MISS DERMARK'S LITERARY RAMBLES: Beauty, Sharp and Sheer

Beauty, Sharp and Sheer

Sovin

Everything is balled up in Enjolras' chest like the nerves he didn't ever realize he had. Normally, he is collected and calm. He's spent three years handling trade agreements and negotiations and everything else with a composed and steady head that his advisors have praised. Granted, if he had his way, he wouldn't be running the country simply because of who his father had been, but when it comes down to it, he has been the best person to take care of things. And he's tried to do good with the power he has, even if he hasn't been allowed to take as drastic of steps as he's wanted.

But this - this is the day of his coronation and the wincing has to do with much more than the violation of basic republican principles. It will be the first time he will have to take his gloves - simple black leather, just a touch flared at the wrists - off around other people. The first time he'll see anyone other than his advisors or (well paid) staff face to face. The first time he'll see the people whose country has been entrusted to him. And more than that, the first time he'll see Cosette in years, since he'd accidentally injured her with a careless sweep of ice as he tried to catch her.

He knows she is still as sweet and lovely as ever. Enjolras can hear her singing, sometimes, her voice as dulcet and delicate as a songbird down the hall or floating up from the courtyard. And when Valjean had been alive, he had come to sit with Enjolras sometimes, the young man's hands folded conscientiously in his lap, to tell him about his sister. And some nights, when he knows no one is up or about, he slips down to the hall of portraits, letting his chest swell with grief as he studies the picture of a serious faced Valjean in his coronation robes or, with grief and guilt, the portrait of Cosette. She is a lovely young woman, features clear and eyes the same bright blue as his, her chestnut-golden hair coiled and curled, with one softly white-blonde streak falling along the side that never fails to make Enjolras' chest ache.

Of course he understands the necessity of not seeing her, of never removing the gloves that keep him from losing control and icing everything over, but it stings, and deeply. He sighs, softly, and gingerly ties back his hair, long and blond and curling, securing it with a ribbon, checking again to make sure that the gloves are firmly on his hands. Studying himself in the mirror, he makes his face go impassive - he will face this as he faces all other challenges, with quiet honor and with dignity. And regardless of what his advisors fear, he will not lose his temper and snap at the delegations. There is far too much risk for that.

Cosette is not a creature of resentment. She tries very hard not to feel lonely, but it is hard, especially with her father gone. And without Enjolras, her older brother who had always been so protective only to one day disappear behind a tall door, never to be seen again. It still makes her fret, still aches in a fragile place behind her breastbone. But even that is not enough to dim her excitement.

She's spent years sitting in the windowsills and watching out over the town, wondering what it would be like to interact with real people and unable to imagine it. But today, she will have all the world at her feet and it is a terrifyingly giddy feeling that made her smile. It is enough to keep her floating as she dresses, slipping into the rich fabric and doing up the laces and winding her hair into some elegant upsweep, doing nothing to hide the lock of white hair that stood out from the rest. It’s strangely nice, to feel lovely and adorned, and she wonders how it might compare to everyone else.

Of course, it’s nothing at all compared to winding her way through the crowds of people, demurely greeting them and curtseying and letting it all sink in. She lets herself be swept through town, trying not to gape wide eyed and laughing and plucking flowers to share with children or to slip into her crown of curls, unaware of how captivated the people are as she walks through them, so caught up in the newness and excitement of it. That is, until she runs flatly into a young man, blushing and apologizing as he catches her by the hand to keep her from falling, then stuttering and stammering and turning red, bringing out the freckles on his cheeks as he runs off, leaving Cosette to stare after him with a bright smile.

Somehow, Enjolras manages to get through the ceremony without destroying everything, and he's sure his face looks like ice (what else would it look like?) and he feels the insides of his gloves stiffen and freeze as he tugs them back on, crown a heavy weight on his head. No, the real challenge comes when he stands beside Cosette again, and no one could ever have captured her beauty or the way she still lights up when she smiles at him, though it's shyer than he remembers. He has only himself to blame for that.

