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I am told this is meant to receive messages.

Very well then; this is Enjolras. Speak, if you must.

Another June 6 (or 30th of Hesione) has arrived. It has become customary by this point for Enjolras to toast his friends upon this day, one after another. The ache of missing them is old, but every year; it feels new again -- another push in the constant of feeling like he's missing several of his most important pieces. Perhaps he shall become used to it at some point; but even the thought of that feels like a betrayal of his lieutenants.

It could be argued that his current state of melancholy is also a betrayal of his lieutenants, however; says a sensible voice in the back of his mind. (It sounds oddly like Combeferre.) Would they want him to be so maudlin, three years later? Even if he was still at home, not trapped in a different world without them? Certainly not. They would want him to continue their good works, continue the fight. However; there is little to fight for here, it is practically the paradise they dreamed of. Logically, he should be pleased. Cheerful, even, grateful that their plans had succeeded at last. But it is difficult, and Lucien has always been uncommonly stubborn.

Enjolras sighs and taps against the bar he is sitting at distractedly. It may well be that the imaginary Combeferre upbraiding him is correct; but he cannot think of where to go next, try though he might. He had never expected to get this far, to be almost alone save for Grantaire and by all accounts, causeless. (He had supposed he would be long dead by that point.) It is not a pleasant feeling. He takes another drink of whatever alcohol he's chosen for the occasion, the nine drinks long since past, and scowls. Self-pity is not an attractive trait; and he has become nearly mired in it, here. It would be wise to stop drinking. Better, perhaps, to move, to release his frustrations against a punching bag or in one of the gyms. He adjourns to the closest one in that case, and might be found there, facing off a bag until his anger has exhausted itself.

It is June, by the general reckoning of things. Here in the mansion, it is not June -- it is the 19th of Kumaras. Time should not matter so much to a dead man. But it does, and in the general reckoning of things Enjolras has been dead a year. It feels strange, he knows it has been seven months, or so it feels; and yet none of his friends aside from Grantaire have arrived. (Aside from the brief visitation of Combeferre and Courfeyrac: perhaps two spirits on their way to a better plane, if one believes in that sort of thing.) It feels stranger still to not have them by his side. Over time, he has grown more accustomed to social niceties, to making an effort with people--his lieutenants are not here to do that for him.

They should be here. Combeferre should be here, practically living in the library as he did on visitor's day; Courfeyrac laughing along with Sagramore and Laertes, running races and shooting arrows with Apollo, making merry with Dionysus. All of them deserve better, deserve a chance to see what peculiar magics this place can work in their afterlives. Since they are not here, Enjolras decides; they deserve tribute.

So he sits in a bar -- not the cafe, but a slightly more secluded one, a heavily scrawled notebook lying nearby. Enjolras is unaccustomed to drinking heavily, but surely his friends deserve a proper toast. Therefore, there is a bottle of bourbon that he chose with some wry amusement, and a half-empty glass in front of him. He is not drunk, not yet; but certainly maudlin. He has seen too much death for his twenty-five years, and the recent happenings in the mansion have been cause for concern on that front once again.

It is finally spring. Finally warm enough for Enjolras to head outside and read to Temeraire without the extra heavy layer of a coat. He is intent on doing that, in fact, searching for their latest philosophical treatise amongst his piles of papers on his table. He is also searching for his notebook, planning on continuing some writing while he's outside and making a day of it. (Ballpoint pens are very convenient for that.) Enjolras has nearly found it when he is distracted by some shuffling coming from -- of all places, his closet.

After a moment's hesitation, he peers inside the piece of furniture to find two greeny-golden eyes staring back at him. "Oh," he says, with some uncertainty. "Hello."

____________________________

A good half hour later, Enjolras has made his apologies to Temeraire and can be found in the café, with his new friend curled up on his discarded coat on a chair nearby him. Enjolras is absently stroking her from time to time, engrossed in a book he at last found under his papers.

