshire cat even. How fitting.

“You seem to be in such a rush! Where might you be running off to?”

“I’m looking for Robespierre, if you can help with that.”

“I can, as a matter of fact,” said Courfeyrac, purring and leaping to another tree branch in a manner that no cat should be able to, no matter how graceful. “He went that way.”

Courfeyrac the Cat pointed with his tail, and Enjolras smiled. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Come with you where?”

“To see Robespierre!”

“Who’s Robespierre?”

Enjolras started. “The man you told me who went that way!”

“Which way?”

Courfeyrac was still grinning. He was doing this on purpose!

“Oh, never mind,” said Enjolras. Still, he trusted Courfeyrac’s initial direction and started to head down that path.

“Oh, but wait!” cried Courfeyrac, reappearing in a tree above Enjolras’s head. “If you really must know where Robespierres go, you could try asking the Mad Hatter.”

“No, thank you.”

“Or the March Hare?”

“No, that is quite alright. I have no interest in dealing with any more madmen.”

Courfeyrac gleefully laughed then. “Oh, my dear Enjolras, we’re all mad here!” And then he disappeared into thin air.

Enjolras could not even bring himself to be surprised anymore, and so he continued in the direction that Courfeyrac had originally sent him towards.

After walking for a few minutes, he stumbled upon a structure that resembled a topsy-turvy Musain. The sign on the door said “Mad Hatter and March Hare,” and remembering Courfeyrac’s words, he decided to venture inside. Even if Courfeyrac wasn’t Courfeyrac, perhaps there was some truth to his words.

The inside looked like Prouvaire had stolen Grantaire’s and Feuilly’s paints and had a field day on the Musain. Chairs were of colors of pink, green, and blue, the tables were red and purple, and the lights were of hues of splattered yellows, oranges, and lilacs. Loud, jovial, and drunken singing came from the corner. And there, sharing bottles of wine between the two, were none other than Bahorel… and Grantaire.

Enjolras turned on his heel and promptly left the building.

“Wait, Enjolras!”

He was going to kill Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras, wait!”

A large hand pulled him back in, and Enjolras found himself face to face with Grantaire’s eager eyes.

“I don’t have time for this,” said Enjolras.

“But it’s your unbirthday and we have to celebrate!”

What.

“Right, Bahorel?”

Bahorel was at Grantaire’s side and helping to push Enjolras to the table they had set up in the corner. “Indeed! It is your unbirthday, Enjolras, and we have to celebrate it!”

Why.

“Bahorel, Grantaire, this is completely unnecessary—”

“Completely necessary!”

They sat him down at the table and poured him a glass of wine. Or was that absinthe? Oh, yes, that was absinthe. Enjolras tried to stand, but the two had him sit right back down as they began singing boisterously.

Enjolras sighed. “Oh, just get this over with,” he muttered as the two continued with their song. He hoped at the very least he would get a cake out of this.

The song ended with the line, “Why is a raven like a writing desk?” and Enjolras just glared at Grantaire, who only returned the gaze with a wide, hopeful smile.

“Well?” asked Grantaire.

“Well what?”

“Why is a raven like a writing desk? You must know; you are very smart!”

Enjolras really did not care why a raven was like a writing desk.

“Oh, but Grantaire, we have another visitor!” said Bahorel, clapping Grantaire on the shoulder. “You there! Sir! Is today your unbirthday as well?”

“I have no time for this!” cried the newcomer. “I am running late!”

“Robespierre!” Enjolras breathed, and sure enough, it was the man himself running through the colorful Musain, only to be apprehended by Grantaire and Bahorel. “Bahorel! I expected better of you! This man is Robespierre, and he is a man to be respected and honored!”

“But I am respecting and honoring him!” said Bahorel with a grin. “For it is his unbirthday as well!”

“He is running late for an engagement!”

“Indeed I am!” cried Robespierre. “Unhand me at once!”

And so they did by dropping him into the chair next to Enjolras. When he tried to get up to leave, they promptly had him sit back down as they broke into song once more.

Robespierre turned to Enjolras. “How long must I endure this?”

Enjolras sighed. “I don’t rightly know.” But wait, he did not recognize him? This could certainly work to Enjolras’s advantage, though he always imagined Robespierre as a man to remember faces more easily than that. “While I have you here, though, Robespierre, I have some questions I’d like to—”

But Robespierre ignored him and took out his pocketwatch. “I am unforgivably late! Excuse me gentlemen, but I must make my leave!”

“But wait!” cried Enjolras, but the man was gone.

Enjolras quickly followed him, trying his best to ignore the saddened calls of Grantaire behind him. After chasing down the path he was certain Robespierre had taken, Enjolras found himself at a loss, for once again, he was lost. Of course.

“So, how was the Mad Hatter and the March Hare?”

The familiar crescent teeth appeared before him.

“Courfeyrac, what was the meaning of sending me to them? They knew nothing of Robespierre! Which I suppose I should have expected of Grantaire, but Bahorel…!”

The full Cheshire cat appeared, his grin never fading. “I thought that you could use a moment to relax, and Robespierre too. You were both so very tense. And you did find Robespierre there, didn’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“So there was your meaning!”

“But Robespierre ran off before—”

“Oh, so you are on the hunt for him again, I see? Well, well, well. In order to find Robespierre, you must first find the king and queen, you see.”

Enjolras scowled. “I have no interest in kings or queens.”

“Ah, I know, you are a republican! Just like Robespierre. And that is why you must find the king and the queen.”

Now it made sense. Robespierre had never stopped with his goal of giving France a Republic, and he was to stop Louis-Phillipe! And so, he was late for some sort of engagement towards this goal. A speech, perhaps, like Enjolras had suspected? Or a meeting with the king himself!

“So I must return to Paris! But which way do I go?”

“This way,” said Courfeyrac as he opened a door on the tree that led to the Palace of Versailles.

And so, Enjolras found himself in the garden of Versailles, surprisingly quiet and yet not surprisingly so. It was almost peaceful, but he knew that if Robespierre was about, it would not last. He needed to find him before then.

As he made his way to the palace, he stumbled upon three gamin in the shape of playing cards painting white roses red. Perhaps for the color of revolution? He left the boys to their pranks. He had more important matters to attend to.

It was not long before he came upon a pair of royals playing croquet, but the king was not the king Enjolras expected. No, this man also looked familiar but only from books and studies.

“Louis XVI!” Which meant that the queen was… “Marie Antoinette!”

This was impossible! They were dead! Beheaded before the people! Unless they had managed to escape their execution like Robespierre had, for he had been beheaded before the people as well. No, no, no, this could not be! No wonder Robespierre was in a rush! His work was left far more unfinished than Enjolras could have possibly ever fathomed!

Where was the man in question, anyhow?

“You there! In the bushes!”

Enjolras had been spotted. For a moment he thought to steal away, but then he thought of the gamin cards and their prank and decided against it. What if he inadvertently led the monarchs’ guards to them? He would not be able to live with himself if he had done that. Furthermore, he was here for Robespierre, no matter what the man’s plans were. For now, Enjolras meant neither Louis XVI nor Marie Antoinette any harm.

“Who are you?” Louis XVI demanded.

Enjolras emerged and crossed his arms, staring defiantly. “I am Enjolras,” he declared.

“‘I am Enjolras,’ what?” chirped Marie Antoinette, her eyebrows raising like a mother scolding a child for bad manners. Enjolras pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. Marie Antoinette tsked. “It’s ‘I am Enjolras, Your Majesty.’”

Enjolras shook his head.

“Such impertinence!” Marie Antoinette huffed. “Do you not know who we are?”

“I know precisely who you are. You are Louis the Sixteenth, and you are Marie Antoinette.”

“King Louis, and Queen Marie Antoinette.”

“No.”

“I should see you beheaded for this!”

“What, by guillotine? Somehow you two and Robespierre were able to escape from it. I am confident I will be able to as well.”

Marie Antoinette’s face turned scarlet. “Do not speak that name in my presence! Guards! Arrest this man!”

Enjolras could not believe this, and yet, he could. “I am to be arrested for speaking an unpleasant name? This is only one of the reasons why the people rose against you! You also leave them starving in the streets while you and your husband live in luxury, driving our glorious nation into ruin!”

“Indeed they have,” cried Robespierre from behind Enjolras. “Which is why I am here to stop them!”

Marie Antoinette shrieked, and the guards, all also dressed as playing cards, rushed in to surround both Enjolras and Robespierre. Enjolras did not shirk, for he stood with Robespierre, even if it meant his death. Standing with Robespierre, after all, was standing with France.

“Off with their heads!”

“Wait, my dearest,” said Louis XVI as he gently placed a hand on her arm. “Killing them outright would be unpopular. Perhaps we should give them a trial first?”

That was more intuitive than Enjolras ever gave the old king credit for.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, “we demand a trial by our peers! A trial by the people!”

“Indeed!” Robespierre agreed, and more quietly to Enjolras, he said, “Perhaps this way, we can turn the tables on them, and they shall be the ones on trial. Then they shall be the ones beheaded, and France shall have a Republic, and the people will be free!”

As the guards led them to the courthouse, Enjolras found, for the first time, that he did not regret following Robespierre through the cave and into this mad, mad world.

Enjolras half-expected the courtroom to be as colorful as the topsy-turvy Musain was, but it was a normal courtroom of browns and whites and wooden panels and chairs. Enjolras was a mite disappointed, but upon realizing that, he wanted to smack sense into himself. Now he was going insane, as well!

All the witnesses and the jurors and the judge, who was, of course, Louis XVI himself, took their places as Enjolras and Robespierre stood side by side at the podium. Enjolras peered at the jurors, hoping that Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were honorably enough to indeed gather peers and not lackeys. To his delight, Joly and Bossuet were among them. This boded well.

Except when Marie Antoinette insisted that they were guilty as soon as the trial began.

“No, no, dear,” chided Louis XVI gently. “We must call upon witnesses. This must be a fair trial, after all.”

“Very well. First witness!”

In marched Bahorel and Grantaire. Enjolras was unsure how he felt about Grantaire’s appearance, but Bahorel was a passionate friend to Enjolras and the cause…

Wait, was that a bottle of absinthe?

“We are here to celebrate Marie Antoinette’s unbirthday!” they said as they broke into song.

Enjolras slumped over on the podium and buried his face in his hands.

“Fools,” said a voice in his ear that was not Robespierre’s. Enjolras glanced at his shoulder.

“Combeferre! You’re a butterfly!”

Combeferre harrumphed as he flapped his wings together, settling on Enjolras’s shoulder. “That I am.”

“I somehow thought you’d be happier about that.”

“I am not unhappy. Oh, that Cheshire cat is back.”

Enjolras looked up and saw, in the middle of the impromptu unbirthday party Bahorel and Grantaire threw, Courfeyrac sitting upon Marie Antoinette’s head with the most mischievous grin. If Bahorel or Grantaire noticed, they gave no indication and instead seemed intent on distracting the queen with a lavish present of a diamond necklace.

