World: Paris
Scene: October 1831.
Players: Enjolras = Abby; Darcel = Amy; Elene = Jen
Enjolras makes his way up the street, incongruously elegant amid the shabby buildings, in a melancholy autumn twilight.
Darcel meanders aimlessly, eyes directed more or less at the ground; dishevelled, lips quirked in wry amusement at some inner jest, or at the world in general.
A nameless gamine darts out from a nearby alleyway, calling out to someone behind her. "You can't catch me with a net, Louis! You're as slow as a horseless fiacre!"
Enjolras glances up, with an involuntary half-grin.
Darcel halts, shaken from his reverie, and chuckles. "Where in hell's treasure trove of stolen virtues do they find the energy?" he murmurs to the air.
Not looking where she's going, of course the gamine trips over a loose stone and sprawls to the ground roughly. Biting back tears at a bad scrape on her knee, she tries to get to her feet, glancing almost fiercely at her observers.
Enjolras blinks, moves as though to steady the child, but of course he's far too slow. He winces as she hits, and starts forward regardless. "Careful. Are you all right?"
"Yes..." She tries for a defiant tone, but her lip is quivering with the unshed tears. She bites it conscientiously. "I'm fine." After debating it in her mind for a moment, she decides to add, "M'sieur."
Darcel flinches in odd empathy with the sprawling child and suppresses an urge to rub his own knee. He starts as Enjolras moves to her aid. Beginning to think the man's ubiquitous. All the same he moves towards them, himself. "Ministering angel as well as an avenging one, Apollo?" He grins sympathetically at the child. "Not too much of yourself left on the paving stones, little one?"
Enjolras offers her a hand, then starts slightly, looking up with a faint frown. He doesn't comment, however, as Grantaire for once is being civilized, and this is not to be discouraged.
"I'm not little!" she protests, forgetting the pain in her knee for a moment. "I'm almost nine... and Louis is only seven." She turns around suddenly. "Where is Louis... disappeared again? He didn't want to admit he was too slow for me." She examines her knee. "All still there, m'sieur."
Darcel snorts amiably. Dignity, victory, then injury. Priority is quite beyond him. "I imagine you win by default-- isn't that the way tactics work, Polemarch? If the enemy doesn't bother to turn up you can wave your flags and it doesn't matter that you forgot to bring the muskets."
Enjolras clears his throat. "I don't see him anywhere, no," he says to the girl, and, after a glance at the knee, digs in his pocket for a handkerchief. "Was he chasing you?"
"I beat him right enough," she says, more to herself than either of the men. "He never touched me, not with anything. Not with a fence pole." She stares at the handkerchief for a few moments, then takes it, a little bewildered, and begins to rub at her knee with it. "He was trying to catch me. He never had a chance, and I told him so, but boys never listen."
Darcel chuckles, squinting in Enjolras' direction for a moment. "No, not often-- careful you don't rub your leg off. Mercury's damn slow with only one sandal and even seven-year-olds run faster than they hop."
Maybe, God forbid, Enjolras has a sense of humor after all; his eyes crinkle a bit. "Don't they?"
She rubs a little lighter than before, grimacing as the dirt dislodges from the wound. "No, they don't. They think just because you're a girl you can't do anything. Well, I'm a girl, and I can outrun Louis any day of the year, so there." She bites her lip again as her scrape bleeds anew, and a single tear runs down her face, despite her best efforts to stop it.
Darcel chuckles again, ruefully. "So there. And see Solon, Draco and Lycurgus tying themselves in knots to disprove it. Nothing like law and custom for incongruity. Except exceptions to them." Extends a hand to ruffle her hair. "Careful, now."
"I believe you," Enjolras puts in mildly, casting a bemused glance at Grantaire. "But it doesn't do you much good if you get yourself hurt, does it?"
"It doesn't hurt," she says, unconvincingly. "Well, not too much. 'S only a scrape." She wipes away most of the rest of the dirt, gritting her teeth against the sting.
