pro_patria_mortuus: (Default)
If you only know the musical, then the additions from the book are too numerous to go into, but mostly not worth bothering to enumerate in a post like this. It's more that there's greater specificity about Enjolras's character and friends, and the historical background and context, than the musical can fit in. The biggest difference is that the Amis de l'ABC are just one of a great many underground revolutionary groups, and Enjolras does not personally decide that now is the time to revolt.

Also, Enjolras will be talking like a Victor Hugo character. So there's that.

If you know the book, here are details I'm pulling from the stage musical and/or 2012 movie, or otherwise millicanoning:

details, mostly very minor )

- In general, I am defaulting to book canon on all particulars, but I'm willing to work with other muns! If you're playing a character from the musical, and you want to discuss Enjolras's relationship with your character or a plot point, come talk to me! (Email, message, or in the comments of this post, if you like.) We'll see if we can figure out something that works for everyone.

Also, a note on canon puncture! Victor Hugo was already a fairly well-known writer at the time of Enjolras's death, and there's no particular reason to think that isn't true in the world of Les Misérables as well as in the real world. Enjolras died as a martyr intending to give his death to posterity and republican inspiration, so he would not be remotely upset to learn that his life and death had been fictionalized in a famous novel of social criticism, or that that novel was adapted into a play later. However, if your character would bring up very specific details of the novel, or say "Yeah, you look exactly like the actor in that movie!" or whatever, then please talk to me first. (It may well still be workable, but I'd like to make sure we're on the same page.)
pro_patria_mortuus: (je ne comprends pas)
They're succulent plants.

...Seriously, that's the AU. There's plenty of symbolism in each choice! They're youthful, healthy, variably attractive plants. I'm not sure if they're Milliways-style dead yet or not.

They don't talk. Or write notes or anything like that.

They're plants.

(If you take one up to your room, you're gonna end up with a very confused Frenchman falling off your windowsill in a few days, though.)
pro_patria_mortuus: (Default)
When you're young, athletic, dead, and bored at Milliways, the available hobbies get surprisingly limited. In other words, for those who enjoy sparring, there's a whole lot of time to practice in.

Enjolras and Chuck Hansen, as they frequently do, have been killing some time this way. So when they come down the stairs, perfunctorily cleaned up but still kind of sweaty, it's in order to head to Bar for something to drink.

"--in case you aren't holding enough stuff," Chuck grouses, as they round a table.

Enjolras returns the mild look of someone who's heard this complaint before, but doesn't entirely understand it. "They are handy," he points out.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
(From here)

Enjolras and Joly head indoors, with all the due speed. Which in Joly's case is a fair amount of speed, what with the shivering and the clutching a borrowed coat around himself and the wet hair and the swearing laughingly under his breath every time the wind picks up a little, and Enjolras keeps pace.

Indoors it's bright -- and far warmer. And Cesario, as promised, has scrounged up a table and hot wine.
pro_patria_mortuus: (les amis de l'abaissé)
The Amis this year are from the same daemonverse AU as last time.

Before, they were coming from the uprising of 1830, which for them was defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. Now, it's a year later, in 1831. They've had a year of continuing to work secretly against the government -- and, thanks to Milliways resources, to work towards things like public health (clean water! washing hands! basic understanding of germ theory!) and education and so forth with rather more knowledge and resources than they had in canon. Accordingly, the group is somewhat more central to the revolutionary scene and somewhat more focused on science and public health than it was in canon.

As before, they're all alive. It's about a year before they die in canon -- but, since this is an AU with some things going differently, there's no guarantee that'll go down the same way either.

Other than that, they're all pretty much the same as the versions you're used to, except that each of them has their soul as an external bird of some sort that hangs around, talks, etc. They've been coming to Milliways for quite a while now. But it's up to you whether they've met your character before.
pro_patria_mortuus: (Default)
Harry Percy is thinking of trying to join Security. So, apparently, is Brienne of Tarth.

