Work Text:
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her mother very much.
They lived in a distant land called Patria, a land of kings and queens and magic, but even magic could not help the little girl’s mother, who was very poor and very sick, and so one day, fearing for her daughter’s wellbeing, the little girl’s mother sent her away to live with one Madame Thenardier and her daughter, Éponine.
“Behave, my darling Cosette,” she told her. “I love you, and I will come back for you soon.” She pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead, thanked the family, and promised to send money when she could.
The little girl’s mother never returned.
Many years passed, and the little girl grew into a beautiful young woman, bright of spirit and pure of heart. She spent her days singing and dreaming of the castle she could just see from the top of the garden wall, and no matter how her new family treated her – for Madame Thénardier proved herself to be a cruel and selfish woman, particularly as the money from Cosette’s mother slowed to a trickle then stopped altogether – she never ceased to hope that one day, she might find her mother and live in a house as fine as the palace itself, if only she worked hard enough and behaved, as her mother had implored her to do. After a time, though, Éponine came to like Cosette, although she was of a far more practical outlook on the whole.
“Why are you so sure that your life will get any better than it is now?” she wanted to know. “That’s not how the world works, Cosette.”
And perhaps she was right. But this is a fairytale, dear reader, and dewy-eyed optimists must prevail.
Enter – a revolutionary prince.
~
Now, as Cosette was imagining life in the castle, a young man longed for a life outside of it.
“This is ridiculous!” the prince often cried “We weren’t elected, the people didn’t choose us – what right have we to rule over them? It isn’t right! Something must be done!”
“Yes, but this is a monarchy,” his parents would reply, as patiently as they knew how. “You don’t elect people in a monarchy.”
Prince Enjolras had always been an odd child. From a very early age, he had been overly concerned with a rather scandalous notion called “the social contract” and had taken to arguing with his tutors until one by one, they all left, driven off by the golden-haired child with a tongue like a whip. Enjolras ranted. He wrote essays. Such a serious child, the servants clucked, for Enjolras never wanted to play, though all the diversions of the world were at his fingertips. His mood turned black every time someone addressed him by his proper title, and indeed, he seemed to resent his privilege with a passion matched only by his belief that “every man should be a king.” It worried his parents to no end, though they were thankful, at least, that he had outgrown his phase of stacking furniture and waving his red bedroom curtains with the bloodcurdling yell of, “Revolution!”
For all his fervor, however, the prince was a very lonely young man. It was his constant state of righteous indignation, perhaps, or his rather off-putting habit of referring to everyone as “citizen.” Whatever it was, it only caused his parents to fret all the more, especially as his twentieth birthday approached.
“Whatever shall we do?” his mother lamented. “He must marry soon. We’ve delayed as long as we can as it is.”
“He must buck up and do his duty,” his father harrumphed. “It is time the boy set aside these silly ideas of revolution and free medical care for all and grow up!”
When they told Enjolras this, however, Enjolras staunchly refused.
“If I don’t marry, there won’t be an heir after me,” he pointed out, for he was an only child, and for the purposes of this narration, dear reader, there were no convenient distant relations. (Your gentle author craves your forgiveness, but she reminds you, dear reader, that this is a fairytale, and she may do as she pleases). “And if there isn’t an heir, then we must adopt a new form of government. Besides,” he added with heavy-handed foreshadowing, “I have no interest in marriage or love. Patria alone will be my mistress.”
His father raged. His mother wept. But Prince Enjolras remained unmoved.
“I will give you one last chance,” the king thundered at last. “We shall throw a ball a week from tonight, and if you do not pick a bride of your own by the stroke of midnight, we shall choose a bride for you.”
And for all his oratory prowess, nothing Enjolras said could change his father’s mind.
In anguish, the prince fled to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, two of his personal guard.
“You know, women aren’t all that bad,” Courfeyrac said bracingly as Enjolras paced around and around in his room, hands fisted in his golden hair. “In fact, in my experience – vast experience, I might add – they’re quite a bit of fun.” He grinned. “You might try to have some fun every once in a while.”
“I don’t have time for fun,” Enjolras snapped. “I have a revolution to start.”
“The revolution can wait for a ball,” Combeferre assured him. “Your parents only wish what’s best for you.”
“But what of what is best for the people?” Enjolras demanded, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared a glance.
