untamedantinous | deux: it must be done

Grantaire hears the sound of musketfire from some distance away and something draws him inexorably toward it. He follows the sound with a bottle in hand, and as he approaches, he huffs a bit to himself as he ascertains the source.

He doesn't particularly want to intrude or interrupt, but neither does he want to leave, so instead he sits on the ground several yards behind Enjolras and just watches contemplatively.

At some point, Enjolras turns and bends to get something, catching sight of Grantaire. It's very faint, imperceptible if you haven't spent the greater part of five years watching him, but the tension in his shoulders is getting slightly higher.

However, Grantaire doesn't seem to want to say anything, which is perfectly fine for Enjolras. He gives the other man a look for a moment, long, cautious, but turns back to his firing without a word.

For someone who has spent the greater part of five years watching Enjolras, though, it's a glowing beacon. A solar flare, if you will. He frowns absently at the signs of tension but says nothing. He knows deep down that anything he could say would resonate quite differently outdoors, and without another eight people to completely change the acoustics.

So he continues to watch, also without a word.

Magnus hears the sound of gunfire and goes running, naked sword in hand. TJ Junior? Ragnarok?

No, just -- Enjolras, was it? Magnus recognizes the look of a man training for some kind of pressing battle, so even though guns aren't really his speed, he returns Jack to pendant form and wanders up, hands shoved into his pockets. "Hey," he says. "Good aim."

Enjolras jumps a little at the sudden intrusion, but thankfully he’s not firing anything at the moment. (It’s still odd, it’s so different from the last time he did this.)

“Thank you,” he answers with a nod, trying to pretend like his heart isn’t racing from the disturbance. “I know there is no call for it, but best to keep in practice.”

"Yeah, dude, for sure," Magnus says. "I know what that's like. I trained so hard with my sword the other day that I'm still sore."

Of course, that had been partially in service of trying to reach Alex. And that went... how it went.

"I think I've gotten better since I got here, though," he adds, musingly. Funny how fighting for fun builds skill faster than fighting to postpone the inevitability of your daily death.

"I have little experience with swords. Canne de combat -- euh, staff-fighting and muskets are where I excel." He sets his musket down on the ground. "That is good. I do not know -- well, I hope I should not have to use my skills here."

"I have found that there's a real shortage of people trying to kill me here," Magnus says. It's impossible for others to tell whether he's happy or disappointed about this; he himself doesn't really know. "Probably it'll be the same for you. Guns aren't really useful where I'm from, but my buddy Thomas Jefferson Junior has a musket with a bone steel bayonet. The bayonet packs a real punch."

"Most do even when they are not made of bone steel." He looks down for a moment, frowning, remembering the last time he had seen Combeferre alive -- kneeling to help a fallen guardsman, pierced with three bayonets. After a moment, he shakes it off, returning to the conversation.

"I know it's not the most useful thing to do here, but I needed something that felt like it was close to useful. There is only so much raiding of the library I can do."

"Dude, I super feel that," Magnus says. "I feel like most of what I've done since I've gotten here is read and train." Which isn't that different from his life in Valhalla, but it feels more aimless, here, without the constant pressure of preparing for Ragnarok.

"I have only been here a week, but if this is all it is, I think I shall find it very dull in time." He's never been good with aimless; he needs something to plan for, something to order his days with. He doesn't like feeling lost, particularly, and so far, the mansion has done a very good job of making him feel that way.

"Yeah, I guess everyone has their hobbies?" Magnus says. "But I get it. I like structure."

"I did not have time for too many hobbies, at home. It was studying and planning and meetings and writing, for the most part; and there is little call for pamphlets of that nature here."

"What kind of pamphlets?" Magnus asks, rifling through his mental notes for a moment to recall the details of their earlier conversation. "For your revolution, you mean?"

"Yes, generally they were about -- various treatises, declarations the monarchy had made, any news we needed to pass along in a hurry for those that might not be able to attend our meetings."

Magnus nods, considering. "I've been thinking about putting up some advertisements?" he offers. "Trading skill for skill. I think that learning would probably fill the days now that I'm no longer, you know, doing Battle Practice all the time. You could still make informational pamphlets about topics you care about and share them, maybe?"

“I could try, but I do not know if there is a printing press here to do that sort of thing easily.” There’s a brief smile, though, as usual, intense and bright for all its brevity. “I admire your thirst for knowledge. One can never have too much.”

"I dropped out of high school a few months in," Magnus says. "There was this whole... wolf situation." They were magical, sent by Fenris, and they'd murdered his mother. And then he'd been homeless and too busy trying to survive to attend. "It's weird, but this is the first time since I was fourteen that I've had enough down-time without the threat of mortal peril to really want to dive back into it, you know? Like, I'd go to the library and read and stuff, but that's a different kind of learning, I think."

"It is, yes, entirely different than school. If you would like any instruction from me, I cannot promise a great amount of patience, I will warn you. But I could likely go on for hours about philosophy and the like, or writing, strategy, perhaps.." He's a little lost in thought now, considering what else he might have to offer.

"I'd love to be better at strategy," Magnus says. "I don't know much about philosophy, though. What's something you like about it?"

"It touches on topics one might not normally consider, I think. Or at least topics that most are afraid to speak on: social justice, the rights of kings as opposed to the people, society's ills, that sort of thing."

"I have opinions about all those things."

"Oh, do you?" He quirks a small grin at Magnus. "I would be interested to hear them, in that case."

"Well, kings are bad, obviously," says Magnus, who was named after one. "As are people who uphold unjust laws and policies, like pretty much every single police officer in the world. And in most of the other Nine Worlds, too. People are dicks to the homeless and they shouldn't be. I can keep going?"

“I think you and I will get along quite well, monsieur.” It’s getting a little hard to hide the grin that is fixing to burst through. “My friends and I used to discuss this sort of thing all of the time at home.”

"Yeah?" Magnus says, eagerly. "Tell me about it?"

“There is much to tell, but in short: we revolted against an unjust king; who refused to fight for his people and help them though they were starving. Among other things.”

Oh, right; the entire revolution. Magnus makes a mental note not to tell Enjolras about the French Republic's hijab ban just yet. But if Sam ever shows up, he'll caution Enjolras to be careful about the France talk around her. "You mentioned the rebellion," he nods. "Were all your discussions about that?"

