A/N: This is...a strange fic. Basically, I was in the midst of writing a Grantaire fic about Enjolras, when suddenly, the idea of a metaphorical leech got into my head. Then, I fell asleep, DREAMT of Enjolras (have you ever DREAMT of a canon Enjolras?....it's extremely frightening), woke up, wrote this ficlet that's exactly 500 words (not intentional, just happened...kinda cool though.) in the midst of my drowsiness, and here I present it to you. Enjoy! Read and Review!
He stands at the end of the table, where he is always situated. There's no rule to it, just natural. He is the leader, after all.
Looking at his companions with a firm and unwavering eye, he opens his mouth to speak. It is a speech he has practiced many times since its composition last night. He's said it so many times to his mirror, his desk, his books, anything he was capable of troubling at the moment. It seems ridiculous, but necessary for memorization. He is Apollo, as some say, he is the sun, and the sun needs no guidance, much less a paper to read from.
His words slowly flow out of his mouth, the perfect crisp French words rolling off his tongue, the fire of Patriá blazing fiercely in his eyes and voice as he speaks. The flame in his words, his countenance, and tone is what ensnares them, his followers, his friends. He knows this. He knows that it is up to him to kindle the fire in their hearts.
He is a leech.
His voice grows in enthusiasm and volume as he sees the men around him murmuring to each other in excitement. He is a man who loves the world, and lives for the world. Without the people, without their support, he would diminish and thirst until he became nothing more than a bloodsucking leech. He needs their energy, their strength, their faith.
These are his devotees, loyal devotees who would not betray him to sedition, who would die before he was taken by the authorities to be hung. He feeds off their faith, his strength and power increasing in ratio with theirs. He needs them to cheer, to cause commotion in the name of the Republic. They are his priests as much as he is the Pope. He asks them for nothing else, because he needs nothing else.
As he nears the end of his speech, he is pleased to see some men listening intently, the wheels turning in their own minds, expressions on their face conveying that they can hardly wait until he finishes, only to bring forth ideas of their own. Still others are jittering in their chairs, or interrupting him with their shouts of agreement.
He has no need to question his resolve, or the outcome. Not while he has the people's faith.
As he resolutely adds the concluding statement, "Vive la République!", his marble faces hides his thrill at the small commotion his friends cause. Sitting down, he subjects himself to another one of Combeferre's concerns, content with the progress done today. He could survive like this, for a while. Feeding off the faith, and relying on the energy of the young men in this café room. He would accept this, as one would accept rats and snakes in a deserted cave. However, the man in the cave would continue to look for habitation as he would look for his revolution.
And then what a feast that would make!
A/N: Okay....that WAS weird...especially that last line, I apologize...but please review and tell me what you think!