antinouswild (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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sirenspull_logs2013-01-06 06:13 pm
antinouswild) wrote in sirenspull_logs2013-01-06 06:13 pm
Backtagging a late night
Who: Magneto and Enjolras
What: Two sleepless souls and a late night
When: After the gift exchange but before Grantaire's arrival
Where: House of Awesome, Kitchen, Zero Dark Thirty
Warnings: Discussion of nightmares, PTS, battle scars, survival guilt, and other deaths... FUN FOR ALL AGES!
Enjolras sits bolt upright in the bed.
He's acutely aware that it's never his own death, it's never standing against the wall, facing his own executioners that does this to him. His neck itches as tendrils of blonde hair stick to the sweat, and his breath comes hard and ragged.
It's never his own death. Not once has he ever dreamed of that.
Seeing his friends, comrades... no, that's wrong. Seeing his brothers cut down one by one as the barricades feel. That is what keeps him in fevered dreams. The sheets are twisted around his legs, and he fumbles gracelessly as he fights his way off of the futon.
Water... maybe milk... Just anything to be up and doing something. He's dimly aware that it's an instinct to leave that's driving him out of the room, rather than hunger or thirst.
Barefoot he walks down the hallway to the common kitchen in the HoA. The pajamas he's acquired he found to be too short. But, the ones that were long enough were too wide in chest and hips, and bunched around him and made him hot as he slept. So he stood with his feet bare and his wrists and ankles well exposed.
Then, light. He almost blinks at it, coming out of the darkened bedroom and hallway. The sound of cooking... dishes moving, utensils striking, seem a little comforting, and he feels some small relief that he is not alone.
"Excuse me?"
What: Two sleepless souls and a late night
When: After the gift exchange but before Grantaire's arrival
Where: House of Awesome, Kitchen, Zero Dark Thirty
Warnings: Discussion of nightmares, PTS, battle scars, survival guilt, and other deaths... FUN FOR ALL AGES!
Enjolras sits bolt upright in the bed.
He's acutely aware that it's never his own death, it's never standing against the wall, facing his own executioners that does this to him. His neck itches as tendrils of blonde hair stick to the sweat, and his breath comes hard and ragged.
It's never his own death. Not once has he ever dreamed of that.
Seeing his friends, comrades... no, that's wrong. Seeing his brothers cut down one by one as the barricades feel. That is what keeps him in fevered dreams. The sheets are twisted around his legs, and he fumbles gracelessly as he fights his way off of the futon.
Water... maybe milk... Just anything to be up and doing something. He's dimly aware that it's an instinct to leave that's driving him out of the room, rather than hunger or thirst.
Barefoot he walks down the hallway to the common kitchen in the HoA. The pajamas he's acquired he found to be too short. But, the ones that were long enough were too wide in chest and hips, and bunched around him and made him hot as he slept. So he stood with his feet bare and his wrists and ankles well exposed.
Then, light. He almost blinks at it, coming out of the darkened bedroom and hallway. The sound of cooking... dishes moving, utensils striking, seem a little comforting, and he feels some small relief that he is not alone.
"Excuse me?"
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Wars make monsters of us all, and it's in war that the evil rises to the surface and all becomes black and corrupted. But, while I may hate war sometimes we must make use of it."
He watches the spoon, distracted momentarily from his moodiness.
"What's that you're doing there?"
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He keeps bouncing the spoon. "Kinesis. Power to move things without touching them."
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After a moment, he puts his hand out as if to touch it.
"Does this core thing let you do that? Curious. Why doesn't everyone get the same thing?"
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The spoon stills, but there's a weight to it, as if it's being held by someone's hand. "No, I born able to do this. Some people, in the world I am from, are born with powers." It was more complicated than that but no reason to overwhelm him. "Powers tend to suit us. Be something that fits who we are as people."
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While he could not claim any cultural knowledge of Jewish people, he called people who repeated such stories fools. And he would not stand by while anyone was singled out for persecution. He responds to the information with nothing more than interest and some mild surprise.
