having spent your entire life quick-tongued and always right (closed-ish)

[orestes]

Who| Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Open to Joly, Combeferre, and Marius as well.
What| A good old Jacobin-style book burning.
Where| The roof of the Tribute Center.
When| Following the Hacker post.
Warnings/Notes| None really.



What little Enjolras knew or cared about Eastern religions had led him to the understanding that the various oriental peoples, as a mass entity, had a problem with the concept of worldly attachment. They found demons in the small, practically imperceptible individual details that humans naturally seemed to accumulate in their lives. As for his attachments, well. Where other men amassed fine clothes or tokens of past romances, Enjolras collected ideas and nested with them. He grew from them, added to them, mingled his own ideas with those he read. If he were making a proper study of it, he'd bother to consider not just the idea of physical attachments to worldly possessions, but rather the mental, emotional complex one developed in relation to what those physical objects represented. As it were, however, he had only a passing interest in any of that, and moreover, it was the amassment of physical possessions which were haunting him now.

He scribbled a quick note to Courfeyrac to be sent along with an Avox before loading a bag and waiting, ever impatiently, for an elevator. In it was the leather-bound notebook Marius had given to him, as well as an assortment of his other most fondly regarded and frequently scribbled-in volumes, and a good number of small cigarette lighters. The benefit to the otherwise damnable heat would be that their kindling would require relatively little effort.

As he waited, he read over some of his own words, written barely over a year earlier. This had been sloppy, a mistake of hubris and complacency. He wouldn't make it again.

Comments

[libertin]

Courfeyrac welcomed the excursion to the roof if only for the distraction it provided. He could breath the fresh air, smoke, and forget all about the females who tormented his life. Cinderella was gone. She'd died in the Arena and had not yet returned. And Max...

His heart broke for her, again and again, more with each passing day. He felt horrible leaving her alone in the Arena. His one consolation was that she was smart and strong and as capable of winning as anyone he knew.

That was sweet consolation and he would grasp it with both hands, along with the distraction he would gain from meeting Enjolras on the rooftop. He exited the building and took in the scenery a moment before striding over to join his friend. He was almost sorry he hadn't brought his hat, but it was breezy enough up there that it didn't especially matter.

"Look here, what's all this about?" He asked, taking one of the books from Enjolras' hand.

[orestes]

"Purification through fire," Enjolras frowned at the invasion of his space but showed relatively little annoyance otherwise. It was simply Courfeyrac's way. It always had been. "Of record, if not of intent."

Marius' notebook would be the first to go as it was the most damning, and had the most explicit plans and flights of anarchistic fancy. He opened it, brushing through the pages to reveal them to Courfeyrac. Some were laid out in plain French, others in Occitan or Latin, sparse Greek, Spanish, or some nonsensical combination. "I have erred. I would appreciate your help in remedying this mistake."

With that minimal explanation, he pulled a one of the pages from the book, holding it away from them and lighting its corner. The treated paper took a moment to actually burn, but paper was paper and it was only a matter of seconds before it curled blackly in on itself. Something, the ink he would suppose, made the flames snap turn an unnatural green and Enjolras was forced to drop the first page before ripping at another.

[libertin]

He let out a low whistle as he watched the pages disintegrate into black ashy nothingness. It was a shame, a damned shame to watch such beautiful words disappear into fire, but without even asking, he understood the thought behind it. Enjolras had always been a thoughtful man. If his secrets were no longer his to deliberate upon, he would do everything in his power to regain his hand. Courfeyrac understood this and agreed.

“Let’s be done with it, then.” He said in English, the words sounding strange from his lips. He didn’t quite recognize his own voice, and even now, days later, it alarmed him to speak in English when he still thought and dreamed in French.

Watching Enjolras tear out the pages of his book, he reached into his own pocket and produced a lighter of his own. It was one of those marvelous modern inventions, one which could light a pipe or a cigarette with perfect ease. He wasn’t sure how he’d ever lived without them.

“Give me one of them. I should like to see what color this one will burn."

[orestes]

A book sailed at Courfeyrac, tossed unceremoniously the short distance between them, its cover and pages rustling through the air. Enjolras tore at another page of his own notebook. It would be over zealous to rip the pages to shreds before burning them, but the impulse was there all the same.

"They are clever to take away our ability to speak." He observed, tone calm and a little bit cold. He, too, mourned the loss of French. It was an altogether more attractive language, and he suspected that though he had made the effort to cultivate his learned skills in English more than his friends, this hindrance would hit him equally as hard. It was one thing to choose to exercise an ability, it was another thing to have the option to not ripped away entirely. "If they cannot retaliate against any one of us without it being an obvious political maneuver, they can at least make our lives even less pleasant."

