pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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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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.