We are fools sometimes for our friends, well-meaning fools, but fools nonetheless. Courfeyrac and Combeferre knew better than to sneak Enjolras out of the castle disguised as a commoner using secret passageways and the sewer canals underneath the palace. They knew better, given the fact that the king and queen would have their heads, never mind their jobs, if they were caught. They knew better, simply because wantonly endangering the prince’s life, even if the prince went along with the whole thing rather enthusiastically, was not a smart idea, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac were both bright boys with a strong sense of right and wrong and a healthy dollop of common sense.
They did it anyway.
In the same vein, sometimes we are fools simply because we are fools. Just as Courfeyrac and Combeferre knew better than to sneak the heir to the throne out of the castle, the heir to the throne knew better than to give them the slip in the middle of a crowded square.
Dear reader, you know how this goes.
~
Market days were Cosette’s favorite days, chiefly because it meant she was sent off to do errands and so could wander freely. Her feet most often led her to a little book shop, run by one Monsieur Madeleine who had a soft spot for her and so let her borrow books whenever she pleased. On this particular day, Cosette found herself with her nose stuck in a book regarding, oddly enough, political philosophies. So engrossed was she that she didn’t see the young man in front of her until they had collided. Boxes and books went everywhere. Both parties fell to their knees to scoop them up.
“Oh, forgive me, I’m so terribly sorry - “
“Not at all, my fault, completely my - “
Their hands met. Cosette’s head jerked up.
In front of her were the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, set in a face so perfect that it might have been carved in marble.
“My fault,” the beautiful young man said again, belatedly.
“No, no,” Cosette replied, clutching one of the books to her chest. He had rescued the rest of her haul from the mud. Together, they stood.
“Ah, Lamarque,” the young man noted, squinting at one of the titles. “He’s a favorite of mine, actually. He writes so elegantly, don’t you agree, citizen?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t read it yet,” Cosette apologized, taking the stack of books from him awkwardly. “I only just got it today."
“Are you interested in his ideas, though?” the young man asked, keeping pace with her. “On the improvement of society?” Cosette nodded rapidly.
“Oh, yes, I think the plight of the poor is very important indeed, we must do everything we can to alleviate their suffering,” she told him. The young man frowned.
“But citizen, don’t you think they must rise up against the power that oppresses them?”
“I suppose,” Cosette answered slowly. “But rising up sounds awfully…violent.”
“Sometimes blood must be shed for the good of the whole,” the young man intoned quite loftily. Cosette blinked. “I think it’s high time this kingdom had a revolution.”
“Well - ” Cosette started uncertainly, but behind her, someone shouted:
“There you are!”
The young revolutionary turned only to be half-tackled by another young man, this one slightly taller and bespectacled.
“We almost had a heart attack!” he scolded. “Anything might have happened, you can’t just run off like that, this isn’t the palace - “
“Look, I met someone else interested in reform,” the young man interrupted quickly. The bespectacled man noticed Cosette and gave a little start.
“Oh, yes, how do you do,” he greeted her politely, if distractedly. “My apologies, sweet lady, but we must be off.” Glaring daggers at his friend, he all but dragged him away, muttering furiously about babysitting and he should never have listened to Courfeyrac and must he always be the sensible one?
“Enjoy Lamarque!” the young man cried, and Cosette waved shyly.
“Good luck with your revolution!” she called after him and he beamed.
“Did you hear that, Combeferre, we’ve already got people signing up for the cause - “
Another boy ran past her, nearly knocking the books out of her arms.
“Was that a girl? Were you talking to a girl? Combeferre, was he talking to agirl?” He whipped around, stumbling backwards as he gestured frantically at Cosette. “Was he talking to you?” he squawked before the crowd swallowed him up.
“Who on earth was that?” Éponine asked beside her. Cosette jumped. The other girl had a habit of popping up unexpectedly; she certainly knew her way around (your gentle author apologizes, but you should be used to this sort of nonsense by now, dear reader).
“I’ve no idea,” Cosette replied dazedly and Éponine sighed.
“Well, come on then. Mamma’s getting impatient.”
They found Madame Thénardier in a tizzy.
“Did you hear?” she shrieked. “Oh, did you hear? The prince is giving a ball!”
“A ball!” Cosette gasped before she could stop herself. Madame Thénardier turned to her with arched eyebrows.