“The meetings were, yes, but we all got together outside of meetings most of the time anyhow. Our group was called the friends of the abased.¹. But we also all studied at the university, for the most part.”

¹ The mansion translator does not convey the greatness of the pun. Rest assured, it’s a delightful one.

"So what did you talk about when you weren't talking about philosophy?"

“At the meetings? Everything, generally. The rights of the people, our plans, strategies, royal charters, where to acquire weapons, how much of a disappointment Lafayette was…” He could go on for hours if Magnus lets him.

“It is one of the many reasons I find it to be too quiet here.”

"Oh, I actually meant outside of the meetings!" Magnus says. "Because it sounds like you hung out a bunch. But... yeah. This place really is quiet, huh?"

“I mean; if we are honest, it’s more of the same. But sometimes it would be classes and the like. Grantaire preferred to send his time otherwise.” He nods.

“It is, yes.”

"Oh yeah?" Magnus prompts. Grantaire is the guy who held Enjolras's hand, he remembers. He wonders what the story is there.

He waves a dismissive hand. "Billiards, drinking, --art, I think? He and a few others would often dine together."

"Food is good," Magnus says. "You know, I bet if we had more communal meals here, it would feel more... lively."

"It might, yes, but it may also feel like school." He shrugs a bit. "Also I can't imagine who would cook for such a thing, I am certainly not an option."

"Is that a bad thing?" Magnus asks. "And couldn't the fridges just supply everything?

"Not for me, but I don't know, some people may not like it." He shrugs again, rolling his shoulders some. "Yes, I keep forgetting about those. What are they called?"

"Fridges," Magnus says. "At Valhalla, everyone ate dinner together. Well, we did it in three shifts, because there were tens of thousands of us, sorted mostly by age at time of death. And the thanes got triple dinner, I guess. But it worked out really well, actually, you know? You kill each other in the afternoon and then split a nice dish of Saehrimnir at night."

“A fridge,” he says thoughtfully. “Thank you. I suppose we might do that, should we put it to a vote, you think?”

"Love a good vote," Magnus says. "We could totally do that. We could also put up signs saying it's happening and people can show up if they're interested."

"That does seem easier than figuring out where to even hold a ballot box."

"That's me, dude," Magnus says. "Solutions guy."

"I shall make a note of it," with some amusement. "Perhaps I shall come to you for all my problems." He's quite obviously teasing. Well, it's obvious to him, at least. "Are there any other things you can think of?"

"Oh, I have tons of solutions," Magnus says. "If anyone would ever ask me back home, I think I could fix a lot of stuff. I don't know how much relevance they have here, though. I don't think land ownership and carceral systems are things that even exist in this place, for example." He considers. "I guess we could have a World Religions class here, though. Since it seems that everyone has a different pantheon, or I guess a different interpretation of christianity, and that seems to be the ripest source of misunderstanding in a place without clear ruling class and their militias. I mean, police forces."

He is, in truth, trying to impress Enjolras a little bit with his opinions, but he also firmly believes in everything he's saying.

"No, likely not, at least not that I have seen." It's working, a little, he is at least certainly intrigued enough by Magnus to probably bother with seeking him out sooner or later. "Well, we French, for the most part, are Catholic, though I am in name only; I do not think I have done anything with religion since -- ah, I left home, some time ago. I suppose a class on religion couldn't hurt; but I would not nominate myself as one who has any especial talent in that regard." There's a beat. "However, there is you, and Monsieur Aziraphale, that could be useful."

"Oh, I know nothing about christianity," Magnus laughs. "I'd leave that one to other people."

"As I said," with a slight smile. "Monsieur Aziraphale would likely be useful, in this case. I do not think I can remember a single bit of catechism."

"Oh yeah, I wasn't expecting you to do it," Magnus says. "Just thinking out loud about how to fix some problems."

"Well, we've got a decent bit to start with, I think."

"Yeah!" Magnus agrees. "It's good to have a starting place."

"Well, expect a meeting of some kind soon enough, I should think. Once I find a place large enough for all of us."

"I can help," Magnus says. "Surely there's an atrium or, like, auditorium or something tucked away somewhere."

"Oh, I don't know if we would need anything so big as all that, only perhaps a ballroom or something of the like. At home we made do with the back room of a cafe."

"Oh, that's easy, I practice swordplay in what I assume is a ballroom a couple times a week."

"Ah! Well then, point me towards it some time, and I shall go see how it looks."

"It's on the opposite side from the kitchen," Magnus says. "Down a half-flight of stairs. Second door... yeah, I'll just take you there sometime."

“That seems best,” with some amusement. “I would not be surprised if the hallways in this place decided to move of their own accord.”

"Cool," Magnus says. "Find me later? I'll show you. Good luck with your shooting, man."

“Thank you,” he replies with a nod. “Until then, I suppose.”

Claudius has been away from war long enough to not jump at the sound of gunfire. Even when he was a soldier, guns and explosions froze him still, unable to move his finger on the trigger and face the killing of another man, and so he earned his reputation as a coward. He'd like to say he lost his fear of killing since then, but it depends on the weapon.

Nevertheless, he has enough courage to move towards the sound instead of way, and stops near enough to admire Enjolras's arm on the musket, his stance and steel-like gaze on his target. Once the target's been hit, Claudius claps his hands together in the silence before reloading, just once so as to announce his presence. "Well-aimed," he says. "Hello again, Enjolras."

He doesn’t jump at the clap. He wants to, yes, it startled him more than he would have liked, but he doesn’t jump. Instead, he gives Claudius a short nod. “Monsieur Claudius. Thank you. I hope I have not disturbed anyone.”

He had hoped, actually, that being so far from the house proper would not draw people to his presence. Unfortunately, musket fire does travel, and the denizens of the mansion tend to be curious sorts.

Edited 2023-11-02 16:48 (UTC)

"A welcome disturbance, if any," Claudius says with a laugh. "But don't mind me. I'm only imagining what you'd look like on horseback."

"On horseback?" He lifts an eyebrow. "I cannot say I have much experience at it. I generally hire a carriage in Paris if I must, and my parents did not own any."