The past few days have been less than pleasant. Firstly, it seemed that winter had decided to take an extended stay here at the mansion: yes, he knew this place had odd seasons, but winter has never been one of his favorites, even at home. Enjolras has been uneasy, lately, spending most of his evenings holed up with Laertes and Sagramore in an effort to avoid nightmares.

Today, he is hoping that spending time with the one other person from Paris will do him good: and besides that, it has been some time since he has properly seen Grantaire. It would do to check in on him, he thinks. And so, he has gathered up books and his nearly ever-present notebook, intent on doing some writing as well. --As an afterthought, he grabs the unopened bottle of wine that Dionysus had given him, and proceeds to Grantaire's rooms, where he knocks at the door.

"Grantaire?"

At some point or another, Enjolras and Laertes had agreed to meet up and fence again. In consequence of that, Enjolras has been practicing. Or at least, trying to practice, though he knows well enough that he still does not hold the slightest candle to Laertes' abilities. After the meeting has passed, he has found himself in need of something else to concentrate on; and that's as good an excuse as any to spend time with Laertes.

So he finds himself at Sagramore and Laertes' door, when he knows Laertes is done with his morning baking.

He has of course brought his rapier with him, and is dressed in light, comfortable clothes suitable for fencing. At last, he knocks, hoping he isn't interrupting any cuddle time with Szarka or anything terribly important.

It shouldn’t be this hard to prepare for a meeting. He’s done it countless times before. However, this time, it somehow is difficult. He’s never really had to set things up at times like this; and he knows as well as anyone else that he is not the best at social niceties. Granted, this meeting is in a much more well-appointed cafe than any he had ever been accustomed to holding space in in Paris. At least they have the benefit of a larger space. Consequently, Enjolras has spent much of the day of the eighth of Menestheus preparing, a little uncertain of how to plan a social gathering that is not immediately centered around planning a revolution. He is trying his best, at least.

Most of the tables and chairs have been pushed a bit more to the center of the room; the couch is arranged off to the opposite side. There are even various pillows scattered about, should anyone choose to sit on the floor. Arranged on a few of the larger tables and the counter there is a modest spread of food: of course, some of Laertes and Galahad’s pastries; but Enjolras has also procured what amounts to a few charcuterie platters: sliced sausages and meats, a selection of (mostly French) cheese, and various sliced loaves of bread and crackers are laid out for perusal, and spreads to go along with them. In an effort to provide multiple options of entertainment, Grantaire has set up a table somewhat near the food, with an assortment of wines and liqueurs. Off to one side, there are a few pots of brewed coffee, cream, sugar, and whatever else anyone might like to add to their beverage of choice. If anyone is drawn to the liquor cabinet, they will find three cups filled with various pieces of paper sitting atop it.

Enjolras himself is lingering on the couch with a glass of wine and some bread. He’s not sure how many people were even informed about this gathering, though he had done his best to advertise. If no one arrives then perhaps he will try again another time; but at least a few in attendance other than himself and Grantaire would certainly be welcome.

It has been a few days since he had mentioned to Laertes his changes in opinion about spending the night Yes, he had agreed in theory because the nights were getting colder -- but also, he would privately be glad of the company. It has been far too quiet in the evenings for his taste, accustomed as he was to having discussions and chatter late into the night. Then Szarka had made her appearance, and he had wanted to give the two new fathers a chance to bond with the little lady--but now that he has met her, she may as well become more acquainted.

And so, Lucien arrives at the appointed hour, a small pile of clothes and a book in hand -- along with a baguette. He had requested, specifically, the best the mansion could offer, so hopefully it will be somewhat decent.

A wildfire burns quickly and hot until it is extinguished. In some cases, Enjolras' passion has been likened to a fire. Here at the mansion that fire tends to be mostly banked; but the embers remain. It is easy enough to stir it into wakefulness; and Enjolras' dreams of late have done just that. (They have passed, now, but the burning need to do something remains.) So he is in the café as he usually is, sat at a large table with various piles of writings strewn about.

