Grantaire woke up slowly, head throbbing, and found himself stretched across a disagreeably hard bed. Beyond that, he at first could not say. He had been--Wait. Had he ever been in that field? Must have. He held a memory of being torn from a too-quiet night in his room and thrown into a squash field. Feeling as if he had been transplanted again, and perhaps without Enjolras. Then had come a pack of armed men, all bristling and commands, demanding that he follow them.
Follow the armed men? Grantaire might not have actively fought in Paris, but he sure as hell hadn't come all this way to be bullied by soldiers. They had no claim to him, and he had no intention of facing confinement or--lord help him--forced labor.
So he'd resisted. By hurling a squash at one soldier, by taking a swing at another's face, by kicking out, by he couldn't remember just what else. Then everything had gone dark, and... Here he was. All alone, in a small room. "Or a small cell." At least he could speak; that had to count for something. And maybe he wasn't entirely alone; from somewhere nearby, indistinct voices drifted in.
What he wanted to know was where he was and how he was going to find his way out. Slowly, Grantaire raised himself to a sitting position, gingerly touching a large sore spot on the back of his head. "Damnit! My... god what a wonderful day." Fantastic. Leave it to soldiers to knock a man out and leave him to rot. Wasn't this just wonderful.
"Hello." No response. He raised his voice and continued on, drowning out his irritation and the pain in his head with words. "Good morning, good afternoon, good evening? ...Nothing? It seems awfully ill-mannered to lock a man up and leave him to awaken alone, in pain, and with a great thirst. Have you any wine? Is there any you? I ask merely out of curiosity, for I've no desire to see your face. And you'd best be warned that I am armed with my, er, arms, and that I am no friend of soldiers, nor of those who batter the back of my head. What, have I come across worlds simply to be tossed into a cell, without ceremony and without answers? Have I died in truth, now, and is this to be my after-living, my penance for a life of drunkenness? Ah dear, I fear that you do not exist, my jailer! I fear I speak to empty air! But no matter, for speak on I shall, whether you exist or not; after all, I must keep myself entertained, must I not?"
nearby cell
Follow the armed men? Grantaire might not have actively fought in Paris, but he sure as hell hadn't come all this way to be bullied by soldiers. They had no claim to him, and he had no intention of facing confinement or--lord help him--forced labor.
So he'd resisted. By hurling a squash at one soldier, by taking a swing at another's face, by kicking out, by he couldn't remember just what else. Then everything had gone dark, and... Here he was. All alone, in a small room. "Or a small cell." At least he could speak; that had to count for something. And maybe he wasn't entirely alone; from somewhere nearby, indistinct voices drifted in.
What he wanted to know was where he was and how he was going to find his way out. Slowly, Grantaire raised himself to a sitting position, gingerly touching a large sore spot on the back of his head. "Damnit! My... god what a wonderful day." Fantastic. Leave it to soldiers to knock a man out and leave him to rot. Wasn't this just wonderful.
"Hello." No response. He raised his voice and continued on, drowning out his irritation and the pain in his head with words. "Good morning, good afternoon, good evening? ...Nothing? It seems awfully ill-mannered to lock a man up and leave him to awaken alone, in pain, and with a great thirst. Have you any wine? Is there any you? I ask merely out of curiosity, for I've no desire to see your face. And you'd best be warned that I am armed with my, er, arms, and that I am no friend of soldiers, nor of those who batter the back of my head. What, have I come across worlds simply to be tossed into a cell, without ceremony and without answers? Have I died in truth, now, and is this to be my after-living, my penance for a life of drunkenness? Ah dear, I fear that you do not exist, my jailer! I fear I speak to empty air! But no matter, for speak on I shall, whether you exist or not; after all, I must keep myself entertained, must I not?"
He could and would go on for a while.