L'homme Qui Rit was written by Victor Hugo. All rights are his.
I was upset with how the original story ends. So, here is an AU where everyone lives. I may continue, it may stay a oneshot. But if I continue, let me know what I should explore, where they should wind up. I have some nebulous thoughts in mind for where I could go with this, but I'm open to plot ideas.
-Pappenheimer
It was dark and stormy as Gwynplaine fled from the palace. He ran through side-streets and alleyways, all in a vain hope. Hot tears mixed with the cold sleet beating down his rictus grin. The velvet robes of nobility weighed heavy on his shoulders, growing heavier by the minute as they absorbed the water. He didn't care.
He made it to the docks, spying a little boat that had just push off.
Wait – could it be? That figure!
"Ursus?" Gwynplaine shouted.
"Gwynplaine?" a softer feminine voice called – definitely not Ursus, but –
"Dea?"
"Gwynplaine!" she shouted again.
He hastened his steps, wiping the tears and rain from his face. Watching his step, he hurried down the docks and leapt the clearance to board the boat.
"Gwynplaine?" a deep familiar voice called.
"Ursus!" Gwynplaine called, both his family now in view on the deck of the little boat.
"My God," said Ursus before fainting.
"wha-" Gwynplaine said, rushing over to his father's side.
Carefully, Dea shuffled over to them. "Oh, what joy to see you!" she said, reaching her hands out to touch him – to see him.
"Oh, Dea! You would never believe what had happened – but first, let's get Ursus below – somewhere comfortable to rest off this spell," he said, hoisting the large man into his arms.
It had taken some time, but Ursus came around. A couple of good licks to the face from Homo, their wolf, likely didn't hurt.
"My boy – what happened? After the Wapentake took you that night, we learned you were dead! Clearly that is not so, not unless the good Lord has come again!" said Ursus.
"You would hardly believe it," Gwynplaine said.
"As the dead stands before me, I'll believe anything. May plucked chickens be men and you a count!" said Ursus.
Gwynplaine raised an eye. "It…" he shook his head. "They called me "Lord Fermain Clancharlie,"" he shook his head. "It was so strange. They took me to the dungeons, but it wasn't to chain me up. They showed me the… person… who did this," and he gestured at his perpetual grin, "to me. They reinstated me as a Peer of England and gave me the chance to exact my revenge; they took me into the House of Lords; apparently I have a brother; they wanted me to marry someone!"
Ursus blinked at the onslaught of information. His Gwynplaine – a Peer of England? "All that, you cast away – you returned to us?"
"Of course! When I spoke, it was made clear to me that they would never see past my face – I would always be a charlatan in their sights," he shook his head. "No, it is better here with you." Gwynplaine looked out across the black waters – night had fallen swiftly. "Wherever are we headed?"
Ursus tutted. "Trying to change the subject? Boy, do you know what sort of life you've given up? Riches what we could only dream of!"
"But I was not happy!"
Ursus smiled kindly, placing an arm around Gwynplaine. "And that is how I know you're still my son. No "Lord Fermain Clancharlie." Just my Gwynplaine. All the riches in the world, and you cast it away to be poor with those you call family," Ursus said, chuckling and shaking his head.
"What? I was not happy there. A marriage not of love, but, but political intrigue? Is that how to live? Yes, I was surrounded by luxuries, but it meant nothing at all without you."
Ursus lifted his arm and made a shooing motion. "Boy, go. Sit with Dea. She's missed you more than the world."