Enjolras was impressed, for they surely meant it as an insult, but before Marie Antoinette could react Courfeyrac made his presence known to her by leaping off her head and into the cake (Enjolras banished the childish thought that he didn’t get any cake), splattering frosting and crumbs all over her face and dress. She lost her temper once more, screaming in a rage.

“Off with their heads!”

Courfeyrac laughed and jumped off the cake, kicking more pieces into Marie Antoinette’s face. He leaped into Enjolras’s arms, purring happily while Combeferre chastised him not at all harshly. Bahorel and Grantaire, with big grins, set off away from the queen, both grabbing Enjolras as they did so with Joly and Bossuet not too far behind them.

“Running is good,” said Grantaire. “You need to run.”

“Wait! Where is Robespierre?”

“Never mind about him,” said Bahorel. “If you go back, you are sure to lose your head. Now, run!”

Enjolras glanced at the butterfly on his shoulder, who only nodded. He sighed. If Combeferre insisted…

Oh, were those the king and queen’s playing card soldiers coming after them now with spears and rifles?

Yes, running would be good.

Before too long, they came to a door with a knob with Feuilly’s face. How convenient!

“Feuilly! Let us through!” Enjolras cried.

Feuilly only stared at Enjolras as the group stopped in front of his door, the angry mob behind them drawing ever closer.

“Feuilly!”

“You do realize you are dreaming, right?”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Enjolras, the shouts of the monarchs and their guards behind him growing louder and louder.

“You just need to wake up.”

“But—”

“Wake up, Enjolras!”

—-

Enjolras awoke with a start. He found himself in the barren room of his apartment with Combeferre sitting by his bedside. Enjolras frowned.

“You’re not a butterfly.”

If Combeferre was startled or confused by the statement, he did not show it. Enjolras realized the insanity of his words, but he did not reveal any trace of sheepishness and instead changed the subject.

“And I thought I had gone home for Easter.”

“It’s Christmas, Enjolras.”

Enjolras stared at Combeferre for a moment, and the events of the party the night before came back to him. “Oh. Yes. You are right. “

Combeferre sighed and rubbed his temple. “Perhaps you should refrain from drinking absinthe in the future.”

“… yes. Perhaps I should.”

[Les Miserables] Enjolras and the Seven Amis

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:36:03 GMT

Title: Enjolras and the Seven Amis
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Les Amis
Word Count: 1,264
Summary: Les Amis does Snow White and makes vast improvements to the original story.

Notes: TCRegan joked to me on Tumblr about Enjolras and the Seven Amis, and this is what happened. This is really more a parody than a crossover. Especially since I HATE the story of Snow White with an undying passion. So I used Les Amis to fix it.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs belongs to Walt Disney, and the original story of Snow White belongs to the Brothers Grimm.

---

Once upon a time, in a far away land, a king named Louis-Phillipe turned to his magic mirror every morning and asked:

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who has the fairest kingdom of them all?”

And the mirror always replied, “You do, Your Highness,” and Louis-Phillipe was pleased.

Then, one day, when the king’s stepson had grown into a feisty, fiery young lad, the mirror changed his answer.

“Famed is thy kingdom, Majesty. But hold, a young revolutionary I see. This young man will overthrow your reign, and put a Republic in its place. Alas, if he is to succeed, your kingdom shall become no more.”

Louis-Phillipe scowled. “Alas for him! Who is this Republican?”

The face in the mirror faded and the image of the king’s stepson took its place. “Hair as golden as the sun and skin as white as snow…”

“Enjolras!” Louis-Phillipe hissed.

He immediately called upon the trusted huntsman, Feuilly, and imparted this order upon him:

“Take him far into the forest. Teach him how to hunt. And when his back is turned, you must kill him. And to be sure that you do not fail me, bring his heart back to me.”

And so Feuilly took Enjolras into the forest and taught him how to shoot a gun, draw a bow, and swing a sword, all of which Enjolras was already proficient at. But, being a man oppressed by the king and a young Republican himself, told Enjolras the king’s plan to have him assassinated.

“The coward!” Enjolras hissed, and Feuilly agreed. “We must not let him get away with this! The people must rise, for they continue to starve and die and the king does nothing to help them! I shall go rally them, and you, Feuilly, shall buy me the time that I need. Bring the king the heart of a pig, and meet me by the old abandoned diamond mine in three days’ time.”

Feuilly agreed, and the two parted.

The night had descended upon the forest by the time Enjolras stumbled upon a little house. He knocked on the door, but nobody answered. With a frown, Enjolras thought to move on, but unfortunately there was no sign of a village or town anywhere nearby. Instead of breaking and entering a home, he took the supplies Feuilly had given him and set up a small camp in front of the house and promptly fell asleep.

That was when the seven residents of the house returned from their work at the not-so abandoned diamond mine. Curious about the golden-haired boy sleeping in their front yard, they stared down upon him, whispering among themselves incessantly.

“What is he?”

“He must be an angel! See how beautiful he is?”

“Bah! He is clearly a prince. See how well he is dressed?”

“We are well-dressed as well. Well, some of us.”

“We should wake him!”

“Or we can let him sleep. He looks exhausted!”

That was when Enjolras awoke, frowning at the faces peering down on him. “Are you the ones who live in that house?”

“Yes,” replied the stern man in the glasses. “Who are you, and why do you sleep at our doorstep?”

And so Enjolras introduced himself and explained how the king learned about his intentions to overthrow the monarchy and start a Republic, and how he ordered him to be killed.

“So you see, I cannot return until the time is right for revolution. Then I plan to erect a barricade, and the people shall be freed!”

And the seven Amis, for that is what they were, agreed to let Enjolras stay with them, for they, too, had many greivances against the king and the current government. They spent the night talking and debating, and Enjolras soon learned all about his new allies and friends.

There was Combeferre, who shared many of Enjolras’s views and who Enjolras felt an immediate connection to. He was the leader of the Amis, but over the next few hours it became apparent that Enjolras had comforably occupied that role alongside him.

Then there was Bahorel, who seemed wary of Enjolras’s presence at first but quickly warmed up to him. There was also Courfeyrac, rarely without a smile or a laugh; Jehan, bashful; Joly, nose red and constantly sneezing; Bossuet, bald and clumsy; and Grantaire, always in the corner, staring at Enjolras with a dazed expression, which Enjolras attributed to the absinthe he held in his hand. This was confirmed by Grantaire winding up slumped over on the table and snoring loudly.

Over the next couple of days, they planned ways to help get the people in the kingdom riled up for revolution. Then, remembering his promise to Feuilly, Enjolras asked the Amis to take him to the diamond mine where they worked. The huntsman was already waiting for him and told him both the good and the bad news: that the king had bought the lie, but that it also would not last, for Feuilly had discovered that he had a magic mirror that barred nothing. They were running out of time.

In fact, they had no more time left, for when Louis-Phillipe asked the mirror, “Who has the fairest kingdom of them all?” the mirror answered:

“Over the seven jewelled hills, beyond the seventh fall, in the cottage of the Seven Amis, dwells Enjolras, the young Republican destined to overthrow your reign.”

“Impossible!” Louis-Phillipe cried. “Enjolras lies dead in the forest. The huntsman has brought me proof. Behold, his heart.”

“Enjolras still lives. ‘Tis the heart of a pig you hold in your hand.”

Infuriated, Louis-Phillipe concocted a new plan to nip the revolution in the bud once and for all.

Unfortunately for Enjolras and the Amis, the people could not hear their speeches, not even, or perhaps especially, Grantaire’s sleepy and drunken ramblings that made little sense to anybody.

When Feuilly returned from a scouting mission at the castle and informed everyone what the king was up to, they came up with a new plan.

And so Feuilly went with the Seven Amis to the old diamond mine one morning, while Enjolras stayed behind to draft up some more speeches. Then an old peddler came knocking at the house, asking Enjolras to buy some of his apples.

The disguise was poor and Enjolras saw right through it. This peddler was none other than Louis-Phillipe. But he had to stick to the plan. And so he agreed to eat the apple that he knew was poisoned, but he only pretended to, using a trick that Combeferre had taught him. He collapsed on the floor, mocking his death, and Louis-Phillipe cackled in delight.

“Now my kingdom is the fairest in all the lands! None shall ever rise up against me!”

“Are you so certain about that?” cried a voice behind the king. He turned to see eight angry men with guns aimed at him.

Louis-Phillipe was infuriated. “This is treason! You shall hang for this!”

“No,” said Enjolras, rising from his mock slumber on the ground and grabbing his own gun to point at the king. “The people shall decide your fate. And you are mistaken that my death alone will stem the tide of revolution. Your people are starving. They are dying from disease and from poverty. And you have lived in riches, fat and happy. Even if I had died, they would have eventually risen up against you. But now begins the dawning of a new Republic, and your fate is tied to this.”

And so the Republic was established, and they lived happily ever after.

The End

[Les Miserables] Write What You Know

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:34:42 GMT

Title: Write What You Know
Author: bearit
Rating: PG13
Genre: General, Romance
Characters: Combeferre/Prouvaire
Word Count: 385
Summary: Courfeyrac issues Prouvaire a challenge, and Prouvaire turns to Combeferre for advice.

Notes: Requested from TCRegan on Tumblr: Combeferre/Prouvaire. Intelligent discussion on sex turns into sexytimes.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

No one who was there quite remembered how this turn of events happened, but Combeferre was sure wine had something to do with it. Courfeyrac requested from Prouvaire a sonnet on the lovemaking between two people, and he wanted no detail spared.

Which left Combeferre completely befuddled as to why Prouvaire came knocking on his apartment door for advice.

Prouvaire stared at lap, his pants scrunched up in his fists. “You know a lot about everything. I figured you would know a lot about, well, this. I know Courfeyrac probably has more experience, but obviously I can’t ask him.”

“There are others,” Combeferre pointed out. “Bahorel, for one. Grantaire boasts enough about it. Joly, Bossuet, and I am sure Feuilly has his fair share of lovers.”

“But Courfeyrac specified two people, and Joly and Bossuet also have Musichetta! And Feuilly is too busy to be bothered with this, and Bahorel and Grantaire, well…” Prouvaire shrugged and looked up at Combeferre sheepishly. “I know you know something about this. And you wouldn’t make fun.”

Oh. “So you really never—”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Combeferre had suspected as much, but he did not want to jump to conclusions. Perhaps Prouvaire wanted to do more research, or have a more well-rounded view on the subject. But the fear of being made fun of, even if everyone else certainly would have done it playfully, not maliciously, confirmed it.

“Do you at least know the basics?”

“Of course!”

“Describe it as you know it.”

Prouvaire’s cheeks flushed red and he stammered for a moment. Combeferre smiled.

“And how do you expect to write a poem if you cannot speak of even the basics to me?”

