pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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[A moment ago: approaching the Labyrinth.]

Bahorel enters, and with a shrug Feuilly follows. Enjolras pockets his watch and follows after them, ball of string in hand.

He finds himself on a broad flat plain of sun-bleached grass, strewn about with huge stones as if a giant had scattered seeds upon it. The sky is just as bleached, a pale and disconcerting greenish shade, without a cloud upon it. The air's warm and moist as spring.

Bahorel and Feuilly are nowhere to be seen.

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That laughing roar resounds off the grimy walls, echoing, half bull's bellow, half words ripped from a man's throat, all bitterness, even the sound trapped.

"You think," says Enjolras into the fading echoes, his voice level. "You speak, you are a rational creature. Yes. Whether or not we're friends, yes, I call you brother."

Enjolras has killed his brothers before; in the end, he was killed by them as well. The fact remains.

The Minotaur doesn't seem to know what to do with that statement. He laughs again, low and bitter, but there's an uncertain quaver in it, and it peters out too soon into silence.

"Ah! Minotaur," says Grantaire, into the emptiness that follows. He's mostly conquered his fit of hilarity; his voice is rueful now, sardonic, commiserative. "If you wanted a comfortable meal -- if you wanted a comfortable existence, if you wanted a comfortable despair -- ah, friend, you shouldn't have let him talk. Eat him now, and every time your stomach grumbles, it'll sound like someone shouting 'Liberte, Fraternite!'"

Enjolras's jaw sets briefly with impatience, before he pushes the sentiment back. He doesn't look over at Grantaire.

"If you're telling the truth, little human," rumbles the Minotaur -- who, though shorter than Enjolras, is admittedly much broader -- "then you're the only one who would say so."

"Am I?" returns Enjolras, immediately and without a shadow of the uncertain skepticism which colored the Minotaur's words. "Or have you not given any others the chance to see that you would be their brother in turn? A man who calls himself a king sends you people to kill -- sets guards at the door -- wants you at odds with all humanity, but why should you do what such a tyrant wishes?"

"And how should I change now?" returns the Minotaur. "Even if it's as you say -- even if it might have been as you say, once -- the blood in this place is old, and thick. Is it not too late for me to be anything other than I am?"

"If you never attempt to be otherwise, then it will be."

This conversation has gone beyond the need to hold weapons at the ready. Enjolras sets the tip of his walking stick back on the ground, with a very quiet tap.

"Otherwise -- no. Never."

Grantaire is also fairly convinced that, by this point, there's no need for weapons at the ready; he had no doubts it would be that way from the moment Enjolras started talking.

It doesn't mean he's entirely happy to see Enjolras lower the walking stick in front of someone who has, as of yet, notably failed to declare his intention of not attempting to murder them. That puts him in the position of being the one who's responsible and on guard, which is a position he generally wishes to avoid as much as possible. He would much rather continue to lean against the wall and concentrate on not laughing.

The Minotaur watches them, silent except for the snort of his breathing. His eyes are dark, large, but made small by the broad hairy expanse of his bovine face, gleaming liquid in the torchlight that scatters more dully off the shaggy fur. Enjolras returns the look in waiting silence.

"Go," the Minotaur rumbles at last.

Enjolras bows slightly, the polite farewell of one equal to another. Then, quite deliberately, he turns his back on the creature -- the person -- and begins to walk away, down the musty shadowed corridor.

His awareness prickles, his nerves on edge for any hint of motion behind, no matter how easy his stride is. But he trusts, here and now. That trust is a weapon in his hand, aimed and loosed just as every word was -- for all that it, like every word, is also genuine and honestly meant.

Grantaire hesitates for a moment, then, with a loose-limbed shrug, falls into step behind him.

No point in looking back at the monster, poor beast, nor in wondering now what's more likely to kill him -- the next batch of Athenians, the king's soldiers, or the lonely pangs of his own heart. Odds are good they've done him no service, as far as Grantaire's concerned.

...but on the bright side, they're not eaten, so, you know.

Enjolras does look back, just one quick and sober glance sideways as he turns the first corner. He says nothing; he carries on, and the wall intrudes between, and the Minotaur doesn't follow.

He does, half a corridor later, glance at Grantaire, in the dim torchlight. It's a thoughtful look, and assessing.

(Up ahead, as they'll see when they round the corner, there's a Δ scrawled on the wall as if in white chalk.)

Grantaire catches the gaze; his eyebrows shoot up high into his curls.

"Well?"

He's proud of himself, he's got no more uncontrollable an urge to laugh than he ever does; the hysteria has now quite passed.

Enjolras stifles the brief twinge of irritation at that expression, which seems to him sardonic. Whether it is or not, there's no point in responding.

There are other things he might say to one of the others. But to Grantaire, now and here, what he says is, "What do you think of all this?"

It's a serious question. He's not holding out great hope for a serious answer, but there's always a chance.

And in the meantime, there's a delta-marked archway that might be a door just ahead. Enjolras slows slightly to let Grantaire catch up; they may as well pass through together.

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