𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑪𝒀 || 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐫𝐚𝐬

07. 𝑼𝒏𝒆 𝑱𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒆 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆

Chapter 7.

✎ᝰ

January 12, 1832.

THE FLICKERING CANDLELIGHT cast shadows on the worn walls of the cramped cafe.

The scent of sweat and determination saturated the air as the assembled revolutionaries buzzed with an increasingly heated energy.

Elizabeth sat in a corner, her notebook resting on her lap, pen hovering above it with fervor.

She had spent countless hours observing these passionate souls, piecing together their stories, their ideals, and now, their imminent actions.

"Enough!" Enjolras' voice rang out, his voice laced with frustration. Each student were clashing over strategies and visions for the protest they were planning.

Enjolras stood in the center of the room, his golden curls falling over his fierce blue eyes.

Although Elizabeth's heart sank, his obstinacy felt immovable, like a wall of iron stubbornly standing against the forces of change.

"I say that we act now! Delay leads to death!" Courfeyrac shouted back at him, face flushed.

"You think rushing into it will lead to victory? It will get us killed!" Grantaire spoke up, his usual comedic air was swapped with an intensity rarely seen.

"And what do you propose instead?" Courfeyrac spat back. "To cower in the shadows while the rest of Paris rallies for justice." The room erupted into agreement, voices overlapping.

Grantaire nursed what seemed to be a half-empty bottle of wine, mumbling incoherently but with an instant drawl.

When he finally burst forward, it was less rhetoric and more of a plea.

"What do any of you know about sacrifice? You toil for dreams while I... I drown in despair!"

"Enough!" exclaimed Enjolras. "You've drowned, yes. But the rest of us? The rest of us swim towards a better world!"

"What is a world made better by you half hearted attempts!" Grantaire retorted, and Courfeyrac lunged at him.

Their conversation spiraled quickly, accusations flaring as swiftly as sparks in a fire.

The tension sparked into a fistfight between Grantaire and Courfeyrac. Fists met flesh and wood.

Elizabeth's patience wore thin, she climbed onto a nearby table, her heart pounding.

"Enough!" Her voice cut through all the fighting. The room fell silent, eyes raised to meet her fiery gaze. "You are not children! Do you wish to make fools out of yourselves before the eyes of those who hang onto your every word? We're here to discuss revolution. Not ego."

Slowly, apologies stumbled forth amidst murmurs.

"Thank you, Eliza." Courfeyrac said, brushing off his shirt.

"Quite right, ma'am-" Grantaire started but was cut off by the glares of both Elizabeth and Enjolras.

"Just... let's focus." Elizabeth said, hopping down from the table and sitting back down.

All apologized, except Enjolras, who stood silent, his blue eyes narrowed, still battling with his own emotions.

Elizabeth felt the weight of his unyielding gaze. And the tension stretched taut between them.

His arms were crossed over his chest, as if carefully guarding the storm in his brewing heart.

✎ᝰ