There Is Nothing To Forgive a Braime soulmates one shot
This fic is a twist on the “shared dreams” soulmate trope, where, in my version, the God’s let your soulmate appear in dreams.
Jaime Lannister had never been good with words. All his life they had evaded him, from the time when he was a child and he couldn’t read without a heafty struggle, to his adolescence when he’d attempt to express to Cersei his feelings.
She didn’t care of course. She didn’t want his love, his admiration, and she didn’t care about his words, or lack thereof. All she wanted was his body and the pleasure it could bring her, all she sought was the security of knowing he was hers, under her spell, forever.
So the appearance of anyone speaking to him in dreams was odd. He was visual, and his dreams often came as a bombardment of images, some cruel, some lovely, all powerful, without a word to be gleaned from any of them.
But this night was different.
The dream was simple really, he was there, in the throne room, watching from above like a raven in the rafters, Aerys on the throne, his own white cloak shining. He watched as the mad king laughed, and he could hear the innocent scream as the king shook with wicked, mad laughter. He tightened the grip on his hilt and stepped closer. He could not hear what Aerys was saying, nor could he hear any other words, but he could smell the sickly chemical scent of wildfire and could feel the heat that would surely come from it.
He watched his own hands shake as he took another step up behind the king, all the fear he had felt in that moment evident on his terrified face.
But suddenly, he was not alone as he raised the sword to strike true. A girl, tall and strong, with long blonde hair hanging down her back. She was younger than him, but her eyes glowed like saphires and as she pressed herself against him, she took his hand on the swords hilt in her own, wrapping a warm hand around his, and helping guide the blade.
I understand. Her words materialized in his mind, and she smiled sadly before helping him guide the word into its sheath through Aery’s back.
Forgive me. Never before had he spoken in a dream. Nor had he cared to.
There is nothing to forgive.
She faded before he could get a true glimpse at her face, leaving him alone to claw at the air, before waking bolt upright, alone in the summer night.
—
Actions spoke louder than words, and yet words were what Brienne put stock in. Honor was her pillar of principle, and she believed in any man’s word as she expected them to do in hers.
And so, when a young man’s begging voice pierced the foggy clouds of her dreams one night, begging for help, for forgiveness, and justifying why he killed.
For the innocent. For those he would slaughter. Because if I do not do it, who can?
She felt a strange sense of longing for that voice, for the man who must wield its mighty tone. She let herself drift towards it, it’s words becoming more and more earnest, panicked, even.
Please, mother, father, someone, guide me.
She searched the crevasses of her dream for its source, but as always found no images, only fragments of words. But then, just as she was about to give up, heappeared.
Forgive me.
The boy was behind the mad king, drawing his sword, tears gathered in his eyes. And suddenly, Brienne was there too. One look at the boy and she knew what he needed. She wrapped her hand around his, and pressed herself gently beside him, taking on the burden of the blade and the sentence it was about to deal. She knew how this story would end.
The sword pierced.
There is nothing to forgive.
All was warm and light was everywhere for a moment, and then it became too much and she awoke, sweating and panting in the summer night air.
Soul dreams are a thing of the distant past. I am no fool. She repeated the sentiment over and over, across years as she travelled lands and seas, and came to the service of Renly Baratheon. Finally, she had stopped thinking about the boy, the Kingslayer, with whom she had shared a dream unlike any other.
Until the night she dreamt of the shadow.
Though she could not see it, she could feel the cool air sweep through the tent, and could feel the hair on her arms stand up. She felt her heart hammer in her chest, and her blood run frozen.
No. No. Please no. Do not make me watch this again.
Renly was dead a week, and yet she could not sleep without watching it play out, over and over again. Perhaps I am the Kingslayer.
You are not.
Suddenly she could see again, and there he was. Older now, but without mistake: Jaime Lannister.
It takes one to know one, and it is not you.
It was his phantom turn to come closer, to warm her against the chill.
How can I ever forgive myself? She wept as Renly before her died once again, and her heart felt as if it were frozen to ice.
There is nothing to forgive.
Her heart beat fast and she turned to see his face.
But he was gone. And she left alone in her bedroll in Catelyn Starks tent.
—
There is nothing to forgive.
Jaime repeated the words his golden haired maiden had once offered him so many years ago. He prayed it would bring her the same solace it brought him.
He had heard of soul dreams, of the most ancient and purest loves, ones which the gods themselves were invested in. Ones for whom the soul was so tightly bound that they could, when direly necessary, appear in dreams.
But he didn’t believe it. Rather, he believed that as comfort had been offered to him, so would he offer it. For some reason. He couldn’t quite place why, but something had compelled him to speak to her, to comfort her, despite not even knowing if she was real, or just a figment of his imagination.