She's whisked off into a dance by a member of a visiting delegation, and he watches with a quiet, fond smile on his face. It's nice, to see her happy, to see her with people, and he wishes very dearly that it could be like this all the time. Soon, he's distracted with other visitors, entertaining trade partners and having a stiff conversation with Javert (he has always found the man distasteful, even in letters, and the state of the population where he's Official of Trade has never escaped Enjolras' notice), and a more pleasant one with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, two of his advisors’ sons, and he admires their bright minds, hopes they will sit on his council when their fathers retire, because they care about the people as much as Enjolras does.

The night nearly feels like a success when Cosette waltzes over to introduce Marius Pontmercy, and they are clearly, sickeningly smitten with one another. Enjolras is not Jean Valjean. He does not truly believe that Cosette will be content to sit like a songbird in a pretty gilded cage for the rest of her life (she has not changed that much), though he has never intended to marry her off like chattel. But they're talking as though they expect to announce an engagement by the end of the night, and he's perhaps a bit too curt when he suggests they are foolishly taking it too quickly, but fear cuts quick like ice.

Cosette's face falls.

"I had hoped... I had hoped you would be happy for me, Enjolras," she says, softly, just biting her lower lip as she had when they were children, automatically and gently reaching to place a placating, loving hand on his arm, but all he can see is the sparkle of frost as it hit her head and her hair bleaching pale as she fell to the ground, and he jerks back.

"This is not up for discussion," he replies, voice hard, struggling to keep the ice under his skin, is too tense to be relieved when his breath doesn't mist. Turning, he starts to sweep for the door, acutely aware of how many people could be hurt. "Tomorrow, Cosette, when this is all over."

"Enjolras!" she cries, voice tremulous, and lunges after him, abandoning Marius. Her fingers snag on the end of his glove and it slips free from his hand. "Please, can we talk? I'm sorry."

But he hardly hears, snatches his hand against his chest as if burned, and his mouth tightens as he watches her, fighting to keep his voice steady. "Not right now. My glove, Cosette?"

Her mouth sets in a mulish line, blue eyes sparking in stubbornness as her fingers clench around his glove. "You can be as stubborn as Papa, Enjolras. Won't you talk to me? What have I done to make you so angry?"

"Cosette," he repeats, aware of all the eyes on them, how this must look, and he can't have this conversation, can't risk it. He feels as though he can't breathe for fear, especially when the cold begins to seep through his coat, a warning. She takes a step closer, reaching out, and he stumbles back with a gasp on his lips because he can't hurt her again, he won't, but then there's ice between them, stopping short of her, but sharp, pointed, on the edge of too close.

Enjolras is a brave man. He is rational. But he sees the fear and the surprise in her eyes, distantly reflected in the rest of the room, and he runs.

Cosette could cry. She feels like this is all her fault, that if she had just not pushed or had waited, then maybe things would have been okay. But Enjolras has fled and the people are in an uproar and there is ice everywhere, and she is worried someone will hurt themselves.

Then, there's Javert’s quiet voice in the background, and she whirls, and she thinks she must have finally perfected the face that Valjean always used to stop people from arguing. She tips her chin up, eyes as icy as the square, usually soft voice firm and carrying as she says, "In this country, we do not prosecute people without testimony, even our leaders, and I would hesitate to suggest otherwise, if I were you."

He falls silent, and she'll accept that for the moment, quietly requesting her horse and her cloak before looking at those clustered around her, Marius hovering anxiously at her elbow as her eyes land on Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who seemed to have been getting along with Enjolras and who look concerned rather than frightened or angry. She walks over and their eyes follow her, in perfect sync.

"This was my mistake," she says, quieter again, and steadies herself. "I need to go fetch my brother so we can right things. I know Enjolras, he would never hurt anyone. He would never hurt me. Would you take charge in our absence, please? I know it is a large favor to ask, and a burden, but it shouldn't be long..."

They share a look and bow, Courfeyrac's a little more theatrical, but his eyes are serious, and they assure her they will. Cosette smiles, accepts her cloak and reigns when they're offered, and places a hand on Marius' arm. "And you will help, won't you, Marius?"

"Of course!" he says, practically stumbling over himself to reassure her, and her smile only grows, squeezing his hand before she swings herself up into the saddle, sparing one last look at the people as she rides out through the gates and over the frozen harbour, determination a warm fire in her breast.

It is icy on the mountains, and this should bother Enjolras more than it does, but he doesn't feel cold. There's hardly a sound other than the mournful keening of the wind and his breathing, and he presses onward and upward, feet barely making a dent in the snow as he winds upwards.

