Once upon a time...

[timefather]

[ For the residents of Märchenstraße, and all the land surrounding it, the eighth of December was a day to look forward to. Looking at it from an outside perspective, strangers and travelers could easily assume it to be a holiday. At the very least, a day for a festival, if a modest one. A day that shopkeeps spent all morning preparing for, that all manner of creatures spent days traveling to the city to witness. They'd heard the talk that passed around, the rumors from those still left. But would it work? No one knew for sure, no matter how confident the stories seemed to be. But hope was very quickly becoming all they had left.

They had decorated the whole town. Streamers, banners, wreathes and garland made of autumn flowers, plus whatever the Fairy Godmother had cooked up. Oh, she was just giddy. No skepticism could be spoken around her, not if you wanted to escape the wrath of her wand! Rumor had it that she had caught wind of a few piglets squealing about the likelihood that their magic would fail, and that they were subsequently transformed into the band of musicians who could be found performing in the park.

Well, at least the music was festive.

Of course, the decorations weren't for the newcomers alone. Autumn was coming to a close in just a few weeks, and Old Man Winter would take the reigns like he did every year, and their weather would turn cold and harsh. The chill was already there, cool and biting when the wind picked up speed. Lady Autumn was much preferred to the citizens of the city with her gentle nature, even if she failed to show up, finishing her work in the orchards instead. That was what they liked about her.

It was mid-morning when Father Time was found outside of his tower, checking one of the numerous pocket watches he kept on his person. "Unnecessary, but comfortable," he called them, and closed the watch again. It was twelve o'clock in the afternoon, and where empty space had been just seconds before, now they were. Sitting on benches, lying in flower patches, scattered about the city and outside of the gates in peaceful slumber. They would awaken to the bells of the clock tower. Some, to many friendly and relieved faces all around them, some to grateful ones carrying gifts of food and clothing and magic, and some to fearful, cautious faces. Regardless of how the town treated them, they would awaken to a celebration of their arrival, and choices to be made, and the books. Each and every one. ]

Comments

[tuaslavenir]

[ He wasn't expecting to awake to bells - or to anything - and for a moment he simply lies on his back, watching the absurdly peaceful sky. If this is death, it's nothing like anything he's imagined. But, no; his heart is beating. He can feel it moving against the book resting on his chest.

And that's wrong. He sits up gingerly, and then leaps to his feet. He shouldn't be alive, and more than that, he shouldn't be alone. ] Where are you? [ He mutters it to no one in particular, and stoops to check under the bench for his rifle (book clenched unthinkingly under his arm) before starting down the street and looking - intently, even accusingly - into the face of everyone he sees, in search of a familiar one. ]

[unaccepted]

[ Grantaire has long since stuffed his belongings away save for his book, and he walks with far less purpose than Enjolras. By now he has recalled enough to explain his headache--death can never be painless, he should have known. This is not France, he has come to realize, and so it can be nothing but a strange sort of afterlife in which he is known as Pylades. A joke, of course.

Eventually, he finds a familiar face. He has already found Gavroche, but this is different. He stumbles forward in a hurry. ] Enjolras.

[tuaslavenir]

[ The moment he hears his name he turns, a flood of relief and dread overtaking him at once - and lets out a breath that feels as though he's been holding it for minutes. ] Grantaire. [ He crosses the remaining distance between them and claps his hand heavily onto Grantaire's shoulder, leaning for just a moment before he straightens, looking him over. ] You're not - what's happened? You're not hurt.

[unaccepted]

[ Grantaire remains uncertain, though it is good to feel the weight of Enjolras's hand on his shoulder. He is real, or at least as real as anything is at the moment. There is a selfish sort of happiness, that Enjolras is here as well, even if he is dubious about everything else. ]

Neither are you. [ He says it without thinking, and then realizes he should attempt to maintain his persona. ] But you should speak for yourself, as I am suffering from an infuriated wasp inside my mind. It has not yet told me what has occurred, however. But you are--you are well?

[tuaslavenir]

Well? No - no. [ Grantaire's language - figurative to the end, of course - strikes him as too light, too unconcerned, but that is Grantaire. And it's something he knows. He stops struggling for what to say; there's nothing, really. ] ... Perhaps I am. Intact, at any rate.

[ But dead tired, and more raw than he's ever been in his life - even if he and Grantaire are by some miracle alive, the rest of them aren't. That much he knows. But for the rest of it, whether he's dreaming or he's taken a blow to the head or something else - he can only glance down at the things he has in his hands, two familiar books and a strange one, and none of it is clear. ] I don't know.