He thought about it a lot on the road to Kingslanding, as him and Brienne walked in silence. There was something in the way she looked at him, this odd familiarity, overshadowed by anger and confusion. It made him wonder a great deal about what she knew of him. It was not an expression he was used to being on the receiving end of.
—
To Brienne’s chagrin, Jaime did not appear in her dreams after the night he lost his hand. Despite the fact that she so sincerely blamed herself for it.
But as they stared at one another at the bathhouse, and he suddenly, inexplicably began to speak, something in her chest thrummed.
“I know, Ser Jaime.” She said, before he had fully begun the explanation of why he killed Aerys. “You did it for the people, for the innocents. If you didn’t, who could?”
His face went slack and his jaw hung loose, eyes fixed on hers as they simultaneously put the pieces together. In unison they spoke their next words carefully.
“There is nothing forgive.”
~~~~~
Thank you so much for reading!!!! I am so happy to be back, and I hope to write a lot more in the coming weeks. Pleaaaaaaaaase send me any suggestions or promps you might have, or if you’d like to see more continuations of any of my work lmk!!!! As always, PM me if you want to be added or removed from the tag list :) Love you all xx, Bea
Alright, so I promised soft old men, but then this happened, and well…
E/R, canon divergent post-Barricades. Canon compliant character death, canon-typical violence and mistreatment of prisoners.
It was barely dawn when Enjolras slipped out of bed, trying not to wake the man snoring next to him. But even the simple act of trying to get out of bed without rousing his companion seemed beyond him now, as the lump wrapped in the majority of the blankets let out a disgruntled noise, a hand emerging from under the covers to reach for the emptiness where Enjolras had just lain.
“Come back,” Grantaire said grumpily, and Enjolras just laughed lightly, bending down and reaching for Grantaire’s hand and entwining their fingers together.
He ran his thumb lightly over Grantaire’s gnarled knuckles and the veins that stood out starkly against the liver-spotted back of his hand before raising Grantaire’s hand to his lips. “Go back to bed,” he ordered, his voice quiet but no less commanding than it had once been.
Grantaire’s head emerged finally from under the covers, his grizzled features thrown into shadowy relief in the dim light. “Only if you come back to bed with me,” he said, his voice pitched low to suggest Enjolras return to bed for reasons other than resuming sleep.
Enjolras laughed lightly. “I’m not certain my back has recovered enough from last evening’s activities, and your knees absolutely have not.” He arched an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Of course, you are welcome to remove yourself from bed and prove me incorrect.”
Never one to forgo a challenge, Grantaire attempted to sit up, only to give up with a groan. “Fiend,” he muttered, waving a dismissive hand at Enjolras. “Leave me be to suffer in peace.”
Laughing again, Enjolras hastily dressed before shuffling around the side of the bed so that he could bend over and kiss the top of Grantaire’s head. “Sleep,” he murmured. “I shall return before you wake again.”
Grantaire rallied himself enough to kiss Enjolras properly, cupping Enjolras’s wrinkled cheek with his hand. “You had best,” he said. “Or else I shall have to content myself to seeing you solely in my dreams.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes affectionately, turning his head to kiss the palm of Grantaire’s hand. “I’m certain you would see me in your dreams regardless.”
Grantaire smiled softly at him. “You know I shall.”
Enjolras straightened again, wincing as he did, and by the time he made it to the door, Grantaire was snoring once more. He shook his head before starting slowly down the stairs, wishing he had thought to bring his cane upstairs with him the previous night.
Of course, the prior evening he had been rather preoccupied by the man now asleep again in their bed, their shared enthusiasm leading them to act, and at least temporarily feel, far younger than their current ages. And if his body protested this morning, he still couldn’t quite find it in himself to regret it.
Well, he regretted that they had not been able to do this when they were in their prime, when one night of lovemaking would not leave them both with well-earned aches for the next week, but better now than never.
He retrieved his cane from its spot by the front door and made his way outside where the sun was just beginning to peak over the rooftops that lined the narrow street, and he turned his face up to it instinctively, pausing for a moment just to feel its warmth on his face.
Then he strode determinedly in the direction of the baker’s, to fetch the breakfast that both men desperately needed after the previous night.
He walked slower now, but no less proud despite age and a bayonet wound to his knee having finally caught up with him. His hair glinted more silver than gold these days, the youth once embodied by his most-hated nickname ‘Apollo’ as well as his visage now lost to the wrinkles and creases that mapped the life he had lived.
Of course, he carried with him more evidence than that of the hardships he had faced over the years, but those scars were seen only by Grantaire these days.
The baker did not look surprised to see him despite the early hour, instead reaching automatically for a loaf of the bread that Grantaire favored. “Fine morning,” he said warmly, passing the bread to Enjolras, who nodded.
