Unfortunately for Grantaire, not only does Enjolras not have that sense, but the low-burning torch's sullen light is nonetheless bright enough to catch golden hair and a pale face, and throw a glow upon both.

The Minotaur snorts again. It's begun to sway slightly from foot to foot, like a boxer weaving, or a bull considering a charge.

"You think I want decoration? Pah. You think I want you? You intrude. You talk too much. You are meat, tribute."

Enjolras's eyes have narrowed slightly at this speech. He takes one step forward, head high, attention intently fixed, flashlight pointed down, weight balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. "What do you want?"

It's a genuine question.