He abandoned the long, heavy (though admittedly elegant) formal cloak with its fine embroidery a long way back on the ice, casting it aside as useless, leaving only the red coat against the cold. He had thrown the second, ineffective glove to the side in a fit of anger several miles later. And he is still angry, and guilty, and, though he could never admit it, scared. Yet on top of all of that, there is something else, something that beats in his chest like a drum, and it is a long while before he realizes it is the sudden removal of the restrictions that have hunted and haunted him, the fear of doing wrong by the people or hurting another as he has hurt Cosette.

Abruptly, Enjolras laughs, unaware of the brilliantly intense look on his face or the fire in his eyes or the curls slipping free of their ribbon. He is still laughing, delighted and bold, as he reaches the epicenter of the storm, letting it reel around him as he thrusts up his hands, ice spiraling and sprawling up and up and up. Heady with this sudden freedom, he throws open the doors of his creation, looks around the large and barren room, and hurls himself up the stairs, boots never slipping on the ice, and finds himself in another room, with open windows that look out from the mountain top, and his chest swells.

By the time she sees a curl of smoke, Cosette is breathing on her hands to keep them warm, and thinks that she could have planned this better. But she presses on, only allows herself a moment of uncertainty as she shyly enters the outpost. It's blissfully warm and well stocked inside, and she shudders despite herself, drawing her cloak closer, the silk of her skirts spoiled and stiffened with snow and frost.

The woman behind the counter looks up and stares at Cosette, unimpressed and perhaps a little concerned. When she asks, the storekeeper directs her to the woefully understocked table of winter goods, but there's a dress and heavy cloak and gloves and everything else to keep her warm, and she will take them, and the boots when she spots them as well.

She's just about to pay when the door opens again and a man stops in, clearing his boots of snow. He is not attractive, at least not conventionally, but when he sweeps off his hat, his hair is a riot of black curls and his eyes are penetrating but still warm, grin and teeth crooked as he looks to the shopkeeper.

"Éponine," he greets, ruffling leftover snow from his hair, gloves in his pocket a moment later. "Please tell me you have some good rope and some good news. The weather is terrible; since when do we get snowstorms in summer?"

The woman, Éponine, snorts, and cocks an unamused brow at the man. "I know you're strapped for cash, R, you're on your way to the town. But if you take this little thing where she needs to go and make sure she doesn't die, you can have your supplies."

"Always so generous," he sighs, looking over at Cosette, and strangely, she doesn't feel threatened at all by this strange, muscled man with the nasty looking ashwood rod holstered in his belt. "Do you need a guide?"

"Please?" she asks, and this is probably a bad idea and Enjolras would be furious, but, well, he shouldn't have run if he didn't want her to take drastic measures. "I need to find my brother. I'm Cosette."

"Grantaire," he introduces himself, sweeping a low bow even though he can hardly know who she is, out of place and clutching her purchases to her chest. "Or R. I'd be happy to be your guide."

Cosette has been gone only several hours when things begin to become complicated.

It takes Courfeyrac and Combeferre only a few moments of deliberation to agree that, even based on their brief interactions with the young king, Enjolras would fully support their decision to outfit the people and delegates with cloaks and coats from the tradestocks. Combeferre takes all of ten minutes to logically and soundly demonstrate to the satisfaction of all the councilors that Enjolras' actions over the last three years have been in line with their own actions, though they are hardly happy with this.

And Courfeyrac likes Marius, the young man like an enthusiastic and rather gangly puppy, good hearted and sweet, if a little naive. But he understands why Enjolras was concerned.

He keeps thinking on the other man, on the expression on his face when Cosette had snatched his glove and when he'd seen how close the ice had come to touching her. It makes him want to believe her assurances that she can sort this out, but there's something tight in his chest.

Javert isn't helping, with his disapproval of the charity they're showing, and Courfeyrac wonders how the hell he ever gained an ambassadorial position. It feels like it's all they can do to keep him from starting a witch hunt for Enjolras, and it makes him feel uneasy.

Enjolras still feels like laughing and raging and weeping all at once. He doesn't know what he'll do with himself now, but it's almost overwhelming to think that he might have options.

