𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑪𝒀 || 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐫𝐚𝐬

08. 𝑮𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅-𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑬𝒕 𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒆-𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆

Chapter 8.

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January 15, 1832.

THE SUN HUNG LOW in the Parisian sky, casting a vibrant orange glow over the city streets.

Elizabeth sat perched on a wrought-iron bench in the bustling Place de la Bastille, her fingers flying over the pages of her notebook.

Just a short distance away, she could hear the rising murmur of the crowd as they began to gather, expectant and hungry for the words of their leader, Enjolras.

Elizabeth felt a thrill of excitement rush through her, nearly intoxicating amidst the scent of sweat and smoke.

Her concern for Marius was ever-present; he had been absent since the gathering began, his spirited presence a shadow among the sea of fervor igniting the square.

Determined not to let her sibling's absence quell her determination, Elizabeth was resolute in her mission.

She stared ardently at Enjolras, who stood atop a makeshift platform, his golden curls illuminated by the glance of the fading sun.

Every word that poured from his lips felt like a storm, awakening the spirits buried within the people around him.

"Liberty is not merely a dream! It is a right, a birthright of every man who walks the earth!" he pronounced, his voice rising above the palpable excitement of the crowd.

But she could hardly concentrate. The jagged edges of irritation danced in her mind as her thoughts drifted.

The man who made her blood boil, although his words could sway you, she had to remember who he was.

There was no doubt he was charismatic, his fervor contagious, yet every time they crossed paths, a tempest of snide remarks and pointed glares ensued.

Their exchanges had become a battle, a contest to see who could outdo the other in eloquence and indignation.

Yet beneath the surface, there was an undeniable connection that neither cared to acknowledge.

Elizabeth scribbled furiously in her notebook, her pen dancing across the pages as she documented his words.

They were not only a reflection of her beliefs but evidence for the book she was writing, a tribute to men like him, idealists willing to clash against a government that had forsaken the heart of the masses.

As she wrote, the cacophony of cheering grew louder, and she couldn't suppress a burgeoning admiration for the fiery leader.

His intense passion fueled her anger at the perpetual injustices scrawled across the history pages of her family.

It was strange. She was constantly contradicting herself.

One minute, she despised him.

The next, she admired him and his words.

It was a constant battle. She just wished she could figure out why she could feel both those ways at once.

The weight of her pen pressed against the page like a soldier preparing for battle.

Today, she would immortalize Enjolras' words, peeling back the layers of his revolutionary zeal in order to set the record straight about the men and women who fought not just for a cause, but for an idea, an idea of a Republic unbound by the sins of the past.

As Enjolras began to speak, his voice rolled out like thunder, compelling and forceful.

"Citizens of Paris!" he exclaimed, arousing a surge of energy in the crowd. "We stand at a precipice, united against tyranny and oppression. No more shall we subject ourselves to the whims of those who would rob us of our dignity and our rights!"