Off to the side, one might note a flier that is still obviously a work in progress, set off to dry a bit while he works on something else. The general air of disarray suggests that he has certainly been here for hours at least, though he does look a good deal happier than he had the last time he had taken refuge in the café. The warmth and fire of his passion has awoken another familiar friend: writing like he's running out of time.¹ It is in truth very much what he would be doing in Paris, and there is a relaxed pleasure that is evident in the way he sits, in making himself feel useful even if it is for goals of his own making.

He has clearly been at it for some time, fingers inkstained and coffee grown cold beside him. There is a copy of The Social Contract open in front of him, and every so often he makes a thoughtful noise, writes a few things down, then turns to the next page. It is truly only a thought exercise that he's working on, a passing fancy to abridge a work that he is already intensely familiar with; but he appreciates the challenge. It is entirely different from the other, more private writings he has been working on, which are kept in a small notebook currently buried under all those sheets of paper. Regardless, the work pleases him --though the coffee does not. He picks his cup up to take a sip, makes a face, and rises to go start himself another.

¹ Wrong musical, same vibes.

The cafe is generally empty, this early in the morning. Enjolras is grateful for that; he did not sleep well and is in no mood for company. He looks --not quite as tired as he had upon his arrival, but certainly rough, unshaven and bleary. It has been slightly over a month since their unexpected visitors, the two friends he had longed most for, and he still sees them in his dreams. Last night's were particularly vivid; he had been out with his musket before it had gotten dark, the lingering smell of gunpowder had done him no favors. There was Combeferre with three bayonets to the chest, still trying to help a guardsman despite it all; Courfeyrac standing at his side as the national guard advances upon them.

They are all covered in blood and gunpowder. Everything is, even him, though he was unwounded at the time. At the end, everything had gone silent. It was strange, to be surrounded by so much blood and gunfire and all the chaos that comes with a battle; and yet Enjolras had felt as though he was moving through a haze. He feels similarly now, sitting in a dark corner of the cafe with a mostly drunk cup of coffee nearby. He would rather be awake than chance more dreams. Perhaps someone will come along and distract him from this bout of melancholy.

Enjolras has been puttering about the mansion in the past few days since the wedding dance. Today, he has spent some time outside with Temeraire -- it's getting colder, and the warmth of Temeraire's pavilion has become quite a snug little place to read to him, when Galahad is not. He had moved onto some canne de combat practice after their customary few chapters a day, which had occupied him until just recently.

The winter is coming in faster, now, and Enjolras has never been one for the cold. Certainly the south of France is not as far south as many other places in the world, but he grew up accustomed to it being somewhat warmer there than it was in Paris. So now, he is curled up in front of a fire that is crackling merrily, sipping at some vin chaud as he leafs through a book of recipes. There is, indeed, a pile of books nearby -- both cookbooks and others, but right now he is looking for something easy to set his sights on for his next baking adventure.

There are a number of kitchens to be found in the mansion, as most people know. Enjolras is in one of them, flour speckling his flannel shirt and black jeans. There is a recipe book open on the counter near him, open to a page on baguettes. The young man in question is currently absorbed in kneading some dough: once again, something new to concentrate on. (Yes, he had known that Combeferre and Courfeyrac were only here for a day, but that does not really make it much better.) So, inspired by Laertes -- and, perhaps, the underwhelming boeuf bourguignon the mansion had provided the other day -- he is attempting a French classic. Perhaps a homemade baguette will taste better than mansion-provided food.

Enjolras sleeps, but it is not peaceful. His life here has settled into an odd sort of peace (aside from recent weeks), new goals and new friends, but his dreams are anything but. He dreams of the barricades quite often, gunshots and grapeshot and sometimes, a far-off sound of a bullet at the end of the road. He thinks of all of them: Prouvaire, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and at the last, of course, Pontmercy. (Pontmercy had fought like a tiger, unexpectedly. He cannot recall the last time he saw the man, but he does know they were both covered in blood by the end.) He remembers the blood, too, the metallic tang of it. He remembers the clear-headedness that comes with knowing what you're about to do is the only way forward and yet he still hates himself for it in his waking hours. He does not regret it, but he regrets that it had to come to that for Le Cabuc and the artillery sergeant.

