Despite having gotten such a dreadful night's sleep the evening before, Enjolras found that he could not bring himself to take his own advice and regain some of those hours as they travelled throughout the day. Instead, he busied himself with watching either the passing scenery through the window or his fiancé as she dozed curled up against his chest. And then of course the worrying—one could not simply forget about the worrying.
Lynette was his female counterpart. Of that, there was no doubt. Her mind processed the same way his did, her words reflected his technique and eloquence, and her pride and self-confidence burned as ardently as his did, with that similarly parallel attribute of lashing out to scorch whoever threatened them too frequently. These were all things his father had come to resent in him in his last few years at home, and he was terrified that he'd see the entirety with which she replicated them and treat her similarly. And if he hurt her...
His arms tightened instinctively around her slumbering body, his face darkening as he imagined what could happen; Lynette trying to hide her winces as his father hurled disparagements at her, Lynette turning toward the window as she often did when something was troubling her, Lynette fighting back with an undeniable vigor though a nearly undetectable but also undeniable anguish grew inside of her... old wounds reopening... the tender look in her eyes as she would try to convince him he hadn't been at fault, that she was the one who had made him go and therefore the only one to blame...
God, if he could have turned them back right then as those dreadful images danced through his head, he would have. But, of course, if he had and she awoke later, she would consider it an offensive advantage taken against a human weakness in the most unfair of conditions, and, more likely than not, he would receive a corrosively bitter silent treatment for several days before she grew tired of standing by without voicing her opinions and give up on the notion. But she wouldn't forgive him nearly as easily, oh no. That would take a hell of a lot more effort on his part.
Besides, they were now within minutes of their arrival; his Rubicon had been crossed.
It was strange; as he looked out the window, he intuitively recognized all of the surrounding vegetation and natural landmarks, though he could not recall how this could be possibly be if he tried. He supposed it was because he related these familiar trees with his loathsome memories of this place, memories so wholly burned into his mind that they could not, as proven the day before, be so swiftly forgotten.
And then there it was, looming in the distance... his childhood home. It rose up out of the horizon like a great whale breaching, in all its glistening glory, out of the green waters of the ocean. Though instead of majesty and awe, the sight kindled nothing but a peculiar tension in his chest. Not fear, exactly—for it did not have the same wholly paralyzing effect that fear did—but he could not call himself at ease, either. 'So mayhap not a whale,' he was certain young Jehan would say, 'for it inspires not passionate sentiments of wonder and love of all things beautiful. But it possesses not the daunting augury of wintry mountain, either... I think I'd actually liken it to our barricade, Enjolras. An ominous obstacle, but so great are the rewards to any man who surpasses it—'
He squeezed his eyes shut as the vision of the little poet's last stand flashed swiftly through his head; an outcome he should have anticipated but didn't even think of... it had just happened—instinctively, easy as breathing. And now, off his mind went, recalling in vivid, unadulterated detail Jean-Prouvaire's heroic death: a death worthy of the young man's own sonnets. And a young man he was... the youngest of them... he was no more than a boy. He should have been writing about taking up arms, not being handed a gun to actually do so! He didn't deserve the eternal sleep he'd been damned with... none of them had...
...And it was entirely his fault that they were gone. Combeferre, Joly, Lesgles, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Grantaire... each and every one of them gone because of his foolish, unquenchable belief in their tragic lost cause. And what had their loss been for? Nothing had changed.
'Could it mean your life means nothing at all...' Grantaire's haunting, somber tone resounded in the back of his mind as he recalled all of the deaths he had witnessed, and left to his hellish reveries the ones he had not... perhaps Courfeyrac had turned his back at just the wrong moment... perhaps Grantaire had been dragged out in front of the barricade, and had a bottle pressed to his head only for the trigger to be pulled—
"Monsieur? We have arrived," the driver's stammering voice sounded suddenly, shattering his tortured train of thought. Enjolras blinked several times, then looked out the window to see that they had indeed stopped.
Before him sat the long, narrow walkway he knew like he knew his shoe size or the back of his hand; the path that he had many a time sprinted up after a long day of play in a failing attempt to be home in time for dinner. And at the end of the path was said home: the great white whale frozen midbreach in a motionless but still menacing way.
And at the thought of this metaphor, he suddenly wanted very much to just stay in this carriage until the driver got the hint and took them away from here, for he knew as well as any that it was because of men like his father that his friends had met their ends. Rich swine whom reaped off of the weakness of the poor... he had been raised on those benefits, for God's sake! But he had learned, and that's why he had left. That's why he had fought—
"Monsieur? If you please... I have another client to see to today," the driver continued, and Enjolras could tell by his tone that he was growing impatient, but was far too anxious to actually say so. He sighed. "Just a minute more, good sir... I must wake my fiancé," he called back before unwinding his arms from Lynette and shaking her lightly. "Lynette? We're here, love."
Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, their oceanic occupants taking a moment to probe her surroundings before locking with his. "Hmm?" she murmured, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to fully awaken herself.
"Well you're the one who insisted we come; I should God well hope you remember!" he chuckled. And with that, her eyes snapped into their fully ajar positions. "We're here? We're here!" she reiterated, looking out the window as confirmation. He nodded curtly. "Indeed. So come on, let's get this over with."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't be so bitter; your mother won't be as used to that perpetual scowl as I am."
