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

[untamedantinous]

"Yes, but also history," he nods to the pile to his right. "Or, at least, history that I have apparently missed. Nothing that you are in search of, though I might be able to find a play of Voltaire's if you've a mind for that. Are you very familiar with French philosophy?"

[timebethine]

"In my time, they're still scrapping over Lombard's Sentences, and likely will be for another few hundred years," says Laertes wryly. "I have no head for theology. The mathematicians are better, but dry reading. But the City of Ladies is worth your time. Who is Voltaire?"

[untamedantinous]

"The City of Ladies," Enjolras replies thoughtfully. He is not a poet by any stretch of the word, this is more Prouvaire's area of expertise than his, but it does sound interesting. Perhaps Jehan had mentioned it at some point. "Voltaire is --a Frenchman, from about a century before the year I am from, a poet, playwright, satirist and philosopher. He was very popular."

[timebethine]

"And prolific," says Laertes, looking over the spread of books again. "Are you French? Most of my happiest days were in France, before I came here."

[untamedantinous]

"Indeed," with a grin. "Both to your comment and your question. I am lately of Paris." There's a slight pause. "In both senses of the word, I am afraid to say, but it is alright." (It's not. Not really. But he does a good job of hiding it.)

[timebethine]

"Lately--ah." Laertes manages a reassuring smile. He has learned not to touch other men's wounds; his hands will never heal them. "Which is your favorite play of Voltaire's?" he asks instead, setting that revelation firmly aside.

[untamedantinous]

"I do have a fondness for Socrates, though I will admit it is not especially well-known. It may be hard to find a copy." There's a pause, and he offers his hand. "I am called Enjolras."

[timebethine]

"Laertes." He takes Enjolras by the hand and shakes it firmly, with a smile that reaches his eyes. "I'll look for it all the same," he promises. "Did you know--this place makes us hear each other in our own tongues? And read, too, I think. It's a pity; French is a lovelier language than Danish, and I'm sure you're very eloquent in it. I should see if there's any Aristophanes here in the original Greek."

[untamedantinous]

"Laertes," he responds, with a smile. The name does not brook any recognition from him, but as he said elsewhere, it has likely been some time since he's seen any productions of some old English play Prouvaire was intrigued in. "Does it? I shall have to make note of that, I have never had much head for Greek and Latin, but here it may be different. --And as for eloquent, well, I have been told I am quite good at speeches, but there seems to be no need for such things, here."

[timebethine]

"No need for speeches. Great need for speech," says Laertes. He picks up a volume of the compiled Questions sur les Miracles and thumbs through it idly, not sure what he's looking for or whether he'll know it when he finds it. "There's occupation here if you make it, but the greater part of our days is spent in conversation. That's why I wanted plays," he admits. "I want to study what people say. I want to be easier to speak with."

[untamedantinous]

"I am not good at making myself occupied, unfortunately," with a wry smile. "One of my failings. Happily, my friends at home occupied me well enough, though I do admit I am ...not easy to be around." At least he is aware of it.

[timebethine]

"There's two of us, then." Setting the book aside, he picks up Brutus. This seems closer to what Laertes is looking for; he pauses to read a line here or there, brows raised. "In mine own land, I was idle. I fenced, played, danced, learned Latin and Greek and French, intrigued and maneuvered ... and it left me cool. Here, I cook. I dig plants from the earth. I build, and love, and learn, and my soul is nourished by it. All the old occupations of my idleness are sweeter, now. I hope that the same will be true for you."

[untamedantinous]

"I was expected to do much the same, at home." There's a slight, wry smile. "My father would likely have appreciated it very greatly if I had been a credit to his name and my education in Paris, but I got out of the south as quick as I could and came to Paris. There, I studied, I worked, I planned and fought for my country, for our people, and my friends came along with me." He sounds a little sad, now, and reaches for his nearby glass of wine. "They are-- it is so strange to be without them, they are my brothers in truth, my family more than my own ever was."

[timebethine]

There's that same touch of sorrow that attended lately; Laertes knows not how to answer his grief. "Here's to embarrassing our fathers, then, and to finding our hearts' true homes," he says, raising an imaginary glass. "May those you left behind find you here again, hale and whole."

[untamedantinous]

It's been a strange two days for him. From Paris to the mansion in the blink of an eye, and he keeps looking for distractions so he doesn't need to think about the friends he left dead on the ground back home. "Indeed," with that same wry twist of his lips again, and he raises his own glass to Laertes. "Perhaps they might. I do not know what became of all of them, after all."

[timebethine]

"Is there something in these books that roused you to fight?" Laertes asks. "Or only love of France, and your people?"

[untamedantinous]

"Oh -- the books did not especially help," grinning. "My father despaired of them, but I was willful, and -- well, I wished to see our people, France herself, as a republic of old, free and righteous as she should be; like in the first revolution except done more judiciously. Then we should have France on her own terms. She is great because she is France, not on the account of any soldier or so-called emperor who only fought to make himself great and powerful." A pause. "But I digress. It was the books, and our history, and my brothers, my friends from school, a bit of everything."

[timebethine]

"A love of the world as it is, fueling love of the world as it might be." He grins, sincerely enchanted by the conviction in Enjolras's voice and the affection that shines through it. "You should take up writing philosophy. I'd be your votary. You couldn't be worse than Lombard."

[untamedantinous]

He does tend to have that effect on people, even when it is not intentional. He grins back, taking another quick drink of wine. "You flatter me, I am not half as wise as our own philosopher at home, nor nearly as peaceful. He is much better suited to writing that sort of thing than I." There's a pause. "I do think you would get on with them, if they are to arrive."

[timebethine]

"I'll look out for them the way I do your Socrates--with eager anticipation." Tilting his head a little, returning Brutus to the table, Laertes asks, "What are you, if not peaceful? Although I strive to be moderate in all things ... I fear I am neither moderate nor peaceful, at the heart of me."

[untamedantinous]

There’s a bit of an amused snort. “I am rather the opposite as well, I should think. As admirable as peace is, it is —I appreciate the actions that lead to them more than the result, I should say.” There is a fire in him, it is banked at the moment; but it’s easy to see how it could come ablaze at the least provocation.

[timebethine]

"You might do well to speak with Lan Wangji, then. He's taught me a trick of meditation that helps to calm my mind when I run hectic--unless you have no interest in calm."

[untamedantinous]

“I am not yet certain, here. It seems a very strange sort of place.” He may look into it, sooner or later, but not just yet. He needs to get more settled.

[timebethine]

Laertes can't help laughing. "It is, my friend," he says. "Some weeks ago, I found my lover transformed to a child. There's madness here too deep for me to plumb."

[untamedantinous]

“….Oh.” He shakes his head again. “It almost sounds like something out of the Romantic novels Prouvaire is..was fond of.” Despite that correction, he is smiling, though it’s a little sadder than he would readily admit. “Do things like that happen often?”