Enjolras stood outwardly stoic for a long time in the oppressing atmosphere of Orka's shop.
"I do care for them." He finally said.
Orka shrugged. "I care not."
Enjolras glared at the elderly woman.
"You tell me as if you expect me to applaud. You care for your friends. Well, bravo, golden youth!" Orka said sardonically. "Apparently the mademoiselle loves your friends."
"Sacrifices must be made for a greater good." Enjolras stated flatly.
"You are willing to die for…whatever this cause is?"
"Yes." Enjolras did not even need time to consider the question.
"You are willing to have your friends die for it?"
"They are willing."
"That is not the same thing."
"Their lives are not mine to barter with."
"If their deaths could bring about your goal, would you condone it?"
Enjolras flinched at the question and Orka laughed at him. "You hate yourself because you have to consider that question. It disgusts you, yet you actually have to consider it!"
Orka's laughter was cut short by a look of pure pain and misery in Enjolras' eyes. "I would rather die than see any one of them suffer a moment, let alone endure death." Yet even as Enjolras spoke the pain and misery faded and in their place a steely look began to form.
"However, if I were to make a choice between my mother and my friends…I would choose my mother." He said in a tone that almost sent chills down Orka's spine.
The old woman quickly rallied and looked at the young rebel derisively. "Do they consider you a friend?"
Mortals can be Amis with gods, but they cannot be amis.
Enjolras looked at the floor. "I'm their leader. That is enough."
"Is it?"
"I believe it is." Enjolras wondered briefly why he felt so compelled to convince this haggard old woman that he wasn't some sort of heartless monster; that he was just…Enjolras. His friends always understood him, didn't they? They knew that he cared for their well being and happiness, didn't they? Surely they realized that he took silent delight in their joys and accomplishments, did they not?
But…voices from the past…his own voice…rang in his ears.
Put the blasted bottle down Grantaire.
We don't have time for love sonnets, Prouvaire we have to prepare.
Courfeyrac, that drawing is highly inappropriate.
I don't have time to go to dances, Joly.
I have no desire to capture specimens, Combeferre.
A bacchanalia? What's that? A What? NO, I do not want to attend, Bossuet!
Bahorel, I am not wearing…that…that…ridiculous red waistcoat.
Enjolras blushed deeply feeling ashamed as he recalled the countless times he had turned down his friends' invitations and requests for his presence in anything that did not relate to the cause. They were willing to risk their lives; he wasn't even willing to risk an afternoon.
"Why do they even want me around?" He pondered.
Orka smiled thinly. "Because, Hector Enjolras, they are your friends."