Enjolras has wandered his way here, for whatever reason, his eyes widening as he takes in the sheer amount of books. It's a far cry from the part of their new housing shared by himself and Combeferre, as covered with books as the dual spaces had been. He does not allow the thought of Combeferre to linger now, as there are others about, but he does allow himself to think of another friend who would appreciate this just as much as Combeferre would, and as he does.
Feuilly, with his love for learning mercifully does not hurt to think about now, as much as Enjolras is well aware he should have gotten his second chief of the barricades well away from it along with Jehan and Combeferre, to continue living into a new world that would have needed them, regardless of whether or not he would have willed it. Perhaps, because he has not seen Feuilly here, in this place between his life and death, because Feuilly is so very much a part of the old life, he finds it a little easier to look back on him and only smile, instead of wanting to curl up somewhere and die because of how dead he feels inside.
In any case, he finds himself browsing the shelves, his mind trained not on his preferences, or on Combeferre's, but Feuilly's instead, his mind skipping over bits of conversation they have had, of various works Feuilly had been reading and stopped to speak with him about. Enjolras still wonders at the fact that he was the one so chosen, out of all of them, to be so honored, and he finds himself wishing, as he did in life, to have access and time to consider some of the works his friend had spoken of loving so much. Something of Poland or Greece, and actually...
His mind strays to a certain biography his friend had mentioned more than once as having quite the influence on his thought process. Kościuszko, he recalls the subject well enough, and the man's attempts to stand against Poland's second partition, though he's rather fuzzy on the author or translator at this point. At any rate, he's scanning the shelves for the name, then pulling said biography from a shelf, surprised at his luck. That is, until he begins scanning pages, and it seems almost as if he's still looking at Polish itself the way the words and details scramble up in his mind.
Still, he's game to keep on going a little, searching for somewhere to sit, so he can puzzle all of this out in more detail. At least this is far less painful than taking down any of the natural histories, or god forbid, insect texts that he remembers clearly from watching Combeferre reading them in Paris. This memory brings a smile, where the other would bring tears, and so, mixed up words and all, he's gamely trying anyway, although he finds the swimming words quite odd when it comes to down to it.
Perhaps he should seek out some help, though he is not sure who he might ask in here, after all.
Enjolras | Library | Open
Feuilly, with his love for learning mercifully does not hurt to think about now, as much as Enjolras is well aware he should have gotten his second chief of the barricades well away from it along with Jehan and Combeferre, to continue living into a new world that would have needed them, regardless of whether or not he would have willed it. Perhaps, because he has not seen Feuilly here, in this place between his life and death, because Feuilly is so very much a part of the old life, he finds it a little easier to look back on him and only smile, instead of wanting to curl up somewhere and die because of how dead he feels inside.
In any case, he finds himself browsing the shelves, his mind trained not on his preferences, or on Combeferre's, but Feuilly's instead, his mind skipping over bits of conversation they have had, of various works Feuilly had been reading and stopped to speak with him about. Enjolras still wonders at the fact that he was the one so chosen, out of all of them, to be so honored, and he finds himself wishing, as he did in life, to have access and time to consider some of the works his friend had spoken of loving so much. Something of Poland or Greece, and actually...
His mind strays to a certain biography his friend had mentioned more than once as having quite the influence on his thought process. Kościuszko, he recalls the subject well enough, and the man's attempts to stand against Poland's second partition, though he's rather fuzzy on the author or translator at this point. At any rate, he's scanning the shelves for the name, then pulling said biography from a shelf, surprised at his luck. That is, until he begins scanning pages, and it seems almost as if he's still looking at Polish itself the way the words and details scramble up in his mind.
Still, he's game to keep on going a little, searching for somewhere to sit, so he can puzzle all of this out in more detail. At least this is far less painful than taking down any of the natural histories, or god forbid, insect texts that he remembers clearly from watching Combeferre reading them in Paris. This memory brings a smile, where the other would bring tears, and so, mixed up words and all, he's gamely trying anyway, although he finds the swimming words quite odd when it comes to down to it.
Perhaps he should seek out some help, though he is not sure who he might ask in here, after all.