Let others rise to take our place

[idealisme]

Characters: Enjolras, open
Date: The evening of his arrival
Location: Sitting somewhere around the Wood sector, near his suite.
Situation: Enjolras is alive and doesn't really want to talk to anyone on the magical talking box yet.
Warnings/Rating: None? Talk of martyrdom, injury




[It was strange here, but peaceful.

Peaceful was what Enjolras needed at the present moment, with his thoughts so very tumultuous. It had not been a day, in his estimation, since the barricade around the Corinthe and their revolution had been cut short. It was hard to believe, sitting on this bench in the evening sun, that the past few hours were not all a dream of violence and passion.

He was grounded by the state of his clothes. The ocean had washed most of the blood away and something had staunched the bleeding, but the bullet holes were there on his vest, and there were marks on his skin beneath which could only be caused by musket fire.

He should see a doctor, he knew. But he did not wish to deal with the after yet. For now he simply wanted to sit, in the late evening sun, in all of his wretched and bloody state, and think on this:

He had died for the Republic.




But should anyone come along and wish to talk, then he would welcome that also.]

Comments

[philosophe]

[Surely it would not hurt to explore a bit, to Combeferre's way of thinking. So -- he had been stitched and bandaged, by the odd young woman who called herself a paramedic. He knew Jehan was there, their poet was a welcome presence indeed. But he does not yet know what else awaits, in this strange new city.

So he had taken it upon himself to wander, waistcoat buttoned to hide the strips and cuts in his bloodied shirt, coat on as well, all present and correct. But he didn't make it too far from his lodgings before stopping and staring.

The young man in front of him looked too familiar for this to be real, surely it was a fever dream, a hallucination, something brought on by the many harried thoughts he had shoved to the back of his mind earlier. He took a step closer. No. He wasn't disappearing, this had to be -- and why wouldn't it be? Jehan was here as well. It would make sense.]

Enj -- [He stopped, cleared his throat, tried again.]

Enjolras?

[poeticverses]

[Jehan is leaving Combeferre's suite when he spots Enjolras. He needs a bath and food and possibly something to drink and most certainly sleep. After that, he would feel much better.

Of course, as soon as he sees that familiar golden head and that red jacket (always with the red jackets), his plans go out the window. He heads over, stopping just in front of the man and kneeling to make sure he's seen before speaking]

M-Michel?

[Because this is worthy of first names]

[idealisme]

[It had crossed his mind that this may all be a dream. Quite a lucid one, but a dream nonetheless. And it is no doubt normal to hear the voices of one's friends in a dream.

But Combeferre is dead. Courfeyrac is dead. Feuilly and Jehan and L'aigles and-

His eyes open.

There is such a rush of emotion that follows the sight of his dearest friend standing so close, battered by seemingly alive. Enjolras denies them all, unwilling to become overwhelmed, and gets to his feet.

It hurt to stand, but it would hurt far more not to know if his friend is really here also. And if it is really Combeferre, here to join him in his own afterlife, then Enjolras has a great need to embrace him.]

Mon frère-

[philosophe]

[It is, of course, and he hurries to return that hug in kind, if a bit more carefully than is his usual wont. It hurts, to see Enjolras bruised and bloodied, but it is a sight he has grown accustomed to over the years. The hug Enjolras receives is tight as he can make it, warm and wondering and perhaps a little quiet.]

It is you.

[idealisme]

[With the foreknowledge that he is here too, it is a little easier seeing Jehan that it was Combeferre. But not much.

Usually he would protest at their situation, refusing to speak to anyone kneeling at his feet. For now, however, he will let it pass.]

Etienne said you were here also.

[His smile is gentle, and he places a kiss to the crown of Jehan's head. Jehan had been the first, and it was easier to think of his death than the rest (caught up in madness and blood).]

Hello, Jehan.

[idealisme]

[For his part, Enjolras clasps his friend as tightly as he can, regardless of the pain it causes. In spite of the pain, in fact. He is dead, he should feel no pain.

But all too quickly he pulls back to keep himself in check. He feels as though he is held upright with worn rope, and that too much of anything will cause them to wear through entirely and he will have no strength left to stand.]

Combeferre, I had not expected- That is, I did not think that such a thing could be possible.

[But it seems he has few words at all at present. A first, possibly, that Enjolras has no speech to give his friends.]

[philosophe]

I did not either, but it is so. [Enjolras may have pulled back, but he's still not moving, reaching to trace the line of his shoulders gently, cautiously. It is not really anything he would do with the other amis -- save perhaps Courfeyrac, but Enjolras is his dearest friend, his brother in arms, the flame to his steady lantern. He will understand.]

We live, though we should not. I will not ask what happened, not now. [A moment's pause, as he pulls his hand back and makes to adjust glasses that are still not there, woops.]

I shall tell you this, mon frère, our poet is here and in one piece. His lodgings are not too far from my own. Have you found yours yet?

[trainwrecked]

[Bucky was taking a scenic route home, tonight. Mostly because, yeah, sunlight. Between the dip and the usual rain, he could use it, a bit.]

[... and then there was somebody looking bloodied and tired that was sitting in one of the parks, and Bucky wandered over.]

Did you get to see a medic, yet? Or you can just use a shopping trip?

[poeticverses]

[He's here. Enjolras is here. Combeferre is here. Jehan isn't alone.

And, really, out of everything that's happened today, being alone in this strange purgatory was what scared him the most. He can face down the National Guard and not bat an eye, but...well, it's been a rough day.