Darcel raises his eyebrows at Enjolras. "Believes her now, does he? Without a word of debate to go with it. God knows, a miracle is either utterly useless, or there's no one to witness it. Or else everyone pretends that it didn't go awry. No one reminds God that he got Moses' robe wet while splashing with water." Laughs again and tilts his head. "Regular little stoic, that one."
Enjolras ignores this, and nods to the child. "That's the spirit. What's your name, petite?"
The gamine ducks her head, a little shyly. "Elene," she mumbles softly. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand impatiently. "Your handkerchief is all bloody now, m'sieur," she points out.
"Elene." Enjolras smiles a bit. "That's all right, it'll wash. Hang onto it if you like."
Elene tightens her grasp on the handkerchief, nodding to him in thanks. It's about all the thanks she's ever learned to offer. "I need something to dab it with on the way back, anyway."
Darcel folds his arms, smiling. "There you are then, Mam'selle Elene. First token gift from a gentleman."
Enjolras nods back, and sits back on his heels. Slants a wry look at Grantaire, then, to the child, "Do you have far to go?"
She sniffs, a little haughtily. "'S no concern of mine if he's a gentleman," she says. "He just doesn't want his handkerchief back after I've bled all over it, that's all." She struggles to her feet, wincing a bit when she puts weight on the injured knee. "A couple of blocks, maybe three. I can make it myself," she claims proudly.
Darcel shakes his head, much amused. "There's Daphne, Apollo. Greeks don't tell you she was grazed and dusty. Spoils the mysteries, and that's all they've got to go on while the gods are trying to work out their own geneaology. Better pluck a few laurels while you've got the chance." He grins down at the child. "Can you now?"
Enjolras looks rueful, but doesn't comment.
"I can walk," Elene says. She hobbles a few steps forward, limping, to prove it. "Just not as fast as before, I guess. But I'm not lame."
"That's a mercy." Enjolras stands, looking down at her quizzically. "We could still walk with you if you'd like. It's getting dark." (We?)
Darcel raises his eyebrows at the inclusion but makes no allusion to it. For once. "At your service, mam'selle," he murmurs, dryly.
"I'm not afraid of the dark," she states, taking another step forward-- and stumbling a bit. She glances down at her feet uncertainly. "Maybe just to the door?" she asks.
Enjolras does not so much as look at Grantaire. "By all means." And offers Elene his hand.
Elene takes his hand timidly, leaning on it ever so slightly for support. She looks back at Grantaire inquisitively. "M'sieur?..."
Darcel shrugs affably. "Damn nuisance when you can't trust your own feet, eh, little one?" Still looking slightly amused, he moves to the child's other side, hand extended.
Elene takes his hand with her other one, taking one tentative step forward.
Enjolras watches to make sure this is accomplished safely, and starts off at a suitable pace for a limping nine-year-old, in the direction she leads.
Darcel tucks his free hand behind his back and ambles afterwards, not much slower than he was walking in the first place, all things considered, whistling.
Elene, now a little more confident on her feet, leads them down the alley to a narrow side street. "It's a few houses down here," she explains.
Enjolras nods, a little at a loss for conversation. "All right."
She lets go of Enjolras' hand for a moment to point ahead. "See the one with the old lady out front? The one beating her broom against the wall? That's it."
Darcel breaks off his whistling to grin at Enjolras over the girl's head. "Very distinctive abode, little mam'selle."
"I see it. Who is she?" Enjolras catches the grin, seeming a little baffled by it.
"She's Madame Garnier-- she keeps the house. Charges a king's ransom for it, too-- 'least that's what Papa says." She grasps Enjolras' hand again and hobbles along to the door.
Darcel peers at the woman. "King's ransom? There's one to enlist, Apollo. Might as well know what kings cost, these days, if you're going to go about breaking the antiques."
