"The Light Bewitches the Shadow"
Samuel looked about Combeferre's room quietly without taking anything in, far too worried, as the latter seated himself on the bed and gestured at the single chair.
"You may sit there, if you wish to, Enjolras."
"All right." Samuel sat, drawing up his long legs and trying to find a comfortable position on the little wooden chair. "I... I need to tell you something, and I don't know how..." He stopped suddenly, and frowned. That hadn't sounded like something Dimitri would say, but it hadn't sounded like Samuel, as he remembered him, either. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to refocus his thoughts.
Combeferre waited patiently.
He tried to remember how he should start this, how he had planned it in his head, but the first thing he said when he regained his tongue was: "My name... my name... it's Samuel." He stared in horror at Combeferre, lips parted.
"Come here, Samuel," said Combeferre softly. Samuel obeyed, unfolding himself from the chair and coming over, and sitting beside Combeferre. He stared at his hands, and tried to speak again. Instead, he began to cry inconsolably, like a child. Combeferre put his arms about Samuel and rocked him gently, smoothing down his hair. He didn't try to speak, and Samuel couldn't, so there was no sound save the weeping for a long time.
At last Samuel stopped crying, and just lay in Combeferre's arms, remembering to breathe.
"Dimitri was my brother, you know. He had scarlet fever as a child... they said it made his heart weak. He died." Samuel laughed, panting a little. "And I don't know what I was doing... I wrote you letters. I wrote you all those letters. I still don't know what I'm doing. What are we fighting for, Combeferre? What is Dimitri's revolution for? I don't know. I don't understand. I don't understand anything. I'm a fool. I'm a little fool." He twisted around to look at Combeferre's face.
"No, you're not." Combeferre stroked Samuel's hair soothingly.
Samuel abruptly sat straight up, pulling away. "I'm not stopping. I'm Dimitri now. Don't think I'm stopping. I promised I'd do it for him. And I will. You shan't stop me. You can't. I promised."
Combeferre looked calmly at Samuel, who was sitting with both wrists pressed into the coverlet, his hair a mess, and the tearstains still on his cheeks, trying not to sniffle. "I don't intend to stop you."
"Oh... well. I came because I wanted to know. I wanted to know what it's all about, because I don't really understand. I don't know *why*."
"Walk out in the streets. Walk in the slums. I have. It will make you understand rather too clearly."
Samuel was trying as hard as he could to gather up his pieces of Dimitri and put them back together so they'd be usable. "I want you to tell me," he said in Dimitri's solemn, stern voice, putting the emphasis on the word 'tell', reprovingly.
Combeferre snorted softly. "One can't tell this sort of thing. You must go out and see the people you would be fighting for. You must understand why you are doing what you are doing, and no one can tell you that. You must talk to a working-class man, to a prostitute, to a homeless child. If you then still don't understand, it would be better to go home."
Samuel stared. "I... I see. All right. I'll go." He stood.
"Should you now?"
"What?"
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine!" Samuel froze, and reprimanded himself unkindly for sounding so childish.
"You are not." Combeferre bowed his head. "Stay here. You're not ready to go out yet."
"You just told me I should," said Samuel irritably.
"No. I just told you what you should do. You should do it to-morrow. Stay here. Be Samuel for me. I've barely met him, and I already know Dimitri very well."
Samuel paused a moment, then relented, and lay down on the bed, with his head at Combeferre's knee, completely disarmed. He suddenly felt very young and small.
"How old are you, Samuel?"
"Eighteen."
The way Combeferre said his name was beautiful, Samuel thought. No one had ever said it that way. No one had said it in rather a while. He trembled, and found he was telling Combeferre everything.
Samuel looked about Combeferre's room quietly without taking anything in, far too worried, as the latter seated himself on the bed and gestured at the single chair.
"You may sit there, if you wish to, Enjolras."
"All right." Samuel sat, drawing up his long legs and trying to find a comfortable position on the little wooden chair. "I... I need to tell you something, and I don't know how..." He stopped suddenly, and frowned. That hadn't sounded like something Dimitri would say, but it hadn't sounded like Samuel, as he remembered him, either. He opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to refocus his thoughts.
Combeferre waited patiently.
He tried to remember how he should start this, how he had planned it in his head, but the first thing he said when he regained his tongue was: "My name... my name... it's Samuel." He stared in horror at Combeferre, lips parted.
"Come here, Samuel," said Combeferre softly. Samuel obeyed, unfolding himself from the chair and coming over, and sitting beside Combeferre. He stared at his hands, and tried to speak again. Instead, he began to cry inconsolably, like a child. Combeferre put his arms about Samuel and rocked him gently, smoothing down his hair. He didn't try to speak, and Samuel couldn't, so there was no sound save the weeping for a long time.
At last Samuel stopped crying, and just lay in Combeferre's arms, remembering to breathe.
"Dimitri was my brother, you know. He had scarlet fever as a child... they said it made his heart weak. He died." Samuel laughed, panting a little. "And I don't know what I was doing... I wrote you letters. I wrote you all those letters. I still don't know what I'm doing. What are we fighting for, Combeferre? What is Dimitri's revolution for? I don't know. I don't understand. I don't understand anything. I'm a fool. I'm a little fool." He twisted around to look at Combeferre's face.
"No, you're not." Combeferre stroked Samuel's hair soothingly.
Samuel abruptly sat straight up, pulling away. "I'm not stopping. I'm Dimitri now. Don't think I'm stopping. I promised I'd do it for him. And I will. You shan't stop me. You can't. I promised."
Combeferre looked calmly at Samuel, who was sitting with both wrists pressed into the coverlet, his hair a mess, and the tearstains still on his cheeks, trying not to sniffle. "I don't intend to stop you."
"Oh... well. I came because I wanted to know. I wanted to know what it's all about, because I don't really understand. I don't know *why*."
"Walk out in the streets. Walk in the slums. I have. It will make you understand rather too clearly."
Samuel was trying as hard as he could to gather up his pieces of Dimitri and put them back together so they'd be usable. "I want you to tell me," he said in Dimitri's solemn, stern voice, putting the emphasis on the word 'tell', reprovingly.
Combeferre snorted softly. "One can't tell this sort of thing. You must go out and see the people you would be fighting for. You must understand why you are doing what you are doing, and no one can tell you that. You must talk to a working-class man, to a prostitute, to a homeless child. If you then still don't understand, it would be better to go home."
Samuel stared. "I... I see. All right. I'll go." He stood.
"Should you now?"
"What?"
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine!" Samuel froze, and reprimanded himself unkindly for sounding so childish.
"You are not." Combeferre bowed his head. "Stay here. You're not ready to go out yet."
"You just told me I should," said Samuel irritably.
"No. I just told you what you should do. You should do it to-morrow. Stay here. Be Samuel for me. I've barely met him, and I already know Dimitri very well."
Samuel paused a moment, then relented, and lay down on the bed, with his head at Combeferre's knee, completely disarmed. He suddenly felt very young and small.
"How old are you, Samuel?"
"Eighteen."
The way Combeferre said his name was beautiful, Samuel thought. No one had ever said it that way. No one had said it in rather a while. He trembled, and found he was telling Combeferre everything.