Jehan pulls Enjolras into as tight a hug as he dares, a little teary-eyed]

[squint]

[ Cobb has no reason to be in the Wood district. Not really, no--but he's taken to walks. Partially to take in the gorgeous architecture, partially to assess the situation. Once an extractor, always an extractor.

And, if he's being honest, a lot of it is to pull his mind away from things. Everything was a strange in-between of sense and being stripped of everything he knew. At the very least, he had to keep it together for Arthur and Ariadne.

He recognizes the look in the other's eyes as he passes by--just a glance is enough--and when he doubles back, he has a small cup of green tea for each of them, taking a seat and offering one to the blonde.

He doesn't ask the other for anything. Doesn't feel the need to. Silence is better. ]

[virginprice]

[Alcuin has been occupying himself with a tour of the sectors, and today it is his turn to visit Wood- the twisting, organic houses are so fascinating and unlike anything else he has ever seen that he nearly misses Enjolras sitting on a bench.

However, his eyes are too sharp to let him go entirely unremarked, and once he's noticed him he sees the bullet holes and what was left of the blood- another arriving so wounded? He has seen no violence here.

He hesitates a moment before he crosses to him.]

Excuse me, messire, but do you need help? You look as though you've been wounded.

[idealisme]

[The hand at his shoulder is welcome, for the longer he stands unmoving the more he feels his legs begin to shake.]

Prouvaire? Truly? [The news is wonderful, though he cannot smile at it- he will allow himself to feel nothing until everything is made sense of and comprehended in a logical manner.]

I have been an apartment in that building there- [He indicates it,] but come, my friend. Let us sit and talk of these matters before my strength completely leaves me.

[idealisme]

[He looks up, nodding a greeting to the young man. He's realised by now that there are some linguistic differences here; the young man probably isn't asking if he's fallen over.]

I will see a physician eventually, but in the meantime I believe my wounds pose me no real danger.

[idealisme]

[The embrace is quickly returned, Enjolras every bit as relieved to have a familiar face to greet int his unfamiliar place.

He gently pulls Jehan up to sit beside him on the bench, equals now and forever.]

Oh, my bravest of brothers. It is good to see you again.

[philosophe]

Truly, I have seen him and tended his wounds myself. [Now he is all concern, though, sitting down next to Enjolras with a faint sigh of relief on his own part. Perhaps exploring wasn't the best idea after all.]

Yes, let us do so. [With a grin, he continues with a nod at the building Enjolras indicated.] We may be neighbors.

[poeticverses]

[And Jehan goes, of course. He quickly wipes away any sign of tears, but it doesn't really last]

And you.

[Even if it means they failed. Combeferre told him about what happened after his death, so he won't ask Enjolras. Not yet.]

Are you staying nearby? Combeferre is in a tree not too far from here, and my suite is a short walk away in the other direction.

[idealisme]

[It is disconcerting to be so wary of strangers. Enjolras' eyes have followed each person to pass him, not because he fears they will be revealed to be a member of the National Guard in disguise, but for the simple reason that he cannot bear for anyone to take him unawares while he is not entirely himself.

So he tenses when he recognises someone returning and approaching him.

The kindness of a simple cup of drink takes him entirely by surprise.]


Merci, monsieur. That is most kind of you.

[idealisme]

[Technically the stranger is incorrect. He has been killed, not wounded.

But that is a petty distinction here, in this place that is between (how had they said it?) life, dreaming, and death. Enjolras offers the man a nod in greeting.]

They were inflicted prior to my arrival, and I am in no current danger. Thank you, though, for your concern, monsieur.

[virginprice]

Another of the French, then. It is a pleasure, monsieur.

[Judging by the accent on that last word, he is also French... or close enough.]

Do you know the other two? They arrived only last night, in... similar condition.

[idealisme]

[Wounds- of course. They would all have wounds. Talk of their housing momentarily forgotten, Enjolras' hand instinctively moves to Combeferre's waistcoat and the bayonet wounds there. He forces himself to remember their creation; his friends death. It would be utmost cowardice not to honour a sacrifice as great as this.

His fingers rest on the tear closest to his heart.] I thank you, my most dear and brave Combeferre.

[philosophe]

[He tenses a little--minutely, but surely Enjolras can feel it, the wounds are still tender and raw, though thankfully bandaged now. Even so, he cannot help but smile at such words from his dearest friend, and he reaches to squeeze Enjolras' hand.]

There is no need, Michel. I knew what was to come, as did you. I would never have left you.

[idealisme]

My apartment is in the same building as his, we believe. [He indicates it nearby through the trees.

He does not mention the tears, and his own eyes have so far remained dry. Enjolras will not cry, will not feel sadness at their deaths. He cannot allow himself to.]

I will go to him, once I have had a little more air, and our physician will set me to rights.

[poeticverses]

[He doesn't expect Enjolras to cry. He never cries.]

Are you certain you shouldn't go to him now? I feel awful saying that, for I think Combeferre might be in worse condition than either of us, but for all that I've been told of other doctors and healers I've yet to actually speak with one.

[idealisme]

If you mean Prouvaire and Combeferre then yes, it is not half an hour since we were reunited.

[He is curious about the accent, unable to match it to a regional accent though it has a very french air about it.] My name is Enjolras. Michel, if you prefer a Christian name.

[idealisme]

[His touch remains as gentle as he can manage, his own chest sensitive to every move he makes. He shakes his head, even as he grips Combeferre's hand.] No, do not say that, my friend.

[His mind rebels at the thought that the amis might have died for him, for Michel Enjolras. He is a man, and to ask others to die for his sake would be the most vile betrayal of their brotherhood.

It would break him to think their lives were spent in his name.]

We stood together for France and the République.