“That it certainly is,” he agreed, handing his coins to the baker, including, as always, a little extra in case any came in begging later that day. It was not much, but it was a small gesture for Enjolras to couple with the work he and Grantaire did to uplift those who needed it most.
“But where is your companion this fine morning?” the baker asked.
“Where else?” Enjolras grumbled, pretending to be put out, as if he and the baker did not have this conversation at least once a week. “In bed still, lazing the day away.”
The baker laughed. “Then give M. Grantaire my best when finally he rouses himself,” he said, and Enjolras just smiled.
“I certainly shall,” he promised, tucking the bread under his arm before continuing up the street.
He had a few more stops to make to complete their meal, and by the time he returned home, the sun had eclipsed the rooftops fully and the housekeeper was already bustling in the kitchen. “Oh, M. Enjolras!” she said when he came in to deposit the food on the table. “I thought you and M. Grantaire were still asleep.”
“He is,” Enjolras told her, breaking off the end of the baguette and taking a bite. “But one of us had to seek provisions, and I appear to have been the unlucky one.”
Her face softened. “I don’t think M. Grantaire would ever dispute you on who is the lucky one between you two,” she told him. “And not just because you let him sleep in.”
Enjolras nodded, his chest suddenly feeling tight, and it took a moment for him to speak. “On that count, I believe we are both lucky,” he managed finally.
She smiled at him. “Best take that up to him, then,” she said, hurrying to grab some cutlery and a napkin for him to take along with the food. “You know how he gets when he’s hungry.”
“Don’t I ever,” Enjolras said with a short laugh.
He turned to head upstairs but she stopped him. “I know it’s not my place to say anything, but I worked for M. Grantaire for a long time,” she said, and Enjolras paused, glancing back at her.
“Yes?” he said, curious where she was going with this.
“I just wanted to tell you that I don’t think he was ever truly alive until you returned,” she said, and Enjolras’s heart clenched painfully. “For whatever that is worth.”
“Everything,” Enjolras told her, the starkness of the word underlining its sincerity. “It means everything.
— — — — —
Enjolras had thought his life over when the barricade was taken, but life – or at least, the National Guard – had a crueler fate in mind. While his companions had perished, he had been dragged before a mockery of a court and promptly convicted of treason before being handed over to the prison system.
“Kill me, then,” he had snarled once while being beaten for the minor offense of, seemingly, continuing to exist.
His jailer, a paragon of cruelty, had just laughed. “You think we would be foolish enough to make a martyr of you?” he had asked. “Oh, no. Your punishment will be far worse than death.” He had grabbed Enjolras by the hair, yanking his head back as he sneered in his face, “His Majesty’s grace will allow you to live the rest of your miserable days in prison where you will suffer the worst fate of all: to be forgotten.”
And he had been, relegated to stints of hard labor in between prolonged periods of solitary confinement, seemingly at his guard’s whim. At first he counted the days, but as they stretched to years, he found he could no longer keep track. There was little point in counting, after all, when the number mattered not: five, ten, twenty years, his fate remained the same.
It would have been enough to break any man, as Enjolras had quickly learned that fortitude held little bearing on those who survived. Those who made it, it seemed, were driven by something far deeper than hope and stronger than courage.
Enjolras had thought, at first, that the Cause he had given so much for might be what drove him, but as the days dragged onward, he found himself tiptoeing closer and closer to despair. What good was believing in a Cause that presented no change to his circumstances, or those of any of his fellow prisoners?
For that matter, what good was believing in a Cause that had left all those he had ever loved in this world dead in the streets?
That thought plagued him most of all, haunting his nightmares with specters of his dead friends. Most of the time, he just saw their lifeless bodies in a horrifying tableau, but on occasion, they spoke to him, mocking and taunting him. Those were his darkest nights of all.
It was one of those such nights when he lay alone in a damp, cold cell, feverish and delusional, that he had seen them again, first Combeferre, eyes vacant and staring, then Courfeyrac, crumpled in a heap. “No,” Enjolras moaned, covering his face with his hands. “No, please.”
“Enjolras,” a voice whispered, and Enjolras shook his head wildly.
“No,” he repeated, pleading. “Not again—”
“Enjolras,” the voice said again, stronger this time, and different from the jeering tone the apparitions normally had.
Slowly, he lowered his trembling hands, staring at the figure of the man crouching in front of him. “Grantaire?” he managed, his voice a croak.
The figure nodded. “Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras gasped at the familiar sound of his name from Grantaire’s mouth. He rarely pictured Grantaire in his hallucinations, but this was different. This was as if the man himself was there in the cell with him.
“This is a dream,” he said, and Grantaire cocked his head.
“Is it?” he asked.
Enjolras shook his head. “No, I mean—” He pushed his hair from his face. “This is not a nightmare. It is a dream.”
Something softened in Grantaire’s shadowy features. “A good dream, then, I hope,” he said. “A dream that might take away some of the pain in your heart.”
