If you ask him, Enjolras hadn't a real clue where he was, something decidedly rare to him. He was usually a man perfectly aware of his own surroundings, dire surroundings they are, and thriving to change it with the Les Amis (who he also hadn't a clue where they are). Last thing he remembered was Combeferre and Courfeyrac, his two closest best friends, deciding together that their friend was in need of a glorious vacation from all the problems, political issues, studying, and rallies they hosted and thrived together back in Paris. So they boarded a ship to Norway. And now he's stuck in the woods, trees clothed with snow and rivers frozen for some reason he couldn't think of. Wasn't this time of year supposed to bring summer? Where was the sunlight, the sparks of warm weather? He longed for the balm of sun. Enjolras wandered without aim and direction for a few moments, yelling 'Combeferre!', 'Courfeyrac!', 'Bossuet!', 'Joly!', 'Feuilly!', 'Bahorel!', 'Prouvaire!', and even a reluctant 'Grantaire' as he threaded his messy path through the snow, glowing white. He had a feeling he was climbing through a mountain, step by step. Hesitantly, he looked behind - and the length of the valley of the snow was enough to rob the golden-haired bourgeois revolutionary out of his breath.
It was beyond difficulty to see clearly, but he tried to decipher his gaze hard enough, and he saw a slight form of another. It was a she, with silvery blonde hair billowing in the wind, but she didn't look as if she was bothered by the cold at all. However, her face - still young and fresh as a rose - was etched with pain. Her blue dress looked to be spectacularly new and clean, ebullient. She appeared ebullient, with cerulean eyes, a fascinating structured face that radiated the passion of a born leader. He tried to wade through the snow, without much luck. Perhaps the young woman would know of a tavern or an inn to stay in? She was thriving through the weather with alarming ease, folding her arms with habit instead of need to bring more warm friction to her abdomen.
''Excuse me!'' Enjolras yelled over the noise of snow whirling. ''Does Mademoiselle know of a particular place I could stay for tonight? It would be splendid hospitality on your part!''
The girl, surprised and startled, looked upon him as if she was just drifting amongst the seas a while ago, and was now forced to face reality. ''I-I don't know…''
Enjolras squinted, quickening his pace. ''Mademoiselle, are you lost? Excuse my impertinence, but you seemed too abstracted and distrait for me not to think beyond the point that you hadn't an idea of where you are going.''
''I know my way…monsieur,'' she said, and she, too, quickened her pace. ''But I apologize, I do not know a place you can stay. I need to go back to my home.'' Her eyes quivered with fear, and a string in Enjolras, a rare string that thus connected to his natural empathy, was felt.
''You don't look safe,'' he murmured.
''That's because I'm not safe.''
''You're right, the snow is brewing giant storms.''
She smiled. That smile was tainted with cynicism, and Enjolras was momentarily gripped with the memory of Grantaire. ''You have no idea,'' she said. ''I'm so, so sorry.''
''Sorry about what?" replied he, completely baffled.
''Nothing,'' she sighed, closing her eyes. Now they were walking together, sauntering into the more reclusive parts of the settlement. ''It's just…a stranger in the snow, it felt like it's my fault.''
''But it's not,'' he replied sternly. ''Why should it be? It's not like you controlled the weather, that's foolishness mothers tell their bairns to get them to sleep at night.''
''Well, but what if you reckon all that foolishness was true?'' the girl quipped, flicking him a sideway glance. ''Can I inquire you of your name?''
''Leopolde Enjolras. I've lost my friends along the way, you see. We were planning on a lovely day of camping, or as one of them says so anyways. You?''
''Elsa.''
''Just Elsa?''
''I'm nothing else,'' she flicked him an uncertain smile. ''I don't like talking about…myself. What about you, Monsieur Enjolras?''
''What about me? Well, what do you know, I happen to not particularly enjoy discussing myself with ones I have just met, either. There's nothing much to tell. You should've met my friend, Courfeyrac. A right chatterbox, unlike I.''
''But I'm not talking to Courfeyrac, I'm talking to Enjolras - and it's immensely unnecessary to dwell on other outcomes to what might've been, anyways.''
''What do you mean?''
''I think it's self-explanatory.'' She sighed again. ''If I tell you, you would run away, and even if you don't, I will have to force you to run away.'' She turned her head, so she doesn't face him. ''I can feel it…GET OUT OF THE WAY!'' Then, in a moment of supernatural enigma, shards of ice sprouted from the ends of her fingertips, and soared beyond the clearing. Enjolras, heart thumping, looking incredulous, was speechless.
''Wait - what - why - how?''
Elsa's eyes welled with tears. ''Now you know I'm not to be trusted, please, for you safety, go back to where you came from.''
She walked away, but Enjolras grabbed her arm gently. ''Wait,'' he said, his tone surprisingly soft. ''I don't know where I came from, you see. I'll walk with you.''
Elsa's eyes widened. ''But…but…why?''
He smiled for the first time in years. ''I'm lonely.'' Those two words, though so simple, was too frank and honest for him, and he was stunned.
''Why were you in these woods in the first place?''
He sighed, ''I was camping with my friends, but then a sudden storm, I should think so, erupted and now I'm afraid we've lost each other.''
''At least you've got friends,'' there was a hint of bitterness in her voice, and she, perhaps noticing the pettiness in which she produced, reprimanded. ''I'm sorry - that's awful.''
''I don't feel like I could be myself around them, though,'' he admitted, surprised at himself to be admitting truths to such an extent to a mere stranger - but he guessed they weren't mere strangers anymore. Not that much. ''There's always a barrier. I'm not the type to pour my feelings.''
She caressed his shoulder. ''I feel the same way.''