“I would use metaphors! I could not be so crass as to describe it so literally. A beautiful poem uses symbolism and metaphors and colors and nature to describe even the basest of things.”

“Sex is not base. It does not have to be.”

“I—I know, but…”

Combeferre’s grin turned impish as he leaned forward and gently pressed his lips upon Prouvaire’s. “They say that you should write what you know. You don’t know this. Do you wish to?”

Prouvaire’s face was now a much deeper red. “I…” He bit his lip, smiled, and then nodded once as he leaned in to kiss Combeferre again.

[Les Miserables] Les Hyenas

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:33:37 GMT

Title: Les Hyenas
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Friends of the ABC, Lion King characters
Word Count: 545
Summary: There were nine hyenas who did not aid Scar in his rise to power.

Notes: Yes, this is a Les Mis/Disney crossover. The first of a few. I have Issues with some of the morals in Lion King, and so Les Amis exists so I can address these. Also, I'm pretty sure the barricade boys would HATE Lion King. For as cracky as this is, it's actually not.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit. Lion King belongs to Disney.

---

When Scar rallied the hyenas in a coup against the king, there were nine who did not join in, for Scar spoke about how he would become king instead. Yes, he had descended from his place among the lions to mingle with the hyenas. Yes, he spoke of how he would end the hyenas’ starvation and oppression. But power lit the flame in his eyes, not justice or freedom, and so these nine kept to the skull of their elephant as the others participated in the scheme to murder Mufasa and his son.

During Scar’s reign, the leader of these nine, an albino hyena named Enjolras, rallied and planned with his friends about how to lead the other animals of the Pridelands in revolution. He was no better than Mufasa. But the antelope and the zebras fled whenever he and Combeferre treaded beyond the Shadowlands to speak to them. The birds flew away. The cheetahs chased them back to where they came from. Not even Courfeyrac, the one hyena who, even in the time of Mufasa, managed to find a friend or two among the elephants, could get through to anybody.

Scar was a tyrant, and the hyenas were his lackeys. Enjolras and his pack were seen no differently.

Soon, however, the other animals were driven out of the Pridelands. But where one door closed, another opened, for the hyenas who had been passionate in their support for Scar were starting to mutter disgruntled complaints against the king they had helped put into power. When Feuilly reported this, Enjolras knew that the time of revolution was upon them once more.

On the outskirts of the Pridelands, Enjolras spoke to all those who would hear him. Every day, more and more hyenas joined the crowd. Enjolras at one point thought he saw a lioness, but she had long disappeared before he could focus his gaze upon her. He thought that perhaps the new coup would be found out, but Courfeyrac, the wily hyena that he was, had befriended a lioness. They wanted to see Scar gone, too.

The fact that they were still loyal to Mufasa’s regime bothered Enjolras little. An enemy of an enemy was a friend, and they were no spies. Unfortunately, when the lionesses heard the government Enjolras and his pack wanted to instill instead—one where each species of animal sent a representative to decide matters of the wild—they wanted nothing to do with the coup. They still wanted their power.

The time finally came when the long-lost son of Mufasa returned to reclaim his throne. The few hyenas still loyal to Scar finally turned against him. But only Simba’s revolution ended in a success, for when Enjolras approached him about the rights of the hyenas and all the animals, they were chased right back into the Shadowlands.

Enjolras had none of that. And so, with the help of Feuilly and the rallying of all the hyenas, they erected a barricade out of the bones of the animals who never escaped Scar’s regime. They had hoped that as the other animals returned, they would join their side, but alas, their loyalty to Mufasa’s son was strong, and so the barricades fell and the hyenas were never seen in the Pridelands again.

[Les Miserables] A Different Morn

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:32:26 GMT

Title: A Different Morn
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters: Marius/Eponine
Word Count: 317
Summary: Eponine has a surprising morning.

Notes: A prompt given to me from an thedarkestnightwillend on Tumblr: Marius/Eponine, calm

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Eponine was not used to waking up in a bed that was not her own.

Not that it had not happened before. Those instances were usually slip-ups: she succumbed to sleep before her partner did. She never failed, luckily, to wake up before him so that she could sneak away with a priciest belonging he had. Considering the company she kept, the priciest belonging was barely enough for more than five sous and her parents scoffed at her attempt at petty theft. The only man she slept with she did not steal from was Montparnasse, but then he knew better than to fall asleep. In fact, he was the one who taught her the scheme.

And so when she woke up to the sunlight touching her eyes in a bed softer than the one she knew, she bolted upright. She had to get out of here. Now. Fast. Before the owner of the bed woke up. She had no time to loot his stuff. She had to find her clothes—

That was when Eponine looked down and saw that she was still wearing her clothes.

“’Ponine?” called a familiar, yet sleepy voice.

Eponine glanced behind her to see Marius tiredly rubbing his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Then Eponine recalled how Marius caught her running an errand for her father near his apartment just before the rainstorm hit, and how he had invited her inside to wait out the storm, and how she had teased him through his studies and dared to rest her head upon his shoulder…

She felt her face flush. “No, nothing. I just forgot where I was for a moment.”

He reached out his arm towards her with a soft smile, inviting her to lay back down with him. So she did, cuddled against his chest and his arms wrapped around her gently.

Her father’s letters could wait a little bit longer.

[Les Miserables] A Friendly Game

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:31:27 GMT

Title: A Friendly Game
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: General, Friendship
Characters: Friends of the ABC
Word Count: 382
Summary: Courfeyrac decides to lighten things up.

Notes: A prompt given to me from an Anon on Tumblr: Les Amis playing poker. Who would win? Who would cheat? Who would lose all their clothes?

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

It was Bahorel who caught him.

The game started off innocently enough. Courfeyrac broke out two decks of cards and suggested a friendly round or two. No sous lost, he promised with a wink. They would bet on drinks.

To everyone’s surprise, Enjolras agreed to join in without much discussion. Combeferre coached him through the first three rounds, after which Enjolras stood solidly on his own. He did not win every hand, but he did not lose, feeling his way through the strategy of the game.

The winners rotated between Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire randomly. Bossuet, of course, never did catch a break. He always folded too soon only to find that if he had stayed in the game, he would have had a fighting chance; or, if he did stay in, he found by the end of the hand that he should have folded outright from the beginning. Not even teaming up with Joly helped his chances any.

When drink had passed the lips of everyone but Enjolras, who had comfortably learned when to fold and when to continue playing and whose calculating mask never revealed his hand, Courfeyrac then suggested that they added new stakes.

“Lose the round, lose an article of clothing.”

Enjolras and Combeferre were the first to raise their voices against this, but their nay votes were overturned by the eager yay votes of Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Prouvaire, and the now very tipsy Bossuet and Joly. And so they begrudgingly agreed to it, much to Courfeyrac’s delight.

Enjolras was the first to lose. He seemed completely befuddled, but he shrugged it off, especially when Bossuet lost the next five hands.

And then Enjolras lost again.

And then Prouvaire, Joly, Bossuet for the final time, Enjolras again, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Courfeyrac, Enjolras for the fourth time and nearly and irately stripped down, Combeferre, Bahorel…

Combeferre set his glare upon Grantaire, who had yet to lose a hand. He watched him carefully and thought it suspicious it was at that moment he finally lost as well. Before he could say something, however, Bahorel angrily cried out:

“Courfeyrac! I see the card you’re keeping up your sleeve!”

Courfeyrac only cheekily and widely grinned.

And so Grantaire wound up disappointed that the game didn’t continue past that point. Enjolras was so close.

[Les Miserables] Winter Breaths

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:08:58 GMT

Title: Winter Breaths
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters: Enjolras/Grantaire
Word Count: 169
Summary: It was winter, and Grantaire has an opportunity he never had before.

Notes: A prompt given to me from an Anon on Tumblr: E/R, their first kiss.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

“May I?”

Grantaire gently held Enjolras’s face with both hands, their faces so close their warm breaths mingled against the cold of winter. Enjolras’s face did not betray emotion, which only made Grantaire’s heart beat faster against his chest, but not as much as when he slowly nodded once.

Grantaire did not bother to fight the grin that spread on his face, but it slowly faded the closer his lips came to Enjolras’s. He wanted to savor this moment, for it may be the only one he’d ever receive.

As their lips lightly brushed, Grantaire let his eyes flutter shut. He lingered, taking note of every last detail and emotion: how he felt, how Enjolras felt, the warmth of this moment, everything.

But as he pulled away, he felt Enjolras lean in closer, his lips moving in reciprocation and his arms wrapping around Grantaire’s waist.

Grantaire wanted to die, for he would die happy.

Instead, he held Enjolras against himself tightly, and they did not let go until morning.

[Les Miserables] The Newcomer

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:08:18 GMT

Title: The Newcomer
Author: bearit
Rating: G
Genre: General
Characters: Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire
Word Count: 238
Summary: Someone has entered the back room of the Cafe Musain whom Bahorel has never seen before.

Notes: A prompt given to me from an Anon on Tumblr: Bahorel/cross-dressing!Prouvaire.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

Bahorel was shocked when he walked into the back room of the Cafe Musain and saw a woman sitting at one of the tables.

She was of a unique beauty, he noted, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps she was the latest of Courfeyrac’s collection. That thought went right out the window. Of course Courfeyrac would not bring a woman he was sleeping with here, no matter how beautiful or unique or anything. To do so would invite a commitment Bahorel knew Courfeyrac had little interest in.

Was she the infamous Musichetta? That could not be; neither Joly nor Bossuet were here yet. In fact, none of the others were here yet. So this being Pontmercy’s Ursule was not only improbable, but laughable, even if the boy was here.

So she was not an acquaintance of any of them, surely. Then who was she and why was she here? Bahorel did not recognize her from any of the other groups around Paris.

She smiled politely at Bahorel, a familiarly odd twinkle in her eye. Then Bahorel noticed her attire. She was well-dressed, and while Bahorel knew little about fashion he knew enough to know when colors clashed. That shade of purple of her petticoat with those flower patterns and that shade of red with those frills…

It couldn’t be.

“Jehan?”

She—he even laughed delicately like a lady. “Was it that obvious?”

Bahorel had no words.

[Les Miserables] Why

bearit — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 03:06:06 GMT

Title: Why
Author: bearit
Rating: PG13
Genre: Romance
Characters: Enjolras/Grantaire, Combeferre
Word Count: 327
Summary: Enjolras comes upon a startling realization that he finds he has no explanation for.

Notes: Written for TCRegan on Tumblr for her birthday.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---

When asked, “Why?” Enjolras found that he could not come up with an easy answer.

The first person who asked him that was himself. When the realization set upon him and Enjolras could not deny his feelings anymore, he asked himself, “Why?”

Why him, why now, why not someone else, why anyone at all? Enjolras was plenty preoccupied with the Republic. He did not have time for such idle, trivial matters. And so, that was all the attention he allotted the question. He shoved his feelings to the side and proceeded as though nothing was different.

