pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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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.

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Bahorel thumps the no button instantly, too. He's thoroughly enjoyed the last few days, but he wants to see a sunset in proper colors again. He stretches for a moment, and then that's that, and he's standing on two legs and in full loud clothing again.

He would make a comment about that last, but then there's Prouvaire's song. All right; it's the end of something, and a new Something, at that. It can have a moment or two of solemnity.

(More than that, though, is highly unlikely. The wolf body didn't have as much urge to talk, but he is entirely back to himself now, and it's been days.)

Combeferre hits the no button with no internal debate. He has to hit it with his human nose, which perhaps exemplifies why he needs no debate. The wings with their pycnofibers were enormously fascinating, but he wants his legs back, and he never intended this to be anything more than an educational experiment. One nose-bump at the button, and Combeferre is back on his feet. He swings his arms and stretches out his fingers. It's good to have fingers, and especially thumbs.

Jehan also needs no internal debate, but he does have a sharp pang of melancholic regret. He takes one last aerial cartwheel, and sings a long melodic line of phoenix-song. Oh, if he could only retain the ability to assume this shape at will. If only he could capture this moment forever, and return to it whenever he pleased. If only he'd have something beyond the fading memory of thrilling flight and transcendent song. If only.

But he won't. He sings a final mournful note, and hits no.

Once Jehan is human again, he stalks over to a tree and sinks underneath it, pressing his face into his hands. He wants to concentrate and remember.

Enjolras is very fond of Jean Prouvaire.

He does not, in many ways, understand him at all. (In fairness, he's fairly certain it's mutual.)

For example: is this the kind of huddle of deep poetic feelings in which he would prefer to be left alone, or the kind of huddle of deep poetic feelings in which he would prefer company? A glance at Bahorel is no help. Bahorel is watching the sunset, neither looking at Prouvaire nor giving anybody else any cues.

Well. The tree is only a few strides away. Enjolras crosses to it quietly (and he is glad to be back in his own familiar body again, all his balance exactly where he expects it to be and all his muscles doing precisely what he asks, under the familiar weight of decent wool and linen), and presses a silent hand to that hunched shoulder.

He'll leave again in a moment, and go speak to Combeferre and Bahorel or merely stand with them, if Prouvaire wants. Or he'll stay, if that's what Prouvaire wants instead.

Jehan looks up at Enjolras--familiar, human Enjolras. Remembers identifying him by the golden luminosity of his soul when he was in dog form. Jehan will never see that soul, or any soul, again. Though of course one might say he's still seeing Enjolras's soul right now. It's visible in the confused earnestness on Enjolras's face, tangible in the comforting hand on his shoulder. Jehan raises a hand to cover his friend's, and smiles faintly.

"It's a hard thing for me to give up," Jehan says, in response to the question he senses from Enjolras. Flight, beauty, song, simply being a phoenix--he's been wrenched away from it now, and it's painful and cold.

Enjolras can't understand what Prouvaire felt, being a phoenix, or giving it up afterward; perhaps he wouldn't be able to even if he'd done the same. Prouvaire sees the world through different eyes than he does.

"Give up? Perhaps -- you'd know, I don't. But I would say you've always had something of the phoenix in your soul, my friend. You see both the fire and the future that arises from its ashes; you rejoice in transformation. None of that is lost."

Jehan blushes. He can't help it. He should be used to Enjolras's sincere declarations by now, but in truth there's no getting used to them. Direct sunlight burns no matter how long one basks in it. And Jehan's never been good at not getting shy or embarrassed. He doesn't know what to say--there's no good enough way to convey the mix of affection and humility he feels at such an extravagant statement from such a man.

"I'm honored that you would say that," he manages to say. He still misses the song and the flight, of course. But--it would be arrogance to think there's any truth to what Enjolras said, but Enjolras's words light the way to a different truth. There's beauty and transcendence to be found in this form as well. It was in this form that Jehan met all of them, after all.

"Of course he'd say it. It's true. So of course you miss it." Bahorel joins them at the tree and crouches down next to Jehan, still watching the shifting colors of the world intently. "It was yours; anyone could see that. What could you have more right to grieve than losing something of yourself? But you've seen that part of yourself in full, now."

Jehan blushes again and lets his head drop down to his knees, putting a hand on Bahorel's shoulder.

When he raises his head again, it's only to say, "We've all lost our lives, but losing this form--it's a form of death, in its way."

He looks at Combeferre, who has walked over and knelt next to him. "In its way, perhaps," says Combeferre somberly, "but you're still here, so I much prefer this way to the other."

Jehan gives a sad smile of acknowledgement and lets his head fall to his knees again.

Combeferre rises and looks at Enjolras. "How did you enjoy the canine experience?"

Edited 2015-06-25 03:51 (UTC)

Enjolras is aware that Prouvaire finds thoughts of death -- metaphorical or otherwise -- dreamily compelling, in the abstract.

All the same, his hand tightens on Prouvaire's shoulder when he speaks of losing his phoenix's form as another kind of death. "As do I," he says softly.

But Combeferre's question is a lighter one; he can glance at him, and smile faintly, and shrug his shoulders.

"Very strange. I'm sure you'll find more education in it than I did, my friend. But it wasn't bad."

Bahorel nods in agreement with Jehan's claim on their deaths. Their also-selves, their other-forms of a few days' life, are gone; they've lost a body, a claim on a certain place in the world; what else is death? Especially now.

But of course Enjolras and Combeferre wouldn't see it that way, though he's not sure how they do see it. For now he just puts an arm around Jehan's back and smiles slightly at Enjolras' assessment of the experience.

After a few deep breaths, Jehan raises his head again, leaning against Bahorel, who he knows will understand.

Enjolras and Combeferre understand different things, and Jehan values that too. He smiles at Enjolras's "it wasn't bad," his melancholy swept aside by a sudden flood of mirth.

"I'm so happy you did it. The unicorn would have been more mythic--but I'm sure the dog's nature was worth experiencing, as well!"

Edited 2015-06-26 03:14 (UTC)

Enjolras doesn't quite make a face at the mention of the unicorn and its mythic qualities.

But it's the kind of well-suppressed expression that's Enjolras's version of the same thing.

He makes a small, amused gesture -- somewhere between as you say and I suppose, if you say so.

Combeferre looks from Prouvaire to Enjolras, taking in both Prouvaire's dreamy voice and Enjolras's almost-grimace, and stifles a snicker. He would look around for something to stare at to help keep his countenance, except he knows if he does, his eye will fall on Bahorel. Which is no help.

"A unicorn, really?" Bahorel grins, but he won't tease, not the way he would have if Enjolras hadn't tried something. "I suppose we couldn't all have the truly creative choices."

Yes hello Combeferre, he's laughing at you now. Bahorel is no help at all ever.

"Perhaps the powers behind Cubefall knew it was no use giving creative choices to an almost-lawyer," says Combeferre, who is also no help to himself.

He is, however, deeply content. He was able to try being a pterosaur. Prouvaire, despite his present sadness, could be a phoenix for a while, and Combeferre is entirely in accord with Enjolras that this form expressed part of Prouvaire's true nature. Bahorel evidently enjoyed his experience as a wolf to the hilt, and Enjolras--that Enjolras transformed at all, largely to satisfy Combeferre's curiosity and Prouvaire's sense of poetry and Bahorel's sense of humor, was a very sweet gift. Combeferre smiles.

Jehan, still mournful, is nonetheless warmed by his friends' presence, even more so than their words.

It was a sublime experience, and it will make for a good poem.

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