pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Enjolras is at a table with a book and a plate. (It contains some crumbs that used to be a chicken sandwich, a mostly untouched small cake of the sort that Bar persists in giving him unrequested, and -- inexplicably -- a small candy heart with the incomprehensible word LOL stamped on it in pink. Enjolras has no particular desire for candy, especially of a self-evidently joking sort, and thus has ignored it.)

More importantly, he has a book about the history of Ysalwen's Thedas, which he's reading thoughtfully.

The bar is bustling, as often. A few of his friends are about; the spy is across the room, monitored but outwardly ignored. Enjolras has no intention of speaking to him without cause, if he's given a choice in the matter.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Here's a sight common to any public park of Paris in the 1830s. Two young men, friends, university students, strolling together across a grassy lawn, talking of this or that.

Granted, this is Milliways, so there are a few unusual factors. The lake contains a giant squid and at least one mermaid (neither visible now); the 'park' is a self-contained magical reproduction of a certain piece of Scotland; both young men are dead. Nonetheless.
pro_patria_mortuus: (Default)
[Previously: Bossuet's arrival.]

He speaks to Grantaire. Not an easy conversation for either of them, but that doesn't matter. It's necessary.

(The strangest alteration of all: in that conversation, there are feelings easier to show, easier to have understood, by Grantaire than by Bossuet. Unprecedented. But Grantaire is dead too, and knows what and whom Enjolras mourns. Bossuet comes from a time when all their closest friends were still alive, and when it seemed that unseating Charles X was all the republic needed to come to fruition, before a tyrant was replaced with his cousin.)

Then he returns to his room. There are paper and pens there already, and everything else he needs is in his head. There's work to be done.

He knows that he can't change everything he wants to change. As dearly as he would love to alter the course of June '32, to bring the insurrection to success, that's not for one man to bring about. He can't put that on Bossuet. The question isn't merely one of kindness -- it's tactics, it's principle, it's common sense.

But the barricade at the corner of the rue de la Chanvrerie. Planning -- the right push here, the right mistrust there -- can alter that.

(It feels fiercely, finally right to have this work again. This is what he's made to do; this is something that matters; this is a bright flame of hope flaring into conflagration inside his heart.)

He writes. He thinks more. The spartan, lamp-lit room around him fades away; in his head are tactics, contacts, mud and mire and gunpowder stores, the blood of his friends, all the dozens of interlocking pieces that form the puzzle of a revolution.

He sleeps, because he knows he must. But only lightly, and not for too long.

When the knock comes the next morning, he's sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, going over the matter yet again in his head. He rises and goes to let Bossuet in.


pro_patria_mortuus: (Default)

August 2017

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