Title: Demimonde (one-shot)
Prompt: From word of the day.
Word count: 287
Genre: General/angst/tragedy
Rating: k+
Warnings: None
Fandom: Les Misérables (also movie based I suppose)
Pairing/Character: Group
Summary: They were nothing really. The demimode's. The gutter snipes. The cast asides. But for them, those few. They considered themselves the Kings and Queens of the sky.
Timeline: Definitely before the barricades; when? You decide.
Author's note: I'm not dead, I promise (well if I were this would be a bit...awkward. I can't promise I'll get back to pieces that I've written and for that I apologise. This was sitting on my laptop for the longest time and I a) wanted to share and b) it's been sitting on my laptop for the longest time.


~ demimonde n.
a group characterized by lack of success or status: the literary demimonde.


It hadn't always been this way.

Though, nobody quite knew how. Everyone could agree that it had begun as something. A network. A group of friends. What it became, was part of the Underground. A sect. An idea that through doing little, a lot could be changed. An affectation of lost voices and merging of ideas; that through the vision of tomorrow, could be bought a revolution for today.

They were nothing really. The demimode's. The gutter snipes. The cast asides. But for them, those few. They considered themselves the Kings and Queens of the sky. The world was theirs. The roads and side streets: their courts and their palaces: the toothy doorways that housed rotting timber.

And it was in these palaces they fell.

What the guns stole and the boots smashed and the grins battered. The whispers of the winds, fanned and grew. Their stories bloomed to rumor, rumor flowered gossip, gossip bore talk and with talk fluttered their word.

Till words became deeds and the world spun on its axis. Dancing to the sound of bullets and mortar; war became their marching hymn, set to the song of a better tomorrow.

A tomorrow they would never see.

No one remembers who they were. What's left of their faces are bare grainy remnants of faded memory.

They failed, you see. They died and their words died with them. But, their failure's did not matter in the end. What mattered was that they dreamed. And they loved.

'A greater love hath no man'... than the success, of a dream.

And for the love of a dream, they built the tomorrows of the future.