the boy who trumped the gods
i.
There was a world closely interwoven with our own in which a scope of reality rested on a supernatural plane of existence. The pagan deities of the mortal world that shifted from age to age reflected this alternate reality. Because, after all, there was a time when people believed such things. There was a time when people could imagine something greater than what they were given. There was a time people could think beyond the dictated morality of law and social order. A time when people dreamed—and could fight for those dreams with a fervent passion.
But such a time had passed. Those pagan gods were forgotten, and while the ideals and realities of the alternate realm lived on, they were not prayed to, they were not acknowledged, and many were avoided by the subconscious of the human spirit.
Some, granted, were rightfully so avoided. Certainly no human, through either their subconscious or wary mind, should ever wish to greet such beings as Torture, Suffering, Anguish, or, of course, Death.
On the contrary, though, there were the personas that were much sought after—Joy, Love, Prosperity, Peace, and, of course, Life. Life, above all else, was the abstract idea of the mortal world that the humans so desperately clung to—meanwhile a reality of a divine person who watched on in humble understanding of his worth. He would have saved them all; kept them all under his celestial wings and grasped each soul for an eternity. But it was the humanistic desires for his fellow Persons of the Light, as they so were called, that prevented him from doing so.
Humans, as they grew older, would seem to find value in something greater than Life. Some found it in Love, and saw it worth any agony that Torture or Suffering may have unleashed upon them. Some found it in Prosperity, or commonly known to them as little more than petty Wealth, and they would surrender themselves to the harshest of commands under Anguish and Strife to meet their means and achieve their ends. Some found it in Peace, and would subject themselves to the wiles of War and Hatred to overcome what needed be.
But whatever folly it was that each mortal greeted, they would undoubtedly surrender to Death to end whatever darkness had overcome the light. The Persons of the Dark shadowed purity in all the realms. And humans were so weak. If they did not subject themselves to Death for reasons of the light that had been corrupted, then they would give in to Death's lure as a means to escape the manners of Time and Age, believing to taste immortality in Death's tainted promises. They lived on, but in perpetual blackness, for very few made it back to the light. And after the world developed itself, after so many stopped thinking beyond their small, bleak little worlds, after they simply begun to listen to and compliantly obey the message of those above them, then no one ever made it to the light. Because no one ever fought for it.
The purest of the lights was Liberty, but when the mortals enslaved themselves, following laws made by man and blindly obeying commands of mortals, then she was forgotten. With Liberty came revolution and changes—but few wanted it. A turning world, forever the same, forever safe to most, was preferred above the dark ages where nothing was stable, where the supernatural played in instances unwanted, and so the proverbial "no" was given to Liberty each time as they denied themselves that basic light. Yes, to some it was unwillingly enforced. But to most, it was chosen. A prison to which they condemned themselves, to just obey and accept the world, because it was the way it was. Not to dream. Not to fight.
Death could win this way; Death always won. Because Life without Liberty was worthless, and when Life fell ill, hope for the world seemed vanquished, and every light everywhere extinguished.
But then in that black there was the faintest beacon of light. Small, perhaps, in the grand darkness that seemed to suffocate all—but it burned so passionately that its presence could not be ignored.
Light came through the heart and passion of a single mortal, a single human man who sought not Love, not Wealth, not Joy—not anything that came mindlessly through trivial nonsense.
He sought Liberty; he sought a world much greater than his own. The visions he had seemed so great for a mortal man, they alarmed even the Persons. Such a world had he envisioned, and such a fire could he ignite in the flames of others' hearts.
And yet he was just a mortal boy.
And they called him Enjolras.
AN: I am still not entirely sure about posting this story here. A friend persuaded me but I've always been hesitant of sites like these. Still, you should bear in mind that while I am a fairly decent and successful enough writer outside of the fanfiction realm, this story is not an attempt to expose some great epic. Yes, I could write something like that, and I just might, but in my opinion, though opinions may vary, I'd hardly classify this particular piece as a revolutionary story so much as smut with a developed plot, ha. Though maybe I am degrading it too much. It does have some of a layer to it. I think it's interesting. At the very least I am enjoying myself, and that should be the purpose of fanfiction above revolutionizing novelization, in my opinion. Put in effort because it's worth the skill, but no need to rip it apart like a high school English teacher.
All that said, this rating with go up to MA by chapter three, given I decide to keep posting or even keep the story online. So a warning there for the rating shift.
And I have nothing else to say. We'll see how this fares, I suppose. :)