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A young man sits at a table some distance away, with an empty coffee cup and a newspaper which he is neglecting in favor of staring across the room in an abstraction of thought. The last Valjean saw of him, it was in the bloody and desperate final hours of a barricade.

He is clean now, unbloodied, dressed in a suit of black, but the tricolor cockade still sits upon his lapel. When he sees the new entrant, he rises, somewhat startled.

"Monsieur."

Is the old eccentric, then, dead as well?

He pulls up short, and his face turns to even deeper shock. The name comes to him unbidden, and falls from his mouth.

'Enjolras.'

His minds flits back through the scenes of the barricade, ending with the last; the boys left alive falling into the cafe under a hail of bullets. And he, with Marius, desperately looking for a way out. It seems a lifetime ago, hazy behind the day lost in the sewers.

'Do you live, then?'

"No."

The word is faintly wry, but spoken without reluctance or regret. Enjolras is quite certain of this matter, and he chose his death with open eyes.

But that the man asks...

"Do you?"

'Yes. Yes, I do.'

He does not feel guilty about it. He is not a revolutionary. But there is regret, of course, for every one of those that died.

'And so does your friend Marius, at least for now. We must pray that he recovers fully.'

Enjolras would not expect him to. The protest of corpses was made by the free choice of every man who fell. France does not need one more; the streets were heaped high, the gutters red with blood. Patria needs living patriots as well as martyrs.

He bows his head slightly at the news. Javert said as much, but Enjolras trusts this man's word more, despite his lie about executing the spy. And he will certainly bare more of his true feelings to someone who stood at the barricade than to Javert; the old man killed no one, but that's no shame at all, and he saved lives and risked his own.

"Yes."

Enjolras is not much of a praying man. Still.

"If you had a hand in that, thank you."

He inclines his head in return, the only acknowledgement he will make regarding his involvement with Marius's rescue.

'I find myself rather at a loss, Monsieur. If I live, and you do not...'

A vague gesture at their surroundings. They are...strange.

Enjolras's fine-boned face goes very wry.

"Yes. I can tell you what I have observed, monsieur, and what I've been told. I can't explain the logic to you. I don't grasp it myself."

"What I know is that I died, and found myself here; that a man who died beside me did likewise, but months earlier; that I have been told of others who come here while they still live. Many other men who fought and died at the rue Chanvrerie are not here. I have met those who claim to live still, and to come from different years entirely than ours. If they lie, it's very convincingly; if they're mistaken, there are very many of them. A final destination for none. A peculiar inn whose doors open as they will."

"I confess that I see little sense in any of this, but neither have I yet found a better explanation."

'I think...it sounds, perhaps, as if there is no sense to be found.'

It is disquieting, but also familiar; there has been little sense in much of his life, if he looks back with the distance of hindsight. So while he does not enjoy it per say, it is not so unfamiliar as to unbalance him. It also helps that it is Enjolras saying it; they knew each other for hours only, but it was long enough to know that the young man would not jest. Not on this; perhaps not on anything.

He looks around, taking in the strangeness; the clothes are different, the faces, the cut of hairstyles. There are lights powered from a source he cannot see, and many strange devices on tables, or in people's hands.crhere are rats carrying trays, and beverages he has never seen before - if this is some strange dream, or he has died and not realised, he doubts his imagination could furnish any of these things.

'I will take you at your word, Monsieur. I have little choice, and besides that, I trust it. Then tell me, how does one spend their time here? Especially one who no longer lives.'

He's taking this remarkably calmly. But then, he was a strange one at the barricade too. Well enough.

"In idleness, largely."

Enjolras is not very good at idleness. That fact may show.

Nonetheless, he has not had enough time yet to truly chafe at it, save when he thinks too much about the matters he can't affect. (Unfortunately, such matters are on his mind more often than anything else. France always has been.)

"As I said, it's an inn. A peculiar one, but nonetheless. There are lodgings, and there is food and drink. Machinery of some strange sort produces all that one might ask for: clothes, newspapers, other such things. And there is a sort of park, with horses and a lake, and mountains beyond." It's too unkempt for a park or garden, too tidy for wilderness, certainly not farmland. Enjolras cares little for nature and less for aesthetics; his only vague objection is that he's unsure what descriptor is best. "Mostly, there are others to converse with."

"I'm told the owner is named Mike, but I haven't met him." Gavroche forgot to mention Sallie, and no one else has.

The narration neglected to mention it earlier, but Enjolras addresses Valjean as vous, as he did at the barricade, and unlike his address for most of Milliways. The man is old, and he joined with the revolutionaries. Brave age is worthy of respect.

Valjean addresses him likewise; they are not familiar enough with each other for him to not, though it is true the circumstances of their meeting are a shared experience that might warrant the more relaxed form. Besides, he has respect for this man, even if there are very grave reservations about the whole uprising.

