pro_patria_mortuus | (no subject)

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."

Enjolras lifts his walking stick in silent illustration. He'll explain more -- or demonstrate -- if Hotspur wants, but it seems a side track at the moment.

He joins Harry in looking over the stall door at Duncan, who ambles over to lip hopefully at hands and see if he might get a treat. (Not from Enjolras, but he'll get a rub of the nose and a scratch along his sleek neck.)

"A good fellow."

"Ay, he is," Harry agrees with genuine affection.

"Though," he adds, giving Enjolras an appraising look over. "He would perchance be small for thee, thou couldst well bestride a bigger. The destriers we kept were well muscled, but small. I know not wherefore-- I must beg Feuilly learn of it, and tell me." He grins.

He looks at the walking-stick. "With that? That I would fain learn."

Enjolras nods: he's fairly slim, for all that he's tall, so he and Duncan could manage well enough. (Well, he's tall by the standards of both their eras. By the standards of the 20th and 21st centuries, he's about average.) A bigger horse would be more comfortable for both rider and mount, though.

"This, or longer batons. But a walking stick is more practical." Because it's a standard fashion accessory for gentlemen of his day, and no one will look twice at a man carrying one around. Not to mention the fact that Bar will give them out. "I'll show thee something of it, if thou likest."

Harry gives Duncan's nose a pat.

"I doubt it not," he laughs. "But-- do gentleman yet carry swords in thy-- thy time? Thou dost not, but I took it as the Bar's enforcement and not thy custom."

Welllll, says Enjolras's face.

"Those in the army, yes. Otherwise -- many own one. And there are sword-canes, and similar. Dueling is illegal, but it happens all the same, with swords or pistols, and fencing for sport. But a man wouldn't wear a sword every day, without an immediate cause, unless he were a soldier in full uniform."

"I don't have one here, thou'rt right."

He's gotten practice blades from Bar for sparring, but they're the sort without any kind of an edge, that would be no good whatsoever in a real fight.

Harry nods. Well, there's a wisdom to it, in a city-- he always wondered how people in London stayed out of fights. (By not being you, Harry.)

"I have gained a sword," he says gleefully. It's almost gotten him arrested once already! But he's still excited about it.

Enjolras glances at him inquiringly.

He remembers, with the slight haziness of a dream, being that other self with his soul an eagle; and Harry, called Monmouth then, and Feuilly with his Emilia. Harry had a sword then. The same?

(He remembers Feuilly's smile, and what an unexpected lightening of burdens it was to see a friend happy, then.)

"--I cannot tell exactly how I came by it," he says, and his slightly bewildered tone makes it plain that this is not coyness.

"I think I was-- myself, and not myself, and--" Wait. "And I did see thee, did I not? But knew thee not."

"Yes."

Enjolras pats Duncan's neck absently, looking thoughtfully into the stall, and into his thoughts.

"It's like a dream, but my friends remember the same. I was myself, but different -- from another version of my world. And an earlier year."

He glances over. "I remember thee, dreamlike, and others I met then. Thou wert different, but not in the same way as us."

No daemon. And -- a prince?

But still with the same tentative, earnest attempts to understand republican philosophy that was new to him, and the respect for deeds over blood. He remembers that.

Harry, perhaps oddly, has gone slightly red. "I know not what I was."

(As he's thought about it more-- and he does think, sometimes!-- he thinks he was Monmouth somehow, and yet still himself. But to have had any of that other Harry in himself is a faintly disturbing thought. ...and that's not even starting on how things were with Feuilly, how they could be the same and yet he could conceive of them so entirely differently.)

"But whoe'er I was, I did return into England, and when I woke again to myself, the sword remained." He pauses. "And the dogs."

"Strange."

He means that very much, about the entire thing.

Strange -- baffling -- but not unwelcome. Not with the prospect of an 1830 in which the Amis de l'ABC, even if no other secret societies, could take advantage of the resources and knowledge of Milliways to change things.

With a small smile, "But thou seemest glad of the result."