The second person who asked him was Combeferre. Combeferre noticed. He confronted Enjolras: something was off. It was subtle, but it was there. Enjolras, already having conceded that the matter was unimportant, decided that there was little harm in telling him. Combeferre then scowled and asked, “Why?”

Enjolras could not quite decipher what Combeferre meant by the question. Perhaps he meant the same as the nature of Enjolras’s. Why him, why now, why not someone else, why not… why not Combeferre himself? None of these explanations Combeferre offered, and Enjolras then wondered: why not Combeferre? It made more sense. But Enjolras did not harbor those feelings for him. And so, Enjolras responded with, “I simply do.”

When Combeferre gave him the look as though he would not accept the answer, Enjolras continued, “I do not understand it either.”

The third person who asked him was Grantaire. Enjolras had chastely placed his lips upon Grantaire’s. When he pulled away, Grantaire’s eyes were wild with confusion.

“Why?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to give him the answer he had given Combeferre, but Grantaire instead pulled him in for another, less chaste kiss.

It was only much later one night when their limbs were entangled from lovemaking that Enjolras found his answer. Grantaire murmured an affirmation of love into his ear, and Enjolras smiled.

They were happy.

And really, it was as simple as that.

[Les Miserables] the song the people sang

bearit — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 13:57:08 GMT

Title: the song the people sang
Author: bearit
Rating: PG

Notes: Once upon a time, I did this drabble meme for Dragon Age, and in an effort to get writing again, I decided to do it for Les Miserables. I posted them one-by-one on Tumblr, but now that it's all done, I decided to collect them all here. I hope you enjoy!

Meme Rules:
1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.
2. Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.
3. Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards!
4. Do ten of these, then post them.

Disclaimer: Les Miserables belongs to Victor Hugo. This is a piece of fanwork and purely created for fun. No profit is being made from this.

1. First Breath After a Coma; Explosions in the Sky
Enjolras, Les Amis

Enjolras blinked his eyes open to see eight faces peering down on him. He creased his brow.

“You’re alive.”

The words came from his mouth, and some of the others let out a small, relieved chuckle. Enjolras frowned. That dream seemed so real, so vivid. There were details he could remember that he could not from any other dream. And their deaths… even now he could see them as he took his glance between each of his friends, their eyes now so full of life and wounds absent from their bodies. And yet there was something off.

“You’re wearing the same clothes as you did…” He paused. ”It really happened then, didn’t it?”

“Yes.”

It was no dream then. Enjolras sat up and threw off his shirt, looking down on his chest. The bullet wounds he expected to see there did not exist.

A familiar, warm hand grasped his, and Enjolras followed the arm up to the eyes of Grantaire, who smiled serenely down upon him.

“Vive la Republique!”

Did that not happen?

“What is going on?” he asked. “Where are we?”

Grantaire tightened his grip. “Heaven,” he answered. “We are dead.”

2. Lullaby ~Let Me Hold You In My Arms~; Minako Honda
Enjolras/Grantaire

Enjolras lifted his head out of the paperwork on his desk as Grantaire stirred on the bed. His eyes did not open, but he moaned with his face twisted as though in pain.

A pang of guilt rippled through Enjolras. He was not blameless in Grantaire’s recent nightmares. A rumor had spread, and while it held no truth it did not have a reason for existing. Enjolras told Grantaire the full truth of the situation, and Grantaire accepted it wholeheartedly, but the rumor itself had played into his inner demons.

Enjolras crawled into the bed next to Grantaire and gently pulled him into his arms, stroking his hair gently. Grantaire immediately clung to him and murmured sleepily, “Don’t leave me.”

He held him tighter against his chest and whispered, “I won’t. I promise.”

3. Maria; from West Side Story
Marius/Cosette

Marius waltzed away from Rue Plumet with a giddy smile, and he knew that as soon as he walked into the apartment Courfeyrac would tease him endlessly. He could even hear him now: “You look like an idiot.”

Yet, he could not bring himself to care.

He finally met her.

He talked to her.

And she talked back.

His Ursu—no.

Cosette.

Marius took a couple of skips across the street, and he spun around a lamppost with a happy laugh.

Cosette.

And there was not a thing in the world that could bring him down from this high.

4. Nearer My God to Thee; from Titanic
Cosette, Valjean

Cosette sat at the base of the gravestone, gently touching the engraved letters upon it while her other arm cradled her sleeping son.

“Hello, Father,” she murmured. “I brought my son to meet you today. We named him Jean, after you. Marius insisted upon it, and it was too perfect to say no. Isn’t he beautiful, Father? He was fussy before I left the house, which is why I’m late, but I haven’t taken him out too much the past month or two. Today is the first day of sunshine we’ve had in a long time.

“I apologize that he is sleeping. He has the most precious, curious eyes. And the way he coos! He is a delightful child, and already so bright!”

The child stirred, and Cosette drew her attention away from the headstone to tend to him briefly.

“Jean, darling, wake up. I’ve brought you to meet your grandfather.”

5. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas; Judy Garland, from Meet Me in St. Louis
Les Amis

During the Christmastime of many generations since the 1830s, where the old Café Musain stood, people reported hearing strange, ghostly murmurs in their ears. There would be jovial laughter, someone would ramble drunkenly about the mythos of Yule, an oratory about freedom and justice would resound, and songs would be sung. This often happened when no one could be seen laughing, or someone was grumbling “Humbug,” or someone denied a cold beggar spare change, or when no carolers were to be seen or heard. It was as though these ghosts were there to fill a void that the people of Paris could not.

Then one Christmas, no one, not even deranged drunks, reported hearing even the slightest whisper through the silence of gently falling snow.

What went unnoticed was that on the other side of the city, nine youths had come together in a small bar, sharing a bottle of champagne and exchanging presents through boasting guffaws. They discussed the true origins of the holiday, and they talked about the men, women, and children living without a roof over their heads and what the government should do to help them, and they sung old carols and new songs from America, the latter often with their own, mocking spin.

It was their first of many Christmases together, and yet it felt like their thousandth.

They had come home at long last.

6. Dreams; Van Halen
Enjolras/Grantaire

“This isn’t over yet. It’s not even close to being finished.”

Two figures stood in the shadows of the alleyway not far from the Corinthe. They watched as the National Guard cleaned up the remnants of the barricade: all the broken furniture and bodies, all the fallen weapons and young and old men.

“The people will rise. It’s only a matter of a time.”

“I know.”

Some passersby tentatively slowed their pace to watch the scene, and others lingered longer to watch with mournful eyes.

“What do we do now?”

A smile. “We?”

“You have permitted me.”

“That I have.” They grasped hands, fingers intertwining. “We continue forward, and we will be with the people when they rise again.”

7. At the Beginning; Donna Lewis & Richard Marx, from Anastasia
Valjean, Cosette

In the quiet moments where Cosette sat on the armchair, Catherine in her lap and her little legs swinging back and forth as she played with the doll, Jean Valjean was able to find a moment of peace.

He turned his head away from the window and watched Cosette with a small smile, the fear of Javert lurking in the shadows below the Gorbeau House momentarily gone. He took joy in her quiet murmurings to her doll, babbling on as though she had years of conversation to catch up on. Which, he chided himself, she did.

But in his silent vow never to have her be alone again, he detected a bit of selfish want: he, too, did not wish to be alone again either. With her as his own, a new beginning had only just started.

8. Everytime We Touch; Cascada
Enjolras/Grantaire

Enjolras opened the door and was immediately greeted to big arms and clumsy lips upon his own.

“Mmf!” He pulled away slightly, his hands resting on the shoulders of the man before him, and smiled. ”What was that greeting for?”

Grantaire grinned widely. “I missed you.”

“I was only gone for a few hours.”

“A few hours too long!”

Enjolras chuckled and closed the distance between them again. As his arms wrapped around Grantaire’s neck, his nose caught the whiff of a delicious scent.

“You made dinner?”

“I did,” said Grantaire as he nuzzled his face into the crook of Enjolras’s neck. “Happy anniversary, love.”

9. Hands; Jewel
Cosette

The nightmares of the Thenardieress never went away. Not in the convent, where she woke up in a cold sweat and clutched her pillow to sob quietly back to sleep. Not at Rue Plumet, where she woke to her father staring gently down upon her with a warm glass of milk and his large hand combing her hair to lull her to peaceful dreams. Not even after she married Marius and shared a bed with him, where he clutched her to his chest and she clutched desperately back.

So she spent her waking hours continuing her father’s work by giving alms to the children of the street. She always helped lost children find their way back to their mothers, and she always asked the priest for anything more she could do to help those in need.

But the most important thing she made sure to do for these children was to smile at them, laugh with them, and always give them an encouraging word or five. She made sure to play when she could and tell stories of faraway lands when she could not. And when she finally bore children of her own, she always made sure to shower them with unconditional love and to teach them to never, ever lose faith in the world.

10. Eye to Eye; Tevin Campbell, from A Goofy Movie
Enjolras/Grantaire

They stood side by side, hand in hand, eye to eye, and time stood still.

Neither of them were concerned with the National Guard and the guns trained on them. With a smile shared and a connection made, they did not dwell on opportunities and time lost nor of the future they would never share together. Instead, they reveled in the moment of reciprocation and of continuous disappointments ended and redeemed, and the bottles and rejections became quickly and long forgotten.

It was a moment that, when time began again, would last forever.

BONUS: Don't Let it Bring You Down; Neil Young
Grantaire

If Grantaire sat down with a sober mind and thought long and hard about when, where, why, and how he turned to the absinthe, he knew that he would not be able to come up with an easy answer.

His life before coming to Paris had not been easy, this much was true. His life since arriving to Paris was little better. Here he made friends, and that was certainly no failing, though a thought always gnawed at him about how much of that friendship was genuine and how much was indulgence. And he hated that he thought that.

He had battles with the bottle before succumbing. They stared each other down, and the only thoughts that Grantaire could come up with in response to anything the bottle shot at him were ones of his own self-doubts and self-loathing. This, of course, led to his loss.

Without fail, he always lost by the time Enjolras entered the Musain, and that made the defeat all the harder to deal with.

And so he drank more.

[Les Misérables] The Five Stages of Death, Dying, and Love

bearit — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 00:58:21 GMT

Title: The Five Stages of Death, Dying, and Love
Author: bearit
Rating: PG
Genre: Romance
Characters: Enjolras/Grantaire
Word Count: ~500
Summary: Falling in love is not unlike dying. At least, that's Enjolras's best estimate of it.

Disclaimer: Les Misérables belongs to Victor Hugo. I have no rights to the novel, musical, anime, or any of the movies. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

I. Denial
He was not alone in his bed.

Warmth encompassed him from behind. Strong arms pulled him in close. The faint stench of lingering wine breathed into his ear.

He smiled, rested his hands upon those that held him, and closed his eyes.

Then Enjolras woke up.