"And you were never forced to serve, I suppose, beyond the service you chose willingly for France. I served against the French in Normandy," he says, by way of explanation, "but however I aimed, I could never hit a Frenchman on horseback." Once again, he tries to imagine Enjolras as one of those brilliant French soldiers, whose riding made his heart seize and his hands shake and the firearm shake inside them. The thoughts clattered inside his head, like so much useless metal and wood: I can't do this. I can't be this. But King Hamlet could, King Hamlet served beside his armies to inspire them, King Hamlet had an eye like Mars to threaten and command --

King Hamlet is dead, and Claudius killed him. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, it's a crisp, bright day by the shooting range. He smiles pleasantly.

"If I'm uncharitable," he continues, after what must've been a moment's thought, "and I tend to be, I think my brother sent me there to fail. But I did my service in the medical tents eventually, pulling bullets out of men instead of trying to fire them."

"No, my father is a magistrate; they preferred that I follow him into law." He couldn't imagine himself serving in the king's armies at all, his service to France was another thing entirely. (Not to mention likely some of the guardsmen he would have been serving with would have been supports of Bonaparte, whom Enjolras cannot abide.)

"Well, I am sorry to dissuade your fantasies, but I would likely be awful on horseback." He doesn't mention the pause, there, he has had more than enough of those lately to comment on them. "My philosopher friend -- he was also a doctor, or studying to be one. He pulled bullets out of my friends and I more than once."

"Physic and philosophy -- two necessities for a revolt, I'm sure. It seems like there are never enough hands to pull bullets out of men on a battlefield, and words of reason are in even shorter supply. All the words of reason couldn't stop two kings from sending men to die in droves over a strip of Norman coast not big enough to bury them in." Claudius shakes his head, suddenly unsure why he's saying all these things. It's far easier to be bitter about war in the abstract. "My apologies. I'm quite glad your friend was there with you."

"Yes. We had another doctor as well, less inclined to philosophy but just as good in medicine. He was rather more...nervous than Combeferre." He still doesn't like thinking of his amis in the past tense. It's strange, when only less than a fortnight ago they were all together, but he puts that thought to the side for now.

"I am glad he was there, too. He was --still trying to get to his work, the last I saw of him."

Claudius doesn't know whether to offer condolences or not -- it's a strange thing, to be talking to a dead man about his dead friends. But Enjolras, Claudius reminds himself, is quite alive. Grantaire was quite alive under Claudius's hands. That must be what's unsettling him so, the sense of standing on a battlefield and speaking to a ghost. A ghost like a man Claudius could've slain, but didn't, because life had other ghosts waiting for him.

He refrains from giving condolences. "You've admirable friends. Grantaire spoke admiringly of them, too -- I'd like to hear more of them, when you've a mind for it." Inclining his head, he asks, "Would you care to show me how to use a firearm like yours? I might have better luck on stationary targets."

"Perhaps sometime, then, of course." There's a slight smile, and he nods. "Yes, certainly. What sort did you use in Denmark? They may be similar enough." The musket hasn't changed in a very long time, after all, at least for him.

"It's a musket¹, yes? I haven't held one in some time. Whenever I was compelled to join a hunting party, I contrived some reason to stand back, so as not to embarrass myself." He idly waves a hand, waving off whatever embarrassment he might feel now, telling his weaknesses to a handsome young man on a shooting range. "I might remember how to aim. But when it comes to firing, I've always lacked the conviction and courage -- two traits I understand you possess. You've a very sure stance."

¹ The typist likes to handwave timelines and will never commit to saying what year Claudius came from, but the Danes were using muskets by 1611.

“Yes. I doubt they have changed overmuch, since your time?” He continues with the reloading, then, thumping the musket on the ground at the end instead of using the ramrod.

“Well, this one does have a bit of a kick to it, I was used to the one I had at home. And I cannot promise I will be a patient teacher. Would you like to watch me fire, or…?”

Claudius can't help but smile. Enjolras has a very sure stance, but it's clear he hesitates, when it comes to the matters of teaching and sharing with other people. "I'll watch you fire first. If you don't mind."

“Of course not.” And so he steps a short distance away and fires again, sure and true, the bullet hitting its target as expected. (It is as he said; he is not a patient man.)

No hesitation at all. Wistfully, Claudius wonders what that’s like. But confidence can be trained — he suspects he’s a more confident dancer than Enjolras, and certainly more confident with casual flirtations. Those things come with practice. “It’s as though the weapon and bullet both are only extensions of your will,” Claudius says admiringly. “I’m quite impressed.”

Not here, no. At the barricades, when there is a young man on the other end of the barrel, occasionally. He does regret what he had to do there, but there was nothing else to be done in the moment.

“Practice,” is all he says, with a slight shrug. “My father taught me some five years ago, when I was still at home. I doubt he intended me to put it to the use I did.” He settles in to reloading the musket again, intent on his task.

"He imagined more genteel hunting parties in your future, I'm sure," Claudius remarks dryly. "Chances to see and be seen by important people on your way to becoming the next magistrate." It's something fathers do, isn't it? Teach their sons skills to set them up for success on a path that just so happens to run parallel to their own? Or it's something Claudius observed. He learned most of his skills like this, by standing back and watching, though he was rather less chatty as youth.

"He should have known better," mildly. "I am not one to sit complacent in the countryside." He offers the musket, with a nod towards it. "Would you like a go at it? Perhaps not shooting, just let me see how you hold it. It may just be a matter of adjusting your form."

"I'll be quite grateful for your instruction." Claudius takes the musket from Enjolras -- it truly has been some time since he held such a thing. But he can see now he held it too tight, stock gripped in his shaking hands, afraid to drop it and dearly wishing he could. He has to consciously loosen his grip, when he raises it again.

He stands back to get a better look at his form, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "It is alright, but you look like it is a snake that might bite you at the slightest inconvenience." It's playful enough chiding, and he moves to settle Claudius' hands where they should be. "It will not do anything until you direct it to, you know."