"Hush," Enjolras says sharply, and steadies Elene on her way up the steps.
Elene glances at Grantaire strangely, then concentrates on making it up the final few steps without stumbling. "I have it now," she says, sticking out her tongue in concentration.
Darcel inclines his head in a parody of a bow, but is obedient, at least, awkwardly supporting the girl on the other side.
At the door she turns and faces them, supporting herself slightly with the doorframe. "Bonsoir, m'sieurs," she says quietly. "I hope you get a nicer handkerchief."
Enjolras evinces a smile at that. "I hope your knee is better soon. Goodnight, Elene."
Darcel chuckles at the girl. "Try not to leave your skin on the ground next time you're outrunning boys, mam'selle. You might find you need both, one of these days. Evening."
Elene glances down at her knee for a moment. "Thank you," she mutters almost inaudibly--then quickly disappears inside.
Enjolras watches the door shut, then turns away, heading back up the street. Not a word. Barely a nod.
Darcel turns from the closed door and blinks, though not precisely in surprise at Enjolras' sudden retreat. He moves with reasonable dexterity after him. "Practicing to prove Elene wrong, and outrun the world, Apollo?"
"Don't call me that," automatically, and without turning around or stopping.
Darcel matches his pace. He can walk quickly when he has to. "Have to call you Phidippides, at this rate. Going to warn the Spartans? God knows, I doubt they'd care now more than they did then. Old news is old news, and it smells only slightly more of rot and corruption than the new kind."
Enjolras sighs. "What do you want?"
Darcel tilts his head. "All sorts of things. Some decent wine. More money than I'm ever likely to come into and something worth spending it on. But by Venus' pricked thumb and the sudden abundance of lovers' tiffs I've not the energy to hunt them down. Men are poor hunters, we stab ourselves in the foot with our spears, as often as not, and call 'em ceremonial wounds. What's the rush?"
Enjolras halts abruptly, and rephrases with conscious patience, "What do you want of me?"
Darcel regards him solemnly for a moment, then grins again. "Nothing whatsoever, 'Jolras. Laurels don't suit without a sceptre of justice and I'm damned if I'm going to sit and scrub at that tarnished stick."
Enjolras reddens at the nickname, but fails, at least, to bristle, though his tone doesn't soften perceptibly. "Meaning--?"
Darcel shrugs, smiling faintly. "Not always chasing after something," if the fact that he's steadfastly marching after Enjolras as he speaks is discounted. "There isn't a grand design behind everything. Can't afford to waste paper drawing them up."
"No, I would imagine your designs are anything but grand," dryly.
Darcel tilts a proper grin at him. "And does the world need any more sprawling villas with walls that tilt and intrigues that turn on seven points of gossip all at once and end with the wrong fellow with a knife in his back and everyone else trying to mop the floor drawn up by my hand?"
"Probably not." Enjolras turns the corner.
Darcel spreads his hands. "Then since there's an excess of everything that there isn't a dearth of, I won't add to either pile. Isn't so odd to walk with you."
Enjolras shoves his hands in his pockets, frowning. "I didn't ask for your company."
Darcel hovers somewhere between amusement and despondency, an odd contradictory muddle of emotions. "'Course you didn't. Deities who trudge around with mortals get their feet muddy and ridiculous myths spouted about them to amuse the masses for their trouble. Doesn't mean--" he shrugs.
"If you're only going to mock me, I'll thank you to let me be." There's an odd little catch in Enjolras' voice halfway through this, barely discernible, though never a break in his stride.
Darcel regards him mildly. "Who says I'm mocking you, Apollo?"
Enjolras halts again, whirls, his expression hard. "Aren't you?"
Darcel stops, sharply, with far less grace and pulls one hand through his hair, as if that'll assist him in staying upright. "Orpheus' broken lyre and Arion's promotion, Enjolras!" He focuses on him. "God, no," he says, gently, then in rueful concession: "not much, anyway."
