avenir
[av(ə)niʀ}
"The future"
Avenir is an Unnamed from the dystopian society of Marseille who is doomed to a life of hardship after experiencing a tragic event at the hands of the Marseille police force. Once she discovers a chance to better her...
A/N: I LOVED WRITING THIS EXCITING CHAPTER! YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA!!! Pic above is from the Petit Gervais scene.
Did I spend my day researching the building in Paris in the same location as the Café Musain? Oh, no, not me! Did I find a website with information about renting an apartment in that building? Couldn't have been me! ;) #dreamhome
Here's what the inside of the apartment looks like, no joke:
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And now back to our regularly scheduled program:
Suddenly, the book I was carrying in my satchel felt several pounds heavier. I wouldn't dare show Les Misérables to him, for, as Enjolras had discovered, it hadn't been written yet. I couldn't believe my good fortune – we were about to inspire Victor Hugo, maybe introduce him to General Lamarque...That being said, I had to conceal Victor's identity from Enjolras, otherwise it could all go wrong.
"Is everything ok?"
Oops. My prolonged silence was suspicious. "Everything's fine...is it ok if I still call you Marius, though?"
"Thank you, Avenir." He closed his eyes again, a smile upon his face.
I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, but somehow, in a few hours, I was fast asleep.
The next morning, we woke with the sun, and we were on our way, through a beautiful massive field of green. I tried to keep my demeanor very normal, and not at all completely excited that I was walking two feet away from the Victor Hugo. Victor (er, Marius) had found a golden coin on the ground, and was tossing it up and down, quite pleased with himself. We had reached a fork in the road, and Victor had informed us that he had been here many a time before. Apparently, both forks led to the next village. We were on our merry way and were about to choose the left fork when suddenly, I heard someone crying and moaning in grief.
"Shh. Shhhhh," I said, stopping in my tracks.
A man was leaning on a walking stick, with a pack on his back. He looked like he was raised in the woods – a grotesque beard and a chiseled face, with a worker's cap upon his face. And there was a chain around his neck. I suddenly remembered the year – 1815 – and that's when I knew that this man was Jean Valjean.
