AVENIR

Chapter 11: What Enjolras Thought

                 He was getting overly frustrated, and on the brink of an outburst of rage. It would not be his first one that day. He leapt out of the chair by his desk, and stormed across the room, tearing at his hair. He gasped and groaned, trying hard not to let out a large bellow. He could never get this part right; he had been working on it ever since four AM on the previous night. And the rally was only one day away! He had a hook, the part that would bring in his audience, and make them hold onto his every word. But he could not get to the main point of his speech. He had said too much about his future plans already; he could not disclose such information any more – it was too dangerous. Why could he not figure out what to write about? The main subject of the speech. He wanted it to convey a huge sense of despair; what the degraded in France were feeling right now. He needed an anecdote, a little offshoot of a story. But the most miserable story he knew about was Gavroche's story. And he couldn't expose Gavroche – the lad had gotten into too much trouble already. What was he to write about?

             Pacing, pacing about the room. He knew he was always different. Socially awkward. Not connected with people. Take Marius, for example. And Courfeyrac. Everyone loved Courf, and at the end of the rallies they would always go up to him to talk to him. But he, Enjolras, always made the speech. Every time. People were in awe of him, like a god. But nobody would talk to him afterwards. Always Courf.

            Pacing to and fro. He really did try to be on the side of the people. Why wouldn't people talk to him? Couldn't they see that his glares were aimed only at girls who sought him for their own pleasures? He had no common person to really sit down with, and get to know. He just had his boys. Not one beggar, or townsperson, or even a student from another group of friends. Just his students and Gavroche. Always his students and Gavroche. So he could not know a single up close and personal story about living in Paris in 1832. How could he? He was lonely.

           It was a foggy night. He opened the front window and gazed out onto the Rue Saint – Michel. He leaned on the windowpane of the Café Musain. Gazed into the darkness. Calmed down. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the fresh midnight air. Everything would turn out fine in the end. He opened his eyes, and gave a little start. At the end of the street stood a lone figure, reaching out through the fog into the darkness. Enjolras frowned, and leaned forward. It was a student around his age. Nothing seemed to rouse this figure, reaching out into the fog.

           What was he reaching for? No one else was out at this hour. He gazed at the clock. Two AM. What was he reaching for? A better tomorrow. A life that he might never get to see. A missing someone who had left the Earth and would not return. The boy was reaching for the future.

          And suddenly Enjolras knew what he would write about. He didn't have to tell a personal story. The mystery surrounding this student was enough. It had inspired him. He rushed over to his desk, and wrote down a few sentences. He wrote with rigor. He could taste the success of this particular speech. Then, a gust of wind, and his candle went out. He stopped. Listened. He had left the window open. He shuddered; it was getting cold. He got up again, and gave one last look outside before shutting the window. The student was gone. Had he ever even been? Gone. But the fog still swirled. And Enjolras remained awake, writing a speech that would be done by daybreak, but was not yet complete. Writing about the mysteries of youth and the hope of the future. 

A/N: Those of you who have stuck with me from the beginning will recognize this as a free-write that I had shared with you all as a sneak preview forward.  Well, we have reached the moment and I hope you enjoy :)

~Vive La France~