by cyan-013 for kerrypolka <3 THANK YOU FOR SUCH A LOVELY FIC TO WORK WITH Incanta iacta es

by cyan-013 for kerrypolka <3 THANK YOU FOR SUCH A LOVELY FIC TO WORK WITH Incanta iacta estgen (Amis + Eponine + Marius)written by kerrypolkaaer by cyan-013 Summary: Magic AU! Technically a crossover with Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, but you don’t have to be familiar with that canon to read this. Gen (Amis, Eponine and Marius). *** “I’ve been bewitched.” Courfeyrac looked up from his book. “Is it serious?” “Her eyes,” said Marius in rapture, “spoke to me.” “Don’t be metaphorical at a time like this.” “I’m serious.” “Literally?” “In every sense.” Courfeyrac closed the book. “Marius Pontmercy. Are you or do you have any reason to suspect you may be under a love spell, of the kind identified by Neuvillette or Villiers or any other yet undiscovered or unknown.” “Would I know if I were?” “Good point. Let’s go and see Combeferre.” Let us take a moment to discuss French magic. For several centuries it was thought such a thing did not exist, but that was only because it is nearly invisible. French magic is in essence Parisian magic. Parisian magic is panache. What turns a gamin’s crust of bread into a feast? What makes the flower in a seamstress’s hair more radiant than the diamonds on a queen’s neck? What opens the locked door of a lady’s chamber to the gentleman thief? Magic, only, no one notices it. Paris looks at the exceptional, the superlative, the truly unusual and the genuinely supernatural, shrugs her shoulders and says “Yes – that’s me!” Only when the English magicians you have heard of became notorious did France lift its head to pay attention; and Bonaparte, though in every other way a genius, did not have any sense of magic. He had no use for anything that could not be known, and French magic is most of all in those four words: je ne sais quoi. That was in 1815. In 1831 France was in a prosaic mood with a prosaic king, and magic was being studied at the Ecole Polytechnique, which is to say, leaking out of the city. These are the circumstances in which Courfeyrac and Marius went to see Combeferre. Combeferre opened the door. He was wearing flat spectacles with iron frames. Courfeyrac swiped them off his face immediately and pocketed them, saying: “You look ridiculous.” “They’re supposed to see past any enchantments,” Combeferre said. “Wouldn’t they need to be ferrous lenses, then? Anyway, the shape doesn’t suit your face.” Marius had not even thought to open his mouth before Combeferre, very much failing to suppress a smile, said, “Don’t apologise for him, you know it only makes him worse.” He held the door open for them, and Courfeyrac entered with his nose in the air. Combeferre’s front room smelled like cinnamon and gunpowder, and around it were basins of various metals filled with various liquids, mostly water, some not. Combeferre located two empty cups and one not empty, which he tipped away and sniffed, then filled all three with white wine. He handed the last to Courfeyrac, who wrinkled his nose. “What was in this before?” he said. “Am I going to lose all my hair? Or become irresistible to women? Or both?” “Rosewater for cleaning,” Combeferre said, “sit down and drink your chardonnay.” There were only two chairs, and both were covered in books. The three young men sat on the floor. “Marius is in love,” Courfeyrac said without further preamble. “That’s unfortunate,” Combeferre said. Marius was not paying attention. Combeferre’s wallpaper was the pale blue of a February dawn, which happened to be the exact shade of the dress She was wearing last Tuesday when Marius saw her at the Jardin de Luxembourg, and when he entered the room he had fallen into a reverie on this memory. When Courfeyrac pressed the wine into his hand he accepted it mechanically, lifting the cup to his lips. He swallowed and came back to life, a Romeo reviving rather than expiring by his draught. “Why, Combeferre, you know how to do magic!” Marius said. Combeferre, amused and pleased, made only a modest demurral. “I’m really only a theoretical practitioner. Or a practical theorist. What do you want to know?” “Is he under a love spell?” Courfeyrac said, stretching his legs out among the clutter. “He was behaving very vaguely this morning.” “Behaving vaguely,” Combeferre said. “That sounds like cause for concern.” He turned to Marius. “Open your mouth and say ah.” Marius complied. “Is this necessary?” Courfeyrac said. “Certainly not. But it is entertaining. Before anything else, do you have any reason to think the lady wishes to be found?” “I’m sure of it!” Marius said. “Her eyes told me so.” Combeferre looked alarmed and intrigued. “Literally?” “No.” “Ah.” Combeferre rose to his knees and began pushing through the books on the chair nearest him. “I’ve never tried to find someone I don’t know before,” he said. “Oh.” “Which means it will be a very interesting project.” “Ah!” He had found the volume he