Where You Always Wait

Enjolras isn't sure how many of his precious memories of his mother are entirely his, anymore. He's heard too much about her.

"She was never meek," his father often tells him.

There are things to remind him of her. A snatch of vermilion cloth, pinned under a paperweight on his father's desk. Old books stacked on the tables in the library. Proud shoulders, firm hands, the grace of a Dido, not a Helen.

Enjolras visits her grave when he goes home. It's so easy to see the future there. He tells her all about it.

He'll always tell her everything.