It's thoughtless work for a songbird of ice to flit from his fingers.

Cosette will be a good queen, and his heart feels a little cold that he'll never get to see it.

Grantaire insists gently on leaving Cosette's horse behind, but he knows that his reindeer and sled will be faster as they trek up the mountains. He gets her settled in the sled as they head off, and soon enough, she starts talking while he steals occasional sips from his flask.

She tells him, without even thinking, everything. How close she and her brother used to be, how he suddenly shut himself away and how she'd not seen him until that day, not even after they received the news of their father’s death. She tells him about the coronation and the quiet, affectionate pride he'd looked at her with and the debacle in the ballroom, and Marius.

He is quiet as he listens, nodding along and humming softly, eyes gentle with understanding as he looks at her.

"Sounds like he's worried about you," he says, after a moment, hand patting her knee in a way that's so brotherly she can't help but smile. "You know, you and this Marius don't have to rush into anything yet. Why not have him stay a while, so you can get to know one another better?"

"I know it seems silly," she admits, blushing. "But it was love at first sight."

He barely manages not to scoff and takes a drink. "I don't believe in love in first sight. But even if you're right, it can't hurt to take it slow. You have a lot to get used to, princess, and a brother who can't be anything but overprotective. There's all the time in the world, and you deserve to take it."

She softens after a moment and can't help her own smile. Cosette doesn't want to admit it, but his words make sense and there's something that feels comforting in the idea that they do have time. "I suppose you're right."

"I'm always right," he says cheerfully, and reaches over to straighten her hat, and it's so surprising that it makes her laugh.

The mood stays easy until the storm gets worse, suddenly, and the sled skids on a patch of ice and goes spinning. They're both fine when they manage to pick themselves up out of the snow, but the sled is nothing more than kindling now, and Grantaire just sighs.

"Alas, my happiness over finally paying off a new sled must have crossed the line into hubris," he mutters, throwing his hands into the air theatrically, and Cosette catches a flash of actual frustration and aggravation in his face before he throws her a wry smile, and she can't help the smile in return.

They salvage what they can and start up the hill again, and as the storm dies down again, Cosette can't shake the feeling that they're drawing close. It makes her nervous all over again, it's been so long and she knows he'd never hurt her, but Enjolras feels like a stranger these days. Grantaire looks over at her, and thankfully, he doesn't say a word.

The courtyard is quiet and iced over, and Courfeyrac is not surprised when he finds Marius perched and shivering on the edge of a stilled fountain.

He sits beside the other man after a moment, studying him. "Are you concerned for Cosette?"

"... Yes," he admits, legs crossed, looking up at the star-flecked sky. "I hope she's alright."

"I'm sure she is," he says, and squeezes the other man's shoulder.

Marius manages a smile, looking over at Courfeyrac. "Thank you. I fear I'm being rude, when you're..."

He shakes his head, and thinks of the conviction in Enjolras’ words, the fear in his face. "I believe that people have a right to defend themselves and not to be condemned without cause. I will not make judgments on someone's life so quickly."

There apparently isn't anything to say to that, and they fall silent, keeping watch.

Cosette has been eyeing the door for a long minute, and she startles when Grantaire steps up beside her, studying the massive construction of ice with something awed in his eyes.

"You're sure you don't want company?" he asks, but she has a feeling he already knows the answer and is giving her space to speak.

She sighs, softly. "I... am afraid he won't open the door. He hasn't in years."

His eyes are intense, and he smiles. "I think that for you, he'd do anything. You do yourself no justice in regards to your bravery."

That makes her smile, surprisingly, and she knocks. The door creaks open, all masterfully carved ice, and she steps inside. It is beautiful in a way that probably shouldn't surprise her as much as it does, and she calls her brother's name.

Enjolras appears a moment later, wild blond hair and red coat stark against the ice, blue eyes startled as he sees her. "Cosette, you shouldn't be here."

"I came to apologize," she says softly, looking up at him, and she doesn't remember the last time she saw him so easy, pale hands resting lightly on the banister. "And to ask you to come home. I miss you, Enjolras, and what we had. But I am sorry for startling you."

He shakes his head after a moment, and he looks regretful, something pained and painful behind the stubbornness and pride in his eyes.

