there is a pseudo-intellectual in me; open

[orestes]

WHO| Enjolras and open!
WHAT| Happenings around the Capitol.
WHERE| Commons and the Tribute Center at least. I'm cool if you want to start something elsewhere, too. c:
WHEN| Generally in Week 2.
WARNINGS| Highhanded philosophical ridiculousness, probably.



[1; training center]

Generally speaking, Enjolras avoids the designated training areas. It isn't that he has something against physical fitness, or is somehow embarrassed by his decidedly modest combative skills. No, it's that they exist as a stark and concrete reminder that the Tributes live for a purpose solely destructive. The best they can hope for is to live and die perpetuating a barbaric system. It isn't something he ascribes to personally but there is a certain inevitability to the reality of it.

That said, he has only ever experienced the training areas when they are inundated with his fellow Tributes. With the Arena on that isn't as much of an issue. In fact, the training areas are more or less deserted in the middle of the day, those Victors who do choose to workout mostly keeping to an actual regimen rather than doing so out of a futile attempt to avoid the disappointingly ubiquitous television broadcasts.

Nonetheless, it's with an uncomfortable tug at the thin cotton t-shirt clinging to his skin that Enjolras climbs onto a mat clearly intended for boxing. He hadn't been much for fighting of that sort in Paris, but he had a cursory knowledge of it from Bahorel and oddly enough, Grantaire, and it had to be more useful than fencing or canne de combat, at any rate. And if he could focus his attentions on his own destructive capacities, perhaps he could block out those happening in the Arena.

[2; main lounge of the tribute center]

Ostensibly, he's reading. There's a pen tucked behind his ear, just visible under blond curls, and a paperback with a distinctly worn cover resting on his lap. Nevertheless, Enjolras' attention is focused on the television coverage of the Arena. He glances down every now and then, seeming to pick up a line or a passage, but it's a farce. He isn't making progress, and even if he were, it isn't any information he didn't already know. He closes the book, finally glaring daggers at the statistics on the screen, at last unable to hide his disinterest.

Never the less, a terrible cycle presents itself. Every seven minutes or so --when the advertisements for luxury cosmetics, designer cupcakes, and whatever else the Capitol is fond of this week begin to run-- he'll stubbornly reopen the book, struggling to find his place again and slowly losing interest again once the programming resumes. It's a losing battle, he should really just move to a different room, away from all the pageantry, but his curiosity forces him to stay. It's a vicious, nagging thing. He wants information about his friends, and yet he also fears what the television might tell him.

Comments

[orestes]

It was an intimidating and humiliating thing to be scolded by a Roman. It was worse still to feel the intensity of Maximus' eyes upon him, the point of his sword pressing sharply through the cotton of his t-shirt and know that, if he wanted, Enjolras would be entirely unable to stop Maximus from killing him.

"If she truly cares for me, as you say, killing me would be an unkindness to her." It was low, but he refused to back down and he would reason for his life before he would beg for it. "Even if she does not, you would be placing her at a disadvantage."

He paused momentarily, waiting for any hint of action, any indication that he might have said too much and angered the man beyond repair. Whether it was his own fear or the fervor in Maximus' expression, Enjolras found nothing, no hint of where the next few moments would take him. "Focus your anger on those who place us in this situation, Kill me, if you like, but do not let that keep you from killing them when the time comes. They are the ones forcing all of our hands."

[gluteus]

If Maximus was another man, he may have only rolled his eyes, may have only made a snide remark, a reminder that sparring was not meant to end in death.

But he wasn't another man, and Enjolras needed a lesson. So without a single word, he stuck his foot out, stepping between Enjolras' legs to tangle them, and then slammed him abruptly to the floor with his shoulder. Before Enjolras could get up, he planted his foot firmly on his chest, to keep him down until he'd said his piece.

"You're a fool," Maximus said, simply, bluntly. "I've no desire to kill you. You stand in a training hall, and if you mean to remain then you will shut your mouth and train." He removed his foot, taking a step back and allowing Enjolras the space to get up.

"Otherwise, I see no reason for your continued presence."

