"Good Evening, Inspector," my voice was so polite and sweet I was sickened by myself. Javert's expression remained stony, unchanging. He took a step closer, his gaze shifting to Enjolras who was saying nothing but staring off into the darkness.
"Is something wrong young man?" Enjolras started at the Inspectors words, struggled to bring his focus up to the tall Inspector.
"No Sir," he said quietly. I nudged him gently. "Good Evening." He sounded reluctant; I grinned at the Inspector, don't ask where we've been.
"And why are you walking the street so late?"
I could have groaned, but it was essential not to panic. It is not illegal to walk the streets of Paris at any hour. "Going home, Inspector."
"Very well, move along then" I nodded, putting my arm under Enjolras', best to move along.
I could see my breath ahead of me, warm against the cold air. My lips felt cold, numb. The Parisian winters were undeniably bracing, sheeted the Seine in ice and coated the streets in a slippery white layer but they were nothing to the winters I had grown up with. Deep in the countryside, in an entirely different world to Paris, I had learned that with a swig of wine I could ease my chill and become warm. That was not why I drank any more.
"Why so quiet Enjolras?"
"It matters not; the days of care have passed." I raised an eyebrow; Enjolras' inclination to the dramatic sometimes scared me. Sometimes I wondered if I shouldn't fetch a Priest when I heard the words that passed his lips, they were either not the words of a sane man, or entirely too world weary for someone so young and beautiful. I felt sad for him, for all of them and hatred against the world. Why should Enjolras have to care for these things, why must he grow old so young. He should, at his age, have been seeing a life unfolding before him.
His parents were the ones that sought social advancement, ever craving riches and titles that would elevate them over their fellow mortals. Enjolras' father would have been struck dead to see his son seated in the back of an inn, plotting against France on behalf of the people. What caused these children to desire change for the poor? It was the fault of their parents, the empty space where love and compassion ought to be had struck loneliness and an empty space into their children. These children would be fulfilled, they craved the lost emotion and it was displayed in none more vividly than Enjolras. The furious passion in his veins demanded a change, refused to settle into a comfortable life. He would make a difference, or he would die trying. Sometimes it was easy for him, in his ambition, to forget that the sacrifice of others was not his to give. Those that starved in the streets, filled with genuine despair, could not be called upon. Enjolras did not truly know this. He was drunk on his own passion.
Behind us I could hear the sharp step of Inspector Javert. I knew his name because he picked me up from the pavement once, I woke up with a terrible head ache slumped across a painfully uncomfortable bed in a police cell. He'd spoken to me quietly, in a voice laced with promises of violence. The voice of a man bound by self control; clearly wanting to punish me by any means in his power. Of course he couldn't do much, merely a warning and a suggestion that I might like to speak with the chaplain. I didn't, I went home to soothe my headache with a drink. His footsteps screamed of control too, heavy yet determined and certain.
The moon suddenly tumbled over in the sky.