He's more interested in the spoon which he gently pushes with the tip of his index finger.
"Mine doesn't... or does it? All I know is that they said my voice can make people believe things. I didn't think... I don't know... If that were the case things might have been different."
He pauses as if an idea occurred to him.
"Wait... you said your family... your people... is it because... please excuse me for asking but..."
Enjolras is frank and open by nature, but he's trying now.
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"I think it does. Although psychic abilities don't work on everyone - almost none work on me, for example." He wanted to study Enjolras' powers more but he wasn't going to push it.
"Yes it was. Six million give or take a few Jew were killed during the war. Some like me, disappeared after. Others where children who were hidden. So precise figures can't be determined." He swallowed hard, for all his voice is even and clear. "And around six million others, various groups, like the Roma - Gypsies you likely know them as. But we were targeted most."
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"I know they try to run Gypsies out of Paris. They say they steal things, but I always thought that if they were treated decently and allowed to work and live, they'd be as honest as the rest of us."
His brows knit. The numbers seem too big to swallow.
"I'd dreamed of progress, and of a world where such things were impossible. I dreamed of a better future... now you tell me it's grown even worse. I don't know what to make of it."
He takes a breath and still focuses on toying on the spoon.
"Psychic? Like fortune tellers? No, I don't think that is what I do now. I... why doesn't it work on you? I'm sorry. I know I sound like a fool I just don't understand this place."
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"The Roma - Gypsy isn't a term they like to be called - are like anyone else. Some are good, some are bad. Most that I've known are wonderful people. They are clannish - they dislike ad distrust outsiders - but they took me in." For all his marriage had ended badly, he had fond memories of his time with them.
"In some places it has. In others...it's better. But I've seen a great deal of what wasn't good." He'd seen quite the opposite really - horror and death and violence.
"No. Psychic as in having abilities that deal with people's mental states - their thoughts, emotion, memories, so on. Clairvoyance is a part of it though, yes." He shook his head. "You don't sound like a fool, far from it. There's no reason you should understand this place any more than if you had been suddenly dropped into China."
Lazily, he spun the spoon around in a circle. "I have what are call 'mental shields' - that is I know how to block people from accessing my mind."
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"Roma then, and I beg your pardon, Monsieur. One cannot blame a people that has been badly treated for not trusting. A dog that is kicked will bite, and people that have been starved will steal and have been cast out will strike back. It is the way of nature and nothing more. It doesn't make anyone cursed or damned."
He knows that many of his day would disagree with him, but he's never cared much about that.
"I want to understand." he says resolutely. He tries to catch the spoon as it circles. Then he smirks again. "I might have done better in China. I did not do so well here."
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"I don't mind teaching. In another life..." He probably would have made a career of it. The spoon is easily caught but tugs. "Ack. Many have done far worse."
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He tugs at the spoon, then lets it go again. It's as though he's placing it in the air.
"If I wouldn't be a bother to you, Monsieur. I have precious little else to do with myself here. I may as well learn as much as I can. How is it that you can understand powers here?"
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The spoon drifts away and then pokes Enjolras' knuckle.
"You aren't a bother. I about powers here because I worked in Skye Medical for a while and I studied them back home. They are my specialty, really." Of one of them.
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He blinks at the poke and shakes his hand. He flicks at it with his index finger, still interested, still amused.
"Then, I would like to know what I can do.... if what they said is true. If I have it I might as well understand it."
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It flicks back, loops it's self, and the bowl hangs on his finger.
"I know ways of running tests. Other than fatigue and a headache, the risks are low."
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"Hope? I am in the process of deciding if hope is beautiful or terrible... perhaps both. Yet, it doesn't matter. We hang on to it."
He shrugs. That doesn't sound like much. "This place makes me weary as it is. I don't think that you can do worse. I'll submit to any tests you would like. It would do me good to understand, I think."
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"I think it would be, yes. Safer for you, certainly."
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"He sounds French, indeed." There's a dry note of humor in the patriotism. "It's a good thing to have such a friend. I am very glad that you did. What happened to him? Is he no longer in the port?"
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