“Yes, a ball,” she cooed. “And to pick a bride for the prince to boot! What about it, Colette? You’ve always wanted to be a princess, with your dawdling and your incessant singing about castles on clouds – would you like to go to the ball?”
“Mamma,” Éponine muttered reproachfully, seeing through her mother’s guise easily, but Cosette swallowed, utterly oblivious to anything but this sudden and startling chance to taste what it might be to act her age.
“Oh, please,” she begged. “Please let me go. I’ll do anything you want.”
“Such ambition,” Madame Thénardier sniffed with an affected little shoulder shake. “Do you really think the prince would choose you, Courgette? My, my, aren’t we getting above ourselves?”
“No, no, no,” Cosette protested, going red. “I only want to go and dance and see the dresses. Just for a night. I’d be happy just to watch.”
“Oh, let her go.” Éponine glared at her mother. “She’s certainly earned it.”
“No, she hasn’t,” her mother retorted peevishly, but her face split into an ugly little grin. “But she will.” She turned to Cosette. Cosette held her breath. “Sweet child, treasure of my life, if you do everything I ask for one week with no complaints, no whining, and for God’s sake, no more wretched singing, no matter how ridiculous the request, I shall let you go to the ball.”
“Yes!” Cosette agreed instantly. Éponine only shook her head.
~
For the sake of the gentle author’s sanity (O, that trembling sword of Damocles!), we must suspend our disbelief and accept that a week may pass very quickly in the realm of fairytale. Furthermore, we must also recognize the sense of anticipation and euphoria that all of Patria felt at the prospect of a ball – and to pick the prince’s bride-to-be, no less - but most especially Cosette. For a week, she had worked herself to the bone, desperate to please and filled with a burning desire just to see the inside of a castle, just to know that all her daydreaming wasn’t for naught. She scrubbed floors. She braved the dark woods with only a bucket and a fierce determination. And, dear reader, she did it all without singing a single note.
Which is why it was so devastating when the Thénardiers left without her.
“My dear, did you really think we would take you along with us?” Madame Thénardier shrilled as Éponine shot Cosette an unspoken I’m sorry with perhaps just a touch of but I totally saw this coming and I told you so. They were all in their finery; Cosette, still in her ragged apron and threadbare skirt, clutched her broom to her chest and tried not to cry. “Be a darling and have a hot brick under the mattress for me for when we return – I intend to dance myself silly.”
“That shouldn’t take too long,” Éponine quipped, and the ramshackle carriage bounced away, leaving behind only the echoes of the Thénardiers bickering and Cosette.
It really wouldn’t do to cry, she thought as she watched them go. Crying would solve absolutely nothing. Crying was stupid, it was exhausting, and it made breathing through your nose irritatingly difficult long after all the histrionics were done, which was just unfair really, the last thing you wanted to do after bawling your eyes out was breathe through your mouth.
Cosette sat down on the garden bench and cried anyway.
I’m a silly little fool, she thought dejectedly. A silly little fool who ought to have known better. Why would they take her to the ball? She had nothing to wear, nothing witty to say. A silly little fool indeed. She lay down on the cold stone bench, slumping over in the graceful desolation of heroines everywhere. As is custom, a little bird perched on top of her head and twittered.
“No,” Cosette replied with a sob, “I don’t think singing will help.” The bird flew away. Cosette burst into tears again.
A sharp yell from the wall jolted her out of her misery.
“Oh, mother of - “
Cosette shot to her feet, scrabbling for anything to use as a weapon. Her fingers found her discarded broom, and she raised it aloft, trying not to think of how alone and completely inept she would be against an assailant.
“Who’s there?” she demanded. A figure appeared at the edge of the wall, heaved itself over, then fell into the shrubbery with a stream of obscenities. “I’m warning you,” she called tremulously, adjusting her grip on the broom. The intruder ignored her, disentangling himself - for indeed it was a he - from the bushes. He stumbled towards her, and Cosette reacted purely on instinct.
“Fair maiden, I - OW - “
“I’ve never hit anyone before,” Cosette cried, appalled and a little thrilled. Her victim stumbled forward.
“Hold up, hold up - “
She shrieked and hit him again.
“Stop that!” he wailed as she stared in awe at the broom in her hands. First revolutionaries in the marketplace and now this! Whatever had gotten into her? “I’m trying to help you!”