He was alone now. The only thing that kept him warm against the chill of winter were the four walls of his apartment and the blanket draped over his body. The air was so familiar that it was nothing remarkable.

Enjolras knew that he should have been relieved.

After a moment of convincing himself of this, he drifted back to restless sleep.

II. Anger
When Enjolras entered the Cafe Musain the next morning, his gaze immediately fell on him.

It would not have been so terrible had their eyes not locked in the next instant.

Something in Grantaire's eyes and in his smile made Enjolras's stomach twist. Enjolras's lips curled, and he turned his nose away.

III. Bargaining
"Be serious."

"I'm fierce."

And so Enjolras considered him. He considered the lingering thoughts since winter. He considered the unfamiliar internal twists of each glance. And he considered the glance he cast upon Grantaire now.

Enjolras wondered.

Nothing happens without reason nor without cause. Perhaps the little thought Enjolras had given upon this had always been too much. Perhaps, if he just took the offer in stride, a sense of normalcy would return, and idle interruptions would no longer disturb him.

Just this once. One more time.

"Grantaire, I agree to try you. You'll go to the Barriere du Maine."

IV. Depression
As they looked into the cellar and discovered the fifteen bottles of wine, Enjolras realized that there was little point in ignoring it anymore: he wished that Grantaire was awake.

Enjolras could not place his finger on why, precisely. He doubted Grantaire would be of any use in the battle to come. His presence would only serve to annoy and to distract. And even if Grantaire heeded the ban on drink, and even if he did participate, Enjolras doubted his effectiveness and his willingness.

Bossuet was right: it was lucky that Grantaire was asleep. He would drink, and he would be useless, and he would distract.

So why did Enjolras wish for otherwise?

The answers that swam in his head resounded incorrectly and served the same purpose as Grantaire himself would in consciousness. More reasonably, perhaps Enjolras wanted Grantaire to see for himself what surrounded him and what risks everyone took. It was a dangerous curiosity, but far less fatal than any other Enjolras could conjure.

Should he not have wished instead that Grantaire had chosen to sleep anywhere else in all of Paris but here?

V. Acceptance
Enjolras once accused of Grantaire: "You're incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death."

Now, standing side by side, Enjolras recalled a dream from many months ago. Hand in hand, he recalled the warmth of that night. Eye to eye in this moment of death, he saw Grantaire's belief, his thought, his will, and his life.

And Enjolras smiled.

WIP [Jade Empire] Firelight

bearit — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 03:59:13 GMT

As part of my WIP chronicles: things I started but never completed and probably never will complete. They are being posted because, well, I had invested some amount of time in each of these, and who knows; maybe I'll get around to completing them someday.

Title: Firelight
Fandom: Jade Empire
Rating: PG
Genre: General
Characters: Sky's father, Sky, Sun Li, the Spirit Monk (female)
Word Count: 1,697
Summary: Near the end of the Long Drought, a scoundrel and his son help out a stranger and an infant. Spoilers

Notes: I think I stopped writing when I realized I had no idea where I was going with this fic. Still, I enjoy it for the interactions between kid!Sky and his father.

Disclaimer: Jade Empire belongs to Bioware and Microsoft. I have no rights to the game. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and is not making a profit.

The others had decided to spend their newly acquired silver in the tavern with wine and women, but he knew better than to indulge. Shui was unlike his companions—he had a son, a growing boy, who needed to eat. As he handed the merchant some silver, he tapped his son’s shoulder and pointed to a leather pouch tucked hidden in the back corner of the shop. His son flashed a grin and casually snuck to the penumbra where the last vestiges of the setting sun cast shadows upon the wooden walls of the shop. As the merchant handed Shui the goods, his son continued to the corner and grabbed the leather bag, and Shui was content to draw his eyes away from the boy and keep his gaze on the merchant as he cordially thanked him for the food.

Father and son met on the outskirts of the town later, and the two wandered towards the small campsite on the bank of the creek across the cracked plain. The creek had once been a river, and it had been a river that many of their kind had lived off of over the past ten years. But as the water levels dwindled so did the scoundrels living off the river, and nobody dared to imagine the water levels falling any further.

Shui built a small fire as his son dropped the coins into a brown bag by their blankets. He handed his son his ration, and his son begged him to tell him a story.

“Oh, now, don’t you like me to save that for after you eat?”

The boy gave him a look. “I’m getting a little old for bedtime stories.”

Shui laughed. “Son, you have yet to live to see through a decade. You are not getting too old for bedtime stories, I promise you, especially if you are still young enough to listen to a tale over the campfire. Well, we’ll have it your way, then. Let me think here…”

As he raked his mind for a good story he had not yet told the boy, he noticed a shadow straggling not too far from them, to the west, hunched over slightly as if he might be in pain or carrying some precious cargo. He frowned; not many people traveled anymore to anywhere. Even he and his little crew never went too far beyond where they knew the closest villages and towns would be in fear of losing their regular food supply. Others would often fear getting raided and robbed by his type, and he knew better than anyone else that the fear was legit. He could never help but to take advantage, especially if he found himself at a camp too far away from a town.

But this… man? It must be. He looked like he had nothing of worth on him, except for perhaps whatever he was carrying if he was carrying something, and he was alone. Perhaps lost? He would find his way to the town eventually, of that Shui was certain, but if he had nothing of worth, the man would certainly starve. To each their own, some of his companions would have said, but he could not live with the guilt if he found a dead body lying in the gutter the next morning.

“Hold on a moment,” he told his son, and he approached the man cautiously. Straggler or no, injured or not, there was still the chance that the man was more than he appeared and would attack. As the setting sun aided in his vision, he saw that the man was much older and his clothes tattered and battle-worn, and he saw that the man was carrying… an infant? “Sir, you look tired. Would you like to rest a while with me and my son over there by the fire? We can give you some food and some silver if you want a place to stay for the night in the town nearby.”

The man looked at him with hard, calculating eyes, but they quickly softened and he offered a strained smile. “Thank you, young man, but I will be fine. I have a little of my own silver to get me through until I reach my destination. It should only be another day’s journey.”

The infant in the man’s arms squirmed and began wailing. The man looked briefly shocked, and then annoyed, and Shui chuckled.

“Your grandchild seems to beg otherwise,” he said.

“She is not my grandchild. Do you really believe I am that old?”

Shui shrugged. “Forgive me, sir, but you look… well… a little too old to have an infant kid, but I suppose not old enough to have an adult child. That was my mistake. Let me make up for it with some food, at least?”

“Oh, so the offer of silver no longer stands once I mention I have my own?” The man sounded slightly more amused than annoyed despite the crying child in his arms, and he shifted the infant gently in an attempt to soothe her.

“Well, you said that you had enough to last, and my son and I need to survive, too, you know. I just thought I’d lend a helping hand, but you didn’t need it. But, you see, now I feel bad for insulting you. Come, we have enough, and I’m sure my son would not mind running back to the town to find some milk for your daughter.”

“She is not my daughter, either.”

Shui raised an eyebrow. “Well, that is most certainly odd, and I’m sure quite the story. Come tell it over dinner—my son has been dying for me to tell him a story, but I’m sure one from a mysterious stranger would be far more interesting than some of the yarns I could spin for him. Unless, of course, you’d rather not talk about it?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Suit yourself, then.” Shui made his way back to the camp, and he waved the man to join. “Come, come, eat with us. We’ll make sure to send you and the kid to the town before it gets too dark. We’ll even accompany you, if need be.”

The man smiled his tight grin again. “You are very insistent, and awfully generous to a complete stranger.”

“These are hard times, how could I not be? Besides, the kid helps your cause.”

The two men took their seats in front of the fire, and the boy had already finished off his portion of the food. His attention was immediately stolen by the man, and he sat up on his knees with an eager gleam in his eyes. The poor man was about to be bombarded with questions; it was the boy’s nature, always curious to learn more about whoever joined them around the campfire, but Shui knew that the man should not be bothered, not right now, at least. He dug into the bag and took out a couple of silver coins and handed it to his son and bid him to go into town to find some food for the infant. His son looked crestfallen.

“But—”

“Now, Sky, or else the kid is going to wail her lungs out.”

The boy sighed and ambled towards the town. The man chuckled, though it seemed in spite of himself, as he shifted the child in his arms again to find another way to subdue her. She quieted, but only slightly, and Shui laughed and extended his arms towards the man.

“Let me hold her?”

The man glared at him with his hardened, cold eyes and tightened his grip on the child, which caused the child to cry harder again. “Excuse me?”

“You have been traveling for some time now, I bet. Give your arms a break, let them free. I promise I’ll be careful with her—my son’s still alive and breathing, isn’t he? Besides, how else do you plan on eating? She’d be more comfortable in my arms than on the ground.”

The man hesitated, and then he cautiously handed the child over. Shui grinned as he took her, and he rocked her gently, and the baby quickly quieted. The man frowned but did not say anything, and Shui did his best not to laugh.

“You get good at it after a while,” he said. “Trust me, babies were never really my thing, but you never know what fate might have in store for you, you know? You catch on, though. Cute kid… did you know her parents? I can’t figure out why you would have a child that was not your own or not own of your own offspring’s… are you an uncle, a friend of the family…?”

The man looked uneasy. “I never had the opportunity to meet her parents,” he said after deliberation. “They were killed, in a battle.”

Shui cringed. An orphan, then, and perhaps this kind man saved her? But he did not wish to cause the stranger further discomfort and did not press the story further—for now, he decided. “I am… sorry to hear that. So I suppose you do not know her name, either.”

“A name?” The man paused for a moment. “I hadn’t given the matter much thought.”

“Well, you ought to! And soon, too—what have you been referring to this poor girl as in the meantime?”

“I haven’t had need to refer to her as anything. You are the first person I’ve run into since I traveled with her.”

Shui grinned. “If we weren’t in the middle of a drought, I think I’d be more surprised. Have you traveled far? You were coming from the west, but there isn’t much further west of here.”

... to be continued? ...

[Katekyo Hitman Reborn!] Final Tryst

bearit — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 22:10:25 GMT

Title: Final Tryst
Author: bearit
Rating: R, for non-graphic sex
Genre: Romance, Angst
Characters: Alaude/Knuckle
Word Count: 579
Summary: Alaude has something to say to Knuckle the night before he takes his vows.

Notes: This was written for day_by_drabble April Showers Prompt #7: Nobody said it was easy / Oh it's such a shame for us to part / Nobody said it was easy / No one ever said it would be so hard / I'm going back to the start. (Coldplay, "The Scientist")

Also, this is not part of any canon that I have previously written, where Knuckle doesn't meet Giotto and the others until AFTER he becomes a priest. In this fic, he's meets them BEFORE becoming a priest.

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

“You’re actually going through with it.”

Knuckle winced at the bitterness in the officer’s voice but did not rise from the bedside to face him. “I am,” he said simply, clutching the rosary in his hand. He should have known that Alaude would confront him during his evening prayer.

