Chapter Text
Grantaire was a pain in the ass, and the others were not afraid to say it.
He had been much more reserved as a furry, fanged, beastly creature if the others in the castle were being honest. It was not like they preferred him like that―he had been extremely reclusive and sometimes a bit too bossy for their liking, though he was their boss― they could not deny that he had been easier to put up with then now.
Even Grantaire himself knew that he was a bit much at times. Three weeks ago, he had spent five consecutive days in the library and had not left, depending on Courfeyrac and Bossuet to bring him the basic necessities. Even Combeferre, the resident bibliophile, or Éponine, his almost equally book-loving girlfriend and R’s closest friend, had never accomplished such feat. Two weeks ago, he, Combeferre and Prouvaire had spent a while following a certain silver moth in the gardens non-stop. And all of last week, he had used up all of his free time painting; he had painted Éponine and her siblings Azelma and Gavroche; he had painted his castle, which, surprisingly, he had never done before; but most of all, he had painted his old friend the moth, over and over, until he had over a dozen.
Of course, he had a reason for this behaviour. The moth was actually his brother, Marius. At least, he hoped. Bossuet had this ability to show one anything they asked for, and every time they had tried to see Marius, they had seen the moth. It was all Grantaire’s fault that he was a moth, even. He had been the one to get the castle cursed, and even though said curse had been lifted, his brother was still a moth.
Grantaire had spent the last month leading his “crew” ―which, if you have not already guessed, consisted of Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Éponine, Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre ― in a tireless project of research. They had not found much.
This had really bothered Combeferre, who insisted that he remembered once reading something related to the topic, which they had to believe, seeing that he had read every book in the castle library at least once.
Today, Grantaire and Éponine were hanging his new paintings. Now, in most castles, you saw paintings everywhere: in long corridors, in dining halls, in bedrooms, basically anywhere with a wall. Grantaire was not a fan of this, especially when all the paintings were his. Instead, they all hung in a large hall connecting the library to the rest of the castle.
Portraits of the castle’s inhabitants mixed with landscapes of its surroundings. The crown portrait, of course, was of Grantaire and Marius; Grantaire at twenty-one, Marius at fifteen. He had ripped the part of himself out as a beast, yet when the curse had broken, it had repaired itself, no doubt with magic.
Éponine yelped, and Grantaire heard a loud crashing sound. He whizzed around and saw Bossuet’s portrait on the floor instead of where on the wall it was supposed to be. He gave his nose a scratch.
“Not even his portrait can catch a break, eh?” said Éponine with a grin. Grantaire rolled his eyes and took a step to help her hang it again.
After they got it back on its hook, the girl turned away from the portrait of the unlucky and chuckled. “Why’d you have to paint Jehan like that? It’s like they’re staring at me.” She pointed to the image of a flame-haired portrait indeed staring right where they were with bright green eyes.
But... that couldn’t be his portrait of Prouvaire. Prouvaire had insisted that they kept the portrait themselves as many others had. Besides, he remembered that Prouvaire in his portrait had been looking at a potted plant. He walked up to the painting for a closer look. It was indeed his style of painting, but... His eyes darted to the bottom right of the canvas...
“It doesn’t have my signature.”
“What?” Éponine said, following him.
Grantaire pointed to where he was looking, and she saw it. Grantaire’s “R” was nowhere to be seen. It was puzzling how she hadn’t noticed, seeing that after the curse, she had liked spending time in here. Then again, she had probably directed her attention to her boyfriend’s, and maybe Grantaire and Marius’s as well.
Something in his gut told the painter to take a corner of the canvas and pull. Prouvaire’s picture fell to the floor and revealed an image that made R take a step back and gasp.
He could never forget this painting. It was... different. A figure stood in the middle, their whole body hidden by a red cloak. The only visible features were the eyes; pure, brilliant blue eyes, piercing R in the heart. A lump formed in the painter’s throat. His hands froze. He stared at the painting, the only thing he heard being the beating of his heart. His stupid heart.
