A/N: Wow, I haven't written a fanfiction in ages. It feels like a lifetime ago that I've even been on this site. Anyway, this was written for The Domain's Fairytale Challenge. And the fairytale addressed in this piece is not a conventional folklore-ish figure. For those of you who haven't heard of Stravinsky's Firebird ballet (which is based on a Russian fairytale that came out in 1899), the Firebird is sort of like a Russian Pheonix, or at least that's what it's been compared to. It's one am and I have the AP Language exam in seven hours, so you can just go look it up on Wikipedia if you're curious. I also suggest listening to the Firebird Finale as you're reading the end.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Firebird Suite, or the Firebird folklore or Glee or Jesse St. James or Rachel Berry. I do, however, own the oboe that I will be playing the Berceuse and Finale from the Firebird Suite in June.
Firebird
To Jesse St. James, she was the most unattainable thing in the world. Because somehow, every guy in New Directions, or so it seemed, was lured under her spell, dancing the infernal dance of teenage hormones. Puckerman, Hudson…Jesse snorted. Those unsophisticated neanderthals were in a class so far below him that he could hardly see them.
And yet, they still had a part of her heart. Suddenly, he looked up. Rachel was talking very loudly to Mercedes as she came down the hallway. He sighed quietly as she walked past. Whether she pretended not to notice, or didn't actually notice was of no consequence to him. He didn't care. She had lulled him into a false sense of security with her berceuse before breaking his heart.
He laughed humorlessly, idly wondering when he would stop comparing his life to musicals and ballets. Although, he mused, this time it fit. Rachel Berry was, in every way shape and form, like the Firebird of Russian folklore and Stravinsky's ballet. No. She was the Firebird.
She was trapped in her own little realm, like the Firebird was caught in King Kashchei's, one of illusions and mythical things. And he, being the noble Prince Ivan, had attempted to set her free from her normal life once they were together. He thought he was setting her free. And that, he told himself, is where your little ballet goes awry.
For it was Prince Ivan who had fallen in love with one of the thirteen princesses, not the Firebird falling in love with…well, whatever Russian folklore birds fall in love with. While the Firebird enchanted King Kashchei's subjects into doing the Infernal Dance, as not to hurt Ivan, Jesse would have to pull out some Earth-shattering vocal performance to save Rachel.
Why save her? Why save her reputation? he thought to himself. He stared longingly down the hallway where he had last seen her fleeting steps. He had hoped for some sort of longing backward glance in his direction. It was then, he realized, that maybe his little 'ballet' wasn't so different than he thought.
In the Firebird ballet, while King Kashchei was entranced, the Firebird revealed to Prince Ivan that the secret of Kashchei's immortality was that his soul was contained in an egg. Once the egg was broken, Kaschei's spell was broken and the "real" beings of the realm awoke from a slumber.
Maybe it was he who lived in the realm of King Kashchei. He thought he could make things work with Rachel. He thought he would be all she could ever need. Once his heart was torn apart, like the egg that contained the King's soul, he woke from his delusion that everything he had tried to do was in vain, and that he would never be all she could need.
That, Jesse supposed, is why he felt the need to salvage what little of her reputation was left. He owed her. And once that debt was paid, he would stay with New Directions for a little while longer, as he rather liked some of the other members of the club. Then, once he graduated, he would leave Rachel Berry behind him, perhaps talk to her once more, so he could be sure to get one last fleeting glance of the mythical Firebird.
Jesse liked this plan. He liked it a lot. With a triumphant smile, he started walking toward the chorus room, where he could already hear the sounds of rehearsal starting. But it didn't sound like the warbled notes of his fellow gleemates-yes, just because he liked them didn't make them anymore talented-not in the slightest.
All he could hear the sounds of a triumphant French Horn solo: the Firebird finale.
Yay? Nay? Confused? Me too. I can't remember what litotes is.