For a moment, silence. Knuckle kept his eyes closed but dared not to continue reciting the prayer. The memory of Alaude’s scowl when he told him about his decision remained all too clear in his mind, and this was the first time he had come to him since.

“You are a fool,” Alaude spat.

“I do not deny that.”

“You would give up everything for one little mistake.”

Knuckle’s lips curled. He stood, the beads of the rosary still wrapped around his wrist but the crucifix now dangling by his leg. “You call my taking of an innocent life a ‘little’ mistake? Do you say the same of the men you arrest?”

Alaude’s cold blue eyes were as hard as the last time they met. “Their mistake was not that they murdered. Their mistake was that they chose to murder.”

“That does not make me less guilty.”

Another moment of silence. “I have killed, too. Do you think I should take vows of poverty and celibacy to repent for those lives?”

Knuckle looked away. The drawl in the way Alaude referred to the second vow did not escape him. “You do not kill innocents.”

“Neither do you.”

“That man—”

“Knew the risks. Fists are as much weapons as revolvers and swords. If he ever thought that he was safe from death in any given match, then he was a fool.” A beat. “Just like you are.”

“We're back to that,” said Knuckle, his hands clenching into tight fists at the memory.

Alaude moved closer to Knuckle, and for a moment he worried that Alaude would strike him. Instead, he found Alaude's lips upon his, rough and unforgiving, unlike any they had shared in the past. Before Knuckle could think to react, Alaude shoved him onto the bed and climbed on top of him, forcing Knuckle's mouth open and ripping his shirt off.

Knuckle knew, like he had many times before, that he needed to pull away, to push Alaude away. But like many times before, he found his hands fiddling with the buttons on Alaude's jacket, his hips rolling into Alaude's, his tongue exploring his mouth. The desperation this time, however, was not one of lust or adrenaline. It was just as different on Alaude's part as it was his own, though he could not decipher Alaude's except that it was not the same as his. It was not the agony of a last night of passion.

After the final thrust, Alaude lingered, catching his breath. Dizzy, Knuckle drew the back of his hand along Alaude's cheek, a move he had never dared to try before. At that, Alaude snapped his head to meet Knuckle's eyes.

“You... are still going to go through with it.”

Knuckle nodded. A flash of something unfamiliar came across Alaude's face, and he pushed off of Knuckle and quickly dressed.

“You are a fool,” he spat once more before leaving the room.

Knuckle did not chase him down. He instead reached for the fallen rosary on the floor and stared at it.

“I know,” he murmured.

[Katekyo Hitman Reborn!] Ambush

bearit — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 03:25:15 GMT

Title: Ambush
Author: bearit
Rating: PG for canon-based violence
Genre: General, Action
Characters: Yamamoto Tsuyoshi
Word Count: 796
Summary: It is his final moment of glory.

Notes: This was written for khrfest Round V: IV-40. TYL Tsuyoshi - fight; they came for him with no warning.

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

Those who would kill a man in his sleep under his own roof have no honor.

That is what Yamamoto Tsuyoshi says when the black clad men storm into his bedroom with wild, colorful flames ablaze from their weapons. He draws the sword he keeps by his bedside in time to block the first blow to come his way with an ease only adrenaline and years of concentrated training can provide.

From the way the men sneers and scoffs at his declaration, Tsuyoshi knows immediately what kind of ignoble foe he faces, and he knows exactly what they have come for: his life. Anything else is unimportant until he secures his victory.

They are on him all at once with weapons Tsuyoshi has faced before but with techniques and powers unfamiliar to him. It matters little; he has been in situations like this before, and his beating heart proves that he has always emerged victorious. Quickly he realizes that they are unskilled, each of their attacks sloppy and unfocused, and not soon after he realizes the source of their power: the auras of blue, red, green, and purple infusing their blades.

Unpolished techniques, however, are still unpolished. As he sidesteps and parries, as the dangerously comfortable feel of the Shigure Soen Ryu forms flow in each swing and block, he takes each of his attackers down one by one. He is thankful that he never let up on his training, that settling down and raising a son and running a sushi restaurant softened his abilities none. In fact, he suspects that those are the very things that not only keeps his swordsmanship alive but gives him the strength he needs to save his own life.

When no one is looking, he often brandishes his knives as katana and uses the fresh fish as targets. When his employees run errands and his son is out of the country, he takes out his swords and spars against the troublesome thin air or a piece of useless wood that will better serve as decoration than a splintering stool. Tsuyoshi is no stranger to the satisfied smirk after these bouts.

More importantly, the thought of Takeshi keeps his tired bones from giving into the electrocuting effect of the green flames that one of the men in black fires at him. Tsuyoshi does not worry for Takeshi's safety—the boy has long since surpassed him in skill, and he is much younger and far more capable to boot—nor does he worry about the boy living without him. Children are meant to survive their parents, after all, and Takeshi does well enough in the Major Leagues that money will not be a concern for him, and his family of friends in Sawada and Gokudera and the others will make sure he will not be alone.

No, what concerns Tsuyoshi the most is how Takeshi will handle his old man's defeat. He fears for his son's state of mind, his inevitable drive for revenge. The boy is much like his mother—he is meant to smile, to laugh. But where he is not like his mother, he is his father's son, and the bloodthirst... Tsuyoshi cannot condemn him to that. As much as he never wanted to die a coddled old man warm in his bed, or worse, tied to tubes and machines, ever since Takeshi arrived into the world with brown eyes big and eager, Tsuyoshi knows that that is how he is meant to go.

But these men are unending and relentless. As soon as he fells five, ten arrive to take their place, stronger than the ones now laying in a pool of their own blood. The green electricity continues to take a toll on his body. He is growing weaker, and everything he has built is slowly getting destroyed. He is to die in battle, after all. There is no death more fitting for a swordsman.

But it is not a death fitting for a father.

As yet even more men flood his bedroom, Tsuyoshi comes to realize that he cannot win. He is too tired, and they are too numerous. Now the questions that he will never have answered come to him: who are they? Why do they want him dead? Are they after Takeshi?

He knows all too well that they will never tell him their purpose. Their scowls show their impatience; they just want his last breath. Very well, then. He will not give them the satisfaction of begging for answers, of pleading for his son's safety. So he tightly grips his sword, takes in a deep breath, and prepares one last glorious attack for his honor. He can only hope that his son's friends are enough to pull Takeshi from the edge once more.

a meme before it's off to work I go~

bearit — Mon, 15 Nov 2010 14:27:41 GMT

[EDIT: Taking this off of Friends Lock. Because it might be worth having this open for all to see. XD]

Stole this meme from pen_over_fist. I'm not expecting anything to really come from this. ^^; (Especially since a couple of items on here that are, you know, actual, physical items that are expensive and not even my parents can gift it to me this season. XD)

First.
- Do an entry in your LJ. The post should have 10 Christmas/Hannukah/New Year's Wishes.
- The wishes can be anything, like something simple and fan-like ("I'd like an Ron/Hermione icon only for me"), something really big ("I want a notebook, car, tv, house") or in between both ("I'd like a dvd") the important thing is that you're sure that you really want those things.
- If you want "real" things (not stories or icons) be sure of posting your e-mail or address where the kings (You know, the biblical Magi, the ones who gave presents to Jesus) can contact with you.

Second.
- Check if anyone in your f-list has posted this.
- And the most important: If you see a wish you can make true and you have all the intention of doing it, make that person's wish true.

1. A couch. I really, really want a couch. I still don't have one yet. *SOB*

2. A bigger TV would also be nice. My current TV is about the size of a computer monitor.

3. GPS watch, to keep track of my running pace and mileage as I train for the marathon in May.

4. More Kal/Tali

5. Yamamoto/Gokudera/Tsuna fic. As an OT3. Don't care if it's fluffy or angsty or whatever. Just... I need more OT3 in my life.

6. Speaking of more OT3, can there please, please, please be more than one Casey/Sarah/Chuck fic out there?

7. MORE PRIMO. I don't care if it's gen or if it's G/Ugetsu or Alaude/Knuckle or fic or art or whatever just... MORE PRIMO.

8. I WANT MY YAMA BABY BACK. I miss him. ;-;

9. I want the Jade Empire fandom not to be dead anymore.

10. I want my writer's block to just go awaaaaaay. And my bloody noses to stop. But since one is completely in my control and the other I just have to deal with for the REST OF MY LIFE, more Jacob Taylor is always nice. 8D

[Katekyo Hitman Reborn!] With These Fists, I Pray

bearit — Fri, 08 Oct 2010 12:31:08 GMT

Title: With These Fists, I Pray
Author: bearit
Rating: PG13 for violence
Genre: Friendship/Tragedy/Angst
Characters: Knuckle
Word Count: ~5,400
Summary: Knuckle takes a painful walk down memory lane when a leper recognizes him for who he once was.

Notes: Written for khrfest Round IV: V-9. Knuckle - last chances; regrets before becoming a priest the next day. This is loosely based on Natsume Soseki's Kokoro. I also apologize for any errors I made in the historical and religious aspects of the fic. I did research, but I'm sure I screwed something up. Please let me know about any mistakes, and I'll try my best to fix it in the context of the story!

Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! belongs to Akira Amano. I have no rights to the series. This piece of fanwork is unofficial and not making a profit.

---
It is his last trip to the hospital as a deacon that nearly does him in.

He has come to learn that nothing good comes from sunny days, for it is a clear and beautiful afternoon that he takes his routine trip to the hospital to comfort the dying and the sick, preparing them for anointment from Father Andrei later. Father Andrei tells him that this is unorthodox, but also that he feels that the deacon needs to do this for his own peace of mind. The deacon still does not understand what Father Andrei means.

As he enters the musty walls of the hospital, the monks direct him to the needier of the patients. One after the other he offers God’s grace and blessing. Most are grateful, thanking him with tears in their eyes as he takes his leave to the next patient. Others are less so, scowling at him or ignoring his very presence. He prays for all of them, none more than another, and he makes his rounds around the cots as nuns and monks scurry to and fro to tend to those they can save.

The last bed he visits is quarantined. The monks ask him to be cautious. He is a madman, they tell him, a madman and a leper, and perhaps he is better off not going in there at all. He only smiles at the Brothers and reminds them that they are all God’s children, and that he will exhibit no less kindness and attention to the man as he has shown to the others.

The room he enters is the brightest room of the entire hospital with one huge, barred window allowing the sun’s rays to illuminate even the darkest corners. On the bed sits an elderly man with lesions covering his arms and legs and face, and his rags of clothes are torn and barely cover his torso.

The elderly man turns his head as the deacon enters the room, inquisitively staring at the deacon as he grabs a seat on the rotting stool next to his bed. Then, he grins as though to proudly display all the teeth now missing from his mouth.

“I know you,” he tells the deacon in a raspy voice.

“You have come to Father Andrei’s services?” the deacon asks.