Enjolras’s expression tightened. “How can it?” he whispered. “When you – when they—”
He couldn’t continue, and Grantaire just nodded slowly.
By knowing that those you love will never truly leave you.
That is an answer for a child. I know better. With all I have seen—
With all you have seen, perhaps what you need is to feel like a child again, however fleeting it may be. You have seen loss, and pain, more than anyone should in one lifetime. Would it be so terrible to at least pretend, for a moment, that you haven’t?
It won’t change anything to pretend.
Won’t it?
How can I, though? It is too much to bear alone.
But you are not alone. I am here.
But you’re not. You’re not here. You’re—
He couldn’t continue, burying his head in his hands. “Peace,” Grantaire whispered in Enjolras’s ear, and he could almost imagine that he felt Grantaire’s arm around his shoulders. “I am here. I have you.”
Perhaps it was just that Enjolras had been exhausted, and ill, but for the first time in more nights than he could count, Enjolras had slept, wrapped in Grantaire’s lingering presence.
Maybe it was just that there was no one else he would rather have there, no one else he would tolerate to see him like this.
Or maybe it was that there was so much that he had wished he had told Grantaire, so many moments that he wished they had shared. All those late nights in the Musain…
But that was a different dream entirely, and when the morning dawned, when the guard banged on the bars of his cell, Enjolras woke up alone.
For one dark moment, he had felt worse than he had the night before, stricken as he was with the clarity that Grantaire was gone, that he had never really been there, that he, too, was dead, that he had inevitably been struck by a cannon blast or a rifle shot or pierced by the point of a bayonet, just like the rest of them.
But then Enjolras had sat bolt upright, realization hitting like a thunderbolt, because Grantaire had not been like the rest of them. Grantaire alone had not fought, had not stared down the cannons and bayonets.
That Grantaire alone had slept.
That Grantaire alone might have lived.
Enjolras had found what was to drive him, a singular obsession that held the despair just far enough at bay that he could survive. Even if he was to spend the rest of his life behind bars, knowing that Grantaire might still live meant that all hope could never truly be lost.
And while he would never be happy with his circumstances, he thought perhaps he could live with this kind of peace.
At least, until one day which later he learned was 22 years after their failed revolution, when he was escorted by the guard to the front door of the prison he’d spent some time in and told, roughly, “Your conviction is overturned.”
“Overturned?” Enjolras had questioned, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window in the door. “But the king—”
“—Is no longer the king,” the guard told him curtly. “You’re free to go.”
With that, he has been all but shoved outside to a world that looked very little like the one he had left or even the one he had lost. In looking back on it, he had no idea what he would have done, put out on the street with nothing but the clothes on his back, save for—
“Enjolras!”
The years had been hard on Enjolras’s body just as well as his spirit, but still he would know the voice that called to him from the crowd even if 50 years had passed – even if 50 lifetimes had passed. “Grantaire,” he had gasped, clinging to the name and the memory like a buoy.
And there had been the man himself, like the vision from his dream. Time had perhaps been kinder on him than it had been on Enjolras, but he could mark its passage nonetheless in the gray that streaked Grantaire’s still-unruly curls, in the creases in Grantaire’s brow, even in the way he hurried forward to Enjolras, not quite moving as fast as he once had and lacking some of his usual grace.
But the hand that had closed on Enjolras’s elbow was as strong as ever, and Enjolras let out a wordless cry before embracing Grantaire, not caring that he was covered in dirt and grime and all the evidence of the horrors he had faced. Grantaire, it seemed, equally did not care, as he had pulled Enjolras closer still, burying his head against Enjolras’s shoulder.
“You lived,” Enjolras breathed, clutching Grantaire as if he could not bear to let him go.
Grantaire nodded. “I lived.”
Enjolras pulled back just far enough to search Grantaire’s face. “But this whole time, I thought – I feared—”
His voice broke, but Grantaire seemed to understand. “I know,” he said, his voice low. “And I do not know how I can ask you to forgive me for letting you—”
“But why did you?” Enjolras interrupted. “Why, when but one visit from you…”
“I wanted to,” Grantaire told him, his voice pained. “I asked the court to keep me apprised of your well-being – well, actually, I had Marius do it. He’s a baron now, did you know that? But—”
“But you did not come see me.”
Grantaire bowed his head. “I did not think you would want to see me,” he said, his voice soft. “To know that I survived, when all else was lost—”
“My friend,” Enjolras interrupted again, the word feeling strange on his tongue for how it failed to capture everything Grantaire was to him, everything he had always been, even if only in his dreams. “The thought that you still might live is what has sustained me these dark years. Knowing that you slept, hoping that you were not roused, that the National Guard might mistake you for one already dead…”
He trailed off and Grantaire shook his head slowly, doubt flickering in his features. “Truly?” he asked quietly. “You do not begrudge the libertine whose survival hinged solely on the overindulgence of wine?”