And, it seems, both of them want to learn more of unarmed combat, and ways to join or stop a bar brawl without the dangerous escalation a sword brings. A good goal, and a sensible one. Even without the question of Security work, it's sensible.

Bahorel agreed, when they brought the question to him. Which is why he's arranged for Enjolras to join himself and the two of them in the practice room they use for sparring.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
The Milliways grounds are limited, no matter how much magic expanse of forest they contain, and doubly so to someone who hungers quietly for a city. Still, they're a change of scene, and a way to stretch one's legs. And they're pretty too, which Enjolras is largely oblivious to, but many people including his companion are not.

So: Enjolras and Bahorel are walking, arm in arm, beside the lake.

Bahorel is attempting to explain something about the logistics of television show creation. In the interests of clarity, he's restraining his (strong) artistic opinions to frequent asides.
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)
Enjolras is in his room, settled on the sofa with a book on the history of Thedas that he borrowed from the library. Every so often he makes a note in his commonplace notebook.

Combeferre isn't in, but he left the television playing his favorite channel, one which shows documentaries about the natural world. Enjolras turned the volume quieter and left it at that. Right now a man is enthusing, with measured speech and deliberate enunciation, about the wonders of water in subterranean caverns.
pro_patria_mortuus: (les amis de l'abaissé)
Only the Amis are getting presents, because Enjolras is not that much of a gift-giver even in a place where everybody can't just get what they want for the asking from a magical bar.

Each one of them is getting a book. I tried to come up with the subjects without great success, so -- they're something Enjolras would think your character would like! Either something that he thinks they maybe haven't run into yet, or something that was an old beloved book they reread a billion times at home, or something they've read but really enjoyed and would probably like a copy of their own to scribble marginalia in the way you can't with a library book. Feel completely free to come up with the book on your own, or to make me try to narrow it down some. (He polled Joly and Bossuet for help with Grantaire's.)

There's a sappy note on the flyleaf about how much he appreciates you, specifically, friend, and [non-exhaustive list of your good qualities]. It's extremely Enjolraic. I haven't bothered to come up with them specifically but I can certainly write them out if anyone wants to see a specific one. Grantaire's is less effusive and took a lot more thinking about careful wording, but all the same he gets an earnest Enjolraic note too. MERRY CHRISTMAS GRANTAIRE.

Gavroche is getting a book too -- it's some foundational text, The Social Contract or a collection of republican writings from their day or something -- and a note which is also less effusively sappy than the older Amis get, but still earnest. You've found yourself a new home and a family who cares for you as you deserve, says part of the note, but here is a piece of your old home, which remains yours just as truly. There's a great deal of wisdom in these pages, and a great deal which bears disputing as well.
pro_patria_mortuus: Hugh Jackman as Valjean, looking down, thoughtful and/or hiding his feelings (z Valjean reserve)
He's spoken to some of the others; the rest aren't answering their watches. Asleep, maybe, or affected by this strange switching of bodies too. Combeferre went in search of anyone he could find a while ago. A pragmatic division of labor, especially since he's still recognizably himself.

This remains weird. Enjolras is doing his best to ignore that, by dint of focusing on immediately practical matters. They're pressing enough that it's working reasonably well.

He turns his watch's hands to the correct number to call the last of their number. "Grantaire," he says into it. "I know I don't sound like myself, but it's Enjolras. Where are you right now?"

Maybe Grantaire will answer, or maybe he's passed out.
pro_patria_mortuus: (the people have not stirred)
He wakes.

He's in his room at Milliways. Not Auvergne; not France. In Milliways, in the darkness of the middle of the night, with a counterfeit moon pale in the sky outside and Combeferre a motionless sleeping lump on the other side of the bed.

Everything is too dark, too still, too empty, too Milliways. He swallows, but whatever's in his throat stays where it is.

The seconds tick past. There's no clock, of course. What would be the point of one, here?

At last he gets out of bed, moving as quietly as he can for Combeferre's sake. Everything seems at once loud and muffled, in the midnight stillness. He lights a candle, slitting his eyes against the match's flare, and sets it down on a table where some confusing but safely nonflammable gadget will block the worst of the brightness from Combeferre. It won't wake Combeferre, he hopes; it might, but they both sleep through the other's reading often enough, and he wants the light, right now. He settles on the couch.