Enjolras stares at him a minute, half in puzzlement, half in challenge. "No? Then why the continual talk of deities, why the--" He breaks off, concludes bitterly, "Am I that unsufferable?"
"The rising price of coal and the angels' relocation to hell, Apollo, what else is the fate of men but to rail at the gods? Why else--" The end of the speech registers and his amusement cuts off simultaneously with his speech. He draws a slow breath. "No, 'Jolras. I'd hardly-- no."
Enjolras takes a breath of his own, shivering slightly in the deepening chill, and regards Grantaire in perplexed silence for a minute.
Darcel doesn't shift -- so far he's noticed that walking tends to lead to abrupt stops and precarious balance -- but offers a tentative smile. "Not everything makes sense, Enjolras. Most things don't, if you look at them carefully."
"Everything," Enjolras returns tightly, "has a reason of some kind." He gestures abruptly. "Why do you do this?"
The smile distorts into guttural laughter. "Not everything, Polemarch, whatever you may think. Logic's as scarce as good wine, these days, and usually too battered to keep even if you do stumble across it." Without warning, he reverts back to sincerity. "God knows, Enjolras, I..."
"What?" It's abrupt, still, but not perhaps unkind.
Darcel shrugs at him, half grimacing. "You know I believe in you. Said that before."
Enjolras turns away, despairing of the conversation, and scrubs a hand over his face. "That's not-- it's-- you make no sense," as if Grantaire hadn't just said that. "How can you say that?"
Darcel observes him, somberly for a moment, then dissolves into humourless laughter. "Not bloody easily, Apollo, words in general being considered."
Enjolras looks back at him fiercely. "It's meaningless!" But even he realizes that's too harsh, and after a minute he glances down and amends, "I don't know what you mean by it. I'm not, I don't..." Breaks off again, troubled.
Darcel recoils slightly at the glare, but shifts back again the moment it's dropped, scuffing one boot on the ground. "What I say, 'Jolras, that's all." He chuckles roughly. "And by Arachne's pricked fingers and the mysterious stains on Athene's tapestry, that's rare enough, words being what they are. Just what I say."
Enjolras stares at him, and for the first time seems to falter, as the point at last sinks in. The wind has picked up a little; he shivers again. "You mean that, don't you." And glances away, suddenly lost. "God."
Darcel fixes his gaze on him, smiling uncertainly. "It's all right, you don't have to understand. Damned if I do. Just-- just... I don't know."
Enjolras folds his arms instinctively, as if to protect himself from these confidences. But: "Just what?"
Darcel looks utterly wretched. "I don't--" he sets his jaw in determination. "Hell, I-- just believe it, if nothing else. You're the one who knows about beliefs. Not much worth chasing after in this world, and everyone's dashing in a different direction after it, anyway, and most of those who don't get stuck in the rocks find that that fleece is only lice infested wool, but you can see-- ah God."
A blink. A shaky breath, indrawn. "I..." but nothing comes to mind. Enjolras is still for another moment, bewildered; then, glancing at the ground, reaches out to rest a tentative hand on Grantaire's shoulder.
Darcel stares at him without comprehension, eyes wide, then bows his head and awkwardly lifts a hand to grasp his companion's arm in return. "'Jolras, I... Thank you."
Enjolras winces, very slightly. "What for?" --acutely embarrassed, and gruff with it. He does not leave time for an answer. "We'd best be going on. It's late." Seven o'clock, almost.
Darcel releases his arm, grinning wryly and lifting his head. "An indecent hour. All right, Polemarch, all right."
"Don't--" Enjolras breaks off, and merely gives the other a mildly pained look before tucking his hands in his pockets and turning to walk on.
Darcel nods understanding, his expression repentant. A concession owed, after all. "Enjolras." He crosses his arms behind his back and ambles forwards.
Enjolras quirks a rueful half-smile. "Thank you." And sets off briskly.