Enjolras shook his head. “No more than I begrudge those who could not be stirred from their beds. Besides, you were always where I pinned my hope. If I could convince no other but you, I would never consider myself to have failed. And this means I have time yet still to try.”
That realization hit him as he spoke the words, and his knees buckled. He would have fallen were it not for Grantaire’s arms holding him upright. “I have you,” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras let out a wordless sob at the words he had dreamed so many times being spoken to him.
“I know,” he managed. “I know.”
When finally he was able to straighten, Grantaire gave him a slightly shaky smile. “Well,” he said briskly, clearly attempting to change the subject, “since you have consented to forgive me, or at the very least not begrudge me, I must tell you what I have done, or what I have tried to do, in your absence—”
“Beloved,” Enjolras said, and while he had never before called Grantaire that, it felt more right than friend ever had or ever could. “There is nothing you have ever needed to do.”
Grantaire had looked as if he wished very much to argue with that, but for once, he had said nothing. “Then let me, at the very least, bring you to my house, that there you might find food, clean clothes, and some respite.”
“Very well,” Enjolras said.
Grantaire had reached for his hand, then hesitated. “Do you permit it?” he asked, almost shyly, and wasn’t that a revelation – Grantaire, shyer as he neared 60 than he had ever been when Enjolras had known him before.
Enjolras had wordlessly taken his hand, squeezing it once.
Their hands had stayed clasped as Grantaire had led him through the streets of Paris, at once achingly familiar and hauntingly foreign. As they walked, Grantaire filled him in on the political happenings, but Enjolras found it hard to muster the enthusiasm that was perhaps expected of him for the revolution that had, this time, succeeded.
It would return, in time, and in no small part because of Grantaire – the cynic leading the believer back to faith! – but even the thought of it seemed too far away for Enjolras to then grasp.
When they had arrived at Grantaire’s house, a modest lodging, Enjolras spared barely a glance at the building before setting upon the food Grantaire’s housekeeper had thoughtfully prepared, wolfing it down as if he knew not when he would find his last meal.
“What next?” Grantaire had asked when he had finished, having watching all of this silently.
Enjolras had swallowed before hesitantly saying, “I thought, perhaps, to bathe?”
Grantaire had silently taken his hand once more and led him upstairs. There, he had a bath drawn for Enjolras
Again he had asked, so soft and low that Enjolras might have missed it had he not been listening for it, “Do you permit it?”
Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire’s fingers trembled for just a moment before he helped Enjolras remove his clothing. For a fleeting second, Enjolras wondered if he should be embarrassed, to be naked in front of Grantaire, but he could not bring himself to be, even as Grantaire’s fingers gently skimmed his ribs, sticking painfully from his thin frame, or traced a bruise against Enjolras’s thigh.
This was Grantaire. Even after all this time, Enjolras knew that he had no need to be embarrassed with him.
Then Grantaire helped Enjolras into the bathtub, and without asking this time, rolled up his sleeves before picking up the soap and carefully, reverently, beginning to wash Enjolras’s back.
His touch grew firmer but no less reverent as he continued, moving Enjolras as if he weighed nothing to lather and scrub seemingly every inch of his skin without flinching. Enjolras offered no protest, trusting Grantaire as he always had. He closed his eyes and leaned against the bathtub, drifting into a sort of half-sleep as Grantaire cleaned him.
When he was finally clean of at least the dirt that stained his outside, Enjolras stood shakily with Grantaire’s help, letting him towel him dry before dressing automatically. “I am sorry that I have no better fitting clothes—” Grantaire started, but Enjolras just shook his head.
“They will do,” he said softly. “Thank you. For – for everything.”
Grantaire’s expression softened. “There is no need to thank me. It is the least I could do.” He paused before adding, a little hesitantly, “And this house, I know it is not much, but—”
“It is more than enough,” Enjolras told him.
Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before blurting, “Then I hope you will consent to stay, here, with me.” Enjolras stared at him and a mottled flush rose in Grantaire’s sagging cheeks. “This house, the life I have built, the work I have done – there has always been something missing, something I left room for – someone I left room for.”
“Grantaire—”
But Grantaire did not let him interrupt. “I know what you will say. You are predictable even now, at least to me.” Enjolras shook his head, but Grantaire did not pause. “You will say that you have changed, that you are no longer the man whom I loved all those years ago, and that may well be true. But I never stopped believing in you, and I hope in time I can convince you to believe in me, too.”
“I already do,” Enjolras told him honestly. “I always have.”
Grantaire searched his expression for a moment. “And yet you hesitate.”