There's nothing he wants to do, exactly. Nothing in his power, at least. But he won't be able to sleep again any time soon.
pro_patria_mortuus: (we are abandoned)
Enjolras stands on a street so familiar as to be briefly disorienting: the sharp slope, the clustered houses of red-roofed grey stone, the worn cobblestones and gutters, the Chapel of Saint Michel d'Aiguilhe keeping watch on the city from its lofty summit, the mountains looming beyond. The chipped gutter where a cart of iron bars overturned in '18, the pear tree with the crooked branch overlooking the Reynauds' wall, the closed shutters that old M. Solvain opens every morning to call down to the dairyman on his rounds. Le Puy-en-Velay, and the house of his childhood.

He stands and stares. The light is clear and golden: early morning, with the crispness of fall. The far-off fields are a patchwork of green and brown: harvest time. He would have had to think to list these details, if asked, but with them spread before him he knows their meaning in his bones. No one is in sight, not even any neighborhood cats patrolling garden walls, but from other streets comes the rattle of cartwheels, the steady plodding of hooves, the susurration of voices just out of earshot. The city's life, just beyond where he stands. But everything is stillness on this street.

He takes a few steps forward, hearing his own footsteps loud in the morning air, until he can touch the familiar wall. He isn't sure if he'll even be able to; perhaps his arm will pass through the wall like any ghost. Perhaps all of this will melt away like mist. But it's solid, and so is he. The rough scrape of mortar and stone against his fingertips is viscerally familiar. Auvergne has its own stones; they aren't the same as those of Paris. He'd nearly forgotten that difference. Slowly, Enjolras brings his hand away, and rubs his fingers together.

All of this feels real.

The creak of hinges is another sound he wouldn't have been able to remember so clearly unprompted, but when it comes he finds his head jerking toward it before his mind has quite caught up. So he's looking right at the door when it opens to show an old, tired man, limping heavily.

No. His father.

For an instant, all he can do is stare. He doesn't know what his own face looks like, except slack and blank with shock. He doesn't have the time to wonder if his father can see him, because that dear, grave, scarred face (and was it always so lined?) goes abruptly grey and awful. His father staggers on his bad leg, clutching at his cane and the doorway, and it's that that frees Jean-Sébastien from his paralysis; he can't just stand here and watch his father stumble, he can't keep watching his face with that expression on it, and he's rushing forward to catch his father's arm and steady him even as the old man rasps in a terrible voice, "Bastien?"

It strikes his heart -- that, too, he'd nearly forgotten; his father hasn't called him that nickname in years, not since he was a young child, and rarely enough then -- and there's a tangled moment as the two of them try to catch each other by the arms at once, Jean-Sébastien to support and his father to seize. Then his father is pulling him close in an embrace too fierce for awkwardness, even though they haven't hugged in years either, and Jean-Sébastien is supporting him with arms around him, and looking over his father's shoulder into the entryway of the house he grew up in. Thank God he's solid enough for this, too. His father's cane goes clattering off the stoop. "Father," he says, and a roughness catches in his throat.

His father's hands clutch tighter at his shoulder and the back of his coat. "Jean-Sébastien. Am I dreaming?"

Jean-Sébastien closes his eyes at the naked emotion in that voice, usually so calm, and at the answer he knows he has to give. Whatever this is -- however real it is -- Milliways is real too. So was dying.

"I think I am, at least," he says. "Maybe you are too. There was no mistake."

The silence that follows is terrible, even though it's brief. But he can't lie.

His father pulls back. He stands on his own balance again, though his leg must be paining him on a cool morning like this, and clasps his son's shoulders. Jean-Sébastien's arms fall to his sides. He lets himself be looked over, and scrutinizes his father in turn.