was looking for, a first edition of Mabeuf’s Incantata des environs de Cauteretz, and ran his finger down the index page. “Have you anything of hers? I expect not, but it would make things easier.” Marius grasped in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a small piece of white fabric. “This,” he said feelingly, “is her handkerchief, which I found on a bench.” His tone and expression would have been the same if he had said, “This is Juno’s diadem, which I personally recovered from Mount Olympus.” Courfeyrac looked at him sideways. “You keep it with you always?” he said. “Oh, Marius.” Combeferre examined it. “Monogrammed, excellent,” he said. “Well, let’s have a go, shall we?” “Now?” Marius sprang to his feet. “Here?” “Why not?” Marius looked from friend to friend, unsure where his good fortune had come from. “There goes the rest of the chardonnay,” Courfeyrac said as Combeferre filled a basin with the end of the bottle. [Although most magicians use water, for reasons of cost as well as the obvious, but French magic, it has been found, is generally most effective with a good vintage. – Ed.] The magic was not, as Marius had expected, accompanied by anything so prosaically romantic as bells chiming or the scent of roses; but a faint silver light did reflect from the dish onto Combeferre’s face when he leaned over it. Marius could scarcely breathe. “Do you see her?” Combeferre frowned, and gestured, and frowned again. “I must have got something wrong,” he said. Marius could not restrain himself and peered over his shoulder. “Oh!” he said. “Monsieur Leblanc!” “You know this man?” Combeferre said. “Yes – he’s her father, I think.” “Hang on,” Courfeyrac said. “This girl you’re so worked up over is Mlle Lenoire?” “Shut up,” Marius said. In that state at that time, he could have seen off a regiment of hussars if they had insulted her. Courfeyrac searched his memory and said, “She does have very fine coloured eyes.” This was intended to be pacifying, a confirmation of his friend’s good taste, but Marius bristled even more and said, “You shouldn’t even think of her!” “Indeed I don’t usually,” Courfeyrac said amiably, and Marius somehow found himself more offended than before. Combeferre meanwhile was taking notes in a small quarto with his left hand, while his right hovered over the basin, holding the vision in place in the basin. “At least it’s a family member, I suppose it picked up on the blood relation,” he said. “But why not her? Ah – he’s going to a row of houses. Maybe the illusion just has a dramatic sense of timing.” This was delivered dryly. Marius nearly knocked over the bowl as he looked again. Monsieur Leblanc moved to a door and looked subtly over his shoulder, first to the right, then to the left, and it seemed to Combeferre he made eye contact with him, though he knew that was extremely unlikely if not impossible. Suddenly the image vanished, swiftly fogging over before the bowl went clear again. “Oh!” Marius said. “Oh, where is he?” “How fascinating,” Combeferre said, writing furiously. “How utterly fascinating.” * Having failed by magic, Marius went back to trying to find Her the old-fashioned way, but here he was disappointed as well. He went to the Jardin du Luxembourg for three weeks straight; but it was an unseasonably rainy three weeks, and he succeeded in nothing but developing a callus on his heel from wearing his best boots every day, and several on his hands from cleaning them vigorously every night. Courfeyrac, who was careful to say nothing to Marius on the subject, privately resolved to try his best to divert his flatmate from what was clearly a failing quest. But unknown to Marius, help was near from a different quarter. When Eponine’s father asked her to look into the house on Rue Plumet, she encountered the same difficulty as Combeferre had, and for the same reason. So when the sun set, she left the puddle she had been peering into and went to ‘scope it out’ in person. The garden, which was overgrown, seemed abandoned; but there was light in the upstairs window, behind the shutters. Eponine sat and waited. It was darkening. The light went out. Eponine was about to give up when Cosette appeared in the twilight, slipping out into the garden to sit on a bench. Eponine said nothing. She watched to see if anyone was with her. She watched to see whether it was really Cosette: she was wearing green, her hair was clean and her cheeks were pink, she looked like a wood nymph. And yes, it was the Lark.   