Claudius laughs, and there's something like relief in his laugh -- at the teasing, comfortable and familiar, and the confident grace of Enjolras's hands on his. He doesn't have to stand here aiming at the ghosts of his past, recounting past mistakes. "Like a dangerous but biddable young man. Yes, I'll keep that in mind."

"Good." There's a brief smile, and a nod. "Do you recall how to fire it? Just pull the trigger, there, if you would like; but mind the recoil." There's a beat. "'Dangerous but biddable,' hm? It sounds like you have experience."

“With firearms? Not since the war. With young men, yes, all kinds. I may lack martial skill or strength, but I admire it … and there are few things more satisfying than taking some attractive firebrand and turning him to my purposes with a word, or a look, or a touch on the chest.” He’s only teasing to build back his confidence — but it’s working well enough. A gun is a dangerous weapon, but it will only do what Claudius bids it to do. All it takes is a touch. For the first shot, he doesn’t have to aim anywhere but away, and when he presses the trigger, it’s a far-too-easy flick of the finger. The recoil does hit harder than he expected, and he hisses, but there’s something satisfying even in that, like the bucking of a rough and eager lover.

He just raises his eyebrows a little. "I am not so easily lead, I regret to inform you." It's said lightly, almost solemn, though it is slightly teasing back. He settles back in to watch, carefully, noting any adjustments he might need to make for the next time.

"Well done. It does like to jump, doesn't it? I do wish I had mine from home, it was much easier."

"Thank you for your instruction," Claudius says back appreciatively. "I wouldn't have managed otherwise. Also," he adds, "the biddable and easily lead men are only one of my weaknesses. I also like the charmingly difficult."

"Any time." He does mean it; he may as well ofer lessons if there is nothing else for him to do here. Perhaps it may become part of his routine.

He snorts at Claudius' last, however, shaking his head. "Of course you do. I assure you I will do my best to continue to be difficult, I have been told I am excellent at it."

Claudius laughs, delighted and surprised by how much that sounded like flirting back. It's probably wiser to assume it isn't, given everything he knows. "I'll look forward to it, then," he says, and offers the gun back.

It absolutely wasn't, but Enjolras is quite aware of the effect he has on people. He nods, looking a bit bemused, and takes the musket back in hand. "Is there anything else you needed?"

"I could use another recommendation. I appreciated Rousseau's rather vicious critique of hereditary monarchy and may be persuaded against monarchy altogether. But like all cynics, I was more convinced by his arguments against than his arguments for anything. I'd like to read what your other philosophers say about the ideal state of governance."

"Laertes has taken quite a liking to Voltaire, if you have a fondness for plays. One of my favorites is Socrates, but there are a number of his writings in the library as well." He justs lifts his eyebrows a little at the mention of 'cynics', managing to mostly hide an eyeroll. "Then again, if you require an altogether more cynical viewpoint, I would recommend Grantaire over myself."

"Oh, I've seen what Grantaire has to offer. But I like a balance of perspectives. Why choose one when you enjoy both?"

"I did not know you were so well-acquainted with him; he has clearly been busy.¹" He looks contemplative for a moment. "Very well. As I said, there is Voltaire in the library, but I might find some other writings if I look hard enough. Would you prefer more philosophy, or perhaps historical writing?"

¹ He has been busy, but perhaps not in the way Enjolras thinks.

Edited 2023-11-15 01:44 (UTC)

It’s almost a wonder, how ably Enjolras dodges implications, as though Claudius had just loosed a volley of arrows and Enjolras sidestepped them all without noticing. Claudius smirks and shakes his head. “Any and everything. I have a hunger for knowledge, or so Laertes tells me.” Laertes said love, but love is a rather tender and vulnerable word. “I’ll ask him what Voltaire he’s read when I see him next … and take whatever writings you can find when we meet again. It’s been a pleasure, Enjolras.”

Edited 2023-11-15 14:18 (UTC)

It is, yes, and it is purely because he hasn't noticed at all. It simply does not occur to him to think along such lines. "I know he has read Socrates, I did recommend him that one. But --good, now I shall know what to look for." He gives Claudius a small, polite smile, and a nod. "Until next time, then."

Laertes distantly hears the sound of shots from the range Nina had set up, and he thinks that he'd like to break the good news of his marriage to her--so he lopes around the grounds toward the fence in the shadow of the wood. Upon arriving, however, he sees not Nina, but Enjolras, grimly firing off shot after shot.

Laertes slows to a walk, approaching from an angle that he hopes will both reveal him to Enjolras's eyes and shield Laertes from musket balls. It's a delicate balance to walk. "Enjolras," he calls. "It's good to see you."

He does appreciate that, the less he is startled when holding an active firearm the better. He gives Laertes a brief smile, for a moment blazing like the sun, and waves.

"Sorry if I disturbed you, I needed to get outside." More properly, he needed to get away from prying questions about his relationship with Grantaire and be somewhere he could just not think for a few moments. It's been an interesting week or so.

"I understand the yearning," says Laertes, a touch wryly. "I've almost finished building a boat, since I came here--the clear air has been good for my humors."

"--That is impressive. How long have you been here, then? I do not think I would have the patience for such a thing." He knows he wouldn't, he likes to keep things moving quickly instead of taking his time. He can, at least, admire those who undertake such things.

"A month," Laertes answers, after thinking about it for a moment. Time tends to slip away from him even at the best of times, and here, there is no round of Sunday masses to keep the tally. "Christ, has it only been a month? I can scarce believe it. It feels as though I've done a thousand unthinkable things since I came here."

"It feels nearly the same for me, and it has only been a week. I can hardly imagine what a month would be like." He settles in to reloading his musket, pursing his lips a bit.

"I know I will not like sitting idle for so long."

"What type of occupation suits you?" Laertes asks. "When we spoke last, it was revolution--but revolution is a means to an end, not an end itself."

"I do not know, in truth." He shrugs a little. "At home, I think I mentioned, I studied law. There is no call for that here, and I did not have time for hobbies, too much, there."

"Thus, the gun." Laertes tilts his head a little, studying the musket. "Would you prefer a less dangerous form of exertion?"

"I confess, I do not know how good it is for my nerves, so suggestions would be welcomed." He has been noticing how tense he's been while doing his drills today, and it's a bit frustrating. He had been attempting to take some of the edge off, out here.