He straightened gingerly, peeking up at her through arms thrown up to protect his head.
“Why doesn’t Jehan ever get these jobs?” he grumbled, to himself, Cosette supposed. Her fingers itched on the broom, but she waited, curious; he had said he was here to help her after all. “He never gets hit, he never falls off a wall – ”
“I’m Cosette,” Cosette blurted, because, well, it seemed polite. The man drew to his full height. She lifted the broom. He flinched.
“I know,” he replied indignantly, eyeing her warily. “What kind of fairy godmother do you think I am?”
Cosette blinked.
“You’re my fairy godmother,” she repeated. Her fairy godmother crossed his arms, and she added, hastily, “Of course, I don’t mean to offend, I just - well, this would be my first time, um, dealing with…” She dwindled off, studying him suspiciously. He dressed the way she thought a fairy ought to, trim in an emerald waistcoat and vest over a creamy puffed-sleeve shirt; his hair was properly wild, in a fetching, just-fallen-off-a-wall sort of way; but she’d never heard of a fairy with stubble and dark circles under the eyes, and he wasn’t quite the ethereal beauty she’d imagined.
Also, he was male.
“The title is misleading,” her fairy godmother said tiredly as though he’d read her mind. “Listen, Cosette, I don’t mean to be rude, but we’re kind of on a schedule here. If you want to go to the ball - “
“The ball?” Cosette interrupted. Her fairy godmother sighed.
“Yes, the ball, what do you think I’m here for?” he demanded, not unkindly. “Anyway, hi, yes, hello, I’m Grantaire, and I will be your fairy godmother for the evening, lovely to meet you, blah blah blah.” He rucked up his sleeve to squint at his wrist and Cosette caught a glimpse of ink before he pushed it back down, muttering, “Ah, yes, obligatory demonstration of magical power - ” He drew a wand from his vest pocket (surely it was too long to fit in that tiny pocket, Cosette thought wonderingly) and made a very complicated design in the air.
Nothing happened.
“Er,” Grantaire mumbled, flushing, “performance anxiety, I guess.” He glared at the wand, waved it again, and Cosette felt the air ripple.
Her skin tingled, and she looked down with a gasp, broom slipping from her hands. Her filthy rags were unraveling, threads unwinding out from her and twisting, glowing. She opened her mouth to scream but could only manage a squeak as her dress and apron turned to shimmering, undulating light, pulsing once, twice, before flashing so bright that the entire garden was illuminated. Blinded, she could only cover her face with her hands as a whoosh of warm air washed down from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, whirling her skirts and the grass into a frenzy. Even after the wind settled, she kept her palms clamped firmly over her eyes, trembling. Gentle hands pried them off.
“Hello, there, didn’t mean to frighten you,” Grantaire murmured, his bright green eyes only inches from her own. She blinked. He grinned, putting his hands in his vest pockets and stepping back to give her room. “Take a look at your new attire, milady.”
She chanced a glance down and gasped again.
What had been rags was now silk and lace, fluttery, gossamer fabric that floated about her like a cloud. She twirled experimentally and couldn’t help but laugh in childlike delight; the skirt flared out from her in a swirl of pearly cloth, and for the first time in her life, Cosette felt like a princess.
“You are my fairy godmother!” she cried before launching herself into Grantaire’s arms. He froze, looking utterly astonished. “Oh, thank you,thank you, it’s perfect!”
“We’re not done yet,” he remarked, a tad awkwardly, patting her on the back. “Careful, Cosette, you’ll muss your hair.”
“My hair?” Cosette asked breathlessly. He caught her hand before she could pat at her head, huffing a laugh.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he winked, and within five minutes, he’d produced a coach from a pumpkin, transfigured a handful of mice into horses, and turned her working boots into the daintiest glass slippers Cosette had ever seen, sparkling and bizarrely comfortable.
“Oh, Grantaire,” she whispered. “Oh, thank you.”
“No need for that,” he protested, tucking away his wand. “It’s my job. Now do you want to go to a ball or not?”
He held out a hand, and after a beat, she took it, allowing him to help her up into the pumpkin-coach. He took the front seat, reins in hand.
“I’m afraid I’m your footman for the night,” Grantaire explained loudly over the trotting of the horses as they started off. “Department cutting back funds and all that. You know how it is.”
