And now we turn to my beautiful city

[clayforthedevil]

One minute Bahorel's in the treetops, working on his ongoing project, and the next he's in Feuilly's room, reading.

And utterly crammed into one of Feuilly's chairs in a ridiculously formal posture. He'd at least expected Feuilly to see the practical side of sprawling--

he realizes that this means we're all back in the same moment his watch (Feuilly's watch) starts to chime.

"Enjolras?--No, just now. Asleep? How--Right, I'll be there."


He's not sure how he's dressed, he's not sure what Feuilly might have been doing-- but he's already out the door and running downstairs to meet Enjolras, with whatever news he has from the other side of the door.

Paris.

Comments

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"Before," Enjolras says thoughtfully, "I asked Bar for newspapers of my world. French histories of my world, specifically, and she gave me a call number for the library, when I read of France's later years."

That will always be bittersweet, and always complicated. The happiness of later centuries, and the horror and the grief.

That was only a minor strangeness of Paris, but it was there: to walk down a street, every inch of it so familiar that it made his heart ache, and to think sometimes in fifteen years this will happen here, in forty this, in a hundred and five that. But that was a Milliways perspective, that layering of history upon history, and it largely receded before the overwhelming immediacy of truly being in France.

"She might be able to do the same if we ask precisely enough."

[clayforthedevil]

"It's worth trying to find out. --Our networks won't last. Something like this--I know we all had people we were reaching to. If it had been next year, even later this year, some of them would be gone; will be gone. And we may not even know who."

And maybe not the same ones he'd guess, with them shifting things around. "It's not as if the people we know are the ones in the papers day to day; that's the problem." On a lot of levels.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Enjolras nods. He's thought about this, to some extent, though he's thinking more deeply now; it's always different to hear someone else's thoughts moving in parallel with your own, or along different lines.

And Bahorel's right. Some of them will be gone -- to prison, to exile, to cholera or duel or injury gone septic, summoned home by family need, any of a dozen fates that could strike without warning, and often without the slightest note in a newspaper or history book.

"Even without that... The codes will change. Soon enough our ways of making sure a message goes to the right ears will only be enough to say the writer of this knew something in '32."

That may be an entirely moot point. They may never get another chance like this. (He may never see their own France again. He moves on from that thought; he knows, he's known with every breath of Parisian air and then Milliways afterwards, but it's for later.) But if they do, if they get any kind of chance to do real work in Paris again -- then what month and year it is, in which world, will matter deeply to what use they can make of that chance.