Enjolras

He's spoken to some of the others; the rest aren't answering their watches. Asleep, maybe, or affected by this strange switching of bodies too. Combeferre went in search of anyone he could find a while ago. A pragmatic division of labor, especially since he's still recognizably himself.

This remains weird. Enjolras is doing his best to ignore that, by dint of focusing on immediately practical matters. They're pressing enough that it's working reasonably well.

He turns his watch's hands to the correct number to call the last of their number. "Grantaire," he says into it. "I know I don't sound like myself, but it's Enjolras. Where are you right now?"

Maybe Grantaire will answer, or maybe he's passed out.

"Please keep an eye on your watch," Combeferre requested. "I'd like to try using the watches to communicate with you from the Labyrinth. I want to test it and see if it works."

Enjolras dutifully kept an ear out for the watch's speaking chime, and checked it occasionally as well, just in case he had failed to hear it. He received one message, fairly promptly, saying that Combeferre believed they were approaching the Labyrinth. Then, what seemed to be hours, at least insofar as one can tell at Milliways. (Despite his occasional absent-minded checking, Joly's watches are useless for timetelling purposes.) Then another message: this one brief, reassuringly calm and cheerful, and apparently from inside the Labyrinth, but with sound that came and went like a candle flickering in wind.

For the rest of the night, nothing more.

Time at Milliways is strange. Enjolras knows that. Time in the forest is even stranger; he knows that too. If there's no particular evidence they're safe, neither is there particular evidence they're in danger.

All the same. He doesn't sleep well; he wakes at every noise that might possibly be a chime. In the early morning, he goes to find Feuilly.

Feuilly is answers the door with a book in one hand and his hair standing on end, looking as if he's been awake for some time, which is either an indication that Milliways time is being peculiar again or merely an indication that it's an interesting book. When the situation at hand has been discussed in as much detail as possible, they spend a little while longer discussing the Soviet Union, with watches open on the table beside them.

The watches don't chime.

Their course of action is clear. The conversation lulls; Enjolras picks up his watch, moves the hands to 12, speaks into it to everyone who's listening. He waits for an answer from the Labyrinth too, and hears only from Bahorel, in his room down the hall and eager for the advenutre of a rescue mission.

Grantaire doesn't answer, but apparently he's listened to the little voice-message that's left behind, because when the others gather by Bar, he's there too. He blinks at them with his usual faint bleariness, but follows along readily as they start across the lawn, making for the trees. It's good to see. Grantaire cares about his friends, that's always been plain to see, but it's good to see him acting usefully on their behalf as well.

Bahorel has a large pack. Enjolras hasn't inquired into its contents.

Grantaire has a bottle. Enjolras hasn't inquired into its contents either, although in this case it's easy to guess.

He's never ventured through the Labyrinth's doors, but he does know more or less where it is. Bahorel likewise, it seems. It's some ways along, where the forest meets the mountains.

[Shortly before.]

There is a table of the sort that appears in libraries everywhere: dark wood, of heavy construction, somewhat abused by pen marks and scuffs; matching chairs; a small lamp, electric, with a gold chain and a shade of green glass. A few others of its kind are placed around it, all empty. Beyond, bookshelves, lamps, shadows.

Enjolras sits straight-backed, and very still. A book lies open before him. On the visible page is a detailed account, in merciless blocks of type, of the events of 1915. He will read on -- he must read on -- but not in this moment.

His eyes are dry and burning, though his face bears the mark of earlier tears. His gaze is fixed upon a bookshelf, unseeing. In his head, in his heart, a tempest.