AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title is from 'Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out' by Richard Siken. I first posted this on AO3 over a year ago. I'm posting it here fourteen months late because I want to continue it. That is mostly it for now, I hope you enjoy this sort of introduction to the fic.

The Musain was situated at the center of a cobblestone road forking into two paths.

The path on the left led to the ghettos.

They were innocent houses, at first, and then turned and tangled into innocent houses with holes and patches and broken glass. At some point, they were straight on holes. They were pieces of wood or metal or cloth tossed together, barely more complex than a house of cards. And then there were just streets. They were littered with children, dirtying their noses and bruising their shins, on break from begging for pennies and stealing bread. Some were more innocent, some were stolen bread and pennies for. Of course, not all who lived here were criminals. Some were just unfortunate. Some could not afford anywhere else, and a home was better than no home.

They were the slightly lucky ones. At least they still had homes. The rest lived near the central, near all the hustle and bustle and beauty. They lived in the alleyways and the gutters, on the sidewalks when the moon was too high for people to be around.

This was what the left path led to. There were twists and turns and other branching roads, but this was what one would find if he walked it straight.

The path to the right led to the castle. At the front of the castle sat tall, long gates of cobblestone fortification. Men in armor guarded every entrance. Beyond the large gate was another path. This path was smoother, more expensive. It was lightly tread on, and lightly tread on only by the finest shoes. Grass surrounded the rest of the area. The grass of the castle was much greener than any grass in the kingdom, the castle gardeners assured. There was a fountain in the middle. The path circled around it, leading to the front steps of the foundation of the castle.

The castle was very beautiful, inside and outside, and at this moment very unremarkable.

There was a king inside this castle. He had no consort. Only a concubine.

And a prince.

A bastard prince, but a prince, nonetheless.

He declared this prince as his own son, and as the heir to the throne. He kept himself unmarried to give hope to the other kingdoms, to give hope to unmarried princesses and unformed alliances. But anyone who approached could see that the king loved his concubine, and would love her more than he could love any princess.

The king bore a child with her.

Everybody knew of the prince. But he wasn't allowed to be seen by the public until he turned of age. So he spent his mornings and nights inside the castle walls, trained only by the most trusted of personnel. His playmates were colors and surfaces, instruments and listening imaginations. His father offered him children of the most noble of men to play with, letting him choose, but he barely ever did. (His noons, afternoons, well... that was another thing entirely. He was allowed to exit the castle through one of the many escape tunnels, tunnels he knew by heart, and live life however he wanted, mingle with whoever he wanted and experience life as a peasant.)

And then he turned of age.

He stepped into the ballroom crowded with thousands of his father's subjects, awaiting his reveal. He stepped into the ballroom crowded with inflated curiosities and built up suspense, wearing a mask.

Nobody was allowed to know who the prince was.

He had worn a mask in every public appearance henceforth, no exceptions.

One could say that the castle was the greatest thing that lay on the end of the path, but that wasn't true. It was the prince. The prince who was simultaneously an angel, a demon, cursed, blessed, powerful, strange, beautiful, ugly, deformed, insane, enlightened, prophetic, mysterious, all at once.

Standing in front of the Musain, those paths looked exactly alike. Just paths paved with buildings left and right, buildings and buildings, similar to the one before it with mostly negligible deviations, until one reaches the end and finds that the last building is completely different from the first.

Inside the Musain was much less complicated.

There were tables crowded by rowdy students, adults, revolutionaries. Their drinks and pints were in their hands, their chairs twisted to face the table in the middle. They were listening to the leader in red, with his blond locks and fierce voice, with his indefatigable glare and his determined hands. He was a leader who could grasp any crowd, who could hook the interest of even the most apathetic.

Outside the Musain, he was just a man.

Inside, he was the king.

And this was his court.

Grantaire would put a crown on his head, but it would only serve to muss up his hair, annoy him, and lead him to call Grantaire an idiot. And Grantaire wouldn't want that, so he would save it for his fantasies. As the blond, as Enjolras, began declaiming all the change that they could effect, Grantaire leaned back and brought the bottle of absinthe to his lips.

It was fine entertainment for a prince.