Enjolras (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pro_patria_mortuus) wrote2013-08-21 02:09 am
pro_patria_mortuus) wrote2013-08-21 02:09 am
(no subject)
The room the bar gives Enjolras is numbered 89. A strange notion, to number apartments as if they were houses along an avenue, but when he sees the vast corridor upstairs he understands. The usual arrangement would founder here for tenants and concierge alike.
As for the number itself, he's unsure whether its selection is a gift to him, or a sign of approbation. Either way, meaningful. They hoped to make 1832 another 1789. They failed, but their failure detracts nothing from that year's holiness.
The room itself is like the rest of this place, a peculiar mixture of familiar and strange. There is the bed, the desk, the chairs, the chest of drawers, the candles (of higher quality than expected), a little nightstand, a bootpull, a shelf for books or trinkets. There is no stove; perhaps charity does not stretch so far, or perhaps this place has no winters. There is only one room for bedroom and sitting room both, which is common enough for cheap lodgings.
And yet there is a small closet for the bath, a great fixed tub of porcelain with little faucets, and a washbasin with its own faucets, and a strange contraption like a privy seat above a bowl of clean water. Small tags of stiff paper hang from each item. They're printed in an odd but perfectly legible type, very cleanly. They inform him that these are the accoutrements of a washstand and privy in a future year (the precise one unspecified) and detail the manner of their operation. There's a cake of expensive soap, and little bottles with their own tags, and a hairbrush and several soft towels.
He strips off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, fills the basin with cold water to wash his hands and arms. It takes some time to get them clean.
He doesn't bother with the obvious metaphor. It's inapplicable. His concern here is soap.
His ruined coat, when he picks it up in clean hands, reminds him of the suit of new clothes he requested with the room. Courfeyrac was so proud of this coat's fit that Enjolras has always half suspected him of having a word with the tailor behind Enjolras's back; for his own part, so long as he's decently covered and draws no more undesired attention than usual, he has never much cared about the details, though he did like this fabric's hue. But no laundress in the world could save a coat from so many bulletholes, the bayonet stab that missed his flesh but tore a ragged rent in one sleeve, the blood and mud and powder. He will wear whatever this postmortem society's charity has provided. He sets the coat atop the chest of drawers, the flag laid tenderly beside it, and opens the first compartment.
What he finds astounds him. He asked for a set of clothes. He has received an entire wardrobe.
Trousers, brown and grey and black; no doubt Courfeyrac or Bahorel would tell him the precise shades, but the plain color will do for Enjolras. Three coats, two black and one of a darker red -- three waistcoats, again one black -- a number of shirts -- low boots, to fit the stirruped trousers the bar chose -- cravats -- linens, stockings, braces, two nightshirts -- even a hat, low and simple.
One of each item in black or grey. He could go about in mourning if he wished to.
Enjolras is, suddenly, as tired as he's ever been.
He rests his hands on the chest of drawers, bracing his weight on stiff arms, and bows his head. He wants nothing more than to lie down on the nearest horizontal surface. But he's filthy, and the blood on him will ruin these sheets. He drags himself upright and back to the wash closet, and draws a bath. It should be astonishing to watch hot water come steaming from the spigot, but dull interest is all he can manage now. Do they have a boiler kept always hot that's vast enough to provide wash-water to every room here? Combeferre would be speculating aloud on the matter, deducing from the arrangement of pipes. Enjolras falls into a daze of exhaustion in spite of himself as he watches steam wreath the room as if in ghostly mimicry of gunsmoke, and only jolts back to himself when he sways nearly to stumbling. Enough of this. The bath is full enough to serve.
He peels off the remainder of his clothes. He feels as if he's moving through dense syrup. Tomorrow he will see what can be salvaged and what's for the rag-bin, clean his boots, empty his pockets, cut the stitches holding his tricolor cockade to his ruined lapel and pin it to another. Tonight he only folds them all as if they were whole and new, and leaves them in a tidy pile atop the chest of drawers.
When he settles into the bath, the water turns pink. So does his skin, from the heat.
He shaves the soap and washes mechanically.
It comes quite abruptly, when he's scrubbing at his hair under the water, hoping vaguely that water will be sufficient without rubbing lye soap into it. A memory, never far off, crashes over his tired mind: Combeferre's face screwed up in pain, bayonets bursting from his chest, and his body sliding forward, falling-- Enjolras surfaces with a gasp.
They will not cease now that they have begun, these images, and he would not ask them to. Combeferre -- Courfeyrac, Feuilly -- Bahorel, Prouvaire, Joly, Bossuet, all as they were in life, laughing or speaking or furious or lounging, nearly present in the weight of their absence, far from him now, here where he cannot see their smiles, they will not speak to him; all as they died, or must have.
Alone in a cooling bath, Enjolras puts his head down on his knees and weeps.
He doesn't regret their deaths. How could he? Each man gave his death proudly; Enjolras will not dishonor that. Their deaths were gifts freely offered up to France and the future. If he was a chief of the barricade, it was only by the general will, and to direct those sacrificial deaths to the most memorable, magnificent end within his powers. He regrets them no more than he regrets his own.
Regret and grief are not the same. His dearest friends are dead, and he is without them. He regrets nothing; but he grieves, more deeply than he could say.
Time passes, at Milliways as anywhere. When the storm has slackened and Enjolras has no more tears in him to shed, the water is cold and the night is older. He remains alone.
He washes his face mechanically, brushes his hair enough to work out the worst of the oil and tangles, puts on a nightshirt, blows out the candle. What else is there to do? The moon outside the window is a half moon, where last night above Paris a quarter's crescent showed through the clouds. He cannot find any pattern to it.
