nysalogs | [semi-open]

[The weather, once opening up to spring, has soured, inflicting hail and snow in flashes, and dispersing as abruptly as it appears. Of graver concern than the fickle weather, to Jean Valjean at least, are the memories that blanket the landscape like a thick fog, gathering in an instant to obscure the city streets with the shadows of bygone times, places, and persons. These shadows he would prefer to leave where they lie, the shadows he has striven to escape for fourteen years of dedicated work and prayer.

Yet always they seem to draw up to him. Presently the city fades, melting like wax under a flame as it is supplanted by a new landscape, or rather, an old one. Jean Valjean quickly recognizes the woods outside the village of Montfermeil. Even in the dark of night that has suddenly gathered to blot out the afternoon, he knows these trees, for it was among them that six years ago he buried his great fortune, and more importantly found the light that would keep warm his soul.

He looks about with caution to see what will unfold. As he walks, he nearly kicks some object wedged in the drifting snow - and quickly discovers the polished green orb at his feet.]

Madame Sandra! [His voice stays low, but remains strong in the hush of the evening. Crouching down, he scoops her up and wipes the snow from her with his sleeve.] These are strange circumstances that we meet in...

Edited 2018-04-17 02:24 (UTC)

[Enjolras is on the verge of sickness- his house mate is insisting he should be in bed and resting. But so long as there's energy in him Enjolras is out in the streets.

He's walking in the street when the distant sound of a clock striking the hour interrupts his thoughts. There's nothing in that which takes his attention (he's deep in thought, paying attention to where he's going is not high on his list of priorities) but a voice rings out that he knows and his head whips up.

This is a street he will never forget, but which he never expected to see again. There's no time to take it in, from the top of a mountain of furniture his double stands, beginning to issue orders. The memoy unfolds before him and Enjolras follows along. It is a strange thing to see himself like this, in the third person. It is stranger to see again the dead with all their vigour still in them.

He soon realises he isn't alone in regarding the scene. There is another man here who looks as out of place as he. But Enjolras will not interrupt the memory. He will not waste the time to see his friends, to see how things had gone (could he have done anything differently? Is it productive to ask?).

But the memory comes to an end as the prisoner is led away- Enjolras' eyes are dry, but he needs a moment before he can speak to the other witness of this memory. His lips are pressed tightly together.]

[Although the barricade strikes nothing in Jean Valjean's recollection, its birth being years beyond his grasp, the character of the streets when the scenery suddenly turns is familiar. Watching the scene unfold around him, with he a ghost lingering in the background, he has little doubt that this is a memory of Paris that has blown in with the Storm. In the busyness of the barricade, it is not until a little later that he spies another witness: the young man whose movements are not so urgent as those of the barricade's defenders, and whose expression reflects a solemn pensiveness rather than the hard determination that battle brings.

It does not escape his notice that the young man has a double within the drama of the memory, who appears to command and overlook the rest. He might appear cherubic if not for the terrible sharpness of his countenance. Young though he still may be, he creates of himself a larger presence that wins the respect of his fellows.

Then come two great jolts, not to the barricade but to Jean Valjean himself. First, the image of Javert bound and beaten. Although nearly six years have passed since the night he fled from the inspector, and although this is but an illusion before him, still his visage inspires dread in the pit of his gut. It is as if Javert might materialize from this memory to pin on him all his past crimes and clap on his wrists the irons.

Second, and the greater of the two shocks, the image of himself stepping forward from the gathered men, clad in the uniform of the National Guard and looking little different than his present state. He watches himself negotiate the right to execute the imprisoned Javert; he watches himself take up and cock the pistol. Then when he tries to follow after himself, the shop basement dissipates like smoke swept by the wind, and he is left looking at only the young man to whom the memory evidently belongs.

Jean Valjean too is speechless, as his thoughts struggle to catch up to all that he has witnessed. After a prolonged pause, he manages to ask:]

What was that?

The spirit of liberty, taken root within men. [In a moment he will explain it. It is strange, but the words will not come. A moment longer to himself will be fine, surely.

Enjolras turns to greet the co-watcher of this reverie and his mouth drops open in surprise.]

It is-- you, monsieur. [Here is a thing beyond belief- the man who had arrived on the barricade in time to help, whose end Enjolras does not know...]

[To be recognized has long been a fear of his, one that lurks beneath the surface always. To be recognized and know not why, precisely, is another strain of discomfort altogether. Rather than a proper greeting comes another question.]

In what year did this fighting occur?

[And to himself he asks: for what reason did he come to join with these revolutionaries? What cause is this to him?]

