Chapter Text
“I don’t give a fuck, Marius,” Enjolras said flatly, and it was the truth. The king was dying, his eldest son was corrupt and weak, and in all likelihood, the land would soon change from one of unfair taxes and deep-rooted inequality to one of insanity, brutality, and starvation.
The last time a king as mad as the crown prince was in power, the only thing that drew the country out of the famine and war was the intervention of white witch, the sort of spell that lasted a hundred years, and the heroic actions of a bumbling but kindhearted peasant boy.
“She’s my true love,” Marius said dreamily, and Enjolras considered slapping him. Though true love was, of course, a great power that should not be underestimated in the slightest, it could not have been of lesser importance. It was not an easy thing, to convince a large group of undereducated peasants that they could, in fact, rise up successfully against the crown prince, but Enjolras was doing his best.
“It isn’t important now,” Enjolras snapped. “I came to this tavern to hopefully plant the seeds of rebellion, and yet you have done nothing but speak of your growing passion, sending away all who wish to engage in a serious conversation about our current leader, whose imminent death will spark disaster.”
“I thought you hated the king,” Marius said sullenly. “He taxes us indecently and provides no security.”
“His son is worse,” Enjolras said, “This has become a serious matter, which you would know if you removed your head from your ass.”
Marius looked hurt, but before he could respond, the old woman who had been sitting nearby stood up. Enjolras had been ignoring her, assuming she was asleep, but it soon became apparent that she was not.
As she walked towards him, her years melted away, leaving only a beautiful woman with huge brown eyes and ebony curls. “You do not respect true love,” she said to Enjolras.
“That’s not true,” Enjolras said with a glower. He was never one to turn down a fight, and he didn’t want perfect strangers, even ones with clear magical powers, attempting to lecture him on his views on love, which were perfectly reasonable.
“Strictly speaking…” Marius began, but stopped when he saw the woman’s face. “Never mind. I’ll be off?”
“Go to your love,” the woman said with a smile, and Marius sprinted for the door. Enjolras sighed.
“I don’t have an issue with love,” he said, “I have an issue with anything that infringes upon the freedom of the people, and frankly, it’s hard to convince people to liberate themselves when he’s chattering on about silken hair and glowing eyes.”
The witch did not look amused or sympathetic. “You set your sights too broad, and so I must curse you.”
“That makes no sense,” Enjolras said.
“You do not care for true love, so you cannot care for people,” the witch said.
“That makes even less sense,” Enjolras replied.
“I thus curse you,” the witch said, “to live your life as an unsightly beast, until your true love kisses you. Only when you have loved as the boy you mocked loves will you understand, and only then will you be free.”
“What does my attitude have to do with my looks?” Enjolras protested, “Couldn’t you curse me to just not understand true love until I found true love?”
The witch smiled serenely, “Beautiful boys like you find love easily. Only when your love can see you as a monster and love you still will it be true.”
“That’s assuming people are a good deal more shallow than they are,” Enjolras pointed out.
The witch was silent, only giving him one more smile before she disappeared.
The instant she vanished, Enjolras felt himself begin to change. His bones lengthened, his joints twisted, his hands and face sprouted fur. He let out a howl of pain as his body rearranged itself, growing and distorting until his face was long and wolfish, his eyes small and beady, his back hunched, his clothes torn, his skin covered in gold and brown fur.
Pulling himself into a crouch, he growled angrily and began to limp towards home.