“Yes,” Cosette shouted back, though she wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. They rode in silence for a bit. Cosette shifted. She hadn’t thought she’d be nervous, yet her stomach had already tied itself into knots. She knew this ball was mainly to find the prince a wife, but as she had never met the prince and so felt no compulsion to fall in love with him, she wondered how she ought to act. If the Thénardiers can do it, so can you, she thought firmly, but her stomach continued to flip and flop with every bump in the road. “So, how does one go about becoming a fairy godmother?” she asked, hoping for a distraction. Grantaire laughed.
“Oh, this is just a temporary thing.” Cosette nodded before realizing he couldn’t see her.
“I see.”
“I’m more of an artist, actually. My friend Jean put in a good word with his supervisor, so here I am.”
“An artist?”
“Yeah. I’m not too good, hence the fairy godmothering.”
“Oh,” Cosette responded, unsure of what to say to that. She fiddled in silence for a while again, watching the lights of the place grow nearer and nearer. “Are there, um, are there any restrictions for tonight?”
“You’ve got to be home by midnight.”
“Why? Will the spells wear off?”
“Oh, no. It’s just that midnight is very late, young lady.”
“Oh.”
“Disappointed, are you? Bit of a wild child?”
“No, I just, well – ”
“I’m teasing you, Cosette. Stay as late as you want.”
“Oh.” Cosette’s hands twisted in her lap. They’d reached the outermost gates of the castle. There seemed to be a bit of a traffic jam, but over the whickering of the horses and idle chatter of guard and guests alike, Cosette could hear music and laughter and felt a little faint. She’d wanted to go to the ball, of course; she still did. But going to the ball meant going to a ball, and Cosette wasn’t quite sure she was prepared for that. “So, erm, what do I do when we get there?”
“What?”
“What do I do when we get there?” she asked again, raising her voice. Grantaire laughed.
“That, milady, is entirely up to you.” Fresh anxiety, cold and startling, gripped her stomach.
“You aren’t coming in with me?” she inquired, trying to sound indifferent.
“Oh, no, that’s just not done.”
“Do you want to?” Cosette asked impulsively.
A long pause.
“I dunno,” Grantaire hedged.
“Oh, it’s loads of fun, I’m sure,” Cosette pressed, a bit desperate. “The - the food and the dancing…” She bit her lip. “Oh, do come with me,” she pleaded. “You could be my escort - think of it - think of it as an apology for hitting you earlier!” Grantaire was silent.
You know, dear reader, even fairy godmothers deserve a night off.
“Well, I’m a fair dancer,” Grantaire relented and Cosette squealed.
“Oh, Grantaire!”
“Keep it down, keep it down, my supervisor’ll kill me if she finds out. Er, just, um, just call me ‘R,’ all right?”
“Absolutely,” Cosette agreed eagerly. “What should you call me?”
“I don’t think you need an alias, Cosette.” Grantaire sounded amused. “Unless you’ve got any felonies I should know about, wild child.”
“My stepmother would kill me if she knew I were here,” Cosette pointed out. “Well, kind of stepmother, it’s all a bit wonky.”
“This isn’t a masked ball, Cosette,” Grantaire reminded her patiently.
“Oh, she’s never seen me dressed up, and I’m sure I’ll be able to avoid her, anyway,” Cosette assured him. It is remarkable the effect a partner-in-crime (or perhaps just an escort to a ball) can have on one’s confidence. “Besides, I’d like a nickname, too. Hmm…what about the Lark? Oh, yes, I’d like that! Call me the Lark, please.” Grantaire laughed as they pulled up to the marble steps. He opened the door to the carriage, holding out a hand.
“You are undoubtedly one of the most bizarre jobs I’ve ever had,” he informed her. She blushed. “But fun, too. And lovely.” He looked her over appreciatively in the light spilling out onto the stairs. “You know, you clean up nice, little lark.” Cosette beamed.
“And you as well,” she grinned. In the blink of an eye, he’d gone from footman to lord, his brass buttons now gold and polished to a shine, his green waistcoat a brocade doublet of the same shade, but infinitely richer. His hair, messy before, now appeared artfully tousled (though the stubble and dark circles remained). Moreover, no one, not even the palace footman who had taken Grantaire’s perch on the coach to park, seemed to have noticed a thing.