[orestes]

If he'd felt like a child before, he felt like less than nothing after that. It was humiliating, it was demeaning, to be scolding and spoken to as if he were somehow less worthy. No one was more worthy than anyone else, and whatever disagreements happened between men, they could be handled without stooping to that, whatever it was.

He crawled, for there was no dignified way to put it, back onto his feet. Any confidence was merely the misplace manifestation of his wounded ego and indignation. "You suggest I train against you, and yet you begin without even offering me a sword. I will fight you when we are fairly matched and not before."

The truth is that they would never be fairly matched. The fencing lessons he barely remembered couldn't match the skill of a trained soldier. Enjolras was taking a gamble. Thus far, gambles had not worked out particularly well for him.

[gluteus]

"Have you ever trained in your life, boy?" Maximus growled, though he stepped back and grabbed one of the training blades, holding it out to Enjolras hilt first.

Then he set his own on the ground.

"Now, perhaps, we'll be evenly matched."

[orestes]

He accepted the blade, only mildly insulted by the reversal. It wasn't like the swords he was used to, and the weight of the blade felt awkward in his hand. Experimentally, he brought vertically to his chest, trying to get a feel for its movement and balance. It wasn't meant to be handled with one hand, or at least not in the style to which he was accustomed. Nevertheless, he continued, unsteadily extending his arm, the blunted tip pointing directly to the gladiator.

"En garde," he choked out, an inauspicious beginning to their match. The French sounded no better in his voice than did the Latin moments earlier, but it was at least accompanied with a modicum of confidence. If he was to be defeated, and Enjolras had no doubt that he was to be defeated, it wouldn't be without effort.

He lunged forward, the point of the blade dipping from the weight and his improper hold on it. The attack left his back open, even if he was doing a pretty good job of defending his stomach.

[gluteus]

Maximus was actually a little placated by the fact that Enjolras was at least taking this seriously, even if he had absolutely no idea what the boy was attempting to do with the sword. It was a little longer than a gladius but nearly the same width, so everything about what Enjolras was attempting screamed wrong to him.

He immediately pulled himself to the right, easily dodging the lunch, ducking past Enjolras to slam his fist into the small of the the man's spine.

[orestes]

Between the poorly balanced attack, and the fact that he had barely managed to recover himself from Maximus' last hit, the new impact brought Enjolras down unceremoniously with seemingly little effort on the part of the gladiator. Yes, this could only end in embarrassment. At least that supposition had been confirmed quickly.

For the second time, he picked himself up, this time ditching the fencing technique for a more pragmatic, two-handed approach. Again, he lunges forward, but what he's managed to learn in the handling of the weapon, he also lost in other aspects of the attack. It was all power, all a blind rush, and little to no strategy. And, again, his back was left completely open, otherwise decently broad shoulders hunched inward to account for the weight of the sword.

[gluteus]

Maximus waited, pacing like a caged tiger, as Enjolras picked himself back up and took another grip on the sword. The gladius was a one armed sword but the ones here were heavier, a little longer - no trouble for Maximus to wield one handed, trained as he was, but quite a bit heavier than a rapier. He couldn't help but be amused at Enjolras' desperate attempts to learn quickly.

Lunging, however...

Maximus immediately ducked around the attack, but didn't hit Enjolras this time, just let him tumble on a few feet with the thrust of his own attack.

"Do you think you are in a brawl?" Maximus growled. "Your balance is the most important aspect of your attack, why do you relinquish it so easily?"

[orestes]

It wasn't just his balance. His footwork was sloppy and his breathing labored and heavy. He surged forward, barely keeping his chest and the weight of the sword from dropping him to the ground, with or without Maximus' intervention. Awkwardly, he recovered himself and turned to face the other man, the expression on his face a stubborn sort of frown.

"I think that you have be at a disadvantage. I have no idea how to use this sword, monsieur." There was a bite, a snark to the tone of the words. Maximus had put him at a disadvantage first of language, then of sentiment, and now of combative style. Enjolras had the weapon and it still wasn't a fair fight.

"I should challenge you to a fencing match. It is the way gentlemen fight in my country."

[gluteus]

"Then you forget we are no longer gentlemen," Maximus said bluntly. "We are Gladiators. And in Rome, a man fought with what he had."

