Nervously, delicately and with a distinct lack of self-awareness, Enjolras brings a hand to his neck, running his fingers across where he knows a scar should be. It’s missing, of course. His stylist had explained the medical processes to him in a dismissive sort of way and between his confusion and consternation, it left him with no suitable response for Marius’ question. He has a lot to say on the matter, naturally. Enjolras always has a lot to say. But none of it is succinct or, for that matter, expository. The sensation of death and of dying is now all too tangible to him. He’s too close to it and can feel himself edging closer with every attempt to compartmentalize it.

“Medical science is truly impressive here.” It isn’t until he feels of the vibration of his voice along Adam’s apple that he drops the hand, not sure what to make of such a visceral response. He’d tried to speak, he remembers. Tried and been met with little success. “They can heal a multitude of injuries, and, in our case, bring us back from the dead as if nothing ever befell us at all. Moreover, there are no diseases here. Small poax, the cholera, consumption… They do not fear any of them.”