Eponine watched her for nearly an hour and did not move. Cosette passed through the garden, humming under her breath, standing still to look up at the stars; and when it was too dark to see she returned inside. Eponine stood up slowly, then acted quickly. She pulled a rock  out of the wall and a nail from her pocket, scratched “NO GO” on the rock, and replaced it, and fled down the street, away from the garden gate. Across town, the words “NO GO” appeared in her writing on a stone in the wall of Thenardier’s cell at La Force. When he came back from dinner he saw the message. “Damn,” he said, “I could have used a good job.” He went to bed early, and in a mild sulk, but after that did not think any more about the house on Rue Plumet. Because Eponine did not want to alarm Marius by communicating through the same means, which she thought he would consider very low, she looked for him to meet him in person. He was easy enough to find when she searched for him in a puddle below a street-light, near the river, and she spent a happy hour watching him and his friend, whom she thought very agreeable if obviously less handsome. They were dining on pain et vin in their shirtsleeves at home, and both were flushed and laughing. Eponine propped her chin on her elbow to watch. This is what she saw: Marius, whose elbow had slipped off the table, steadied himself with a hand on his friend’s arm and protested again, “Courfeyrac, you know it isn’t that! Must you make me say it? I owe you at least six louis – no, your face just now says even more – “ “I haven’t been counting. It isn’t important,” Courfeyrac said. “ – which is insulting in itself – ” “Although now that I know it hasn’t been going on a mistress, I’m even more curious where it disappears to.” He finished his glass and reached for the bottle. “Clearly not waistcoats.” Marius ignored this with the dignified enthusiasm of one who has consumed a half-pint of red. He continued, “It’s, you know. Drinking water while everyone else in the room drinks wine.” “Are you being metaphorical again? I’d be happy to lend you anything to read up on – ” “No! Actual water. Actual wine.” “I’ll buy your wine!” Courfeyrac, having refilled his own glass, reached to top up Marius’, but Marius stopped him with a hand over the brim. “Don’t be stupid, you bought tonight’s. And I owe you enough already.” “It’s not only you – Enjolras always drinks water,” Courfeyrac offered. “Enjolras does so by choice.” “Marius.” Courfeyrac stilled him. “I’ve been joking but I mean this seriously: I’d rather have the pleasure of your company than not, particularly if the alternative is you sitting here alone by the light of a single wan candle getting boot-black all over the floor. If a few cups of wine is all it takes to secure your presence for the evening, I’m happy to do so. Truly.” “No wonder you’ve got such a collection, if that’s the kind of thing you say to them,” Marius groaned, and allowed Courfeyrac to pull him to his feet. Eponine watched them walk to the Musain; she was not well practiced at weather magic, but she amused herself by making a breeze blow and ruffle Marius’ hair, which was very becoming. In the back room Marius and Courfeyrac found Grantaire and Prouvaire arguing. Marius could not tell whether they were in earnest disagreement or simply exercising. (This was a problem he often had. No one ever had this problem with Marius; Marius was never not in earnest.) Jehan had verses half-written and had evidently been reading them aloud to himself, prompting Grantaire to impromptu criticism: “But your magical is tragical, no two ways about it,” he was saying. “Do not misplace me. When I say tragical, it is a great compliment. Most of us should be so lucky as to achieve tragedy, rather than the gods simply using us for tennis-balls, watching Oedipus blind himself with blind indifference. In fact, not even watching! That’s what I mean. Tragedy achieved is an opus, and nearly impossible for anyone lower than the third stratum of heaven. It means making a difference to the creaking clockwork of the universe, reaching into the mechanisms and setting something right or wrong, clicking the machine into place or out of joint, which for mortal men is out of our ken and beyond our capabilities.” "But that’s exactly what magic isn’t!” Prouvaire said. “Just because something is beautiful beyond our comprehension doesn’t mean it’s beyond our power to achieve.” "True, true!” Marius cried. Courfeyrac, who liked his friend very much, made a great effort to be silent. Prouvaire continued, “I can think of no greater illustration of what we’re gathering here to work towards than magic. It is transcendent and ineffable – yet man can still channel it, it illuminates him. It illuminates the world! From the ancient masters to today’s workman magicians, and to the future’s – who knows? Magic is greater than ourselves, but it also belongs to us, every one.” “So does Mlle Floraison at the Champ de Mars brothel,” Grantaire said. Prouvaire shook his head, smiling. He lifted his hand and, concentrating, caused the wine in Grantaire’s glass rise like a vine and seem to bloom into a translucent, many-petalled blossom. “A rose from rosé,” he said. “There’s your floraison. Where’s the indifferent clockwork in that?” Grantaire, with an identical expression of concentration so fierce it must be mocking, waved his hand in parody and reshaped the floating wine into an obscene