[That's an unexpected question, and there's a heartbeat before he answers.]

It was July fifth, eighteen thirty two. [Perhaps it was the sixth by then? The days had blended together. But that isn't the matter at hand.]

You were there, monsieur. Surely you recall it.

[For a moment the reeling of his mind makes its mark upon his expression as he is struck by this discrepancy in years. He nearly forgets that they stand in a public street. His attention narrows to a sharp point focused upon this young man, the key to this enigma. His answer comes with delay.]

No more than you might at present recall tomorrow.

[A great many unasked questions he implies in that terse reply.]

[His lips purse, the scowl on his face showing no sign of fading.]

You suggest you have not lived it yet. What year was it when you were last in France?

It was 1829, the autumn.

[Then the darkness had descended, and France was no more, or so logic dictates.]

[Enjolras has never gaped in amazement, but the small 'o' of his mouth is a near thing. He gathers himself.] I would say it is impossible that I am here from one year, and you from another, but it is impossible that we are here at all. So be it.

Let me shake your hand, monsieur. You will prove yourself a worthy friend to me and my group in the future. [And he offers the hand.]

[Although he has not settled on any feeling besides bewilderment - for this sliver of the future he ought not have seen, and for this young man who seems a harbinger - he extends his own hand to complete the gesture.]

I do not feel that I deserve recognition for deeds I've not yet done.

[But then, nor does he feel that he deserves recognition for deeds he has indeed done.]

I can name the lives you saved through your assistance, monsieur. [Many were later lost, but he enabled them to hold out against the guard longer. It has happened for Enjolras, so he will be grateful.]

I am called Enjolras. It is a pleasured to meet you.

[Whatever his confusion for his involvement in this revolutionary's battle, his turbulent mind is somewhat assuaged by the knowledge that his intercession had preserved precious lives.]

Fauchelevent. I am happy to lend aid where I can.

[A bout of coughing interrupts whatever Enjolras has to say next.

He takes a moment to recover:] Fauchelevent. It is good to know you.

[However many times it has happened, it is disorienting still to take a step and find that by this single step one has seemingly been transported someplace new. In such a fashion the present is usurped by fragments of the past. The street is of a familiar character, but disrupted by the immense structure built of broken furniture, paving stones, and whatever materials could be spared - a structure made in desperation, but not haphazardly. The barricade fortifies what is from this present vantage point unrecognizable as a cafe, what now serves as a military headquarters. The air hangs heavy with the odor of gunpowder. Corpses are piled nearby in a terrible mound.

The memory is not quite his own, torn from a time Jean Valjean has not yet seen. Yet when his phantom appears, clad in the uniform of the National Guard and towing a bound Javert, only the faintest perturbation ripples across his countenance.

He turns his gaze and in the shadow of the building that forms the corner of this narrow street he spies another figure. A demon in appearance, with skin the color of death, ears bat-like, and eyes almost luminous. Fear spikes his breast but soon softens to something more akin to curiosity.]

...I did not see you there.

[An odd greeting perhaps, but in such circumstances what greeting is not odd?]

[ Having already experienced Diana's memories, he knows this situation for what it is--but that doesn't mean he likes it. Koltira folds his arms over his chest as he observes the scene in front of him, wondering at its context, at the conflicts in play. The corpses don't bother him, of course; the reek of gunpowder and death is all too familiar. But there is more going on here than simple war. ]

I would leave if I could.

[ He inclines his head towards the bound man. ]

But I cannot. So perhaps you will tell me what dream you are dreaming.

[His eyes turn back to the illusions of himself and the inspector, who have by now descended from the barricade to stand in the street.]

Truthfully, I do not know. That man is indeed me, but of this day I have no recollection. It is torn from the pages of time yet to come.

[Yet Jean Valjean had seen the prologue to this act in another's memories, and then the desire to know what would come next had sharply seized him. To divine the future is in defiance of God, in whom he places absolute trust, but still, wickedly, he cannot strangle such natural curiosity.

Meanwhile, Javert turns to the illusory Jean Valjean, who tucks the pistol he carries under one arm and silently fixes upon the bound man a look.

Take your revenge, Javert demands. Jean Valjean draws a knife from his pocket and opens it. You are right. That suits you better.

With this knife, he does not execute the prisoner: he slices through the cords that bind Javert's neck, his wrists, and his feet, and then, standing, he says, You are free.]

[semi-open]

Sandra

HI I AM HERE AT LAST

nice

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oh yes i should try to wrap this up

OKAY

Koltira

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