“Because I have changed,” Enjolras said. “You have seen what the past years have done to my body but you have not yet witnessed what they’ve done to my mind, or to my spirit. And those are wounds that I fear may never heal. So to offer to shackle yourself to someone who may be broken beyond repair—”
“Did you love me, all those years ago?” Grantaire interrupted, and Enjolras flinched at the question.
It was one thing they had never said to each other, but even with all the time that had passed, he knew that they had never needed to. “You know that I did.”
“In spite of my drinking, and my cynicism, and the darkness that always threatened to overwhelm.”
He didn’t phrase it as a question but Enjolras still answered. “Yes.”
“Why?”
The question took Enjolras by surprise, and it took him a long moment to answer. “I do not know,” he admitted.. “I just did.”
Grantaire didn’t look surprised. “Then is it truly so hard for you to believe that, just as you loved me at my most broken, I too may still love you at yours?”
Enjolras did not smile. “Belief and I parted ways some years back, I’m afraid.”
Now Grantaire’s expression softened, just a little, and he took a step closer to Enjolras. “Then how is this for belief: I do not believe you beyond repair. But even if you were, it would temper my love no less.” He reached for Enjolras’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “And if you and belief have truly parted ways, then I shall simply have to believe it enough for the both of us.”
He said it with the conviction that Enjolras had once hoped Grantaire would espouse, and a part of his heart he thought might never heal seemed to beat just a little stronger. “I love you,” he told Grantaire, a little helplessly. “Still, always. You—” He swallowed, hard. “—you kept me alive when I thought I could not go on.”
“As you have always done for me,” Grantaire told him. “So will you stay with me? Will you make this house our home so that we can keep each other alive?”
Enjolras managed a small, tired smile, his first real smile in what was almost certainly years. “I have nowhere better to be,” he told Grantaire before asking, “Do you permit it?”
Wordlessly, Grantaire kissed him.
And after Grantaire had led him to bed, Enjolras had laid in Grantaire’s arms, feeling safe for the first time in years. And for the first time in years, he had allowed himself to cry.
“Peace,” Grantaire had whispered, his lips brushing against Enjolras’s forehead. “I am here. I have you.”
— — — — —
Enjolras stood in the doorway, watching Grantaire sleep, warmth spreading throughout his chest. Wordlessly, he set their breakfast down on the dressing table and with as much grace as his old bones would allow, he clambered back into bed.
Grantaire let out a snuffling noise before turning to squint at him. “What are you doing?” he asked.
Enjolras just pulled him close. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
Grantaire just hummed, his eyes already closing as he pillowed his head on Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras stroked Grantaire’s gray curls, marveling at how much had changed, and how much hadn’t. How much never would.
He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of Grantaire’s head. “Peace,” he whispered. “I am here. I have you.”
“The domrai,” the Empress stated, as though she were about to conduct a lesson on the florae and faunae of the galaxy at large. “An interesting fruit, to be sure. Being raised on a sand-savaged planet such as Jakku, with little in the way of proper sustenance, you’ll forgive me if I’m unaware of the habits and customs of others when it comes to the appropriate way of consuming certain things.”
The Supreme Leader, catching the play, had to hide his burgeoning grin behind his hand. By the Maker, did she impress him.
“If you would be so kind, I would appreciate the enlightenment,” she continued, nodding towards the fruit, “as to how one would enjoy such a delicacy.”
Hux swallowed hard, all semblance of bravado disintegrating by the second. “Er, you—my—my lady, Supreme Empress, I—I—I’m not sure I—”
“You heard her,” the Supreme Leader rumbled, impatient with delays and interested in seeing the culmination of the performance playing out in front of him. “Show her how to eat it, General.”
Hux looked like he was going to be sick. He glanced down at the fruit in his trembling hand. “My—my lady, I—”
“Eat it.” Her voice rang out, clear and distinct, echoing throughout the chamber. “Eat it, as you would have had me eat it last night, when it was offered to me on a platter by one of your lackeys. Eat it, as I would have, sharing a piece with my husband as well, if another had not warned me of your deceit just in time.”
She leaned forward in her seat, fingers clenched in the arms of her throne, her posture and bearing still befitting of a monarch — back straight, diadem resting perfectly at the top of her head, firegems and Naboo night pearls adorning it, glinting red and black in the dim light, with indigo-dark velvet robes pooling at her feet. Her eyes glinted darkly as well, capturing only a modicum of the light in the room around her. She met his gaze with her own, pinning him to the spot without even conjuring the Force. When she spoke again, her voice was low and vehement.
Soooo, imagine this: Let’s say that Julia takes Quentin’s place in the story so far, ergo her going to Brakebills, getting to know and more or less befriend, the rest of the gang.
They do come into contact with the Beast, realize they have to be the one to stop him, learn about Fillory being real, etc…
Enter the deal with the blacksmith. One of them has to take on the mantle of high king, and that one has to marry the blacksmith’s son, Quentin.