The elderly man wheezes a laugh. “Isn’t it obvious, boy, that God has forsaken me? If He has no need for me, then I have little need for Him. No, I know you from elsewhere. From a long time before. You look different in those robes, Knuckle.”

The deacon freezes. Nobody has called him that for a long time, now.

As best as he can, he changes the subject. “God has not forsaken you. He loves all His children and only wants the very best for them.”

“But some more than others, eh?” The elderly man cackled. “It’s okay, Knuckle. There is no love lost between me and God. You don’t have to tell me otherwise, even if it is your job, and especially since I already know you don’t believe it.”

“Of course I believe it. It is a sin to lie like that,” he says.

“But is it not also a sin to kill, Knuckle?”

The elderly man grins at him, expectantly. The deacon hesitates in answering. This is not a part of his life he wants resurfacing, not on the night before he takes his vows, but there is little use in dodging the topic. The man knows. Somehow, he was in Moscow on that dreadful day, and he knows.

“Yes,” the deacon finally answers. “Killing is a sin, unforgivable in the sight of God, but I committed many other sins that day.”

“And this is how you repent.” It is not a question.

Knuckle frowns and turns away from the leper. “It is only the start. I know it will not be enough. It will probably never be enough.”

---
They were seven years old when they ran away from home. Stars dotted the cloudless summer night sky, and the moon lit up the farmlands and the roads. No breeze covered the sounds they made as they snuck out of the windows of their bedrooms, but neither of them woke their parents or siblings. They met at the top of a hill underneath a giant pine tree, and one showed the coins he had stolen from his parents and the other showed the food he had filched from his family’s pantry. Then, they ran down the road and never looked back.

Dmitry insisted on keeping his name, since his boxing name was also his family’s nickname for him; Knuckle, still furious at his mother and father and why not, the rest of his siblings, too, decided that his boxing name was the only name he wanted to be called. Dmitry respected his wishes and Knuckle respected his friend’s, and so they traveled and were forever known by those names.

Though they ran away so that they could continue to box, it took many weeks before either of them felt up to the task of fighting the other.

Neither one of them recalled who gave that little girl the black eye.

In fact, both agreed that it was her own fault in the first place for stepping in between them, completely misunderstanding their spar as a brawl. But it was enough for them to shy away for a while, until they started bickering over something so inconsequential Knuckle could no longer remember it. Then someone threw a punch that was quickly reciprocated. When both of them had fallen over from exhaustion, they were laughing, and the love of the sport came back to them in that instant.

As the years passed, the boys traveled from town to town, doing what chores they could for the locals to earn coin, food, or lodging—or, if they were particularly lucky, some combination or all of the three. In their spare time, they wandered to the back alleys to box. The street rats always became interested right away. If Knuckle and Dmitry stayed in a town long enough, children with homes and families joined the cheering crowd, too.

One day, Dmitry came up with a keen idea: he had snuck into an underground brawling competition, and the onlookers bet on the fighters, and the fighters always received a portion of the winnings. They could do something like that, too, instead of always running errands for the locals.

In every town they visited since, they found another child to split the earnings with. Though every once in a while they chose someone who wound up running away with the coins, for the most part, Knuckle and Dmitry made more money boxing than they did doing little good deeds. And they never minded too much when an urchin ran off with the money. They loved boxing for what it was, not for the money, and they were always prudent enough to have a small stash in their pockets.

As they grew bigger and older, members of the underground circuit in Moscow caught notice of Knuckle and Dmitry and saw them as more than just snot-nosed brats pretending to be one of the men. Annoyed that they were stealing away “their” crowd, a few of them challenged the boys to a brawl. No rules, they said, but Knuckle and Dmitry defeated them handily while following all the rules of boxing.

Impressed with what he saw, the ringleader invited them to join the circuit, promising fame and fortune. Many agents for the real, professional competitions sat in on their fights, looking for new, raw talent to bring to the public. Even if Knuckle and Dmitry could not catch the attention of these agents, at the very least, so long as they won, they could make enough money to survive.

Neither of them were enthused at the prospect. Though they declined, the seed was planted firmly in their heads: maybe, just maybe, they were good enough to become professional boxers.

They spent the last of their coin on tickets to see a real match. Astounded by the skill and talent of the fighters, Knuckle and Dmitry still managed to point out to each other the flaws in each man’s technique. By the end of the night, their confidence had skyrocketed. They knew that this was the path they were meant to take.

---
He shakes himself out of the memory, and he finds himself sitting in the courtyard of the cathedral. The sky has turned from a brilliant blue to shades of purple and orange, and the birds are no longer providing the music of the garden, having been replaced by the sounds of evening Mass resounding from the chapel. His heart skips a beat, and he hurries inside. Tonight, of all nights, he cannot be late.

Father Andrei regards him with a raised eyebrow but of course, does not stop the service to reprimand him. Knuckle takes his place among the others and performs his duties flawlessly, fighting the words of the leper with every step.

“You look different in those robes, Knuckle” overpowers the chants of Alleluia as he places the incense in the censer.

“But is it not also a sin to kill, Knuckle?” is the reply he hears as he greets the faithful.

And as he declares, “Through the words of the gospel may our sins be washed away,” the leper sneers, “And this is how you repent.”

Before the service is over, Knuckle comes to a startling realization.

He does not deserve to be here.

---
The first year of professional boxing was not as easy as either Knuckle or Dmitry had hoped for. They suffered many humiliating defeats, barely lasting fifteen seconds, but they kept their heads up. Every day, they practiced, both counting under their breaths how long each match lasted.

Broke, they were turned out of their lodgings as soon as the spring snow melted. For a week, the friends went from inn to inn but to no avail. Either there were no rooms, or they had not enough money. Fortunately, one innkeeper, sympathetic to their plight, pointed them in the direction of his neighbor, recently widowed and would likely charge them little to nothing so long as they helped with household chores and errands.

They knew that doing this would give them less time to practice, but Knuckle and Dmitry had no choice.

“But this shouldn’t be too extremely different than before!” said Knuckle, trying to reassure his friend. “We did just fine doing this when we first started out, and we should be fine now!”

But Dmitry scowled the entire time from the moment they left the inn to the moment they met with the widow. Knuckle was not the best people person, many wincing at the volume of his voice, but the widow only kindly smiled when she heard their story and accepted them immediately, praising them for following their dreams with such devotion. She told them that they would not have to run any errands for her or do any household chores, but in exchange, they had to promise her one thing: that she would receive at least ten percent of their winnings, however much that wound up being.

Knuckle enthusiastically agreed to those terms, and he turned to Dmitry to see if that made him any happier. Dmitry’s expression had not changed. Knuckle, for the life of him, never did figure out why he remained in a sour mood for so long, especially since that day was the day their luck changed.

They began winning.

Every day they returned to the widow with the promised ten percent, and she cooked them an extravagant meal every night. Dmitry took his meal to his room while Knuckle and the widow ate together, Knuckle excitedly reliving their matches to her. She grinned and laughed at his animated reenactments, keeping an eye on the plates and bowls in front of her whenever he forgot where he was.

Then, one night, she declared that she would go to their next match, and she would bring her daughter with her.

“Daughter?” asked Knuckle. “I thought you lived alone.”

“Irina has been visiting her uncle in the country these past couple of months,” said the widow. “Her father’s death was particularly hard on her. She is due back tomorrow afternoon, perhaps before you have to leave for the arena. Nonetheless, you’ll be meeting her tomorrow. You’ll like her, Knuckle.”

Neither Knuckle nor Dmitry met Irina until well after their matches were over. The widow and her daughter waited for them outside of the arena after the crowds cleared, and when Knuckle saw them he ran to them, eagerly waiting to hear what the widow thought of the matches and how he and Dmitry performed. After all, they were both on a thirty-match winning streak and on their way to entering the championships; surely they must have been something amazing!

Before he could get a word out to ask the widow how well he had done, his eyes caught sight of Irina. He stepped backwards at the sight of her. Her beautifully golden hair was braided into a perfectly shaped bun on the nape of her slender and long neck. Her blue eyes echoed the brilliance of the very sky itself. When she smiled, he nearly melted into the pavement.

“Knuckle, Dmitry, this is my daughter, Irina,” said the widow.

Knuckle knew from that moment that he was in love. He just wished that he had not fallen so deep so fast that he missed that ever since then, Dmitry began smiling again.

---
Father Andrei calls him to his office after the service. By now only candles light up the cathedral. Every member of the clergy floats about, completing their nightly rituals before heading home or to bed. Knuckle is not sure if he should visit Father Andrei before or after his chores, but caution wins out and he makes his way down the dim hallways of the cathedral. He is to be lectured for being late to Mass and on the night before he takes his vows; he must not keep Father waiting.

As he hurries past the monks and the other deacons, he pictures Father Andrei’s disappointed face and his kind but harsh voice as he says all Knuckle knows he is to say. Then Knuckle recites under his breath how he will respond: first an apology, and then how he is unfit to be a priest, and then another apology when he announces his leave from the cathedral before dawn.

He cringes as he recites every sin he has committed that continues to haunt him. He knows that as soon as he confesses to Father Andrei, he will understand. No priest should be burdened with as much sin as Knuckle has to carry, and no amount of penance can ever free him from it, nor should it.

He arrives at the oak door of Father Andrei’s office. He taps lightly upon it. At Father Andrei’s invitation, he lets himself in. Father Andrei is sitting at his desk already, the Bible open by the candlelight, and he is intently reading but not so hard that he does not look up when Knuckle enters. He offers a warm smile and he waves at the cushioned chair in front of him.

“Sit, please,” he says.

Knuckle obeys. He is worried that Father Andrei has no disappointed edge in his voice. Has Father Andrei called him in for reasons other than his tardiness earlier?

Knuckle’s worries are not unfounded.

“Is there something troubling you, my child?”

Knuckle is taken aback, and he wonders how to answer. Perhaps he should skip the apology and go right into his resignation?

As he hesitates, Father Andrei continues. “You seemed so deep in thought ever since returning from the hospital, and you have never been late to Mass before. Did something happen? The monks gave me no indication.”

“No,” says Knuckle. “Nothing worth mentioning happened at the hospital, Father. It’s just… I met a man who knows my past there, and he has made me realize that I am extremely unfit for priesthood.”

Father Andrei raises his eyebrows. “Unfit for priesthood? What do you mean? You have been the most dedicated and enthusiastic deacon I have ever met. The people adore you, and your devotion to God is unmatched.”

“This man has reminded me of my sins, and for that reason, I cannot take my vows tomorrow. I would be a disgrace to God.”

“But you have confessed your sins, and you have done your penance. Three times, because you felt the first two times were not enough. I have given you your absolution; God has forgiven you.”

Knuckle says nothing for a long while, remembering his confession when he first arrived at the cathedral. He remembers reciting the nature of each sin, giving vague details, but never the details that mattered. Now, it is time for Father Andrei to know the whole truth.