gesture. Prouvaire laughed and leaned forward, and as they both attempted to form the liquid into another joke, the glass shattered. Wine ran all over the table and their clothes. “Now look what your magic has done!” Grantaire said. “Your pantomime has ruined my trousers!” Prouvaire, still laughing, ordered another bottle of wine from Louison, who had appeared immediately with exasperated unsurprise at the sound of the glass breaking. Bahorel entered at the same time as the new bottle. “Ah, a much-needed voice of earthy reason,” Courfeyrac said, commandeering the drink and pouring five even glasses. “Tell me, with the aim of starting or at least diverting an argument, what do you think magic’s for?” “Winning fights,” Bahorel responded immediately. He considered. “And practical jokes.” Grantaire clapped his hands. “No greater tragedy than that.” “Or poetry,” Prouvaire said, smiling, and returned to his verses. He had dried his paper with a wave of his hand after the spill, though neglected to do the same for their clothes. “Marius, what do you – oh, for heaven’s sake,” Courfeyrac said. Marius was staring at the table where the rosé had spilled, with a vacantly rapturous expression. A half-hour later Combeferre and Enjolras arrived, talking low. “No,” Enjolras was saying, “it’s simply too risky.” Courfeyrac excused himself to join them; anything Enjolras thought was too risky was something he had to hear. “It wouldn’t have to be a real dragon,” Combeferre said. “Just a moving image of one. I don’t know where we would get a real dragon. I don’t even know if they exist. There have been rumours of sightings, of course, but you know I don’t find those reports from the war in Spain very reliable for obvious reasons; and even if there were a dragon in Andalusia I don’t see how we could transport it here. Never mind that the climate is likely to be entirely unsuitable, unless we were to build some kind of – hothouse, or maybe a very large kiln, for it to keep warm, and that would defeat the point of bringing  – Courfeyrac! Why are you laughing?” "As ever,” Courfeyrac said, “I am simply genuinely delighted to call myself your friend.” He returned to the table and brushed Marius’ leg as he sat down. Marius nudged him back playfully. The table’s expressions made it clear they had been listening to Combeferre too. “My father’s company was supposed to have seen a dragon once,” Marius said. “It was in Le Moniteur.” “We are not,” Enjolras said, speaking slowly and with great precision, “using dragons to guard our barricades.” It was one of their more pleasant meetings in months; the advent of summer had brought warm weather, the end of exams and the feeling of revolutionary consolidation, lifting everyone into a good mood. As Marius and Courfeyrac left, Marius stumbled on the stairs, and took Courfeyrac’s arm to avoid falling. He left it there. Courfeyrac enjoyed the weight and warmth of it. The night was clear and starry as they skirted the Jardin du Luxembourg and strolled towards their flat. Just before they crossed the river, a figure slid out of the shadows below the bridge and stood before them. “Good evening, Marius!” it said in a low voice. “I’ve been looking for you, and now I’ve found you!”  Marius’ fingers tightened on Courfeyrac’s arm. “Who’s there?” She stepped forward, beaming and smudged. “Ah – Eponine!” Eponine looked closely at him, and told him what she had discovered, and watched his face become luminous. “Why – that’s – you’re sure? – Courfeyrac, do you hear? She’s – and so near – I’ll go at once! Who knows, she may be – oh, Eponine!” And Marius was gone, bounding off into the warm night. Eponine held onto his sublime expression, which she herself had put there. It was more than she could have imagined; she found it perfect. She wanted to close her eyes and never look at anything again.   “How annoying,” Courfeyrac said. He lifted his arm, the one Marius had been holding, and ran a hand through his hair. “Now who knows what hour he’ll come home, with that same ridiculous hangdog look. How incredibly annoying.” “Don’t say that!” Eponine said. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s sublime.” “Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of his string of silently pining conquests,” he said, mostly joking. “Honestly, you should see – ” “As if you aren’t!” she said. She said it crossly, without thinking. But she watched his face fall, and then she remembered watching him and Marius together. Oh, she thought, maybe he hadn’t even realised it yet. He stood still, very still, with only a breeze moving through his hair and rustling his sleeves. After a moment he whistled, then laughed, resigned and cheerful. “I suppose we’re both fucked, then,” he said. He held out his hand. “Courfeyrac.” She hesitated, then shook it. “Eponine.” “D’you want to go try to drown our sorrows in cheap wine?” Eponine brightened. “Literally?” -- source link

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