[unaccepted]

[ It is concerning to him that Enjolras is uncertain, because that so rarely happens. He cannot blame him, though. This is not what he has been expecting, not once death finally comes to him. And whatever he receives, surely Enjolras deserves more. ]

I suppose you do not need to know, not in the afterlife or--whatever one might call this. [ He is not suited for situations like this, and so he looks down at Enjolras's books as well. ] What have you been named?

[tuaslavenir]

Knowledge is to be earned, perhaps. [ The thought steadies him a little. For years he's dedicated himself entirely to one task, and now it's finished - he needs another. He needs something. He turns the book in his hands and stares at it, blank. ] Orestes.

[ An angry pallor takes over his face; he's feelimg more himself by the minute. He flips the stack of books so his Bible is on top. ] Orestes, what - dreck. What of you?

[unaccepted]

[ Grantaire is, surprisingly, quiet. He looks elsewhere and shifts on his feet awkwardly. He knows well of Orestes and Pylades, and does not understand what type of joke this is. ]

That is--Pylades. I cannot understand how these are assigned to us, but surely it is arbitrary...

[tuaslavenir]

[ Enjolras is silent, too, watching him - and looking through him to the last memories he can call up. Whatever it is Grantaire has been to him, in the end he was something more, but ... ] Well. [ His voice is quiet; he's focused on Grantaire's shoulder rather than his face. ] Not completely arbitrary, perhaps. But neither of us are particularly well suited.

[unaccepted]

[ Grantaire is not quite sure how to reply. Whatever incidents might resemble each other, it means nothing. The relationships are simply too different--and now he is frustrated with overthinking it. ]

It would make us royalty, for one. While I am suited to that life, I fear you might have difficulty adjusting. [ He jokes instead. ]

[tuaslavenir]

[ Enjolras snaps at him: ] My mother is the Republic - and she is very much alive. [ He turns halfway away from him, as though he means to go, but stops, thwarted, his jaw set and his eyes dark. He has nowhere to go. He folds his arms over his chest, books and all. ] We are nothing but - what we are. We've lost a great many friends; good men. I won't dishonor them this way. [ Because Grantaire is right, at least as far as that - they'd both be princes, and he'd rather take a bullet. ]

[unaccepted]

[ It takes Grantaire only a moment to catch Enjolras's meaning, and he cannot help a smirk. He is sensitive, Grantaire thinks, and it is only when Enjolras resumes that he understands why.

He had not been awake for it, but he knew when he saw Enjolras alone in the wine-shop that their friends were gone. Any amusement dies from his face and he becomes quiet as he considers, for the first time, that his friends are gone. ]

And you still hold true now? After you've seen them fall, and for what?

[tuaslavenir]

They fell for France. [ His response is quick and flat enough that it might seem unconsidered, but it's simply automatic - he knows it well enough that he hardly has to think. ] As they knew they might - as was proper.

[ He looks at Grantaire, shoving all thoughts of the damn book resolutely form his mind. ] It's a death no one could regret. It changes nothing. I mourn them, but it changes nothing.

[unaccepted]

[ Grantaire opens his mouth to argue further, but nothing comes out. One might say there is anger in his expression, yet still nothing compared to the distress and loss present. His friends kept him happy, and they were good, and they did not deserve such a fate. He does not understand how Enjolras sees nothing but France, but it would be unwise to storm off.

He cannot lose Enjolras. ]

You are right, that it has changed nothing. [ If he continues, they will only both become angry and that is not what they need. ] We cannot stand here forever.

[petitgamin]

[Gavroche does his - now getting fairly familiar - walking/floating routine. Then he sees someone familiar] ... Pretty Face?

[tuaslavenir]

You, too. [ Enjolras has very little energy to spend on impatience - he's spent most of the remainder on Grantaire - and so he lets the name pass without protest. Of course, he's also just a mite distracted by the fact that Gavroche is ... hovering. ] What on earth - how have you done that? [ Perhaps he's just going mad. That explains the most. ]

[petitgamin]

[Gavroche looks down at his floating. Oh yeah, that. He doesn't really think about it much anymore. It just ... happens. If he were older, or more educated, he would probably muse upon the way in which he has adapted to being able to fly - though he is not good at it yet - but he is none of these things, but instead a little pup. Thus he shrugs his shoulders]

Just c'n. Some lady said I'm Peter Pan now.