𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑪𝒀 || 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐫𝐚𝐬

11. 𝑬𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒆 𝑳𝒆𝒔 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒔

Chapter 11.

✎ᝰ

February 23, 1832.

FOR ALMOST TWO weeks now, Elizabeth had taken care to avoid Enjolras, who seemed to occupy an implausibly vast chasm in her thoughts. Their mutual disdain had taken on a different flavor, one that mingled with something utterly perplexing.

A part of her was wary, knowing the power he held over her emotions. Another part craved the argument, the brush of his brilliance against her burgeoning consciousness.

Yet, that didn't matter. What did matter was that, after he had read her manuscript, the walls she'd built around herself had cracked, and now, it felt like she stood at the precipice of something she wasn't ready to name.

Enjolras felt lucky to glimpse into her soul captured on paper, it spoke of rage and the scars of childhood, a raw honesty that made him respect her more but also tormented him with how well it reflected her anger, the burst of passions he recognized all too well in himself.

"Enjolras," a voice broke through his reflection, jarring him back to the present.

The revolutionary's brow furrowed as he registered the bewildered glance of his fellow students. "Are you going to speak, or shall we assume you've lost the will to inspire us? God, you'd think you were in love."

"Silence is golden, Grantaire," Enjolras replied sharply, trying to shake the lingering thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind.

As he stood at the head of the table, intention and purpose drained from his tone. The wind outside howled through the cracks in the windows, an eerie mimic of the revolution they all dreamed about.

But Enjolras felt disquieted as he caught a glimpse of Elizabeth's auburn locks tumbling softly across her shoulders, her eyes turned toward the window, lost in a world only she could see.

Her words on the page rung in his head, they rung true for him too. He dreaded the thought that she might believe he saw her weakness, for in truth, he only admired her strength.

Yet, to him, it felt like an unveiling. Unveiling something fragile that she couldn't afford to reveal to anyone, let alone him.

In Elizabeth's case, whenever she'd caught sight of Enjolras in the past days, her heart would flutter, a flicker of conflict illuminating her chest.

No, she would much rather quarrel with him than succumb to the unfamiliar sensations swirling in the pit of her stomach like ink in water.

The guffaws of the other revolutionaries caught her attention. They found humor in Enjolras' gentle disinterest, noting how, despite the well-crafted slogans and fervent appeals, his mind was far from the cause.

Elizabeth glanced sideways at him and noticed a flicker of something in his eyes as they met her own, a moment that flared briefly before he shifted his attention away, as if recalling that they were supposed to be enemies.

"Elizabeth!" Combeferre called her name, snapping her out of her stupor. "Are you listening? What do you think?"

Startled, Elizabeth cleared her throat, aware that all eyes were now on her. "I...I think we should pour our efforts into the pamphlets this week. We need to reach the masses, not just the elite."

"Ah, yes! The feisty little author wants desperate hearts to read her words!" Jehan teased, laughter echoing around the table.

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush at the verbal jab, but her ire only deepened at the way Enjolras remained beautifully aloof, acknowledging neither the jest nor her presence.