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The door swings open as though the man on the other side has somewhere to be.

Wherever it was, it was not this.

Milliways' latest victim is tall, and broad-shouldered, and old enough that his hair is peppered through with grey. He is dressed well enough, though not in a manner that suggests wealth. Clearly from a time that does not include...anything he can see before him.

'...ah.'

There may be a faint aroma of sewers about him. Apologies, bar denizens. He did his best to rid himself of it, but some things stay with a man long after they should leave.

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'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.

He thinks on this too. And lets out a long, sad breath.

'If it is so, then it will happen. My fear is the spark for it.'

One of his fears, at least when he thinks about it.

'If young men being killed on the streets is not incentive enough for the people to rise up, and call 'enough', then what will it take? If they are not willing to stand in support of their man, Lamarque, and follow his lead to the point of conclusion - then what more terrible things may happen, to rouse them? It does not bear thinking about, monsieur.'

Some atrocity, perhaps. Some senseless murder. An epidemic, exacerbated by poverty of an even higher scale. Something terrible - and he has had enough of terrible. He is tired, even on days where he has not trawled through a sewer with a man on his back. If the future holds nothing but more violence, he wants no part of it.

It bears thinking about. All potential outcomes must be considered, weighed, planned for. Those who attempt to bring about a revolution of society must be prepared to fight the worst, and defend the best; those who see a new world dawn, doubly so.

But what Valjean means, he thinks, is that he cannot bear to think about it. And that is a different matter.

"We both hope for no more terrible things," he says soberly. "Though I have no confidence that they will not happen, if the present state of government continues."

"But if terrible things occur, let something better be bought by that bloody coin."

'Yes.'

A smile, and he closes his eyes. Perhaps he is praying for it.

'Yes, then. Let it be so.'

Enjolras would not call himself a religious man; he's not a man of the church, and God rarely occupies his thoughts. But he is a man of deep faith. Willing martyrs must be.

In his words, and in his heart, is his own prayer.

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