“Milady,” Grantaire said grandly, presenting her arm, and she took it, practically bouncing with excitement.
“Oh, this will be so much more fun with a friend,” she declared, patting his elbow. “I’ll introduce you to Éponine- you’ll like her - and we needn’t make a fuss at all, we can just enjoy the party, nice and low key and - “
Two gloved servants parted a heavy, red velvet curtain, and Grantaire and Cosette stepped onto a very prominent, very much not low key dais, in full view of the ballroom.
“Oh, my,” said Cosette.
“Oh, shit,” said Grantaire.
“It’s you!” said a familiar voice. “The girl from the marketplace!”
Suddenly, the blue-eyed revolutionary was bounding up the stairs to meet them, flashing them his dazzlingly white smile.
“How did you enjoy Lamarque?” he asked immediately. “And may I have the honor of this dance, citizen?”
Beside her, Cosette heard Grantaire make a decidedly undignified noise.
“I’m sorry, what?” Cosette managed, but the revolutionary had already snagged her wrist and was dragging her down the steps.
“It’s very easy, just a waltz,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Come, come, citizen, we must talk. What is your opinion on Lamarque? Have you read him yet?”
They danced and talked of revolution, and were this any other fairy tale, dear reader, they might have fallen in love. But let us leave them for a while and rejoin our much beloved fairy godmother, who had fallen in love. Grantaire watched the golden-haired revolutionary spin Cosette, watched the way his eyes lit up, and how he ached.
“Excuse me?”
Grantaire turned. A redheaded young man with an expression appropriate to having been very recently whacked over the head with a frying pan looked at him hopefully.
“Yes?”
“I don’t mean to pry – but I was wondering – that is to say – who is your escort?”
“I’m sorry?” Grantaire asked.
“The one dancing with the prince,” the redheaded man prompted him, and Grantaire’s heart sank into his stomach.
Fairy godmothers deserve a night off, yes, but do not think that because Grantaire had chosen to indulge in one such night off that he had any delusions as to how the evening would go. If Cosette was dancing with the prince – and of course he would be a prince with that hair, Grantaire sighed to himself– then it was only a matter of time before the happily ever after, after which the fairy godmother was promptly forgotten. Not that he cared, of course. They’ll have adorable, little blonde princes and princesses, which means you’ve done your job, which means go get yourself a drink, congratulations.
“Her name is Cosette,” he answered the redhead glumly before eyeing the other man appraisingly. “Oh, dear, we’re both idiots aren’t we?”
“She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” the other man breathed, completely ignoring Grantaire, and Grantaire rolled his eyes.
“What’s your name, fellow idiot?” he queried.
“Marius,” the redhead replied. “Baron Marius Pontmercy.”
“Well, follow me, Baron Marius Pontmercy,” Grantaire proclaimed with a grim sort of bravado. “I am going to buy you a drink.”
A swirl of a red skirt, the gleam of candelabra on the wall. We are skipping about, dear reader, do try to keep up.
“Fairy godmothers,” Enjolras frowned. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. One must earn one’s happy ending, don’t you agree, citizen?”
“Oh, but he’s so nice,” Cosette enthused. “He’s sweet and funny and you should meet him, actually, I think you’d like him.”
“Now that you mention it, why must fairy godmothers go about solving everyone’s problems?” Enjolras continued over her, lost in his own world. “Surely they have better things to do.” The spark of A Cause began to flicker in his eye. “They are enchained by mortal greed, by our fascination with magic and instant gratification. We have enslaved these beings for selfish advancement instead of working to improve our lives, we have once again allowed human vice to trump dignity and compassion and – ”
“Yes, I think you should meet him,” Cosette chirped again, somewhat desperately. Enjolras, while sweet in his own way, was awfully intense. “There he is by the food, let’s go talk to him, shall we?”
She steered them toward the banquet table, trying to ignore the whispers and stares directed at them from everyone from the king and queen to Madame Thénardier. Grantaire was deep in discussion with someone very tall; Cosette could only see the back of his head, but as they approached, he turned, and Cosette’s heart stuttered in her chest.
They looked at each other, and they were in the middle before they knew just what had begun.
Dear reader, I suspect you saw this coming.