Cosette approaches Enjolras up the staircase, concern and quiet bewilderment on her face, hands held out in supplication. "Enjolras, please, I don't understand. Can't we talk?"

He backs up, step by step, shaking his head. "I miss you as well, very much, but it's better if you just go."

"I don't want to just leave you here, all alone," she says, stubborn, brows pinching a little. "I miss you, and I know, now, and it's alright. Please, speak with me, come home, lift the ice, and everything can be alright because we'll have one another, again."

"... The ice, Cosette?" he asks, pausing, blue eyes narrowing in the slightest as he looks at her, almost sharp, and she pauses as well, mouth falling open softly.

"The town is iced over," she says softly, smoothing down her skirt, but she doesn't look away. "It's alright, I know you can undo it."

He looks stricken, as though he's betrayed himself as he takes one step up, hands folding together, as though it will protect him. "I don't know how. I've... oh. Have I betrayed the people so?"

Her mouth sets, though her eyes go gentle. "It was an accident, I know you can change it. No one blames you. Enjolras-"

"Leave," he says softly, stepping higher, frost trailing from his fingers, spiraling slowly toward the floor, catching the light. "Cosette, it's not safe, you must leave."

"But you would never hurt me!" she cries, following him, ignoring the snow that starts to swirl around him, in tiny flurries picking up speed. "Please, Enjolras."

He shakes his head, on the landing now and backing away, the ice crystals riotous around him, and he swallows, panicked, murmuring a strangled, "Cosette."

She follows, again, insistent, and he flings up a hand half as if to make a point and half as if to ward her off as he denies her again, and the ice swirls out. A sliver strikes her across the chest and she staggers back, hand pressed against her chest with a surprised expression, Enjolras taking a step forward before hurling himself back, snatching his hand to his chest.

That's how Grantaire finds them as he steps in, hurrying up the stairs and steadying Cosette, taking her weight off the railing. "What happened? Are you alright, both of you?"

"I'm fine," Cosette insists, holding a hand out to her brother. "Enjolras..."

"It is not alright," he says, eyes bright and fierce for a moment, jaw set. "Euphrasie... you should go."

Cosette's mouth bows down, leaning her weight on Grantaire, not noticing the man's eyes stuck on Enjolras. "Please, come home, with me, it's alright. I'm not hurt. It can still be okay."

He turns, shaking his head, a striking figure against the cool colors of the ice, curls a frantic riot down his shoulders. "No."

And with that, he sweeps an arm up commandingly, ice weaving into an intricate barricade behind him, Cosette muffling a soft sob of hurt behind a hand and sagging against Grantaire, whose eyes soften as he leads her back outside, promises he'll be just a moment. He kisses her forehead, affectionate and brotherly, and walks back into the construct of ice, approaching the barricade on soft, reverent feet.

"She'll be alright," he calls, amazed by the acoustics and the artistry of construction, dazzled by Enjolras. "I'll take her back home."

It is a long pause before Enjolras speaks, voice muffled. "... Thank you."

Grantaire sighs, hands in his pocket and a hint of a smile in his voice. "You should listen to her, Apollo. She's right, you should go home. If anyone can set things to rights, it's you."

He doesn't wait for a response, just turns and walks back down the stairs, back to Cosette.

Sitting in silence behind his barricade, Enjolras watches through the high windows until the dark figures disappear in the snow, a thoughtful frown on his face and brows furrowed. He lowers his gaze to his hands, studies them and the shifting patterns of the frost that slips up from them, caught on an invisible breeze, and sighs.

He has injured his sister. He has hurt his people.

He may have only been king for a few hours, but it doesn't exempt him from the laws of the land, and he is nothing if not a man of principle.

Rising, Enjolras walks down the stairs, barricade cracking and crumbling before him, coat sweeping behind him as he prepares to make his way back down the mountains, back into the town, back into the palace, to give up the freedom so costly won.

He is not afraid to face justice.

"... I still can't believe he wouldn't talk to me," Cosette says softly, after a long while, her voice small and shoulders rigid.

Grantaire shakes his head. "He looked terrified when I walked in. I bet he's been afraid of hurting you for years, then he went and did it again - on accident, but that's probably not how he sees it. He's got an inflated sense of right, your brother. He'll probably go back when he thinks it through. But for now, you're not looking well."

