pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

"--no," he says. "I was but... running."

It's not that he thinks Enjolras would care specifically, but he knows it sounds childish, and after his series of scuffles over the past few days, he's feeling particularly protective of his dignity.

So much for that.

"Art well? It has been some time ere I last saw thee."

If Enjolras finds it childish, it doesn't show. (He doesn't.) He accepts that answer equably.

"Yes, I'm well. Time," he admits with brief wryness, "does play strange tricks here. --And thee?"

Getting along well with Feuilly. Not getting along with Bossuet, which is... an accomplishment, in its way, but not one Enjolras knows all the details of. ~~In part because OOMs of discussing this haven't happened yet.~~ Anyway, that subject will come up or it won't. The substance of that disagreement might or might not matter, but the mere fact of friends not getting along isn't inherently any kind of problem to him.

"Methinks I do grow restless," he says, which is a rather understated way of saying 'I've nearly been arrested four times now.' Oh, and speaking of one of those times-- "I did meet a man of Paris. A man that knows thee, and spoke much ill against thee and thy friends."

Enjolras's mouth quirks slightly: yeah, restlessness is... definitely a thing that happens here.

Yeah.

(Enjolras's restlessness is much better suppressed, and has a few more outlets. It's still absolutely something he's nearly constantly suppressing. That maybe shows, in that sympathetic expression.)

And then he snorts. "Inspector Javert?"

Understated though it may be, this is definitely more open disdain than Percy will have seen him display ever, for anyone. Enjolras rarely bothers with personal dislike, but Javert has achieved it.

Edited 2015-08-16 01:26 (UTC)

"Ay, he!" Harry agrees. The disdain comes as no surprise: he assumes everyone is as open with their feelings about people as he, and who wouldn't hate this Javert person?

"O, a marvel he, a monster-marvel, a man made all of pride yet claims he has none, who says he will not fight yet holds his ground as stout as any siege works, who snidely counsels peace and spits upon those who fight for it. --my talk with him did grow well heated, friend, I will deny it not."

Oh, Enjolras is pretty open with his feelings about people. It's just that personal dislike is very rarely a factor, even when vociferous and even violent disagreement is.

"He was a spy for the police at our barricade."

So, you know. That's what's between him and the Amis!

Enjolras is well aware of what Harry's reaction to a sneaking, deceitful spy is likely to be. But it's his own, as well; it's the general attitude towards spies in his day, even if Harry's temper will probably add some extra volume to the disgusted contempt.

Harry lets out a (yes, loud) bark of disdainful laughter. "Why, I should have guessed it! There is no man better suited to such a shameful, sneaking business. O! I would I had struck him! He was near to begging for it, I tell thee-- but when next I see him, O! He shall know I have learned his business, and know what I think of a spy who dares speak as he did of men of truth and honor--"

...he could probably go on for a while.

Well, there are men better suited to it in that there are men who are capable of lying to a direct question, but whatever. Javert is petty, unthinkingly obedient to authority, cruel for the sake of cruelty; qualifications enough.

Enjolras has enough friends who vent their feelings with loud ranting (and occasionally setting things on fire; hi, Bahorel and Courfeyrac) -- and besides that, agrees with enough of this, which probably shows -- that he's not particularly inclined to interrupt as long as Harry seems to be finding some satisfaction in the sound of his own contemptuous voice.

When Harry seems to be winding down or taking a pause for breath, though, he'll say, "He was caught, and was to be executed. Instead, unfortunately, he lives."

Harry doesn't know any particular details of their uprising that could harm anyone if Javert learned of them. Enjolras doesn't know everything that he and Feuilly have discussed, but he knows that, without question, and without any need to ask Feuilly about it. Still, with the rest of them dead, it seems like relevant information to mention.

Harry looks faintly horrified. "And wherefore lives he? A spy deserves it not! --but now I do remember me, he spoke of his capture-- though not the cause wherefore!-- and that some circumstance did free him. He said not what 'twas. Some vile trick, no doubt."

Enjolras makes a small, ambiguous gesture. "A man, not of our society, who thought he was doing good by it."

He's not going to mention Valjean's name -- either name. It's a complicated matter. He understands, to some extent, why Valjean chose as he did, why he couldn't bear to see a man die without trying to prevent it, why he couldn't bear to see another man become a murderer without trying to prevent it. All the same, he wishes heartily that Javert were safely dead. That was true even before Javert's latest revelation.

He won't say deserves. That's not for any one man to judge, he thinks. But earned -- yes, certainly. Javert chose to act as he did, and he earned a bullet for it.

"To return a spy to the arms of thine enemy cannot be an act of good," Harry says. "But I doubt not it was no fault of thine."

Enjolras, he's sure, is cleverer than that. The moral complexities are a bit less-- well, complex, for Harry: it's a war and he's a spy. He'll do damage alive, so he's better dead.

"I like him not," Harry concludes. Just in case this weren't abundantly clear.

