Summary: Fill for the Les Miserables Kink Meme. CRACK. Grantaire and Athelstan switch places. Grantaire has a pretty good day- Athelstan does not.
Author's Note: Am I kicked out of the fandom yet?
Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables- it belongs to Victor Hugo. Vikings belongs to the History Channel (or something, I don't know, but it's not me).
"You… Are not the priest."
The man who was definitely not Athelstan grinned in response. "I'm many things, my friend, but a priest I am most definitely not." From the way he looked out the window and eyed Lagertha as she fed the chickens, Ragnar was inclined to believe that.
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"
"I think I asked you first."
"Sure you did, but I fail to see how asking first makes the asker anymore entitled to an immediate answer than the second asker. Equality, and all that." The man who wasn't Athelstan sent another glance Lagertha's way. "Is that your wife?"
"I'll tell her you said so."
"Will you? Goodness, people usually hit me when I compliment their wives or mistresses. Or at least threaten me with bodily harm." He picked up the cup of alcohol that Ragnar had previously intended to ply Athelstan with and took an unhesitant swig of it.
"Where are you from?"
"Paris?" At the silence, the man who was not Athelstan tried again. "France?" More silence, and then he sighed and tried one more time. "Gaul, perhaps?"
"Gaul I know of."
Ragnar gladly offered more alcohol to the man (Who asked to be called Grantaire) in the hopes that it might make him more inclined to speaking about Gaul. He looked quite healthy, which meant that they probably had food and water and possibly other things of interest to future raids.
But after a few hours, Ragnar found that the younger man was surprisingly good at holding his drink- better than Athelstan, who had only managed two cups before his voice grew irregular and he started to sway. "I drink much, regularly- often, in fact. I drink like a fish. Takes me a while to get drunk, but I always do." And then Grantaire laughed, which drew Lagertha's attention.
"What's wrong with the priest?" She kept a particularly sharp eye on Grantaire's clothing, which were- in a word- different from Athelstan's. She had refrained from asking before, assuming that Ragnar had a handle on it, but now it was clear that she was suspicious.
"This isn't the priest. This is his identical twin from Gaul."
Ragnar and Grantaire both broke into breathless, drunken snickering that made Lagertha roll her eyes heavenward. "Ah, well, that explains everything. Do you plan on joining us in bed tonight, twin? Or are you of the same opinion as your brother, that such things are sinful?"
Grantaire stopped laughing immediately, eyes wide with shock. He turned to look at Ragnar, who also seemed to be expecting an answer. "Oh- Well, I would hate to refuse your great hospitality, Madame."
Ragnar grinned. "I like you."
"Grantaire, if this is some sort of strange attempt to convince me that you've turned over a new leaf, it's not working. I refuse to allow you near any alcohol as long as you are here."
Athelstan stared at the blond man with an expression of abject horror.
"I have no idea who you are or what you are talking about."
The door to the room slammed open, causing Athelstan to jump sharply and yelp. The young man standing in the doorway was panting as though he had run a great distance, and was now staring at the blond. "Enjolras! We have a problem. Grantaire-" His eyes landed on Athelstan, and then he groaned. "Oh dear."
"Well, do you remember Grantaire saying that his mistress was positively magical in bed?"
Enjolras shut his eyes. "No."
"It was just two days ago, and you-"
"I remember the conversation, Courfeyrac. I simply wish that I did not."
"Ah. Well, apparently he wasn't exaggerating." Courfeyrac turned and then ushered in another young man, this one wearing a device that held two pieces of glass over his eyes. However, Athelstan was less distracted by that and more so by the fact that the man was currently covered in large purple spots.
Athelstan and Enjolras gaped. "What happened to him?"
"A witch happened to him. Grantaire-"
"He claims he's not Grantaire." Enjolras seemed to believe it now, and was unable to remove his gaze from the spotted-man.
"Oh, well then- Hello there! My name is Courfeyrac, this is Enjolras, and that is Combeferre." The spotted man gave a small wave from where he had taken a seat. "Who are you?"
Athelstan only stared.
The door opened again, and another young man entered. "Hello everyone, how is Sweet Lord in Heaven Combeferre what is wrong with you??"
"Joly, it's not-"
"Plague! It's the plague, isn't it? I know it's the plague!" Joly backed away until he hit the wall, going terribly pale. "Those spots are soon going to turn into oozing pustules of disease and death! We're all going to die!"
"Joly, calm down. It isn't the plague, it's-" Enjolras stopped mid-sentence, apparently uncertain as to how he could make the truth sound more reasonable than that. "It's… Courfeyrac, would you-?"
The door opened again, and silence fell.
It had the body of a man, and the head of a duck. The duck's beady eyes were looking right at Athelstan, who was very close to passing out. "Grantaire," It said with a human's voice.
"Bahorel?" Courfeyrac squeaked.
'Bahorel' sighed, still looking at Athelstan. "I met your mistress."
The room exploded with noise once more as Joly started to scream, Courfeyrac tried to calm him down, Enjolras demanded an explanation from Bahorel, and Combeferre tried to shout over everyone else to quiet them.
"I am in Hell." Athelstan whispered, crawling into a corner and clutching his cross. "I am in Hell, and these men are demons. I would prefer Ragnar Lothbrok to this."