"I'm fine, really," she insists.

He raises a brow at her. "Your hair is turning white."

"What?" She pauses, reaching for her hair, blinking when she sees white - the same white as the one curl - threading through it. "Oh."

"Come on, I know some people who might be able to help," he says, jovial, though there's a worried set to his eyes. "At least we can find a way safely back down."

“Who?” she asks, curious, aware enough to know there aren’t many people who live this far up the mountains.

There is something strange in his smile, some secret joke. “Oh, people I’ve stayed with time and again. I’ve friends in many places.”

She nods distractedly, pensive and upset, but he doesn't push, the winter white and endless around them. It's dark again when they dig into the deep parts of the forest, and finally reach a strange clearing.

Grantaire walks forward boldly and Cosette, pushing aside childhood stories of faerie rings, follows as he calls, "Have you missed me? I brought a friend!"

"Um..." She looks around to see who he might be talking to, but there's no one there, and she's about to ask when strange figures melt out of the shadows, a blur of a shape shimmering up Grantaire's side.

"You always go away so long!" it croons, patting his nose. "But it's winter again, so who should be surprised?"

"I missed you too," he laughs, loud and deep. "And how are we all?"

"Well," says another voice, and Grantaire is enveloped in greetings by creatures the likes of which Cosette has never seen, but he seems unbothered, returning the greetings in kind, until he pauses, returns to Cosette and frowns at her hair, faintly.

"I need to speak to Grandmother," he says, and a hush falls. "If someone could be so kind as to fetch her? My friend has some of the winter in her."

Something blurs in the shadows once more, and Cosette is swept through a whirl of introductions and it feels like the ball all over again, but warmer, because as odd as this is, they are interested in Grantaire's friend, not a reclusive princess. A few minutes later, an elderly, stately woman, thin horns branching from her forehead, steps into the clearing, her eyes luminous on Cosette. "More than a touch of the winter, and not your head this time."

She trembles, but stands tall. "Can it be helped?"

Grandmother smiles, a wicked thing full of sharp teeth, but it has no viciousness, and she seems to approve. "Clever little skylark. An act of true love will reverse the effects. But too long, and you become the ice itself."

"As in... a True Love's Kiss?" Cosette asks, and when Grandmother's smile grows, she murmurs, almost to herself, "Marius."

"An act of true love?" Grantaire sounds skeptical, mouth twisting in a frown. "Really?"

If anything, Grandmother only looks more amused by that, strange eyes lit up and far too knowing. "I think, little R, that you have learned a little already of what true love can do for a hardened heart."

He snorts an uncomfortable laugh, but offers Cosette a hand when his reindeer shifts beside them, tossing its great head. "Well, princess, it looks like we've a prince to sweep you off to."

"Be serious," one of the figures sighs, a familiar weariness there.

But Grantaire is already swinging up behind Cosette, and she is looking back and up at him, and has to suppress a shiver, because his grin is something feral and bare, eyes dark with something almost like madness.

"I am wild," he replies, and they are off into the shadows and the snow.

Things have calmed down some, though it is cold, and Courfeyrac is grateful they have found Feuilly, a worker who has become their liaison to the town, and Joly, who is treating all those ill affected by the cold. Combeferre's gaze keeps straying to the mountains in the distance, brow creased in worry, and Marius is, if anything, more anxious.

They are managing, though, and when the sun starts to peak over the horizon, someone pushes open the doors and steps though, and Courfeyrac couldn't mistake those golden blond curls or proud blue eyes for anyone else. Enjolras halts in the middle of the square, and places his ungloved hands in front of him, head held high.

"I have harmed the people of this land," he says, his voice carrying and steadfast. "And I cannot undo what I have done. Therefore, I must submit myself to their judgment and justice."

With a look at one of the advisors, some of the National Guardsmen hurry forward to clasp Enjolras' wrists in chains, only after they have gloved his hands, and he makes no move to resist.

It is an admirable sentiment, but Courfeyrac's stomach churns, believing to his core that this is wrong and he cannot let this stand.

The air is cold and Cosette feels tired, shivers against Grantaire's chest.

"R? Thank you," she says softly, because she fears she will lose the opportunity.

He looks down, and there is still something wild in his eyes, but his smile is affectionate all the same.