His father's hair has been more than half silver for years now. His limp has always been bad, since it was broken by grapeshot at Albeck months before Jean-Sébastien was born. His back is still straight, his hands steady. But now there's no red at all left in his white hair, and the lines in his face are graven deep. The hands on Jean-Sébastien's shoulders are an old man's, paper-skinned. Has it been so long, or did his father age so fast when his only child died? Or had he only not noticed, before? He's afraid he knows the answer, and it's not that he missed anything.

"Father," he says, low. He takes one of his father's hands, pulls it gently away from his shoulder, and kisses it: a gesture of deep respect, as unprecedented as the embrace his father pulled him into a moment before. But what's normal about a dead son standing on his living father's doorstep? "I'm sorry."

His father seizes his shoulders with both hands again, and the glare that fixes on him is full of sudden and real fury. Jean-Sébastien meets it, unflinching. "Never say that," his father snaps. "Not for France. You did -- my son, my boy, you chose death for the greatest of causes. I won't hear anyone cheapen a martyr's name."

Enjolras shakes his head. "Not that. I don't regret my death." In spite of everything, his father's face twists the slightest bit at the word. "But I'm sorry to have left you alone."

One hand moves to the side of his neck in a rough caress. "You're with your mother now."

Jean-Sébastien doesn't know what his face shows, but he knows even a moment of having no idea what to say is too long. And he has no idea how to answer that, none at all.

"--What?" The deflated half-whisper is awful. Jean-Sébastien's eyes, which had dropped for an instant, jerk back to his father's face, and he grasps his father's shoulders in return with an unthinking, impetuous fervor.

"I'm very well, Father. I swear it. The world beyond is stranger than I ever imagined -- I don't know how to describe it to you, it won't make sense if I try -- but I'm with my dearest friends, all of us together. I'll see her someday, surely, but it's good, where I am. You mustn't worry about me. I died for the Republic, with the bravest comrades anyone could ask for, and the Republic will come, France will reestablish liberty and fraternity and equality on her soil. I give you my word that I'm well."

"Ah!" It's a sigh, and his father's pale blue eyes close on a damp glitter.

For a long moment they only stand there, on the stone threshold, in the early morning sunlight of an Auvergne that may or may not be a dream. Then his father's eyes open again, and he gazes upon Jean-Sébastien with a loving sorrow that is, he thinks, a little lighter than it was.

"You're not here for long, are you?"

Jean-Sébastien shakes his head regretfully. The regret isn't only for his father: this isn't Paris, but it's France, and waking up will feel like wrenching himself away from his own heart. Already he knows that. "I don't know how long. But I know that."

"Will you come in? I may be dreaming, but I want to know everything. You must stay a little while, my boy, please."

"Of course." His heart hurts. There's no other answer he could ever, ever give. "Of course I will."

His father's cane lies still on the front walk. Jean-Sébastien draws away only long enough to stoop and pick it up, and then they go together into the Enjolras house, into the tidy quiet and the rooms inhabited by memories. He doesn't know how long this will last, but he'll stay as long as he can.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
It's a fine autumn day: not too cold, with a light breeze and a clear sunny sky.

Also it's beautiful, or so Prouvaire has informed him with great certainty, although he sighed briefly over the lack of dramatically thunderous clouds. Enjolras is willing to take his word for it. He doesn't see the appeal of thunderous clouds, except that rain is necessary for crops, and so far as he can tell Prouvaire thinks nearly every day is beautiful in its own (sometimes dismal) way, but he has no particular opinions to the contrary.

They're walking arm in arm on the far side of the lake, not too far from the forest verge. It's a good day to walk with a friend. (They're both agreed that that, too, is true of nearly any day.)
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Bahorel was volubly gleeful at the prospect of learning swordfighting from a genuine medieval English knight who lived and made war with his longsword, and equally gleeful at the prospect of teaching him canne de combat. Enjolras isn't surprised at all by this; it's why he felt comfortable making the offer to Harry Percy in the first place.

This would probably be true even without Bahorel's current level of boredom. As it is, he'd probably leap at the chance to teach canne de combat to a dressmaker's dummy.

