"Joly, Joly, our young imaginary invalid. Still young, after all these
years, and still imagining things, as far as I can see. No, no, don't look
behind you, look up. Here. Yes, the ethereal one, standing in the locus
Phoebi... Ah, yes, Lord Apollo would have been here for you, in all his
radiant glory, but he couldn't make it; his shadow, crude, unrefined, and
hated by all, is here instead. Yes, up here. It is I."
"Capital R." Joles whispered, staring up into the air at the dark man with the seven o'clock shadow who stood perpendicularly in the air over his head, rather giving him the impression of being stretched out on the ground with his old friend standing at his head and staring down at him.
"I have walked this day down the Rue de Lac, and yet the delectable odor of my dear friend's blood boiling over the fires of his hypochondria was enough to entice this shadow of a deity to his side."
Grantaire leaned over at the waist until he looked Joly in the face, his eyes black with death and his face weathered with tears long shed and gone.
Back in the real world, Joles' hand began to waver in its intent as the droplet of changeling vitae began to take hold. The crowd, breathless in terror at the Seneschal's proclamation, began to stir again at the addition of the words, "Capital R," seemingly addressed to some point in space above his head. Irene knew, of course, about whom he was speaking, but she'd never seen him have a spell like this, before. Concerned as she was, she began to creep forward, hoping to get the gun away from him while he was in such a state of distraction.
Grantaire shook his head disapprovingly, and craned his neck to look down at the priest. "I've never denied myself to be a degenerate, Joly, but, really, a capuchin? Don't explain yourself to me, I would accept what you say far too easily, along with two or three bottles of the fine liquor those two," a darkened, filthy finger pointed lamely in the direction of the swamp rats, "produce. Explain yourself instead to our fearless leader. He waits on the other side, the very right hand of God... or, at least, perhaps, its index finger. He pointed to me, and the chorus of angels laughed and sent me to the great abyss where I belonged. What will the angels do when Enjolras finally gets his chance at you, Joly? How long he's waited, waited... watching. Enjolras the golden-haired, Enjolras the fair, the just, the more-than-just, the one-whose-glory-is-more-than-any- epithet-could-ever-hold... Ah! Look, and just now he might have his chance at you, dear Joly. For, if you will but look down a moment, I believe you'll find that your arm," Joles, staring in shock at the vision, indeed did feel, at this point, a sharp tug on his hand as Irene deftly slipped his sidearm from his grip, "Is on fire. Your sort aren't very fond of flame, if I recall correctly. But don't fret too much over it. You'll get used to the fire, where you'll be after this one has consumed you. And I will be there to keep you company. Two degenerates, alone for all eternity."
Joles, dazed, turned his head and looked down, face contorted with suffering as he beheld his hand, empty of its weapon and unsure of how it happened to attain that state, and the face beyond it, looking up at him with the queerest expression of inquisition possible. "On--" he tried to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat when the reddish-blond head of hair he beheld began to blaze bright blond, the face to shift into one more familiar than that of the recently-met Priest. Enjolras knelt in front of him, the position of humble servitude suddenly becoming the strong and defiant posture of the martyr. The bright blue eyes glanced up at his shadow, and he scowled.
"Grantaire, you're drunk. Go sleep elsewhere."
The dreadful stare returned to Joles, and was such a one of disgust that he was frozen in place.
"Joly, you're--" the words of the one-time leader of an insurrection in the Rue de la Chanvrerie were cut off by the roar of flames that flared up from the body of what could now have either been Enjolras or the Father, Joles couldn't have told under the burning white blaze of the hunter's aura, which flared up and enveloped the hand which had held the gun, and which spread over his body as if his clothes and flesh were doused in kerosene.
And then it seemed that he was upon the barricade, precariously perched as the inferno raged around him. His beast screamed in agony, and grabbed him, and he screamed in the same agony only a shadow of an instant later, and stumbled over mattresses and chairs and bodies of the men he'd once loved. And when the national guardsman lifted him up with one arm and a nearly supernatural strength, he bared his fangs and stuck them in the man's other shoulder, feeding until the world blinked black and dirt.