Laertes grins. "How are you at running?"

“Alright, I suppose. Why?”

"Catch me, then," says Laertes, and he takes off at a sprint.

“What—“ He blinks a little, taken aback, and then shrugs off his coat, leaving it in a pile atop the musket before racing after Laertes.

Laertes is fast, but more than that, he has stamina. After he rounds one of the Mansion's many improbable corners, he slows to the kind of ground-eating stride that he could keep up for an hour if he had to--looking back to make sure that Enjolras is following, pouring on speed when Enjolras seems to be catching up.

Enjolras is in fact following, laughing a little at the ridiculousness of it all. It has been quite some time since he's run, of course, so he is not quite as fast as Laertes, but he is certainly making an attempt. He is reasonably fit, of course, so eventually he'll catch up, but not just yet.

For a while, Laertes just lets himself get lost in the sheer joy of exertion: the wild laughter, the pounding of his own heart, the way Enjolras's face seems alight with something other than purpose. Right then, he burns to keep making Enjolras laugh.

In a meadow near the edge of the wood, though, where the grass is woven through with purple clover, Laertes slows just enough to let himself be caught--if Enjolras cares to catch him.

Well, he may as well! As Laertes slows, Enjolras catches up to him at last, laughing and hair askew, and taps him on the shoulder before sprawling down into the grass. "There, caught you." It is honestly a surprise, how good that made him feel, and he cannot help but smile.

"I don't think I've done that since before I came to Paris."

Laertes flops down beside him, grinning. His cheeks are flushed with the run, but he feels impossibly good; the scent of clover is all around him, and the sky is powdered with fine, high clouds. "At times we forget--we're panting, sweating creatures, as much appetite as angel. We need more than purpose to sustain us. We need good food, employment for our hands, and the company of others." He tilts his head to turn his smile on Enjolras. "I enjoy thy company very much, sir."

Enjolras, too, feels good; much better than he had while he was still doing his drills. It is a release of a different sort than he intended, but a release all the same; his mind is no longer lost in thoughts and memories of his last few days in Paris, nor is it on the strange conversation he had with Claudius days ago. It is simply present in the moment, and he continues smiling over at Laertes. "I suppose that is so, yes," he says thoughtfully. "I am too serious, a good deal of the time, my friends always used to chide me for it quite like you are now. Which is to say: I enjoy yours as well, mon ami."

"May I kiss thee?" Laertes asks, light, smiling. "It's of no moment if thou say'st no."

"I--" He's a little taken aback by the question, honestly hadn't even considered such a thing. "I don't..." There is some hesitation, and he settles back in the grass some to at least try and get a grip on the emotions that are running through him.

It doesn't sound unappealing. He's just never thought about anyone in that sort of way before, and here, now, where he has the time to perhaps concentrate on something like that -- it's all too new. He needs more time to think on it, to figure out exactly how he feels about all of this.

"No," is finally what he decides on, turning back to face Laertes properly, color rising in his cheeks. "That is to say --not yet at least, I have never paid much attention to ...all that." He gestures with a hand, demonstratively.

"I am sorry." He does sound it, too, he does not wish to disappoint this charming and unpredictable new friend of his, but he's also entirely certain he would have little idea of what to do in a romantic sense.

"Of course--as I said, it's of no moment." It was a gentle enough refusal that it only touches Laertes lightly; the day is still fine, and the company is still good, and what regret is in his heart is easily quieted. "I did find thy Socrates," he says, diverting to a new subject without letting his smile waver. "It was funnier than I expected. But I see why thou likest it. There are passions enough in it to rouse a mouse against injustice."

"It is very good, isn't it?" He settles back in the grass again, rolling so he might get his weight more settled. "If you managed to find it, and you've taken a liking to Voltaire, I'm sure there's more to be found in the library. I took more than enough books that day that I haven't been back, just yet."

There's a pause. "You do remind me of one of my dearest friends, you know. I think you would like Courfeyrac, if he were to arrive here."

"Oh? What's he like?" Laertes asks.

"Oh, he is --was --my second lieutenant, of a sort. We studied law together, and he was quite often distracted by various things --ladies, primarily, but he was a fine man all the same. Charming and warm, and he took in Pontmercy, I think? --when he left his grandfather's house. So quite kind, as well." In truth, Courfeyrac is one third of their little circle of three, the warmth to Enjolras' fire and Combeferre's light; and Enjolras does not know quite what to do without him. Perhaps that will change, in time.

Laertes reaches across the grass and briefly presses Enjolras's hand, then withdraws. "I hope he comes," he says. "He sounds like a fine and noble heart, and one that ought to beat again."

"He is, yes." There's a brief smile, and he glances away. "I am sorry, I did not mean to ruin this by speaking of the past. It is only that you having me chase you made me think of him." But at least he's speaking of it! There's some progress, there.

"Tell me of thy friends," Laertes offers. "If they come, I want to greet them as though they were my own."

"You may as well be one of them," he grins a little. "I have already spoken of Courfeyrac, my second lieutenant. Combeferre is the first lieutenant, he is our philosopher and our doctor; my oldest friend. He is ...very dear to me, almost my other half, if that makes any sense. He tells me when I am wrong and is usually correct, though I mislike it." There's a wry look. "He can also be quite terrifying when he wishes to be. He is a man of science and progress, and I love him dearly for it.

Then there is Jean Prouvaire, but we called him Jehan most often. He is a poet, intelligent and brave and full of fancies, he has the oddest ideas most of the time, but you can't fault him for it. He is as concerned with the rights of the people and equality as he is with his words and flowers." He pauses a moment, remembering the barricades, the last time he had heard Jehan's voice ringing out over the walls.

"He is -- they are all some of the bravest men I have ever known. But that is another topic, and to continue: next there are Joly and Bossuet, which -- yes, I have said two, but they were most often together at home anyhow. Joly is a doctor as well, though sometimes more concerned with himself having the diseases he read about than his learning. When he is not doing that, however, he is always willing to share a drink or a joke. He --makes the room seem brighter, somehow. His other half, Bossuet, is the unluckiest man you could ever hope to meet. He has made a lifelong friend of misfortune, somehow. But he, too, has a sense of humor about it. They share everything, even their mistress." There's another pause, as he shifts position a little.