“R?” Éponine said at last, momentarily breaking him out of his trance, “Who’s that?”
“That, Éponine,” said Grantaire lowly, “is the one who cursed me.”
The young woman blinked. “Wh... the sorcerer? You have a painting of him?” Her tone was more incredulous than anything, than anything, which did not help.
Grantaire nodded. He inhaled deeply. “I knew him.”
Éponine, being the understanding person she was, didn’t press on.
Slowly, R reached out and touched the canvas, tracing his brushstrokes. A piece of paper fell from behind the frame. Grantaire flinched. He hesitated, then picked it up. Éponine looked over his shoulder. There were three words written down:
Follow the Isaine
-E
“The Isaine’s the river north of Montfermeil.” said Éponine.
“Let’s go find Combeferre,” Grantaire said. Before they left, he glimpsed back at the painting, “Why?” he breathed, even though he wouldn’t get a response.
The entire “crew” sat around the table in the middle of the library. Combeferre pushed up his glasses, thoroughly examining the note.
“What... what is this supposed to be for?”
Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows. “Just tell me what you get from it.”
“Well...” He scratched his head. “I’ve never seen handwriting like this.” Grantaire’s heart sank. He had hoped that it wouldn’t be... anyways. “As for what it says,” Combeferrre continued, gesturing to a map he had placed on the table. “The river flows from north to south. I don’t know why you would, but I’d assume it means to follow the river south, which eventually leads to M_______ Sur M__, a rich city known for its size and exports of beads and fashions... However, from here, it would be about 1000 kilometres away, which is a long way on a horse, let alone on foot- um, no offence, Grantaire, but what does this have to do with Marius again?”
Grantaire ignored this question. “And if we go north?”
Combeferre rolled up his sleeves and pointed back to the map. “Nothing but grasslands and grasslands.”
“Get ready for grass up your ears, grass up your nose,” said Courfeyrac.
“Grass in your ying-yang,” added Bossuet.
“Grass in your wazoo!” said Prouvaire with a giggle.
Whatever that was, Éponine was very confused about, but Grantaire ignored it. He had no idea what he was doing, but his gut told him to go for it anyways. It was for Marius, right? After a moment, he found himself saying subconsciously, “Well, I’m going north. Anyone want to come with?”
Another moment of silence passed.
“It’s a bit random, R.,” remarked Bossuet.
“And if the note said to follow the Isaine,” said Combeferre. “Thus, going south.”
“No. I’m going north.”
From the other side of the room, Courfeyrac raised his finger. “May I ask why?”
Again, Grantaire had no idea. “I- I miss my brother.” was the reason he gave, trying to sound as sincere as he felt. “And I couldn’t exactly say why, but I just know that I’ll find a way to turn him back if I go north. I should probably go by myself-”
"I'm coming." Éponine cut him off. "We've gotten this far. I told you we'd do this together, didn't I?"
She really was a good friend, the girl was. She had promised that she'd help him turn Marius back no matter what, even when she had never met him herself. Grantaire admired her for that.
"I'll come!" said Jean Prouvaire from Courfeyrac's side. "It's been six years since I've left the castle. You two would need company, yes?"
Prouvaire had always been special for one reason or another. Maybe it was because they were right about the same age as Marius was. Maybe it was their simple outlook on life and whimsical smile. Either way, they would be a good companion on this out-of-nowhere quest.
The leaser of this quest was rising from his chair when someone said, "If Jehan is coming, why not? You’d need some help keeping everything in order.” Courfeyrac had raised his index again. He had turned a slight tinge of pink and had this strange look on his face. It was a mixture of amusement, bashfulness and eagerness. Odd.
So the party was set: the non-royal owner of a castle and pretty good painter, a bold young woman with a rough and tumble past, a poetic gardener with something against shoes, and a mostly bright maitre d', all who had no idea what they were getting into.