𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑬𝑪𝒀 || 𝐄𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐥𝐫𝐚𝐬

04. 𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒆

Chapter 4.

✎ᝰ

April 14, 1832.

ELIZABETH LAY, SPRAWLED comfortably across the worn couch, her legs draped lazily over the lap of Enjolras, who sat upright, engrossed in his writing.

She wore a simple nightgown, its fabric soft against her skin, and her fiery red hair, neatly braided into two messy strands that cascaded down her shoulders.

Their days belonged to the cause, but nights had become their shared realm. Here, among crumpled pages of half-finished manuscripts and whispered dreams, Elizabeth had surrendered her soul.

As Enjolras paused to adjust his glasses, Elizabeth tilted her head to observe him.

How curious it was that she had once regarded him with resentment, thinking of him as nothing more than an obstinate revolutionary.

But here he sat, the very man whose fervor ignited a fire inside her, inspiring words she penned in the darkness of night.

It was distressing how her anger had morphed into something so tender, so vulnerable.

"Will you... will you still love me when I'm old?" she asked suddenly, her voice breaking the lull of silence.

The words spilled from her mouth before she could reconsider. Enjolras let out a soft, incredulous laugh.

"Where is this coming from?" He raised an eyebrow, a smirk touching his lips.

Elizabeth propped herself up on her elbows, an intensity sparking in her blue eyes.

"I mean it! When I'm old and wrinkly... when my hair is white, and I'm nothing but a shadow of myself, will you still love me, Enjolras?" She spoke quickly.

"Elizabeth, enough!" he chuckled, patting her leg gently, yet firmly. "You are hardly wrinkled at this moment, nor have white hair! That's a long ways away."

She narrowed her eyes, unimpressed, before tugging on a strand of his hair in playful defiance.

"But really, Enjolras. I want to know! When I am a million years old, will you still carry me around?" There was a sincerity in her tone that made the air between them thrum with tension.

Enjolras set his writing aside, humor fading into earnestness. He removed his glasses and leaned back, studying her as if he could peel away the layers of worry that clouded her heart.

"I will love you even when you are a million years old, tired and worn. I will carry you wherever you wish to go, even if it's just across the room." He smiled. "I promise to always carry you home."

He watched her laugh, the sound floating like a melody through the room, filling the corners with warmth.

Elizabeth nestled her head on his chest, drawing comfort from his presence.

As the silence stretched, a sudden thought crossed Enjolras' mind.

"Oh! A letter arrived for you earlier," he said, reaching across to the table beside the couch to retrieve it.

He handed her the envelope, his brow furrowing at the look of confusion that clouded her features.

Expectantly, Elizabeth tore it open, scanning the familiar handwriting.

Her breath caught, and she froze, eyes widening in disbelief. When she finally read the words, they shuddered through her like an ill wind: "Monsieur Gillenormand has passed away."

A wave of shock washed over her. Her Grandfather. The letter trembled in her hands before she set it down against her lap, feeling as though the floor had given way beneath her.