"Then, Feuilly. One of the few among our amis that is not a student, he is a fanmaker. But even though he does not study, he is one of the most intelligent men I know. He thirsts for knowledge and liberation of the people --if France is my mother, then humanity is perhaps Feuilly's. He knows all sorts of things about the rest of Europe, ancient history -- Poland is a particular favorite of his. I do admire him very much, he has come from nothing and worked so very hard to educate and inspire himself.

Bahorel is next. He is our oldest brother, and he acts like it." He gives a brief, fond smile. "He is very bold, and fond of a fight, studying law for longer than I have been in Paris and yet still not a lawyer. It is deliberate, at this point; he wants change to come as much as the rest of us do. He is very good with people, as well, fond of mingling and cafes.

Lastly, of those not here, there is Pontmercy. I do not know him well at all, he has only come to a small number of meetings. I do think Combeferre and I may have frightened him off at the first. However, he fought bravely with us at the barricades, and for that I am grateful." There is a long pause here, as he collects his thoughts on the last of his amis. He's been stewing over it for a week at this point, he may as well let it lie in the open. (And perhaps it's better, that Laertes doesn't know Grantaire well. Maybe it will be easier, then.)

"--And then, as I said, there is Grantaire. He is here as well, if you have not met him yet you may well soon enough. He is cynical and brash and loud -- ...well, as loud as any of the rest of us are, I suppose. He is...damnably frustrating, to the point where I want to bang my head against a wall every time I speak with him." Though he is complaining, a little, it does sound somewhat fond. "I do not know why he seems to enjoy frustrating me so, but he ...is a good friend, despite all that. I cannot fault him there." He rubs a hand across his face, then, staring up at the clouds dashed across the sky like so many wads of cotton, and is silent for a small moment. "He died with me. I did not think he believed in anything, save a good glass of wine and billiards, but at the end -- he stood with me, for the republic. He asked my permission." It's said quietly, a little wondering, a little sad. "I do not know what to think of it."

Laertes listens to this recitation in silence, bearing witness to the names and lives of these dear strangers. He almost feels them close by, voices echoing from beyond the impassable gate--the high, strident tones of their calls for justice, the hush of their conspiracy; the ringing gladness of their laughter. He wishes he could take Enjolras's hand in his and hold it, offering mute comfort to his grief. "I wish I knew them," he says at last. "I hope I may, one day. Thy love for them is woven through every word."

If he did, Enjolras likely wouldn't mind. He feels a little small and lost, now he's let all that out, a little comfort would be welcomed. "It's so strange, to be without them," still just as quiet as he was talking about Grantaire. "They are my brothers, they should be here with me."

At that, Laertes does take his hand, fingers warm and sure on the cool grass. "How wouldst thou make this a place that would welcome them?"

"I don't know." He doesn't mind the hand, save to twine his own fingers with Laertes' absently. It is somewhat unconscious in all truth, reacting as he would to Courfeyrac or Combeferre. "It is already miles ahead of anything we might have asked for, at home. Perhaps there might be more cafes, but the bar serves its purpose well enough. It is just too quiet."

"It's true; for a place where so many people live together, it often feels as though our lives are as separate as islands. Shared meals might do much to unite us--or meetings, of the kinds thou hadst with thy friends."

"They might, yes, but then again it might feel like school." He quirks a sideways smile at Laertes, and lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "Meetings might work. I cannot think what we would discuss as a whole, I have scarcely met everyone here and so do not know their sensibilities."

"It might be a good way to find out."

"It might, yes. But where would we get word out? And how often should they be?"

"The welcome table? How often did you meet, in Paris?"

"It varied. Generally twice a month, sometimes more if events called for it."

"Then we'll try twice a month, and see whether that answers thy need." Laertes withdraws his hand and knits his fingers together over his stomach, gazing up at the slowly drifting clouds.

"That sounds alright." Enjolras does the same, for a moment lost in his own thoughts and memories. "I am sorry," he says after a minute or two. "I did not mean to -- to lay all of that on you, though you did ask; but it is the first time I have spoken of them since everything, so I suppose it was needed."

"If it feels lighter now, then I'm happy to take a little of thy burden." He laughs, just a faint huff of sound. "I'm happy to draw thee on to pleasures. Hast thou ever been swimming?"

"Of course, but not recently. It had not got hot enough at home, yet, but if it was awfully bad, we would go to the Seine sometimes in the summer." He glances up at the sky. "I suppose it is nice enough, today."

"It may not be fine much longer." Laertes heaves himself up, then reaches down for Enjolras with a smile. "Come on--I promise I'll keep my eyes on thy face."

There’s a mildly bemused snort, and he takes the offered arm, leveraging himself up. “Thank you, though I cannot imagine scars would be so pleasing to look at.”

Laertes swallows down his first answer (I find them very pleasing), and his second (I find thee fair enough as thou art). "Thou art no marble statue," he says instead. "Thou art meant to live, not only to be seen."

Surprisingly enough, that makes some color rise to Enjolras’ cheeks, though he is unaware of it, and he gives Laertes a small, quietly pleased smile. “You have the right of it, mon ami. Thank you.”

Like everyone else, Galahad is drawn by the sound of the musket firing. It is entirely foreign to him (T.H. White notwithstanding) and when he finds Enjolras he stops and just watches him for a long while.

In which case, Enjolras will have to thank Galahad for not disturbing him, later. If he stays to watch long enough he may well note that Enjolras is very good at what he is doing, shooting straight and true for the most part, despite the musket ocassionally bucking in his hands. He's settled into almost a sort of meditative rhythm, reloading and shooting and reloading again, and from time to time going to recover some of the lost musket balls. To all appearances, he is unaware of any watchers, or perhaps he's just purposefully being single-minded in his pursuit of alone time.

Finally, curiosity overtaking him, he comes closer to Enjolras. "What is it?"

Thankfully, Enjolras is not looking to shoot anyone today, and Galahad has disturbed him at an opportune moment, when he is paused in the middle of reloading. "It is called a musket. They are generally used in warfare at a distance." There's a slight pause. "If you are familiar with cannons, it is similar to that, but much smaller."

