Day crept up like an ember bursting suddenly into flame, startling Enjolras from a restless night of sleep. He'd dreamt of a Paris drowned in blood. Whether it was his blood or the blood of the ancien regime he couldn't tell, only that it scared him. He took a breath, and ran a hand through his mop of hair, which was slightly damp and sticky from his sweat.
Swinging his legs over the side of the beg, Enjolras grabbed a shirt from where it hung on the headboard (it might not have been fresh; he couldn't be bothered to care) and a slightly crumpled cravat from the bedside table and started dressing himself.
Morning had not fully settled atop the steeples of Paris, though there were still a few lights glowing in the bright orange of early dawn, and a few birds chirped still from their perch in the trees. There was a jittery energy that skittered across his skin and left him on edge.
Breathe, he told himself. It was nothing more than a bad dream. (Even if it felt too close to prophecy.) And you are a man in service of justice, and reason, and rationality.
Still, though, he made sure to feel for the lucky stone his sister had given to him before he departed from Chateau-Thierry before he headed out for the day. If he got to school early enough, the library might yet have filled up with people yet, and he could hope to have a few hours to himself to catch up on coursework (though really who could fault him for not caring about playwriting in the seventeenth century? Moliere was well and good, but for all his poking fun of the aristocracy, he never really did anything to cut them down to size, and actively profited off their greed) and write a few more articles for Le Nationale.
He was not afraid of dying (all men died, after all, and if he were to lay down his life for his country, then he would merely go earlier and prouder than most), and it wasn't the vastness of the inscrutable unknown that tore holes in his courage. He was afraid of futility, and uselessness, and above all the idea that he might lead his friends their their deaths for a mere nothing-at-all. He knew they placed absolute trust in him, believed so resolutely in his words, and were not afraid to follow him even into the realms of god, and that, somehow, made it worse.
notes: i'm not the fondest of this. :(