Lovers, especially new lovers, deserve a modicum of privacy for their first meeting. Suffice it to say heightened language was used, there was an overabundance of nervous giggling, and Enjolras and Grantaire were shunted together by necessity. We shall return to them in a moment, dear reader, but first a brief interlude.
“It was going so well,” Courfeyrac fretted. “They were talking. Which is progress for Enjolras.”
“There’s no reason to think it isn’t still going well,” Combeferre assured him. “Although, to be quite honest, he was more talking at her than talking withher.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said a voice gloomily from behind them. “It’s Cosette. Trust me, he’s half in love with her already.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac turned. A very practical-looking girl gave them both a little wave. “I’m Éponine, I can’t stand my mother, would either of you care to ask me to dance?”
The two guards exchanged a look.
“Er, would you like to dance?” Combeferre asked after a beat, because that’s the sort of fellow he was, and Éponine eyed him appraisingly.
“You know, I think I would, actually,” she commented, marginally cheerier. And Courfeyrac sighed, because it was truly a topsy-turvy night when both Combeferre and Enjolras had managed to snag a beautiful lady, and he was the one sipping his punch by the wall.
And now, dear reader, for a twist.
“GRANTAIRE!”
Purple mist cascaded in through the windows, flowing over tables and chairs like a great lavender tide. Guests shrieked. Glasses shattered. Musichetta, Queen of the Fairies (and supervisor of the Godmother Department, because your gentle author must indulge herself) appeared in the middle of the dance floor in a flash of brilliant purple light.
“Sorry, everyone,” she said after a beat, wings shimmering. “Sorry, just protocol, sorry.” She rounded on Grantaire, her voice suddenly magnified and quite imposing. “Are you aware that you are currently in violation of at least sixteen rules and regulations? First drinking on the job, then the muck-up with that poor girl and the dwarves – ”
“It was an accident!” Grantaire wailed.
“Accident or no, you’ve given me no choice.” The purple mist took on a cloudier hue, little tendrils of lightning spiking within the opaque fog sporadically. “Hand over the wand.”
“No, no, no, this is completely my fault!” Cosette cried, slipping out from under Marius (he’d thrown himself over her in an attempt to protect her from the mist, because he’s a darling, dear reader, never forget). “I invited him in, it was – it was part of my, erm – ”
“Excuse me,” piped up our revolutionary prince. “Are you in charge of this whole fairy godmother thing, because I have a bone to pick with you regarding fair payment and proper healthcare – ”
“Not again,” his father groaned.
“Colette, you little wench, you have a fairy godmother?” Madame Thénardier screeched and the ballroom descended into chaos.
“ – he’s been quite lovely all evening – ”
“ – a FAIRY GODMOTHER, of all the inconcievable – ”
“ – I’d like to know about working conditions, it seems to me that if you’re going to have people dashing about granting wishes willy-nilly, you’ve got to have some system to ensure that no one is being overworked, never mind labor laws and proper healthcare and – ”
“ – always with the healthcare, for heaven’s sake, sit down, boy – ”
” - I wonder if the glass slippers are going to figure into anything - “
” - oh, no, no, the author’s much too lazy - “
“ – dwarves are very upsetting, Musichetta – ”
“EVERYBODY QUIET!”
In the shocked silence, a third fairy appeared, poking his head out of the thick, purple fog with a little poof that sent little tufts of the mist flying, some catching in his hair like flowers. Dear reader, can you guess?
“This is a mess,” Jean Prouvaire announced (dear reader, I refrained from calling him Jean Profairy, and for that, you are welcome, dear reader, you are welcome). Still by the wall, Courfeyrac choked on his punch.
“Jehan!” Grantaire cried.
“Whatever have you managed to get yourself into now, R?” the other fairy asked wearily. “Musichetta, I’ve got this, you need to see to Bossuet and Joly – something about not switching the apples?”
“Oh, fiddlesticks,” Musichetta swore and with a pop she was gone. Jehan frowned at Grantaire. Slowly, slowly, the mist began to recede.
“I won’t take away your wand just yet,” he told him severely, “but I really think you ought to give painting another go, my friend, because this is ridiculous.”
“Hear, hear!” someone in the crowd cried. The queen put her head in her hands.