Seeing the cute, young man, (on the short side, semi long hair that has his fingers itching to stroke through, bright eyes, leanly muscled, nice smile, but seems shy, etc), Eliot is a lot more receptive to the whole thing than he was with Fen. (- I like Fen, I think she is a great character, but, well, you know.)
Having a spouse he is actually attracted to and can imagine himself falling in love with eventually, has Eliot put a lot more effort into building a relationship with Quentin.
(Oh, they kill the Beast too, by the way. :-) )
As the son of a blacksmith, having been around weapons his whole life, Quentin knows how to use them. Quentin would still have mental issues, but having grown up in Fillory, where people don’t really know about mental health and depression and treatments and such, Quentin had to seek out alternatives methods to deal with his ‘spells’. (Think about that scene with Quentin and Benedict, when Benedict confessed to Quentin about how his parents had told him to just keep those dark feelings to himself and never talk about them) - So, yeah, Fillory isn’t very progressive when it comes to self-care.
So, whenever Quentin was getting depressed, or as his father would call it, get one of his ‘spells’, his father would make him handle the weapons, or train to fight with them. “A smith can only make a good weapon, when he knows how to fight with a weapon” or something like this.
Needless to say, Quentin got really, freaking good with a sword. (even though he is totally clumsy with almost everything else. Which Eliot just finds adorable)
When King Idri of Loria threatens war if the Fillorians don’t surrender their magic resources, the wellspring (how did this go again?, damn, so much has happened in the seasons), Quentin convinces Eliot to let him fight Idri in Eliot’s stead. (As the high king’s husband, Quentin can take Eliot’s place for certain things.)
Eliot doesn’t like it, because who would enjoy watching the person they are in the process of falling in love with fight another warrior to the death to prevent a war, but with the wellspring just in the beginning stages of getting fixed again, and magic still being wildly unstable, he has to relent to Margo and Quentin’s arguments that Eliot likely wouldn’t stand a chance.
Watching the fight between Quentin and Idri is a kind of sweet torture for Eliot.
Because his boy is god damn hot fighting with a sword, an almost unnatural seeming grace leading Quentin’s usually clumsy movements, as he blocks and parades and attacks.
But it’s also fucking terrifying, because Quentin is fighting TO THE DEATH, and Idri is clearly not a novice with the sword.
Quentin get’s some bruises and cuts (severity of those to be negotiated ;-) ) , but ultimately wins. When it is time to deliver the killing blow, the king’s son, Es, calls a halt to the fight. (He doesn’t want his dad to die, it’s understandable.)
Eliot isn’t interested in peace negotiations just then, and leaves Margo and Tick to hash things out with Prince Es. He is far more concerned with getting his injured husband back to the castle and take care of his wounds. And then apply a whole other set of tender loving care upon Q. ;-)
Eliot at some point in time becomes aware of Quentin’s mental health issues, and does his best to help him with those. With actual communication and reassurance and all those good things.
Maybe there is a kind of loophole to the whole ‘having to stay in Fillory for the rest of your life’ deal, and Eliot can take like, ‘vacations’ on earth. And Eliot would just LOVE the fuck out of showing Quentin all the things he enjoys on earth, and all the things he thinks Quentin would enjoy on earth. And watching Quentin experience all those things that Eliot doesn’t even think are all that remarkable, makes him fall for his husband all over again.
And then we could just have lots of funny, cute, lovely little scenes about the two of them having adventures on earth, and in Fillory, and growing into their roles as leaders of a kingdom, and deepening the bonds of friendship with the rest of the gang, and falling more and more in love with each other every day.
Needless to say, it doesn’t have to follow canon at all after the beast is defeated.
Any takers?
yooooo I like this so much, here’s a gif:
I adore this gif.
Expanding on this:
Later on in the series, Eliot and especially Margo haven proven to be good rulers. But at first? They didn’t really handle their royal duties to their people with great decorum or enthusiasm, from what I remember. So:
- Quentin has a bigger role in as Eliot’s husband for the ruling of Fillory than Fen did. He calls Eliot and Margo out on not bothering to get to know the land and people they are entrusted with caring for. Shares the struggles that the people had with earlier High King’s and Queens from earth, and makes the two understand that Fillory is more than some magical land from a childrens book series.
- Margo and Eliot mature into their roles more easily and naturally, without the constant strive that had them by the metaphorical balls before. They may not have chosen this path for themselves out of their own free will, but they decide to take this challenge head on and be more than Brakebills Party King and Queen, and instead grow into the kind of ruling royalty that later generations will be measured after.