'I do not-'

He looks around again, his impatience masked behind his usual fixed serenity. But then, his face falls; he is exhausted beyond measure, kept mobile by the nerves of his impending arrest. Now, the arrest is - no, not in doubt, because Javert, but seems to have been postponed a while.

And so, he cannot stop his shoulders from sagging, as a wave of tiredness hits full-force.

'Forgive me, Monsieur. May I sit?'

Instantly, "Of course."

The table is largely clear; still, he shifts his folded newspaper away slightly in a gesture of welcome, and sits when the other man does.

"Pardon me."

"Would you like coffee, or water or wine?"

At the barricade, there was little food, rationed wine, rationed brandy. All ran out quickly. It didn't matter: a Parisian barricade is not meant for a long siege. But if the man is come straight from there, or nearly so, he may yet be exhausted.

'I believe - coffee, yes, thank you.'

He passes a hand over his face. It holds a tremor from the effort.

'It is I who should beg your pardon, Monsieur. We have not been properly introduced. My name is-'

There is hesitation, because he is not used to saying it out loud. But he will run no longer.

'-it is Jean Valjean. And I should admit that my reasons for being at your barricade are not ones you may find palatable.'

Enjolras was about to rise to go to the bar. He doesn't understand the mechanism called Bar that allows the countertop to produce items and even little notes in response to speech, but he doesn't need to. The rats, however, he's still not entirely at ease with -- and it seems kinder to spare Valjean that additional strangeness for the moment.

Now, however, he subsides. Coffee will wait. His attention is fixed on Valjean: thoughtful, assessing, as yet without anger or suspicion.

Levelly, "Were you another spy of the police?"

He doubts it. Nothing the man did suggests it. But that is the one reason he would truly oppose; for the others, a man's heart is his own. It's worth establishing from the first.

'No! By the Lord above, no.'

The idea would be amusing, if it were not also terrible.

'But I will also confess, I did not kill the inspector.'

He waits now, to see what condemnation that will bring. It is less to measure Enjolras' character, and more to give himself time to frame his words; he cannot help but think he will anger the man with them, but that is as it may be. He cannot feel sorry for any of the things he did on the barricade, only regret that he could do nothing to save the others. He knows it is not what they want anyway, but still, it makes his heart hurt to see such a waste of fine young men.

"Then I don't care about your reasons for joining us."

"You may tell me them if you wish. I'll gladly hear. But every man there came for his own reasons, Monsieur Valjean. You stood with us. You saved good men's lives, and preserved the barricade for longer that it would have stood without you. That's all I need to know."

"As for inspector Javert... I know."

He says it simply.

"He is here as well. He told me you did not kill him. I confess, I thought that you had. I even wish you had. But I knew when you asked that there was a chance you would not. You hated him, I could see that. But a man who refuses cartridges in a firefight, a man who does good without bullets even behind a barricade -- it is a large step from that to execution."

Enjolras has never hesitated to do what is necessary. He executed a man himself, without hesitation. And he will never say that that was easy, or good, or anything less than horrible.

He falters at this. He falters at many points on this, but the knowledge that Javert is here - well, it explains why he is not in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, at least. He does not glance around, simply from force of habit; these are actions that give away a man's guilt, and he has tried his best to purge himself of such instincts. Besides, has he not decided to give himself up to the man? Yes, he has. If it happens here, then so be it.

'I came to take Marius away. He loves my daughter; my daughter loves him. I could not leave him to die. It would break her heart.'

He did not do it for Marius; indeed, for a short time, he thought he might hate him.

'You are wrong though, monsieur - I do not hate Javert. I simply could not allow a man to be executed if I had any chance to stop it. It is true that I know him from old, but I would have done the same for any man. I do not think such a small thing can be a good action; if it be a good action, well, say that I have done it. If it be bad, say that instead. It is done. But please, do not say that you wish I had; do not wish a man's death on to your conscience, or mine.'

Edited 2013-09-21 19:45 (UTC)

Enjolras looks at him steadily.

"I told the spy he would be killed. I gave him to you for execution. If not you, it would have been another. Perhaps even me."

And Enjolras would indeed have shot him. He would have hated the necessity, hated the deed -- but he would have done it, and moved on without hesitation.

"You did not kill him, as it turns out. Do you think that lifts anything from my conscience?"

Enjolras accepts all that he's done, and any consequences of it. He gave himself over to the necessities of the old world in order to end them: to end the old order of injustice and suffering, and to bring about a new world which would have no need and no place for those like him.

Valjean looks at him steadily.

'The thought is not the same as the deed, Monsieur. Yes, you would have done it. But you did not, and he lives. A man may pray forgiveness for dark thoughts, or beg on his knees for redemption - both would be granted. But one is easier than the other. Thinking you would kill is not the same as being a killer.'

He has no doubt Javert would not have survived Enjolras - it was the reason he had to intervene as soon as he could. But, there; Javert lives. Neither he, nor Enjolras are murderers on his account. Those are the facts. A man's conscience though, that is his own affair.

