Lucien Enjolras

Enjolras nods, and abruptly feels very small. He might look it, too, wide-eyed and still a little shaken, suddenly much younger looking than his twenty two years. “I did not—“ he attempts, and it comes out very soft; he clears his throat and tries again.

“I have only ever been concerned with the love of my country and her people.” He shifts a little, feeling uncomfortably laid bare. He doesn’t much enjoy feeling helpless and yet here he is, for the second or third time in only a week, raw-edged and uncomfortable.