un: someday, life will be fairer (open)

[untamedantinous]

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.)

Comments

[timebethine]

"Oh? What kind of nuisance?" Laertes asks, grinning back. "I was a terrible tattletale."

[untamedantinous]

"Argumentative, for the most part. Loud. Rebellious." There's a flicker of amusement. "Clearly I have not transformed all that much."

[timebethine]

"Then surely you were a charming child, as well," teases Laertes, although charming isn't precisely what he means. It feels wrong, somehow, to call a child compelling, but Enjolras compels with more natural authority than a king.

[untamedantinous]

"My mother certainly thought so," with an all-too-innocent smile. "My father disagreed; and I entirely disagreed, and threw them off at sixteen to go study law." He probably was just as compelling, though, intense and indignant whenever he felt something was amiss.

[timebethine]

"And hence, philosophy. Even then, it seems you had an admirable clarity of purpose. Not many can say as much, at sixteen."

[untamedantinous]

"I have been told that I am not like many men." He doesn't sound proud, or even slightly embarassed, like a normal person would. He simply states it as the fact it is.

[timebethine]

"No, you are not." He has the same eerie, angelic singularity of purpose that Laertes only briefly glimpsed in Galahad--but where Galahad is mist and starlight, silver and glass, Enjolras is an engine of flesh and blood. Laertes has fallen asleep with Galahad in his arms, and still Enjolras feels more solid and touchable.

He is not permitted to touch.

"I'll continue the hunt for Socrates," he says. "And if I find it, I'll share that with you, too. If nothing else, I hope it will be more welcome than mischief."

[untamedantinous]

He is not, yes. Not as most people would like to touch Enjolras, certainly not that; but perhaps as a brother. He is not often one for physical affection excepting among those he is very close with, those friends (brothers) of his who have not yet arrived. "Good," he replies with an approving nod. "It will be welcome indeed, but so would your company, whenever you've a mind for it."