Another page dropped to the concrete in a multicolored flame. It was hot out and it was starting to seem hotter for their efforts. They would both be sweating by the time they were done. "Joly will have to refashion all of his puns."

[libertin]

Courfeyrac set about mimicking Enjolras by tearing out pages and callously setting them ablaze. Every so often he'd pause before flicking the lighter, scrutinizing the words written in his friend's familiar hand. It was such a shame to let such pretty words and moving thoughts go to waste, but it was for the best. Truly, it was for the betterment of them all.

"They were even cleverer to take away our ability to write." He thought back to his love poems for Cindy. Now they were all ruined, nonsensical and entirely stupid. He felt like a fool for having indulged himself with them. "I suppose these notes spanned your entire time here. What a pity. I'm sure you had some rather witty observations to share with the class."

[orestes]

"A record of infractions. Musings on how we might rise up against them given half a chance. Nothing that you have not seen or thought for yourself, I'm sure." To say nothing of the notes on compromised locations in the Capitol and in District 5, notes on the flow of traffic between the Capitol and the Districts, on individual Tributes, their languages and morals, and on the peculiar lapses in the history of Panem. They would be being watched here, especially as ostentatious as their display was becoming. There would be nothing for calling further attention to them, nothing for allowing their captors to pull them away before their task was complete.

"They are good words to burn." He used Courfeyrac's burning page to light another and then another, creating a small pile a safe distance from their feet. "This will make things more complicated for us. Prior to the last Arena, I told Marius that we should be using shorthand. I haven't the slightest idea what we might do now."

[libertin]

How typical, he thought, eyes lighting up at the sight of the great philosophical rambling burning up into ash. He did not begrudge Enjolras for making such plans, in fact he expected it all. Rather, he had hoped that his friend would be keen-minded enough to devise some other means of communicating his ideas with others, just in case it all went wrong somewhere down the line.

"The answer is simple, of course," Courfeyrac said, not exactly believing himself. "We must make a code of our own made up of English words. And we must commit it to memory. Nothing tangible can ever exist." He tore out another page, scanning the writing before setting it ablaze.

[orestes]

"A code of our own made up of English words," he repeated as if to make sense of what Courfeyrac was saying. It parsed, of course. There was nothing wrong with the theory, but putting it into practice? That was what became complicated. How would that be different from Argot? That language was, apparently, no longer safe for them. And even if the Capitol were bluffing, was that a bluff any of them could call? No, the risk was too great.

With a great huff, Enjolras tore another page from Marius' notebook, taking only a short moment to bemoan the sound made by the high quality paper as it ripped. "I admire Prouvaire for his ability to conjure images indirectly, but I fear poetry to be too lofty a medium for this. Besides which, neither of us possess his artistic gifts and would surely sound like fools which would only put them onto us."

Prouvaire had his poems, and Joly had his puns. Combeferre had his vast knowledge of the human condition, Courfeyrac could gather people to them, and Enjolras had always been able to charm in such a way that they paid attention despite themselves. But the two of them had always relied on rhetorical skills that were, at base, about communicating things as clearly and directly as possible. Subterfuge and innuendo for any real purpose was rather outside of their wheelhouse, as it were.

"Unless," he paused, dropping down to light the page on the others smoldering in the pile. "And before you offer your opinion on this, I would like you to hear me out. Can you recall a specific thing -- even one specific thing-- of any weight that Grantaire has ever said? Yet we all know, more or less, what he means when he speaks. In fact, he can, at times, be quite eloquent when the mood strikes him and he isn't too drunk. I wish that there were a way for us to duplicate that."

[libertin]

What sort of question was that? Could he recall any specific thing Grantaire had ever said? What an insulting question! With such insulting implications! The very idea!

Courfeyrac bristled. "I take exception to that, sir. Of course I can recall things he has said."

But of course, upon further reflection, he found that he could not remember a single, tangible thing. He felt terrible for it. He may not have been especially fond of Grantaire, but surely the man had deserved respect enough to be heard. Surely.

"But you see, it would be impossible for us to duplicate him. I've not the talent for drinking that he does, nor the obsession with the classics, nor the tendency to read too deeply into everything." Courfeyrac flicked open his lighter again, this time to light one of the terrible nouveau-cigarettes sold in the Capitol. They were truly ghastly, but oddly addictive. "Though I suppose I should only improve with practice. That said, I must admit I find it strange that you would look to him as the one we ought to emulate."