"Your brother makes beautiful things, Cosette," he tells her, "but you won't be one of them."

He spurs the reindeer and they leap forward with a spray of snow.

Enjolras can't shake the regret though he knows he has made the right choice, his hands bound and locked up, but there's a high and dismal window in his cell, and he tips his face up to look at the sun - dazzling in the winter light - and hopes summer will come when he dies.

Then the door creaks open and there is a strange man standing in the shadows of it. He is beautiful and well dressed, certainly, black coat and hat in the neatest style, a now delicately frosted flower tucked into his lapel, but the knife looks at home in his hand, and he bows genially to Enjolras. "Your Majesty."

He understands in a flash, and nods a greeting in return, because he is still himself. "Citizen. I'll have to beg your pardon."

"I believe I'll have to beg yours," the assassin says, his voice silky, approaching slowly, knife tilting in his hand.

He is willing to die for his country and his people, but not for injustice. Not for silently bloody coups that rewrite the truth. And so Enjolras breaths out, and with it, he breathes all of the fear and anger that have plagued him for so long, and ice floods the room.

The assassin lies crumpled but breathing on the ground, and Enjolras is sure to check before he flees through the blasted out wall, running across the ice as the storm blurs the world around him. The fury is freezing him to his core.

Cosette's hands are icy cold as they ride up to the gates of the castle, and Grantaire catches her as they slide down, the woman shivering and leaning on his arm, while the reindeer snorts and tosses his head.

They don't find Marius, only a courtyard in chaos. Combeferre spots them first, studying Cosette in concern, and clasps her forearm gently.

"Enjolras returned for a trial and the nobles attempted a coup. They tried to assassinate him, and he fled," he tells her softly, doesn't so much as startle at the cold of her skin or the white of her hair. "We're trying to find him first."

She shivers again, feels the numbness creeping up, but nods her thanks to Combeferre before looking up at Grantaire, chin set. "I need to find him."

He smiles, raises his flask in salute. "I knew you were related, little skylark. I'll find your boy."

And Cosette smiles back, thinks the wildness in her heart is singing in response to his, breaks away, and strides out on the ice, never thinking that she might fall or the storm might bowl her over. She pushes against it, heads for the deepest and harshest winds because that is and always has been where Enjolras will be.

One of the guards finds him, and Enjolras is almost surprised.

"You killed Her Highness with the cold!" the young man cries, and he is young, and he sounds truly devastated and angry, and he probably understands nothing of lies and why men tell them.

But Enjolras can only think of Cosette, Cosette who he must have killed, and the fight drains out of him, and he falls to his knees as if pierced, looks up with steady eyes at the guard who must stand for the people as his executioner.

Her steps start to falter, and she is certain she is starting to freeze like stone, and staggers another step. She hears Marius' voice calling her name above the howl of the wind, but there is a flash of red in the corner of her eye, and the glint of a sword, and she runs, doesn't think about it, because Valjean is dead but she and her brother will always have one another.

Enjolras has dropped to his knees, neck bared as he waits, and Cosette has had enough of loss and false prosecution as she throws herself between them, her hands up as if she can stop the blade moving to cut her through.

But it is too late for her, and she only hopes it is enough.

Already he is reaching because his Cosette, but Enjolras has moved too late and the guardsman's sword finishes its arc only to shatter on the ice of her neck, so that he falls sprawling back with a cry.

And Enjolras is staring, is howling in anger and pain and guilt and sorrow as he hurls himself up, and falters. He weeps silently, tears rolling down his cheeks and barely notices the motion of dark blond curls and lanky limbs in the corner of his eyes as he reaches out, tracing her temple as though moving to brush her curls from her face, and wraps himself around Cosette, frozen and unmoving. His arm slides around her waist as though he were bundling her against him in the wake of another nightmare from childhood and his hand cradles the back of her head as if to guide it against his shoulder as he has so longed to do.

He feels empty, and the world has fallen silent.

And then Cosette is relaxing into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder and holding back, and they sink to their knees together, and Enjolras has no attention for anything else.

The music filters through the conversations and Enjolras allows himself one more moment to watch Marius and Cosette whirl across the floor with easy grace and laughter and a world of conversations in their eyes, the last of her reticence traded for confidence, and allows himself a smile as well.