He feigned an insulted expression—deepening said scowl—then, looping his arm around her waist, swiftly yanked them both out the carriage door and into the dying light, whirling her around once before stopping her back at his side and kissing her forehead. "A perpetual scowl is not physically possible with you around. A frequent one, perhaps, but not perpetual," he retorted.
"What an accolade, Monsieur l'Terrible!" she laughed, clear and birdlike in ring.
Just as he was about to swing her around again as chastisement, he heard a very familiar, high-pitched voice cry out from the general direction of the house. And even after all of these years, he didn't even need to strain his eyes through the shadowy dusk to perceive that they had been found out by his mother.
"Marcelin!" another cry sounded, and then her darkened figure began to grow bigger and bigger as she came scurrying down the path. Enjolras couldn't help it; he chuckled. His mother may have been emotional, idealistic, and at times even childish, but he knew as well as anyone that she also had a heart as large as her fortune—a heart full of love as kind and well-intentioned as her husband's was cold and parochial.
Within the minute, he felt her frail but maternally warm arms throw themselves around him, and he wrapped his own around her, hugging his mother for the first time in almost a decade.
"Oh Marcelin... my baby boy..." she murmured into his shoulder; oncoming tears trembling in her voice. He felt his cheeks redden at her gushing sobriquet; but regardless, he held her close and smiled down at her. "Hello, Mother."
She pulled away beaming and gave him a quick inspection, then jumped right into the inevitable acknowledgements of how much he'd changed since his teenaged years. "Oh my, look at how long your hair's gotten! And of course how much weight you've put on—all muscle, I have no doubt—for my God! You must be half a head taller than I, now!"
He shot her a half-smile, then swiftly attempted to veer away from the subject of how much he'd grown in ten years; as then that would no doubt lead to the fact that he had indeed been gone for that amount of time and most certainly questions about what he'd done during that time. And discussing that with his mother, and God forbid his father, was not what he had come here for.
"Indeed... but Mother, you're forgetting that today isn't about me, as I have not come here alone..." he grinned, looking over at Lynette. No sooner had the statement left his lips did Madame Enjolras's face light up, her gaze readjusting to meet his lovely fiance's. "That's right... good gracious that's right! Oh, it's an absolute delight to meet you, dear; I vowed I wouldn't believe that my son was actually engaged until the girl was standing right there before me... and now here you are!" she exclaimed with one of the most gleeful expressions Lynette had ever seen on a grown woman. She smiled back in warm courtesy. "And it is such a pleasure to meet you, Madame. My name is Lynette."
"Please; I will not have any formalities between us! You may call me Sylvie... or even mother, if you'd like!" she told her with a huge, sunny smile before taking her hands and patting them cordially.
Lynette's grin widened. "Thank you, Sylvie."
"And she is even prettier than you described, Marcelin... no wonder she caught your fastidious eye! Oh, what handsome children you two will make—"
"Mother!" Enjolras interjected, a great heat rising to his cheeks in his utter mortification. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lynette biting her tongue to keep from laughing, but Madame Enjolras herself didn't seem to notice the embarrassment she was causing her son.
"What? It's true! I'm going to have lovely grandchildren, because beautiful parents—which both of you are, you look very well together!—make for even more beautiful children! Though what a petite thing you are, my dear; I do hope you'll be able to carry a child between those tiny hips—"
"Mother. Please." Enjolras groaned, wanting to physically cover his face in his shame and discomfiture. Lynette was having an absolute field day in her head, her laughter shining riotously in her eyes. Madame Enjolras cocked her head, still naively unaware of the chagrin she had stirred. "What—oh! Of course... it's getting dark, we should be getting inside. We'll have more time to talk about this later. Come along!" she sang before turning and starting up the path again.
"Or not," Enjolras mumbled, his cheeks still burning.
The corners of Lynette's lips turned upward. "She's lovely, Enjolras. Energetic, but lovely."
"My mother is a child. Ridiculously panglossian with a mind that hops from one subject to another like a flitting bird, but always in the best of heart," he whispered back.
She smirked. "Exactly. Even when she speaks of the state of my hips and makes you go bright scarlet."
And by then it had gotten too dark for her to see his blush deepen.
A/N: Hey y'all!
*tumble weed rolls by*
Um... ok. So let me start by apologizing. Like a lot. Like, I'd give each of you a mustached Hadley and an Aaron Tveit in his glorious red coat (OF JUSTICE) if I could. Things got really, really busy (I just finished up playing the Mother Abbess in Sound of Music), and I barely had time to SLEEP, let alone update this fic.
Lucky for you *cough cough the tumble weeds because I'm assuming they're the only ones still around...*, things are better now, my writer's block is gone, and I should be updating a lot more often! (I hope) Thank you for your patience, I love you all to pieces and seeing people still favoriting and following my stories even when I fail to update is what keeps me going. :)
Anyway, meet Sylvie Enjolras; the—as Classof1832 so wonderfully put it—"campy" mother of our dear Enjy. Perhaps she should open a camp... a camp for future rebels. Though I imagine it would end in nothing but the boys building miniature barricades out of popsicle sticks to rebel against craft time.
Thoughts? ;) Hit (reviews or PM's and not actually physical contact appreciated) me. ~DonJuana and her tumble weeds (OF JUSTICE)