"I had become that before you arrived."

The words are almost gentle.

Enjolras has made all of his choices with open eyes, and the cold certainty of an absolute. He will accept no man's absolution, including his own. Perhaps especially his own, because to absolve himself would be to compound his crime.

He is silent for a long moment, and thoughtful.

A rat passes by, and Enjolras glances down, lifts a hand to catch its attention, quietly requests two coffees. He has not forgotten the tremor in Valjean's hand, but this conversation is not one to interrupt with a trip to the counter for drinks.

Returning his attention to Valjean, he resumes. "Don't mistake me. To kill is terrible." He means that in every sense; the echo of Terror is not an accidental one. "I speak neither from hatred, nor from a love of death -- far from it. If I could be certain that his knowledge of those who fought with us would not bring the law down on any living men, or the families of any who died, I would be glad as well that you chose as you did."

"We fought for a world in which none need kill. In a violent world, violence is necessary; in a state governed by injustice, death may be necessary, martyrs are required. But these are monstrous necessities. When the sorry, bloody old world passes away, so too will its necessities, and those who committed them. I knew you might not kill him, citizen, and I did not object to your claim. That is the reason."

The rat makes him flinch a little, but in truth, it is far harder to hear Enjolras' words than deal with a rodent being given a drinks order. He suddenly feels older than even his advanced years, and it does not help keep the bar in focus.

'You are an impressive young man.'

It is said sincerely, without mockery or humour.

'And I am sure you are right in your reservations; Javert would indeed pursue any he thought affiliated with the uprising. If you speak with him again, I advise caution - though I am sure you do not need me to tell you that.'

He is quiet a moment then, contemplative and sober with it.

'Your fervour is to be commended. I cannot...well, I do not know. I will not deny there are monstrous injustices in the world, and that a change for the better should be welcomed. But a change through bloodshed - well, perhaps it is as you say; necessary. But I cannot wish to be part of it, and will pray that there be no need for it again. Every life is precious, and it saddens me to see them wasted. You will tell me they were not; again, you may be right. I do not have your strength of vision, and think only of the day before me, as much as I am able. But it seems to me there is very little room for mercy in your way of thinking - and without mercy, we risk becoming far lower beings than we are capable of, not higher. But it is only my view.'

He is reminded, very strongly, of Combeferre in his saddest moments. How often did Combeferre chide him to be gentler, to think of other ways, and lament the necessity of the revolutionary conflagration? He has never truly ceased to miss his friend -- all of his friends -- but for an instant the grief and wishing is like a fist around his heart, clenching cruelly.

Quietly, "Citizen, nothing would make me happier than for bloodshed to be needless."

For himself to be needless.

Enjolras knows who and what he is. If Lucifer is monstrous, so too is Michael with his bloody sword.

'And are you so sure it is not?'

He asks it just as quietly. He has no true understanding of revolutionary politics, beyond that which he has read; his life has been one of keeping hidden, and wishing for nothing more than peace, and safety for his daughter. Nevertheless, the idea of all that killing - it does not sit easy with him, and while he would never insult Enjolras by telling him he is wrong - he is not at all sure he is - he cannot help but point out the routes that do not involve violence.

"I'm sure."

He was before the uprising, and he is still. If he were not, he would not have taken to the barricade.

More than that, it was not only Enjolras who fought, and killed, and died. It was Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire -- more moderate men, and more merciful. Men who took to the barricades in spite of their natures, because of this necessity of change.

There are times when violence is the only road forward. Enjolras is certain of this, and certain that France of 1832 lives in one of those sad times.

He nods, sombre, but accepting.

'Perhaps you are right.'

He has the idea that Enjolras' views would be a little progressive for his own earlier years, but the idea behind them was just as needed then. Well, '93 is proof of it.

'But it has been tried before, and it did not finish well, then. I confess, I do not remember much of '93, nor the years under the Emperor, but it seems that perhaps the country is just not ready for the kind of change you are demanding.'

"It was ready in '30."

And before and since, in Enjolras's assessment, but he understands the delicate nature of a popular revolution.

He speaks soberly himself. The fire in him is there, always present, now banked, but this is not an hour of urgency. This is an intelligent, reflective discussion. And the fact of the matter is that 1830 was betrayed, and in June of 1832 the generals turned their backs and the people did not rise in sufficient number. The barricades fell, and their defenders died.

"The people are afraid. They are oppressed, ground down, worn out, fearful to lose any of the scraps of comfort and life they have found. I don't scoff at that. Still, there were many who fought. We misjudged somewhat, that's clear: the timing, the weather, the strength of the promises of certain men in power. The balance of anger and despair. But, citizen, I am convinced of this. The country is ready. The country has been ready. The question is not whether France is ready to change, but whether the French people are willing in sufficient number to risk what they must to achieve that change."

He has no idea why the man's memory of '93 or Buonaparte's reign would be so vague, but it's not his business, and it's not relevant to the discussion. He has no interest in prying.