"No." He comes closer. "It is a weapon?"

"It is, yes." He offers it so Galahad can take a closer look if he likes, it has only got powder in it at the moment. "It --well, if you saw myself or my friend upon our arrivals, you would have seen; it can be very powerful."

His driving curiosity here is whether his ability to use any weapon translates to weapons he's never seen before, and he takes the musket at once. It does come to his hand easily, and he lifts it to his shoulder as he watched Enjolras do. It feels as natural there as Laertes' sword did in his hand.

"There is no ammunition inside it, only powder, so it will not do anything just yet. You fire it by pressing on the trigger, just there." He indicates it with a hand. "Would you like to try firing it? I can load it for you so you might see."

Galahad squeezes the trigger experimentally, just to feel what it's like. "Yes."

"Alright." Assuming that Galahad will let him, he takes the musket and continues loading it, tamping the ball and powder down quite well. When all is settled, he hands the gun back to Galahad and takes a few steps back. "You have watched me aim it, I think you might have a fair understanding. But do be careful, as the back end may kick out a bit."

He nods. He has no idea what will happen -- it's one thing to have immediate mastery of a weapon used in close combat, and another for a distance weapon, which works on entirely different principles -- but he aims carefully and shoots.

What happens, to his great interest, is a sort of splitting of the difference. His form with the musket is very nearly perfect, and the recoil doesn't bother him, but his shot goes wide. He supposes that makes sense. God is in his arm, and by extension the musket, but not the musket ball, and he already knew from billiards that aiming at what you want to hit can be challenging. He glances over at Enjolras, pleased with the knowledge.

Enjolras gives him a small smile and an encouraging nod. "Very well done, for your first time." Yes, it went wide, but practice does make perfect. "Would you like to try again? I can show you the whole reloading process this time."

"Yes." And then, after a beat, "Thank you."

"Of course." And so he repeats the process of loading the musket once more, going slowly so Galahad might watch: pouring some powder into the pan and then the barrel, adding the ammunition and wadding, and tamping it all down with the ramrod.

"If you are in a great hurry, after you put the ammunition in, you might slam the butt on the ground to tamp it. It works just as well."

It's a great deal of work, and Galahad does wonder why not just use an arrow, but he's more interested in the process, so he takes it all in. He nods at this instruction.

He offers the musket again, with another nod. “Try again, if you like. It does take some getting used to.”

If the loading of the musket seems complicated, this back and forth is easy. Enjolras instructs, and all Galahad has to do is listen, and then use his body in the way God intended. He takes the musket again. His past selves were frightened by the idea of being a weapon, but Galahad is used to it, and it doesn't perturb him.

This time the shot is closer to the mark; the bottle rattles slightly as the air goes by. He has to try, and as with billiards, he likes having to try.

It unfortunately is complicated, but Enjolras died just before proper rifles came about. "There, yes, now you're getting it." He gives Galahad another small smile. "Would you like to try loading it this time?"

He nods and says, "Thank you," just to be on the safe side (it's obvious to him that he's appreciative, but he's learned over time that it is often enough not obvious to other people). He has a fairly good memory for the steps, and he does as Enjolras did, powder, ball, and wadding."

"Of course." Enjolras, too, is brief with his words sometimes, and Galahad's quiet appreciation is clear enough. "There, good, now just tamp it down all together, and fire."

So he does. If Enjolras doesn't object, there's a real chance that they will just be standing around shooting for the next few hours; he tends to hyperfocus on new projects, just as he did with Grantaire and the billiards.

Of course he doesn't. If Galahad is willing, he will offer pointers and tips where he can, until Galahad is satisfied with his new knowledge. (It is a mercy that Galahad picks things up quickly, as Enjolras has never been one for patience.)

By the end of it, he actually can hit his targets fairly well, and he looks over at Enjolras for approval in a way that, even with his often blank affect, is obvious.

Which he will get, in the form of a pleased smile and nod. "You are a very quick learner, monsieur. I do not think that I picked it up nearly as well as you have, my first time shooting."

"Really?" with a flush of gladness -- he didn't know how to do that before, he had to try.

“Yes, I could not hit the targets nearly so well as you have.” There’s a bit of a wry twist to his smile. “I was quite impatient when I was younger.”

"When did you start?" He's not sure how old Enjolras is, but they seem close in age.

“Oh—before I came to Paris, but only just. So when I was 17, I think? It was five years ago, perhaps nearly six.”

At seventeen he was already in Camelot. "Who taught you?" he asks.

“My father. I imagine he thought I would go hunting or some such thing.”

"For hunting?" The very idea seems faintly ridiculous -- Galahad had looked at the musket and decided immediately that it was a weapon for battle.

He shrugs. "A common enough pastime in the country. I doubt he expected me to use his lessons as I have."

"Thank you for teaching me."

"You are most welcome. If you would ever like some more, you need only find me."

That's a more generous offer than he had expected. "Thank you," he says again, and then, "My name is Galahad."

Well, it is not as though he has anything better to do, and as previously stated, Galahad is a fast learner. His impatience matters little here. "You are welcome, I am called Enjolras."

Luo Binghe, upon hearing more loud noises, wanders over in hope that Nina is behind them. Instead he sees a blond man he's yet to meet.

He stands and watches for a time before making his presence known. When Nina described this weapon to him, he thought it a poor substitute for a cultivation technique he does not favor. But he can appreciate the deadly precision of it. Luo Binghe has no need of such a device, but he can see how mortals with no powers would find it efficient.

Luo Binghe does not particularly like getting to know people, but as more and more people arrive, he is beginning to feel unmoored by his ignorance. More connections are always valuable. With this in mind, he feels himself quite generous and accommodating as he says, "A fascinating display."

For once, he has caught Enjolras at a time where he is on the hunt for musket balls. So he looks up from his spot, knelt down near one of the targets. "Thank you," he replies, somewhat bemused. "I did not intend for it to be, but I suppose I am the center of attention once again."

This mildly annoys Luo Binghe. He's never seen this man before; now he claims to be constantly the center of attention? "Who are you, then, to be so sought after? I am Luo Binghe." He bites back the Emperor of the Three Realms. He'd rather not say it than say it and be mocked for it, as keeps happening. How this place tests him.