“Oh, this has been an utter disaster,” she moaned. “An entire week of preparation, utterly wasted – ”
“It was wasted when you decided to put that kind of effort towards needless frivolity instead of – ” Enjolras began heatedly, but Jehan held up a hand, and the golden-haired revolutionary’s mouth snapped shut.
“Speak, dear lady,” Jehan said quietly, and the queen took a breath.
“The whole point of the evening,” she complained, “was to find my son a bride.”
“I used to dream I’d wed a prince,” Madame Thénardier put in helpfully. Éponine looked as if she wished to sink into the floor.
“But I don’t want to marry, Mother,” Enjolras protested, eyeing Madame Thénardier warily. “I want to – ”
“You want to stay single and let your hair flow in the wind as you ride through the kingdom freeing the people from their oppressors. Preferably into the sunset,” his mother interrupted impatiently. Her husband blinked at her. So did her son.
“Well, yes,” Enjolras admitted and everyone groaned except for Grantaire.
“Are you even real?” he demanded. Enjolras frowned.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just – ‘Oh, look at me, I can change the world, all you need is faith, trust, and pixie dust’ – I mean, you’re cute when you’re all intensely bothered with the well-being of total strangers, but really, give it rest for a second, you’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm. I’m a goddamn fairy, and I think this is too much.” Enjolras gaped at him.
“I happen to – I am not cute.” Grantaire made a face.
“Yes, you are, you’re totally cute. You’re adorable. It’s unfair.” Enjolras spluttered.
“I am absolutely not adorable, I am – I am a concerned citizen, and I – ”
“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” Jehan called. He was ignored.
“All I’m saying is, you’re at a party, for God’s sake. Thrown for you.”
“That's irrelevant - the point is, I’m not cute, I’m being serious, parties are not the point, the point is, you are being – ”
“Oh, you’re cute, all right,” Grantaire cut in, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “Cute as a little revolutionary button.”
“Wanting to better the world is not cute, caring for the fate of humanity is not cute, being tired of a very clear imbalance of power is not cute, andproper healthcare for all is not cute,” Enjolras snapped, poking a finger in Grantaire’s chest.
“Yes, but you are,” Grantaire sang with a grin like an especially smug cat, and for a moment, dear reader, every person in that ballroom thought that the prince would throttle the fairy.
Instead, he kissed him.
“Shut up,” Enjolras told him when they were quite finished. And Grantaire did.
The ballroom was silent again, although this was an entirely different class of silence. It was a silence that muttered to the person standing next to it, “Well, that explains a lot.” Someone coughed.
“Yes,” Jehan said helplessly. “Hmm. Yes. Congratulations?”
Without warning, Courfeyrac whooped.
“Best. Ball. Ever!” he shouted. Someone, probably Marius, choked on a laugh.
Redder than the blood of angry men, the king flapped his hand, muttering, “Music, music, quickly, music,” and the ball resumed, albeit somewhat dazedly.
“I hope you know you’re still in quite a lot of trouble,” Jehan chided Grantaire, but there was no real heat to it, none at all. “Please, please go back to painting.”
Combeferre and Éponine shook their heads at their friends, as all voices of reason must, and perhaps there was hand holding, perhaps not – that is up to you, dear reader. Marius and Cosette, of course, knew immediately that they were destined to be together for all eternity, and so while our heroine did not end up a princess, she did become a baroness (your gentle author humbly suggests that she did not mind too terribly much). As for Enjolras and Grantaire – the king and queen wisely accepted what they were given, and you know, dear reader, the difficulties of a fairy and a mortal in love paled in comparison to the difficulties of an Enjolras and a Grantaire in love. But they were happy in their own way (and, as Enjolras pointed out, even if he did marry Grantaire, there would still be no heir. Vive la révolution!). As for Courfeyrac – he awoke the next morning with an abundance of glitter in his hair. Three guesses as to who, dear reader (your gentle author will give you a hint: Profairy).
Because we must wrap this up neatly, Madame Thénardier, of course, did not get off scot free. Perhaps she spent the rest of her days as a laundress, even ending up in a vat of purple dye. Perhaps she had her eyes plucked out by birds. There are any number of ways this could go, dear reader. Let your gentle author propose this: that whatever the case, purple dye or birds, she got what she deserved. This is a fairy tale, after all.
And dear reader, do you know what comes next?
A happily ever after, dear reader. A happily ever after indeed :)