pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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Whether Enjolras has been asleep for a night, or a week, or some other and less easily definable stretch of Milliways time is a matter for metaphysical speculation. Not his, however. So far as he's concerned, he went to bed last night; now, slowly, he wakes.

The sunlight is bright on his face. There's a faint background noise of gurgling from Combeferre's copper still in the bathroom. The sheets are twisted around his feet, and Jeanne is--

No. There's no eagle on the bedpost, and why would there be?

Enjolras rouses himself enough to sit up, and scrub his hands over his face and through his tangled curls. That dream was not only long and extremely vivid, but it seems to be persistent. Scraps and shreds of it still hang about the morning air. One moment he's entirely present in the moment of this morning, and the next moment he's nearly convinced that Jeanne is a flash of white in the corner of his eye.

(The eagle -- the soul-birds that followed around each of them -- is obviously some unfathomable construct of dream-logic. But the rest of the dream is easy enough to account for. A vivid dream of coming from 1830 along with several of his friends, with action and anger fresh in their hands, with the Milliways library at their fingertips, with the ability to bring home notes and facts and forewarning and even microscopes and water filters -- it's easy enough to see how his mind manufactured such a thing. Even now he aches with the fierce urge to be doing something about it all. That's nothing new that this dream brought; every single day at Milliways he's felt that fierce aching frustration, and every day he's set it aside.)

He scrubs his face again, and extricates his feet, and goes to start the coffee and wash up.

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Enjolras had been thinking along the same lines, but Combeferre got there first. (And arguably more efficiently; Enjolras would have sent the message to everyone at once, and will probably still do that later in the conversation.)

He settles back to listen, arms crossed. He can contribute any information he might have if it seems useful, but Joly and Combeferre will have far more incisive thoughts about the nature of this mystery than he does.

"Guignon! Oh, Guignon." And now the trickle of memory turns into a flood, and Combeferre remembers all their daemons, and their detailed, hopeful plans. "Yes, I had a raven. Minerva." Suddenly Combeferre realizes he misses her.

"It must be an altered perception, yes--perhaps a, a window of some kind, into a different world? Yet another different Paris, like the ones we found in the Labyrinth. It can't be a mere dream, not when all of us had it. It seems--"

Combeferre knows how mad this sounds, but once again, he tells himself it's no madder than Milliways itself.

"It seems that, instead of traveling to a different Paris, our different selves--from this world of daemons--came here. And...supplanted us, perhaps, for a time. Since we have no recollection of meeting them."

Edited 2015-07-28 13:39 (UTC)

Joly's nodding enthusiastically, though of course Combeferre can't see it over the watch. "Yes! and then both realities were-combined, somehow? I know there are theories about such things, but it hasn't been anything I've really studied." There is so much to study! He feels a little rush at the thought of it. "--Do either of you remember anything past 1830, past our--their- visit to Milliways? My memories of it end with falling asleep in one of Milliways' usual rooms on that trip, though I know I wasn't Bound." he and Legle had been making plans for dinner back home, for one thing.

Enjolras shakes his head.

He doesn't. And that's an interesting thought; he's not sure what to make of it.

"Same," he says, pitched to carry. (He thinks. Enjolras is enough of an orator to be very good at vocal control under ordinary circumstances, but he's still not 100% sure what's the right volume to be heard through a miraculous communication-watch some distance away.)

"I think I went to sleep -- I was upstairs, Feuilly and I had been working on that spreadsheet and plans for Lyon, I worked more before bed -- it's hazy. But I don't remember returning to Paris."

God, Paris. He's never ceased to miss it, but now that memory is newly fresh: being at Milliways, with the sure and unquestioned knowledge that Paris was just beyond the door, and that at any hour he could step back through and immerse himself in its beloved rush and crowds. Paving stones and French soil beneath his feet, France and her citizenry all around.

He curls a hand loosely before his mouth, elbow resting on hand, and listens for Combeferre and Joly's answers.

Combeferre, now sitting on the side of the bed in his night shirt, runs a hand through his already unruly hair. "Yes, my last memory is of reading a book about a France in a world where humans remained almost entirely arboreal. I entered it in the spreadsheet--in that France, 1830 resulted in a monarchy, but then six months later it was overthrown again, and a republic took its place." Combeferre remembers the descriptions of the protests-turned-battles in the trees, the hacking of branches, the close-quarter knife-fights, and the monarchy's last desperate attempt to start a forest fire...

"And then I went to bed. I had a pile of books I meant to read when I woke. They're gone now. I remember nothing after that. Not returning to Paris, not how our--our other selves' efforts in that other world, after 1830, turned out."

"Oh, what an interesting world! Is your spreadsheet still there?" It seems like the obvious question.

"I doubt it--I was using a completely different tablet in that other world--but wait just one second..."