(A poor analogy. He's probably already done that, too.)

At any rate, the idea being mutually agreeable and their schedules being largely free, Enjolras and Bahorel and Harry have made their way together to the practice room upstairs.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Enjolras is not, on the whole, a man with a great deal of appreciation for the beautiful outdoors. He's a city boy, and a man whose interest is mostly occupied by people, and abstract concepts concerning people.

But Milliways is a very enclosed place, and a very boring place, and there's no city to go walking in here. And Enjolras is also a fairly athletic man, who would prefer a lot more exercise than one easily finds around this place.

All of which is to say: he's out for a walk. At the moment, he's just stopped by the stables.
pro_patria_mortuus: Enjolras in profile, head bowed, rifle in hand. (marble lover of liberty)
Whether Enjolras has been asleep for a night, or a week, or some other and less easily definable stretch of Milliways time is a matter for metaphysical speculation. Not his, however. So far as he's concerned, he went to bed last night; now, slowly, he wakes.

The sunlight is bright on his face. There's a faint background noise of gurgling from Combeferre's copper still in the bathroom. The sheets are twisted around his feet, and Jeanne is--

No. There's no eagle on the bedpost, and why would there be?

Enjolras rouses himself enough to sit up, and scrub his hands over his face and through his tangled curls. That dream was not only long and extremely vivid, but it seems to be persistent. Scraps and shreds of it still hang about the morning air. One moment he's entirely present in the moment of this morning, and the next moment he's nearly convinced that Jeanne is a flash of white in the corner of his eye.

(The eagle -- the soul-birds that followed around each of them -- is obviously some unfathomable construct of dream-logic. But the rest of the dream is easy enough to account for. A vivid dream of coming from 1830 along with several of his friends, with action and anger fresh in their hands, with the Milliways library at their fingertips, with the ability to bring home notes and facts and forewarning and even microscopes and water filters -- it's easy enough to see how his mind manufactured such a thing. Even now he aches with the fierce urge to be doing something about it all. That's nothing new that this dream brought; every single day at Milliways he's felt that fierce aching frustration, and every day he's set it aside.)

He scrubs his face again, and extricates his feet, and goes to start the coffee and wash up.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Enjolras spent the afternoon (or the loose Milliways equivalent) first in conversation with Courfeyrac -- primarily discussing certain philosophers of the mid-20th century, but also hearing an enthusiastically convoluted description of Courfeyrac's new favorite television shows. After that, sparring with Bahorel.

He's just washed up and changed into a clean shirt and waistcoat, and is considering between dinner and the library, when there's a familiar knock on the door. "Come in," he calls.

He doesn't yet know which friend it is, but all the same the smile of greeting started at the knock.
pro_patria_mortuus: (to days gone by)
Cubefall is a three-day carnival, according to Bar's explanation. At sundown on the third day, everyone who transformed themselves will return to their original shape, unless they choose otherwise.

Enjolras still has no personal desire to change shape. He has little curiosity on the matter, and no sense of whimsy to be touched. The symbolism of the holiday, with its themes of rebirth and renewal and burning down the old world to forge a better future, touches him deeply, but even that wouldn't be enough on its own to get him to do something like this.

But for his friends -- for Combeferre and Joly's delight in science, for Bahorel's rough and physical companionability -- and, it must be admitted, for the dumbfounded delight that he knows will greet this action from every single one of his friends -- for that, halfway through the afternoon on the last day of Cubefall, he asks Bar for his viewscreen again.

He looks over the options again, though he knows them, and he knows which he'll select. Then he taps the third option.

Abruptly, a golden, lean, leggy dog stands where Enjolras was an instant ago.

For several moments the dog is unnaturally still, utterly motionless except for the swell and fall of ribs in breathing. Even his eyes don't move, except the reflex of blinking. It might be a statue of a dog, graven in fine gold wood and set in place.

Then he shakes himself all over, and all at once it's not a statue but a dog. Carefully at first, and then with growing ease, he trots outside.


pro_patria_mortuus: (Default)

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