~
"Capital R." Joles whispered, staring up into the air at the dark man with the seven o'clock shadow who stood perpendicularly in the air over his head, rather giving him the impression of being stretched out on the ground with his old friend standing at his head and staring down at him.
"I have walked this day down the Rue de Lac, and yet the delectable odor of my dear friend's blood boiling over the fires of his hypochondria was enough to entice this shadow of a deity to his side."
Grantaire leaned over at the waist until he looked Joly in the face, his eyes black with death and his face weathered with tears long shed and gone.
Back in the real world, Joles' hand began to waver in its intent as the droplet of changeling vitae began to take hold. The crowd, breathless in terror at the Seneschal's proclamation, began to stir again at the addition of the words, "Capital R," seemingly addressed to some point in space above his head. Irene knew, of course, about whom he was speaking, but she'd never seen him have a spell like this, before. Concerned as she was, she began to creep forward, hoping to get the gun away from him while he was in such a state of distraction.
Grantaire shook his head disapprovingly, and craned his neck to look down at the priest. "I've never denied myself to be a degenerate, Joly, but, really, a capuchin? Don't explain yourself to me, I would accept what you say far too easily, along with two or three bottles of the fine liquor those two," a darkened, filthy finger pointed lamely in the direction of the swamp rats, "produce. Explain yourself instead to our fearless leader. He waits on the other side, the very right hand of God... or, at least, perhaps, its index finger. He pointed to me, and the chorus of angels laughed and sent me to the great abyss where I belonged. What will the angels do when Enjolras finally gets his chance at you, Joly? How long he's waited, waited... watching. Enjolras the golden-haired, Enjolras the fair, the just, the more-than-just, the one-whose-glory-is-more-than-any- epithet-could-ever-hold... Ah! Look, and just now he might have his chance at you, dear Joly. For, if you will but look down a moment, I believe you'll find that your arm," Joles, staring in shock at the vision, indeed did feel, at this point, a sharp tug on his hand as Irene deftly slipped his sidearm from his grip, "Is on fire. Your sort aren't very fond of flame, if I recall correctly. But don't fret too much over it. You'll get used to the fire, where you'll be after this one has consumed you. And I will be there to keep you company. Two degenerates, alone for all eternity."
Joles, dazed, turned his head and looked down, face contorted with suffering as he beheld his hand, empty of its weapon and unsure of how it happened to attain that state, and the face beyond it, looking up at him with the queerest expression of inquisition possible. "On--" he tried to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat when the reddish-blond head of hair he beheld began to blaze bright blond, the face to shift into one more familiar than that of the recently-met Priest. Enjolras knelt in front of him, the position of humble servitude suddenly becoming the strong and defiant posture of the martyr. The bright blue eyes glanced up at his shadow, and he scowled.
"Grantaire, you're drunk. Go sleep elsewhere."
The dreadful stare returned to Joles, and was such a one of disgust that he was frozen in place.
"Joly, you're--" the words of the one-time leader of an insurrection in the Rue de la Chanvrerie were cut off by the roar of flames that flared up from the body of what could now have either been Enjolras or the Father, Joles couldn't have told under the burning white blaze of the hunter's aura, which flared up and enveloped the hand which had held the gun, and which spread over his body as if his clothes and flesh were doused in kerosene.
And then it seemed that he was upon the barricade, precariously perched as the inferno raged around him. His beast screamed in agony, and grabbed him, and he screamed in the same agony only a shadow of an instant later, and stumbled over mattresses and chairs and bodies of the men he'd once loved. And when the national guardsman lifted him up with one arm and a nearly supernatural strength, he bared his fangs and stuck them in the man's other shoulder, feeding until the world blinked black and dirt.
~