The bed is too soft, with a strange feel to the give of it. The room is too silent. There are no noises of the city soaking in through the walls. He cannot quiet his mind. He is exhausted. He is hungry now, as he was not before. His nose is clogged from tears. He will not sleep, he thinks.
He closes his eyes, and sleep seizes him anyway.
As for the number itself, he's unsure whether its selection is a gift to him, or a sign of approbation. Either way, meaningful. They hoped to make 1832 another 1789. They failed, but their failure detracts nothing from that year's holiness.
The room itself is like the rest of this place, a peculiar mixture of familiar and strange. There is the bed, the desk, the chairs, the chest of drawers, the candles (of higher quality than expected), a little nightstand, a bootpull, a shelf for books or trinkets. There is no stove; perhaps charity does not stretch so far, or perhaps this place has no winters. There is only one room for bedroom and sitting room both, which is common enough for cheap lodgings.
And yet there is a small closet for the bath, a great fixed tub of porcelain with little faucets, and a washbasin with its own faucets, and a strange contraption like a privy seat above a bowl of clean water. Small tags of stiff paper hang from each item. They're printed in an odd but perfectly legible type, very cleanly. They inform him that these are the accoutrements of a washstand and privy in a future year (the precise one unspecified) and detail the manner of their operation. There's a cake of expensive soap, and little bottles with their own tags, and a hairbrush and several soft towels.
He strips off his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, fills the basin with cold water to wash his hands and arms. It takes some time to get them clean.
He doesn't bother with the obvious metaphor. It's inapplicable. His concern here is soap.
His ruined coat, when he picks it up in clean hands, reminds him of the suit of new clothes he requested with the room. Courfeyrac was so proud of this coat's fit that Enjolras has always half suspected him of having a word with the tailor behind Enjolras's back; for his own part, so long as he's decently covered and draws no more undesired attention than usual, he has never much cared about the details, though he did like this fabric's hue. But no laundress in the world could save a coat from so many bulletholes, the bayonet stab that missed his flesh but tore a ragged rent in one sleeve, the blood and mud and powder. He will wear whatever this postmortem society's charity has provided. He sets the coat atop the chest of drawers, the flag laid tenderly beside it, and opens the first compartment.
What he finds astounds him. He asked for a set of clothes. He has received an entire wardrobe.
Trousers, brown and grey and black; no doubt Courfeyrac or Bahorel would tell him the precise shades, but the plain color will do for Enjolras. Three coats, two black and one of a darker red -- three waistcoats, again one black -- a number of shirts -- low boots, to fit the stirruped trousers the bar chose -- cravats -- linens, stockings, braces, two nightshirts -- even a hat, low and simple.
One of each item in black or grey. He could go about in mourning if he wished to.
Enjolras is, suddenly, as tired as he's ever been.
He rests his hands on the chest of drawers, bracing his weight on stiff arms, and bows his head. He wants nothing more than to lie down on the nearest horizontal surface. But he's filthy, and the blood on him will ruin these sheets. He drags himself upright and back to the wash closet, and draws a bath. It should be astonishing to watch hot water come steaming from the spigot, but dull interest is all he can manage now. Do they have a boiler kept always hot that's vast enough to provide wash-water to every room here? Combeferre would be speculating aloud on the matter, deducing from the arrangement of pipes. Enjolras falls into a daze of exhaustion in spite of himself as he watches steam wreath the room as if in ghostly mimicry of gunsmoke, and only jolts back to himself when he sways nearly to stumbling. Enough of this. The bath is full enough to serve.
He peels off the remainder of his clothes. He feels as if he's moving through dense syrup. Tomorrow he will see what can be salvaged and what's for the rag-bin, clean his boots, empty his pockets, cut the stitches holding his tricolor cockade to his ruined lapel and pin it to another. Tonight he only folds them all as if they were whole and new, and leaves them in a tidy pile atop the chest of drawers.
When he settles into the bath, the water turns pink. So does his skin, from the heat.
He shaves the soap and washes mechanically.
It comes quite abruptly, when he's scrubbing at his hair under the water, hoping vaguely that water will be sufficient without rubbing lye soap into it. A memory, never far off, crashes over his tired mind: Combeferre's face screwed up in pain, bayonets bursting from his chest, and his body sliding forward, falling-- Enjolras surfaces with a gasp.
They will not cease now that they have begun, these images, and he would not ask them to. Combeferre -- Courfeyrac, Feuilly -- Bahorel, Prouvaire, Joly, Bossuet, all as they were in life, laughing or speaking or furious or lounging, nearly present in the weight of their absence, far from him now, here where he cannot see their smiles, they will not speak to him; all as they died, or must have.
Alone in a cooling bath, Enjolras puts his head down on his knees and weeps.
He doesn't regret their deaths. How could he? Each man gave his death proudly; Enjolras will not dishonor that. Their deaths were gifts freely offered up to France and the future. If he was a chief of the barricade, it was only by the general will, and to direct those sacrificial deaths to the most memorable, magnificent end within his powers. He regrets them no more than he regrets his own.
Regret and grief are not the same. His dearest friends are dead, and he is without them. He regrets nothing; but he grieves, more deeply than he could say.
Time passes, at Milliways as anywhere. When the storm has slackened and Enjolras has no more tears in him to shed, the water is cold and the night is older. He remains alone.
He washes his face mechanically, brushes his hair enough to work out the worst of the oil and tangles, puts on a nightshirt, blows out the candle. What else is there to do? The moon outside the window is a half moon, where last night above Paris a quarter's crescent showed through the clouds. He cannot find any pattern to it.
The bed is too soft, with a strange feel to the give of it. The room is too silent. There are no noises of the city soaking in through the walls. He cannot quiet his mind. He is exhausted. He is hungry now, as he was not before. His nose is clogged from tears. He will not sleep, he thinks.
He closes his eyes, and sleep seizes him anyway.