(no subject)

[pro_patria_mortuus]

[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.

Comments

[pro_patria_mortuus]

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.)

[the_obverse]

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.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

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.