Other times, it's the last time he saw each one of his friends: Combeferre, helping up a wounded national guardsman, Courfeyrac, hat blown off by a cannonball but still making jokes as they fought, all three of them holding the center along with Feuilly and Joly. Then, the house shifts, or a door slams, and he wakes in a startle, half-expecting to see the National Guard coming through the door. He dreams of blood and gunpowder -- and it is any wonder that he has become more enamored than usual of coffee? The more of that he drinks, the less he will wake up shaking and grieving his brothers.

Never let it be said that Enjolras is not good with furniture. He has, in fact, built at least two barricades with it. In point of fact, he is currently dragging some chairs into a spare reasonably large ballroom he has found; intending on turning it into as close to a Parisian café as he can manage here.

So far he has done a decent enough job, having dragged a liquor cabinet¹ in from somewhere and set it up against a wall. He has some sketches for the rest of the furniture laid out on the floor nearby, next to a still-steaming cup of coffee. He will likely need help for some of the larger items, couch and tables among them, but he has so far amassed a fine pile of chairs in one corner.

¹ You're welcome, Grantaire.

Enjolras is on a mission. It is not in the least like any of the self-imposed missions he has given himself in the past; but he is as determined as he ever is. (Yes, he will admit to himself that this is a distraction, but it is a new and pleasant one; and he could do with some pleasant and educational exercises in good company.)

With that in mind, as stubborn as ever, he goes in search of Laertes. He is certainly more sober than he was yesterday, having spent his morning in consideration and working on some writing—one of those pamphlets for Magnus they had been speaking of. His fingers show the evidence of that, they are smudged and have a few ink blots on them; but he is smiling nonetheless as he knocks at Laertes’ door. There he stands, waiting sober as a priest; although it is hard to say that considering the still apparent bruises at his throat that were too difficult to hide with a cravat.

Enjolras has not held a musket since the barricades. However, there's no time like the present. Through trial and error and various annoyed thoughts directed to the closet in his rooms, he has found one that will suffice. It feels ...strange, to have one in his hands again, to know that not so long ago he had held one and killed more than once with it. But he is pushing aside any lingering apprehensions he may have and heading outside to the shooting range some helpful person had set up in the recent past. Perhaps no one will bother him here, he hopes, it is fairly far afield; and the whole purpose he has will make it difficult to have any conversations.

The slight tension in his shoulders may belie his earlier anxiety, but it has not affected his aim as of yet. Should anyone follow the sounds of gunfire, they will find Enjolras as well, loading, firing, and reloading his musket with some determination.

The library is currently occupied. To be more precise, it is occupied by one young blond man, settled in at a large table with books spread out around him. Off to the side, there is a glass of wine, half-drunk. He looks much better than he had upon his arrival, no longer dirty and bloodstained, but still a bit fragile. Some of the marble that usually adorns his countenance has been chipped away, and he is not certain if it will come back.

He is not certain of many things, here in this strange new not-afterlife, but he is certain that both the writings of Rousseau and Voltaire exist. He has the proof, right here next to him, old friends that he is relieved to have in hand. (Someday he'll find his own copies of them, maybe.) The young fellow that had healed him -- Magnus, wasn't it -- had mentioned France becoming a republic. So in lieu of talking to people, Enjolras has chosen to dive into history books and catch himself up on the last 200 or so years.

(He'd rather read than face what lies before him here. He's not sure what to do, and he doesn't like being purposeless. There is yet time to talk, time to find Grantaire, eventually, but he doesn't want to think. Not right now.)

( with a jubilant shout they will come one and all, they will come when we call! )

I have been here almost a fortnight now, and I am still not entirely certain what to think of this place. It is a relief, however, that the heat and --other things of the past week have gone. I do not have suitable clothing for such weather.

[He pauses a little, then continues, thoughtful and a bit quieter.]

It is very strange, having nothing to do. I have walked, and explored, but it is nothing like what I am used to. I would continue my studies, but there appears to be no place to do so. Or, at least, nothing similar to the Sorbonne.