Combeferre opens a drawer, pulls out his tablet, and hesitantly logs on to a website he's never used before, not in this world, with a username and password he doesn't remember creating, but they come naturally to his fingers. Username: Minerva. Password: JLSC1789.

The spreadsheet appears when he touches a file name. "Yes," Combeferre breathes, half-awed and half-unnerved. "Yes, it is."

Never mind coffee. Enjolras is crossing the room to settle down next to Combeferre, peering intently over his shoulder at the tablet.

"That's fantastic!" Combeferre can probably hear Joly's grin. "We were talking about trying to leave ourselves messages, in case this happens again, and now we know at least we can see notes from them. I'll want to see that spreadsheet later. Oh! we can figure out how to send each other messages then, too, if you're using one of the computers. Maybe later today--"

Joly's certain Combeferre can hear the thump-crash of a two cats and a beetle careening into an overloaded nightstand. Joly laughs. "Maybe later today." It's not urgent, right?

"Yes, later today. Goodbye, then." Combeferre clicks the watch off, and tilts the tablet so Enjolras can see it better.

"I'm sure we ourselves can find some use for this," he says.

"Mm." It's absent, and vague; he's focused on the spreadsheet, and on his own thoughts. He reaches out to run a careful finger along the side of the tablet to scroll down. (Enjolras has gained a few skills with tablets, but he still uses them like an easily confused old person: a few memorized tricks in the repertoire, with limited grasp of the underlying system's logic.)

"Try to leave ourselves messages, Joly said."

Another touch to the screen: down it scrolls, through the long and detailed chart of France's history and future. Dozens of permutations of the same few decades, dozens of permutations of triumph and misery.

"We -- those versions of ourselves -- one could come and go, and bring things. Not like poor Bossuet before."

"They may well succeed," says Combeferre. "The cholera was a factor in June, and they've--we've--marked it as something to consider, and prevent if possible."

If this had been them -- if they had come in 1830, or even in 1832, with the ability to access Milliways and its resources and bring them all home again -- what might they have been able to change? Instead, poor Bossuet had a hellish weight on his shoulders, and only hazy half-dreamed memories to bring to bear once he'd left the bar.

Enjolras sets that aside for later. It's worth dwelling on somewhat, not for the pain of it but because if there's any discernible pattern, any way they might condemn these other selves to the same fate or avoid doing so, that's important. But it's not the most pressing question right now.

"So did we. But they may have better success. They were able to consider preparations far more thoroughly."

He forgets, for long stretches at a time, but he's remembering now: he and Combeferre aren't from quite the same version of France after all. Not quite. It changes nothing between them, nothing among any of the Amis, but it's another dimension to the questions of logistics and other world; it raises questions now.

"Oh, yes--Bossuet only knew it was a factor because he had a half-memory of you telling him so. These other selves...they could come and go, read everything and compare different universes..."

Combeferre pulls himself up short before he disappears into a world of envious speculation. "We could certainly leave notes. Our most detailed accounts of the events between 1830 and 1832, left with Bar, could save our other selves time and trouble. They would have everything we consider relevant, which would be very similar to what's relevant to them, at their fingertips. They wouldn't have to search the depths of the Library for pertinent facts."

It's not exactly envious speculation. Still, just for a moment, looking down at this spreadsheet and hearing Combeferre musing about what their other selves could do -- Combeferre, who wept and raged exhaustedly over the thousands he couldn't save, who died pierced by bayonets in their barricade's fall, who wasn't spared any of that agony despite everything Bossuet and Courfeyrac and Enjolras and even Grantaire tried to do -- hearing that, looking down at the spreadsheet, Enjolras can't help but spend a moment thinking of what might have been.

Only a moment. It's a waste of time to spend more, with more pressing matters to attend to.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, that's a very good notion. As I understand it, Bar can make sure that only they will receive it; I have no reason to mistrust that. But we can take further measures to ensure it if we think it's necessary, and still detail everything that's relevant to our own society. Beyond what any newspaper or history book would give them."

Combeferre nods. "Perhaps each of us should write a separate account of, well, everything? And then we can all read one another's accounts, and perhaps compile a shorter distillation of the key points of each, and leave that with Bar, as well as the longer separate accounts."

Enjolras nods. "Sensible."

He's thinking.

"We may also want to prepare more broadly." He taps the edge of the tablet, with its chart of worlds upon worlds, each one with a France and an 1830 uprising. "We came from this world with, with daemons. Without any warning, and if there's a predictable pattern or impetus we don't know it yet. What about other ones?"

"Hmmmm, yes," Combeferre says, after mulling it over a moment. "We must go through the spreadsheet, perhaps improve upon it--and then, in our distillation of points, we must include all facts we find that are of relevance to any world. If possible. And in our accounts, perhaps we should begin earlier than 1830. Because, well, imagine if we could avert the theft of the revolution in some world! If we could provide information that would be helpful to someone who comes here before 1830. Perhaps we should each begin with...our earliest recollections of political activity."

"Our first priority should be those who came here recently. Any others' arrival is speculation. We should account for it, I feel, but only after the immediate situation is addressed."

Combeferre considers this for a long moment. "Well," he says, stifling a yawn, "this daemon-world's situation isn't necessarily any more immediate--if they never come back, or come back in 1835, then all we do to aid them will be useless. But yes, for efficiency's sake, we may focus first on creating accounts that would aid them." A thought strikes him. "What about other visitors from our world?"

"Others of our society?"

Combeferre's yawn has reminded him of the coffee, and the fact that it's first thing in the morning. (Well, closer to mid-morning, but first thing after waking up, anyway.) He rises to fetch them both cups. "You're right, there's no reason to assume they won't, but anyone much involved at least one of would recognize. Others of the wider citizenry, though -- certainly we should do what we can, as it seems appropriate and practical. But how would we know they're of our world rather than another?"

"I meant others of the wider citizenry, perhaps from before or during our time, whom we might aid in altering events." Combeferre frowns. "As to how we would know which world--we wouldn't. Although..."

Combeferre doesn't know exactly how to put this. "Well. It's possible that worlds with only minor differences...fold into each other, and become one? As, well, your world and mine perhaps did? Or, if that's not so, then you and I are of different worlds, albeit very similar ones, and the Enjolras of my world had a different fate than Milliways after death."

Enjolras is just lifting the coffeepot away from the second cup. He replaces it on the little burner, and brings both cups back in silence.

"Yes," he says, as he puts Combeferre's cup on the nightstand. "I've thought about that."

Never comfortably, but unavoidably.

His own coffee he sets down too, and sits next to Combeferre, their shoulders once again touching. "I hope that our worlds became one, somehow. Or else that whatever his fate, he's joined the rest of you from my own world, he and Courfeyrac and Grantaire."

The alternative is -- 'unthinkable' is a word that can't apply, because he can think it; he spent months living it. Milliways did feel like a Purgatory of sorts then. And yet, even for the sake of his other self, he couldn't possibly wish any of them elsewhere, unless they all went together.

Combeferre takes the coffee cup and stares at it, leaning slightly against Enjolras.

"Yes, I hope so too--and surely the fact that only those of us who came here before Bossuet's voyage back to 1830 did not come here again in 1832 suggests the worlds became one."

This is fruitless speculation, which does not mean Combeferre abandons it. He simply pushes it into the back of his mind. "But if there are visitors who share our common purpose, and who come from worlds greatly similar to ours, surely we can help them. If I understand this place correctly, there's no reason why, say, Camille Desmoulins may not stroll in the door."

Edited 2015-07-31 05:01 (UTC)

Enjolras nods slightly: yes, there's that at least, which is no proof but is still a compellingly suggestive point.

Beyond that, there's not really anything further to say. They have little real data, and no point in speculating without it. He reaches over to clasp Combeferre's free hand in silent companionship, and holds it as he listens.

And at the end --

"No," he says slowly. One can nearly see the prospect dawning in his face. "There's no reason to rule out that possibility either."

"If he, or another of his era, comes here--well. I suppose we may make ourselves wink out of existence if we induce them to change anything." Combeferre squeezes Enjolras's hand as he speaks; he doesn't believe this will happen, but the barricade even now is too fresh in his mind to take it lightly. "Though I doubt it. I think it will simply make their world split from ours. But...it would be worth it."

"If we could warn those men in time for them to change the course of '93 -- to save the Republic--!"

It's an astonishing dream. And like the best of dreams -- all the ones really worth cherishing -- it's utterly possible. Whether or not it happens, it could; why not, after all? Combeferre's right. There's no reason Camille Desmoulins couldn't walk through that door, or Marat, or Saint-Just, or Robespierre, or any of the other giants of the Republic.

His expression, which had been glowing -- literally, in the morning sunlight, and figuratively with a fiercely joyful idealism -- turns more solemn. "Yes. It would be. A revolution is a tollgate, we've often discussed that." And a revolution's toll is never paid only by those who set out intending to pay it, even if they pay first and often dearest. "It's the same principle. And the same moral compromise; still, to refuse to act would be a worse stain."

(also omg just imagine if one of those guys came in and we got to talk to him though, says a tiny and well-squelched portion of Enjolras's soul. Admittedly, in a different vernacular.)

Edited 2015-07-31 05:55 (UTC)

Combeferre nods in fervent, somber agreement. "Yes. We must decide what to tell them--any of them, anyone who could act decisively. We'll discuss this with the others, as they will no doubt think of considerations we overlook...I imagine Prouvaire will put in something about Chénier," he finishes dryly.

Suddenly it occurs to Combeferre that his list of things "we must" do is growing in length, without gaining in coherence or order. "But I now see how right you are. The immediate matter comes first. The daemon-world, and then second, I would say, prospective visitors from our own world. And after that, any others."

Enjolras nods.

"There's no reason to think this is time-sensitive. But we don't know. Better to proceed in an orderly fashion. We can always revise our efforts later."

"Yes, we have eternity. Or something like it." Combeferre isn't sure how he feels about that, and it reminds him of his conversation with Athelstan about the front door.

Should he bring that up now? No--it's much too speculative, when they have an immediate task at hand. But he will discuss it with Enjolras sooner or later, he knows.

For now, he drains his coffee cup, puts it down, and picks up the tablet from where it rested next to him on the bed. "Do you have any thoughts on how to organize our efforts with respect to helping our daemon-world counterparts?"

Enjolras grimaces a little into his coffee cup, but doesn't disagree. Eternity or something like it -- or, well, who knows. He has yet to hear anything but speculation on what the future might hold for any of them.

Another swallow of coffee, and he turns his mind to the practical question Combeferre's raised. He's been mulling over it anyway; community organization and the distribution of tasks is always something his thoughts turn readily towards. "First, we should consult with the others. See if anyone has any other suggestions. And see if all of us have these same memories, too. Make sure everyone is aware of this chart."

"Second, ask each to write a note to himself, and ideally to compile an account to accompany it. We might ask Gavroche if he wants to be involved as well. Third, a more succinct overview may be useful too, as you suggest. One or two of us should draft it, and the others can make emendations as they see fit, just as we've done with pamphlets. Then we can give a clean copy to Bar. Or, if the general will is to keep that kind of sensitive material directly in our possession, to give Bar more general notes including information about how to access our notes."

He has no reason at all to mistrust Bar, and she's seemed to be entirely reliable thus far. But notes are one thing, and detailed accounts of their personal experience with illegal revolutionary activity are another. That's the kind of information that isn't usually written down, especially without coded phrases, for the precise reason that a single slip or raid could put it into the hands of a man like Javert, with disastrous consequences. It goes a little against the grain to hand something like that over to Bar's control, but there are also logistical reasons to consider doing so.

Combeferre nods along. "Yes, that's sound. Regardless of what exactly we give to Bar, we'll need to ask her to give the materials to absolutely no one but our counterparts with daemons. I believe she'll do so."

He scrolls absently through the spreadsheet with one finger on the tablet screen. "Shall we ask everyone to meet us later today, then?"

Enjolras had already let go of Combeferre's hand to gesture: this first, then that. Now he nods, rising, and collects both their cups. "Yes, let's do that."

A glance out the window on his way to the coffeepot, to assess the height of the sun. (He'd still rather a clock, but they seem to run temperamentally here, in this place where time runs strangely, and anyway Joly's pocketwatches don't really function as watches no matter how well they counterfeit it. He has a clock on a shelf, but he verifies it with the sun when he can.) "Some of them will be up, but we might as well wait a little while. Then we can use our watches to contact everyone together."

More coffee for both of them. He doesn't even bother to ask if Combeferre wants any; the answer is nearly always yes, and certainly first thing in the morning.

Combeferre nods, and accepts the coffee refill with a grateful murmur.

"Do you think Grantaire will wish to be involved?"

Enjolras considers the question seriously.

(He doesn't bother to point out that others of their friends understand Grantaire's perspective on any subject, ever, much better than he does. This is for several reasons, but one of them is that nobody who understands Grantaire very well is in this room right now.)

"It's hard to say. He may -- certainly we should ask him. He wanted to be involved with the work with Bossuet before, he helped with it, though he seemed to see it all as some kind of great joke in a way I never understood."

This is because Enjolras is completely unequipped to understand nihilistic cosmic jokes, among other things.

"Still. He may."

"That sounds very like him." Combeferre only gets the joke on an intellectual level; he cannot laugh at it. "But I agree, we should ask him to meet us with the others later."

Enjolras nods, agreeing, over his coffee cup.

"This will certainly be an ongoing project."

Even the first effort, aimed squarely at their selves from the world with daemons, will take time to pull together.

"Yes." Combeferre drains his coffee cup, and checks his unreliable watch and the sun. "The others won't all be awake for an hour or two, if then--shall we go to breakfast, in the meantime?"

Combeferre sometimes remembers things like breakfast, when there's nothing else very immediate grabbing his attention, and when he's finished his coffee but knows having more on an empty stomach will be unpleasant.

"Yes."

Breakfast, and then work to be done. It's a good feeling; it settles something restless deep inside him to have a clear end to work towards, and something concrete to do about it, and each of them with their own part to do. He smiles at Combeferre, small and unplanned and bright with affection, and presses his shoulder briefly as he stands.

"We'll speak with the others after that."

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