He steps out silently, through the back door. Things have gone well, for their part, and he is grateful for Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and the rest they've gathered in the last few days, but there are still things he needs to understand.

Grantaire is sitting on the side steps, staring out over the courtyard and the mountains in the distance. He looks up, surprised, when Enjolras sits beside him, the faint sounds of the party breaking the silence of the warm summer night.

“Your majesty,” he greets, easy and ghosting the edge of impertinence.

Enjolras forgets dignity and snorts. “I think you’ve earned the right to drop the title.”

That seems to surprise him, but he smiles a touch, studying Enjolras a little as he turns toward him. "Enjolras, then. What brings you out here tonight? You look preoccupied, for the hero of the hour."

He sighs, a little sharply, brow furrowing as he looks at his hands, fingers pale in the moonlight. "I shouldn't be. It isn't false modesty, before you object - I just question the legitimacy of reinstating me as monarch when the people would be perfectly in their rights to elect a representative of their own."

Grantaire snorts, an inelegant sound. "Are you serious? Oh god, you are. Look, the people want you as their leader, they adore you. You probably have the most approval the earliest in your reign."

"And I have done nothing to merit it!"

"You have." He rolls his eyes, but his look is cutting and intense. "You can't just force the people to- to change governmental systems entirely on your whim. You showed them, or your advisors or however it works, that you care - it was a winter no one was expecting and they were clothed from tradestocks. You brought back the summer, and speaking bluntly, it was not an extension of your love for Cosette that did that. You love this country and its people. You believe in them. And they're repaying it with belief in you. You could force them to have a vote, but they'd pick you or feel you don't care. So stay king, keep what was his name - Feuilly? I like him - on your council, and add some others who are smart and who care. Maybe you can devote your reign to setting up a... whatever you're going for, though I'm not entirely convinced it’s possible. You owe them that much."

Enjolras stares as Grantaire punctuates his speech with a swig from his flask, surprised at his response. He hasn't expected so much sense, however much he dislikes hearing it, and maybe he understands why Cosette likes this man so much. He's quiet for a moment, then his brow furrows a little more, suddenly remembering something. "... You called me Apollo, before. Why?"

Grantaire stares at him, bewildered. "Apparently you like non sequiturs, too. Very well. You shine as radiant as the sun with that light in your eyes, and I know you're ridiculously naive, but when you speak, I want to believe you, I want to believe in you. And your dedication to justice is admirable, if misguided. Also, that castle, that winter, were made of poetry as much as ice. You make things as beautiful as you are."

Blinking, he stares at him, something swelling up in his chest. Grantaire, brilliant, impossible Grantaire, thinks that of him. Thought that of him, when he was hiding on the mountains. He wants to retort with something biting, but he sounded so earnest when he spoke, and he is so tired of people seeing him only as ice, so amazed by someone thinking of him as light. "That's... not what I was expected."

He laughs, ugly and a little self deprecatingly this time. "What can I say? I live to surprise."

"That's not what I meant," Enjolras snaps, voice firm with steel more than ice, fixing Grantaire in place with his eyes, mouth curving in a scowl. "You're... ugh. I don't even know what I am to do with you! You're intelligent, and honest to my face, and you came to speak to me, and you think the things I make are beautiful, and you're just... you're impossible!"

It's his turn to blink, cheeks ruddy with embarrassment and surprise. "... I think I'm to take that as a compliment."

"You are," Enjolras agrees, and looks back down at his hands. He looks over at Grantaire, who believes more in actions than love, who praises and insults him in the same breath, and he knows he would be in for fighting and whatever strange things lurk in his eyes that Cosette hasn't specified. He thinks of the potential problems this could pose and how badly it might end.

Still, he rises, offers a bare hand to Grantaire. "Shall we head back in? I'm sure they've missed us, by now."

"I'm sure they've missed you," Grantaire says, but affectionately, and takes Enjolras' hand without a moment of hesitation, and Enjolras draws him to his feet. He leads him back toward the doorway, and light spills out over the tiles at their feet.

MISS DERMARK'S LITERARY RAMBLES

martes, 9 de enero de 2018

Beauty, Sharp and Sheer

Beauty, Sharp and Sheer

Sovin

Summary:

Notes:

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