Knuckle murmurs, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I… did not tell you the whole truth when I first came to you.”

Father Andrei says gently, “This is not a confessional, my child.”

“Please, Father, I have to tell you this. I committed a lie of omission when we first met, and so you do not know the full extent of my sins. Then, you will understand when I say that I am unfit to be a priest.”

---
Dmitry started joining them at meals, and the widow was enthralled to have full, animated dinners.

Knuckle quickly noticed that Irina took her mother’s place in watching for any toppling bowls or plates during his passionate storytelling. Like her mother, she also smiled and giggled at his every word. Her laugh reminded Knuckle of the church bells in one of the little towns they had visited shortly before coming to Moscow: sweet and gentle and unassuming. He was no poet, but he felt like he could out-write some of the best with poems about Irina alone.

In fact, he tried to, once. When he read his poem aloud, he immediately shredded it and threw it in the fireplace, blushing so hard that Dmitry teased him about it for a whole week.

Irina rarely came to their matches. She never gave any excuses or reasons as to why. Knuckle learned from the widow later that Irina had little love for fighting and violence, but she still adored Knuckle and Dmitry plenty; she prayed for their safety every time they had a match. For Knuckle, that was enough.

He and Dmitry both continued to be undefeated for many more months.

As the season of the boxing championship drew nearer, Knuckle was recognized on the streets readily. Men, women, and children alike all approached him, praising him for his achievements and admitting to placing a lot of money on his success in his upcoming matches against some of the best in the world. He thanked them all wholeheartedly. He wondered if Dmitry had the same response every time he walked the streets of Moscow.

But then Dmitry began faltering. He remained undefeated, and though he kept a positive attitude, Knuckle noticed the flaws in his movements, the missteps that would get him defeated in two hits flat if he were boxing a better opponent, and that he received twice as many blows from his opponent than he used to.

When Knuckle approached him about it, wondering what was wrong, Dmitry only laughed and said that nothing was wrong, life could not be better, and surely his technique would improve before the competition started.

Knuckle, of course, did not believe his friend. Technique did not automatically improve by itself. Knuckle had long since realized that the reason they started winning after they started boarding with the widow was because they took an entire week off from fighting to find somewhere to live. Their bodies had some time to rest after being overworked since they ran away from home. Though he accredited the winning streak to luck at first—and truth be told, some part of it had to be luck—he knew otherwise. He knew something was going on with Dmitry, and he intended to find out what it was and help him out. After all, that was what friends did, right?

So Knuckle paid more attention to Dmitry during the first rounds of the championship. In the morning, he woke up as groggy and grumpy same as always. When Irina danced through the door with their breakfast and a light song, Knuckle noticed that he was not the only one vibrantly smiling to her angelic form. But of course, Irina was extremely beautiful and could brighten up any room and any mood, so Knuckle thought little of it at first.

Then Knuckle and Dmitry ran their errands. Though the widow assured them that they never had to do such a thing, ever since their winnings tripled, they both decided that it was time to repay her kindness in full. Ten percent of their winning was a lot but not enough for the faith she put in them. This was the least they could do.

Knuckle treated the errands as a warm-up for the afternoon matches, always keeping a light jog and always having an opportunity to do a little heavy-lifting. Dmitry, Knuckle noticed, spent more time gazing into shop windows than actually contributing to the errands. Which, of course, Knuckle did not mind at first, until he noticed the stores Dmitry peered into: jewelry stores, fabric stores, flower shops.

Could he be…?

But, no, impossible. Surely Dmitry knew that Knuckle was in love with Irina. Surely Dmitry would not dare to infringe upon their friendship in such a manner.

After lunch with the widow and Irina, where Knuckle noticed that Dmitry spent more time looking at Irina than paying attention to what anyone else was saying, the pair ran off to their afternoon fights, which were the preliminary fights of the championship. Neither of them suffered losses, and both noticed that they were on opposite ends of the bracket. There was a chance, they realized and joked and laughed about, that they would end up fighting each other in the finals. It was a prospect both were openly looking forward to.

They returned to the house with their earnings. Knuckle stopped noticing Dmitry and started noticing Irina. She continued to watch for bowls and plates ready to flip over from his enthusiastic tales of the day, but she no longer smiled at him and she no longer laughed her beautiful laugh. She would steal glances at Dmitry, and her cheeks colored.

Knuckle knew that he became less enthusiastic at dinner ever since that moment. He never stopped for a second to realize that he became more and more bitter since then, as well.

As the pair continued to advance through the rankings, they fell into the same routine, but everything changed. Knuckle stopped smiling at Irina in the morning and instead narrowed his eyes in Dmitry’s direction. He glowered at Dmitry looking at possible pretty presents for Irina, and Knuckle began to try to anticipate what Dmitry would buy so he could do one better.

Lunch became quiet, and the widow even wondered out loud if Knuckle was feeling sick or nervous about his matches. He was starting to face tougher opponents, after all. Dinner amounted to the same atmosphere.

But, in hindsight, what should have disturbed Knuckle the most was that in his afternoon and later, evening matches, he approached each opponent with a ferocity and strength that he never knew he had. He always won quickly so that he could hurry home and see Irina before Dmitry could finish his own matches, just so she could begin seeing Knuckle in a better light than Dmitry.

The night before the championship match, the final contestants was what Knuckle and Dmitry and the rest of Moscow had hoped for all along: the two childhood friends would face each other.

At dinner, Dmitry pointed out that it had been a long time since they fought each other and that it would be just like the good old days.

The widow and Irina promised to attend the match. The widow teared up as she said how proud she was of them, and how she thought of both of them as her own sons. It was in this single moment that Knuckle forgot about his grudge, and it was the last time he knew true happiness.

Before they fell asleep, Dmitry admitted to Knuckle: he was planning on proposing to Irina after the match tomorrow, whether he won or lost. He loved her, and he wanted nothing more than to make her happy.

Knuckle did not sleep that night.

---
Father Andrei’s face remains expressionless as Knuckle arrives to the part of the story he is most ashamed of. The part of the story that drove him away from Moscow and into Father Andrei’s cathedral, praying and crying and begging for forgiveness from a deity that he never paid attention to before. The part of the story that he dreads the most, the part of the story he regrets the most. The part of the story that makes him the worst candidate for priesthood than any other deacon who has ever taken his vows.

He pauses, staring at the scrunched up robes in his hands. Father Andrei waits patiently for Knuckle to continue, and Knuckle knows that he must. He cannot back out now; Father Andrei needs to know. He deserves to know. So, Knuckle takes a deep breath, and he continues, though he cannot bear to look at Father Andrei’s face now.

“My wrath was so extreme, my envy so green, my pride so wounded, my greed so hungry, and my lust so deep, that I could not calm down until after the match was over,” says Knuckle, recounting all the sins he confessed to Father Andrei the night they met. “And here is the sin I hid from you, Father, and it is the worst sin of them all: I killed him. In the ring that night. I… I never stopped to think about what I was doing, and I killed my best friend. The one who was my family when I abandoned mine, the one who looked out for me as a brother should. He is dead now, because of me and my petty selfishness. And because of that, Father, I cannot take my vows tomorrow.”

For a long time, Father Andrei says nothing. Knuckle fights the tears but fails, and they fall onto his hands like warm raindrops. He wonders what Father Andrei looks like: is he angry, disappointed? What is he thinking?

He wonders about his next move, and he only comes to one answer. He has to leave; he is no longer welcome here.

But before he can move, Father Andrei asks quietly, “What of the widow and her daughter?”

Knuckle is taken aback by the question. “I… I don’t know. As soon as I heard Dmitry’s neck snap and I saw his dead body in the middle of the ring, I ran away and didn’t stop running until I was out of the city. I haven’t been back since.”

“I see,” says Father Andrei. “Now, let me ask you something, Knuckle. Why do you want to become a priest? Is it to repent? Is it to run away? And I want you to think about this before you answer, and I don’t want you to tell me what you think I want to hear.”

And so he takes a long moment to consider what had gone through his head the day he asked Father Andrei what it took to become a priest.

He spent a couple of months taking up sanctuary in the cathedral, diligently praying every night and tending to his penance for the sins he did admit to Father Andrei, and for the sins he did not. He remembers breaking down in tears as he chanted over and over again, “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to, oh God, my Heavenly Father, I didn’t mean to.”

He attended every service, and he was struck by the serenity and holiness that the priests and the deacons and the monks carried with them. So inspired by their aura, he asked Father Andrei what he needed to do to be like them.

“Peace,” says Knuckle finally, lifting his head to meet Father Andrei’s eyes. “I wanted to become a priest to find peace. I thought that by devoting my life to God, I would find it. I kept telling myself that it was to repent for my sins, to repent for killing the person that mattered most to me. I realize now that I can never find peace with this hanging over me. This will never leave me.”

“No, it won’t,” says Father Andrei, his face solemn. “My child, no member of the clergy is without sin. All of us have our fair share of misdeeds in the past, some worse than others. You regret what you have done, and in your own way, you have sought forgiveness. Several times. This in no way makes you unfit to become a priest.”

“Then why tonight?” asks Knuckle. “Why do I remember Dmitry and the widow and Irina so clearly tonight, of all nights, if not to tell me that this is not the path for me?”

Father Andrei finally smiles. “Knuckle, my child, all priests have their doubts before taking their vows. Some priests are given visions of the children they can never have, or the riches they will never be allowed to keep. Taking your vows in the morning will be the easy part, if you pass the test God has given you tonight.”

---
After he takes his leave from Father Andrei, he performs his nightly duties. He thinks about the test God has given him, and he wonders if the leper from earlier in the day is one of His agents. After all, the chances that such a man could find him again so far away from Moscow to remind him of who he once was are slim and especially on such a night. He wonders what it will take to pass the test and, most of all, whether or not it is God’s will that he does.

As he sweeps through the church, he begins to wonder what his life would have been if he did so many things differently. What if he believed Dmitry from the start, that everything was fine and he would get back on track without his help, and he did not spend many days carefully watching his every move? Would the hate have built up to such tragic levels that perhaps Knuckle would not have overreacted to Dmitry’s plans for proposal? Would he have been more accepting of his friend’s love for Irina?

What if he had just swallowed his pride and given Dmitry his blessing? Dmitry would still be alive, possibly married to Irina, and all of them, including the widow, would have been happy. Or even if he had just kept his anger in check!

He finishes his chores and finds himself standing before the altar, staring up at the ornate crucifix mounted upon the wall.

What if, he wonders, he had done things differently?

But it is useless to dream of what could have been. Dmitry is dead. Dmitry is dead because of him, and nothing can change that.

Even if God can never forgive him, even if Dmitry never can, and even if his soul is condemned to Hell forever for what he has done, Knuckle knows that he has one last saving grace left.

He clasps his hands in front of him, bows his head, and begins to pray.

- End -