He pointed back towards the rows of weapons on the wall. "If you wish to continue with something else, your choices lie there."

[orestes]

"On the contrary," he began making toward the display of practice weapons to find one better suited to his preferences. "We are men who are free to behave in any way we wish. Their decision to treat us like dogs, or killers not one that we are under any obligation to accept."

With that, Enjolras tugged a saber free from the display. He gave a few swipes with it and the thin blade hissed and swished through the air. It was lighter, less about power and more about precision. Furthermore, it was much more suited to his strength.

Gingerly, back beginning to ache from Maximus' hit earlier, he stepped back onto the practice mat.

"Would you like your sword? Now that I have one as well there is no reason for you to deny yourself."

[gluteus]

Enjolras misunderstood him, but Maximus didn't care. He doubted the boy knew anything about freedom. Few did, until it was taken from them. And as much as he raged about Panem, he and Enjolras here were essentially free.

Though that did not mean they could act as they wished.

"You are a killer," Maximus reminded him, "Or you would not share the Victor's title with me now. Your tributes must be killers, or they must be killed. If you wish to train them to be gentlemen, be my guest. I will continue to train them to live."

He grabbed his gladius, and held it loosely at his side.

[orestes]

Perhaps a Roman definition of freedom, and its post-Enlightenment counterpart were less than equivocal. It would have been an interest comparison had Enjolras been aware of it at all. Instead he was focused on Maximus' words rather than the man's musings.

"I had killed a man before I ever entered the Arena." He mimicked Maximus, holding his sword at the ready, but not in a directly combative stance. "Killing a man in the service of necessity and for sport or entertainment are radically different things. I would teach my Tributes the difference. It is something I would expect a solider like yourself, who fought alongside the likes of Marcus Aurelius would understand."

[gluteus]

A flash of anger lit behind his eyes and Maximus moved at once - all tensed anger and muscle and efficiency, the sword snapping up from his side and immediately put on the offensive, pushing his way right up to Enjolras, blocking and then swinging his hilt straight into Enjolras' sword hand to disarm him, before shoving him back down to the ground with an elbow.

"Don't dare to lecture me on the meaning of death," Maximus spat, his fury quiet but seeping from his very skin. "Or the words of dead men. I was a soldier, and then a Gladiator, before I ever stepped foot in this world. Do not dare to lecture me on death."

[orestes]

Enjolras let out a distinctly undignified yelp as he fell for the third time that day. The ringing of the clanking metal in his ears seemed to drown out the gladiator's command, but he got the idea well enough. Desperately, he clawed the mat, hoping to find his lost sword, but there was nothing for it. He was trapped, again. Woefully ill equipped to fight someone like Maximus. It still couldn't make him feel bad about what he'd said.

"You have won, Monsieur." He proclaimed, breaking from Latin into English. "Where shall we go from here?"

He breathed slowly, meeting Maximus' eyes before picking himself up again. Abruptly, Enjolras switched back to Latin. "You were a soldier, and then a gladiator. I was a revolutionary and then a traitor to France. We have both seen friends die, better men than ourselves in all likelihood. Neither of us has the right to lecture the other on that. Now shall we call this done?"

[gluteus]

"We are done," Maximus agreed, firmly, thrusting his sword down point-first into the practice mat. He was well done, and he didn't like the idea that he and Enjolras had more in common than might first appear, even if his own 'traitorous' actions were more or less unknown, in this place.

[orestes]

It was easier to relax, seeing the sword anywhere else but in the gladiator's hand. Enjolras eased himself up off the practice may, feeling the tension in his shoulders dissipating as he moved.

"It was a good match," he offered, perhaps with slightly less than complete sincerity. He hadn't been looking for a real fight, after all, and certainly not one so demanding. "Perhaps next time I will have trained enough to make it a better one."

Or at least to the point that he would be able to hold his own at all. He wasn't about to be picky.

[gluteus]

"You are the only one who is able to ensure that," Maximus said bluntly. There was no 'perhaps' in his mind. Either Enjolras would take his training seriously, or he wouldn't. The word 'perhaps' only convinced him of the latter.