- Quentin naturally knows more about Fillory and all it encompasses than the children of earth (even if Margo is a secret fan of the books), but he isn’t used to, or comfortable with, being royalty. The fine garbs and foods and everything else in the castle is so far removed from what he grew up with, that he easily grows anxious about his place at Eliots side. He actually spends a lot of time with the Pickwicks, who have lived in the castle and ruled the kingdom for a long time, and tries to learn from them. He and Benedict become good friends, sometimes sharing the struggles with their dark thoughts with each other.
- Eliot hates that his upbringing brings the solution to some of the kingdom’s problems. All the alcohol and drugs in the world hadn’t been able to wipe his mind from all the things he learned about growing plants and caring for livestock, no matter how hard he tried. And boy, had he tried. But the adoring look that Quentin gives him when he shares his expertise with Fillory’s farmers and the first positive progress reports are coming in? The pride in those soft brown eyes when Eliot is a fucking fantastic monarch? That’s something he could get used to.
- Margo and Quentin bond over their shared desire for adventure. Having read the books, Margo knows what all Fillory has to offer. And even though she knows now that the books were a fairy tail version of the reality, there are many parts of the lands she wants to see and explore. While Quentin, more or less confined to the village he had grown up in, had always dreamed of going on an epic quest, stepping foot on a boad and sailing the seas to encounter lands and people he had only ever heard about. Quentin introduces Margo to the Muntjac, having had the honor to help maintain the sentient ships with his father. (Smiths of a certain skill are rare in Fillory, and always in demand)
- Quentin has a lot of scars all over his body. Some faint enough that you have to concentrate to spot them. Other’s more obvious. Being clumsy and insecure in nature, handling, working, and training with all sorts of weapons from an early age, hadn’t come without various injuries. Whenever they are intimate with each other, or in a not too public place (Eliot personally wouldn’t mind a little public indecency, but Q is still so delightfully shy), Eliot likes to caress and kiss each and every one of those scars. New and old. Assuring his husband that the blemishes do nothing to mar his body or attractiveness to Eliot.
Expanding on the expansion:
- When they are ‘vacationing’ on earth, Quentin just keeps getting into all kinds of trouble. A woman getting accosted by a drunk in an alley? Never fear, Quentin is here! (Eliot made hm leave his sword behind, but he didn’t say anything about Q’s throwing knifes. - Okay, he didn’t know anything about Q’s throwing knifes. But, you know, semantics.) A little kid trying to coax their stuck cat out of a tree? Please. Quentin grew up surrounded by the woods. Climbing a tree to pluck a feisty, scratch happy cat out from its branches, is like a walk in the park. An old lady getting her purse snatched? Quentin might not know what the fuck Parkour is, but when you have to occasionally run away from various angry magical creatures, because you got a little too close to their territory while searching for ore or other materials, you either become a crafty runner, or you are dead. Needless to say, the thief doesn’t stand a chance.
Eliot has his work cut out, trying to make sure Q doesn’t get in over his head with all those casual heroics. (”Sweetheart, I adore you, but I’m the one with the magic that can throw people through the air. So how about we try not to give me a heartattack by you leaping into traffic?”) He comissions Margo to check if he has gotten any grey hairs yet, every time the two come back from an outing.
Bang Bang Bang “WAKE UP!!” Gojo cackled in the dorm’s hallway. Bang Bang Bang “RISE AND SHINE!!”
Slowly, but surely two grumpy faces shambled out from their rooms, each using the doors threshold to hold themselves upright. The sun had barely cracked the horizon, and neither were thrilled by the early morning wakeup call!
“What the fuck do you want?” Megumi spat out as he rubbed his eyes. “It better be good!”
But Itadori…
“Oi!” Gojo clapped his hands loudly in front of the man. “Wake up!”
… Itadori was sleeping where he stood. “Huh?” One eye cracked open. “Ye-yeah I’m up. What’s up?”
“Today we’re going on a special field trip to the mountains!” Gojo clasped his hands in front of himself with a mischievous grin. “You’re growing too soft, so a lo—ng hike is just what you need.”
“Are you crazy!” Megumi snapped to attention.
“Of course, I am,” Gojo’s smile never faltered. “Isn’t that obvious by now?”
Megumi crossed his arms in a huff. “Well, I’m not moving until you give me a damn good reason.”
“Megu—” Gojo reached out with a whiny voice, and pulled his hand lose, throwing on his saddest, please, for me smile. “Be a good boy for me, Megu…”
Yuuji quickly straightened up stiff as a board in annoyance and smacked Gojo’s hand away from Megumi. “Stop it with that cutesy stuff, just answer the question.”
“My, my, Yuuji, such a morning grump,” Gojo teased knowingly. “Fine. It’s a bonding exercise, so dress for a hike, pack a backpack with water, a towel, and be out front in 20 minutes.” But still when nobody moved. “Chop, chop!” He clapped his hands condescendingly. “It’s best to get an early start before the sun is high.”