"I am Enjolras, and I would not say sought after, at all, I am only new here." It's a good thing he did not mention it, as Enjolras would certainly not take kindly to it. (Alright, he does know vaguely that Claudius is a prince, but they haven't actually talked about it in public; and Claudius has also read The Social Contract.) "And some people here have a ....particular tendency to speak with me."

"You don't favor the company of strangers? I don't either. There is little else to do in this place, until some strangers become friends, and even then more people arrive daily. It is tiresome in the extreme." Luo Binghe might call it a hell, except that he has experienced hell.

"I do not." Mostly it's because he doesn't know what to say to them, and with his lack of seven available buffers to human interaction here, he is at a bit of a loss. "I have noticed that people do seem to arrive frequently, yes. I have only been here a little over a week, I think, and already there have been more people."

"Have you grown close to anyone?" If he's friends with the people Luo Binghe hates, this conversation is barely worth having.

"I--" He hesitates, frowning. It is not so easy for him to become close with people after just a few conversations, he is ...not the best at making friends. "I have spoken a good deal with Msr. Claudius and Laertes," he finally says after a slight pause. "And I've a friend from my home here as well; he arrived a few days before I did."

Ugh, Claudius? Luo Binghe doesn't know about the other; they've never met.¹ But Enjolras didn't say he liked Claudius, he only said they've spoken. Luo Binghe will magnanimously extend him grace. He is a new arrival, and Luo Binghe himself was initially swayed by Claudius' wiles. "I would take care with Claudius. He is not so sincere as he seems." He gestures to the musket. "What need have you for such a weapon?"

Luckily for Enjolras, Luo Binghe has no interest at all in who his friend from home is or what their relationship might be.

¹Yes they have.

Enjolras is still a bit wary of Claudius, it's true. They have spoken extensively, but Enjolras is slow to make friends at the best of times, unless he feels an immediate connection. Claudius is -- too prying, for his tastes, a little too pushy for him to be entirely comfortable with. "Thank you for the warning, monsieur, it is appreciated. --I have no need here, as of yet, but I thought it best to keep in practice."

Enjolras' acceptance of his warning pleases Luo Binghe. For some reason, people have been all too eager to take Claudius' side in their conflict, but it looks like this man is more sensible.

A man who maintains his weaponry without any obvious dangers around is either a trained soldier or paranoid, and as a notoriously paranoid person himself, Luo Binghe is intrigued. "You had need of it where you came from, then?"

Claudius is charming. Enjolras is charming, too, but capable of being terrible. Perhaps that is why.

"Well, I did come from a battle, so yes. This one is not mine, I only found it here, but I needed to get outside."

"You came directly from a battle? What was the conflict?"

“From my death, in fact, yes.” He settles his musket on the ground beside him.

“My brothers and I were involved in a revolt against the monarchy.” He may as well say it plainly, he is not ashamed of it in the slightest.

Ha. A revolutionary who has no idea that he's speaking to an emperor. The irony amuses him. He's not remotely threatened by this; he has no objection to people rising up against power, as long as he is not the power. Luo Binghe himself has deposed a number of kings. "Unsuccessful, it seems."

"Did the death give it away," drily. "It was at the time, yes, but in the end we did win out after all." Enjolras does not, in theory, have quarrels with emperors that are not of France, or that have no power in a place where power cannot be had. Should that change, of course, and should he find out Luo Binghe's status, that may also change.

"Indulge my curiosity. What were the king's faults, that made you rise against him?"

"A number of things, but firstly: our revolution was stolen from us, we wanted a republic but got another king instead, who had the same faults as the last. He did nothing to change the status quo, people were dying of illness in the streets from bad water, and he sat and did nothing when our last hope for progress died."

"What is a republic?" His interest is piqued.

"It is a system of government in which the head of state is elected by the people, not placed there by divine providence or a hostile takeover or anything like that. It is what my friends and I died for, and I have been told that France is a republic in whatever time it is that M. Magnus came from." He could go on for ages if Binghe would let him, but for now, he will keep it mostly succinct.

Luo Binghe laughs. "That seems unstable. Couldn't a powerful enough man simply defeat the elected leader, and establish himself as king?"

Enjolras purses his lips at that. "Indeed. In an ideal world, one would not have factions within the republic tearing it apart from the inside, either; but one does learn from ones' mistakes, in theory." Not that he was even in existence for the first republic, but he's done his reading.

"And in any case, it is not like this hypothetical republic would be unguarded, armies exist whether or not there is a king in charge of a country. Men are more inclined to fight for their own glory and honor of their country, rather than a king's whom they have likely never seen and has never thought about them even once."

"A strong leader would unite the factions, and command the respect of the army. Perhaps no one in your world has the type of power I mean." If Enjolras is from one of those worlds without demons, this makes a little more sense. Luo Binghe could see humans allowing someone to take charge of them based on nothing more than an election and some ingrained sense of propriety, but no demon would respect a leader they didn't believe could kill them. "Tell me, what thinking species inhabit your world? Humans alone?"

"One tried," Enjolras replies curtly. "He tried to name himself Emperor of all of Europe, but he was exiled and is long dead. He was a man who served in the military of my country during the First Republic." He does not really wish to go into the specifics of Buonaparte here with Luo Binghe, if Pontmercy were present, surely Marius could do so with abandon. But Enjolras is steadily growing more reserved, the longer this conversation goes on. "Yes, there are only humans, to my knowledge."

"If it were me, I would not be defeated," Luo Binghe says smugly. "In my own world, I united both the human and demon realms under my reign. Strength is the only true currency of value, because neither honor nor ideals can conquer it. I should like to see how your Emperor of all Europe could match with me in one-on-one combat."

Enjolras bristles a little, and his tone is suddenly very cold and precise. "He is not my emperor. My home would do perfectly well without him, France does not need an emperor to make her great. She is great because she is France. You may have your fight with Buonaparte if you wish it, I do not care in the slightest."

"Obviously. You mentioned he was dead," Luo Binghe says, unbothered. "Let me know if he shows up here, then. I hear being dead is no obstacle."

deux: it must be done

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject