Enjolras (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pro_patria_mortuus) wrote2015-07-27 12:40 am
pro_patria_mortuus) wrote2015-07-27 12:40 am
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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.
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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"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."
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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."
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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.)
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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."
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"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."
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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?"
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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.
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He scrolls absently through the spreadsheet with one finger on the tablet screen. "Shall we ask everyone to meet us later today, then?"
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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.
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"Do you think Grantaire will wish to be involved?"
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(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."
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"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.
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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.
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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."