That bald, blunt statement of the utterly obvious earns a small breath of what's almost amusement.

"Nor I."

"Thou dost meet him little, I hope," Harry says. "To have such an enemy in such a place-- 'twould be beyond enduring."

In a place so small, so tedious-- and worst of all, with no fighting? He couldn't tolerate sharing Milliways with a rival from his own time and country, and thus can't understand how anyone else would manage it.

Enjolras grimaces slightly, with a small shrug.

Javert seems to take every chance to seek him out for conversation, in fact! To a weird and obsessive degree!

On the other hand, he then answers direct questions like do you still give information to the police, so there's a significant silver lining -- in a bitter way.

"It wouldn't matter," is what he says after a moment, ruefully, "except that he lives."

If he were dead and inclined to taunt any of them with conversation, that would be a very different situation than the current one.

"A shame indeed," Harry mutters. "Should I ever meet him again--"

...he probably won't really do anything. But there will probably be shouting!

"But so it is," he says reluctantly. "--but what makest thou here? Dost ride?"

--Right, the stables. Things other than the spy.

"I can." He says it offhandedly; it's not that he assumes everyone can ride, of course, but he had the kind of upbringing where that's a standard lesson of boyhood, and by his era's standards that's immediately apparent. "Though I don't know which horses are available for anyone's use. I was out for a walk, that's all."

With a glance at Percy, and a small wry smile: "It's easy to grow restless, here."

Milliways is a nutshell they're bounded in. Every day, he misses Paris.

Harry nods fervent agreement. "So it is. I would glad show thee-- there are two horses that any may make use of, if thou wouldst know of them. Beyond this, why, am I as thou art. I do but ride and-- and run--" (He grins, a bit sheepish.) "--and spar with whom I may. Feuilly, in the main."

"Thanks," he says, accepting the offer -- why not, after all?

"Yes, he said thou wert teaching him the sword." And then they'd talked about the morality of fighting in others' worlds, and the complicated feelings inherent in learning new skills of battle here, to no clear conclusion. "I'm sure thou'rt a good teacher."

Well, he has no real information on Harry's teaching skill. But he's sure that Harry's a good fighter, and that he's earnestly doing his best to teach in the name of friendship, and the two of those doubtless go a long way.

"I know not that," Harry says. It's not false modesty-- he has no idea, really, what makes a good teacher. And really, his success as a teacher could only be tested in battle, which Feuilly may well never see. "And only he can answer to it-- but he is an apt pupil, it seems to me. Hast any skill in the manner thyself?"

Enjolras is gratified, but not surprised, to hear that assessment of Feuilly. Of course Feuilly is an apt pupil of anything he sets his mind to learning.

"Yes, some. With the saber."

This is pretty obviously the kind of some that means a lot, polite modesty or not.

He shrugs a little. "I began it young, as Feuilly couldn't."

Also, you know. He stuck with it. And Enjolras knows where his skills, and his focus, do and don't lie. Mixed feelings or not -- firm belief about the lack of any place for such skills in the ideal Republic or not -- the ability to fight and kill is something he's made for.

He nods understanding. He suspects Enjolras is better than politeness will allow him to say.

"Thou'rt not the first to say so-- methinks I should seek to gain some skill in the saber, for many here do favor it."

"It's the weapon of cavalry in my day. And useful on foot as well. Common enough for many years."

It's also a weapon of dueling -- less common than the rapier, but more favored by those who fight as soldiers rather than for pure sport -- but Enjolras isn't much a fan of duels. He suspects Percy is rather more favorably inclined, but he'd still prefer to speak of what he considers the more serious matter.

...And then there's what he's learned at Milliways, about the guns (and tanks, and bombs, and more) of later centuries. But, well. That's something Enjolras hasn't quite brought himself to study the practicalities of, yet. Not something Hotspur will know, anyway, he thinks.

"And hast had much cause to practice here?" Harry asks. "I doubt not it is little like the long sword."

Edited 2015-08-16 21:38 (UTC)

"I've never used a long sword. Nor armor, as I think thou wouldst...?"

They're in the stable's wide aisle now. It's well-lit, smelling of straw and clean wood and horses. In France, Enjolras was perfectly comfortable in but not actively drawn to stables. Here, though, so far away from everything else of home, there's a deep and visceral familiarity in every inch of the building.

"But cause, not much. Opportunity, some, but not overmuch. I practice with Bahorel often enough, and other friends somewhat, but barehanded or singlestick more than the blade."

"It has been so long since, I think I can scarce claim the skill still," Harry says with a sigh, though he follows it with a grin. "Single stick I know naught of."

He makes his way down the aisle. Even the horses that he doesn't ride and hardly knows he'll reach out to greet if they seem amenable.

"This is Duncan, who I ride most oft," Harry says, pausing before the stall in question. "And there is another there, a mare, larger than he, that I am told is for the use of any who would have her."