A Road to Normandy
May 7, 2009 17:45:12 GMT -5
Post by Enjolras on May 7, 2009 17:45:12 GMT -5
*In the absence of his children, Enjolras thought it might be good to spend a few weeks up north, relaxing. With Nicki and Adi gone doing whatever it was they were doing, he had time to himself, and didn't know what to do with it. Truth be told, everything was that way now--he wasn't doing anything, changing anything. His old ideals were falling by the wayside, and he felt useless. Was he good for nothing but revolt?*
*As he pondered this, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Frowning, he rapped on the roof, and heard... good God, was that a gunshot? Moving as quietly as possible, he reached for his pistol in the trunk on the seat opposite from him. He had just caught hold of it when the door slammed open and two large men pulled him out.*
"What do you think you're--" *There were more. At least ten, all musclebound and larger than he--and he was no lanky milksop. And most of them were holding either a gun or a club.*
*If it was action he had been missing, here it was, he thought suddenly, and after that there was no thought. Without waiting for an explanation (he likely wouldn't get one), he elbowed his two captors in the gut and shot the nearest thug once free. The rest, stunned for a moment, pounced.*
*He was surprisingly agile and strong for a man of his age, and managed to weave and shove his way out of the melee while dispatching two more--he had been sure to take out the one holding the gun first. One came at him with a club, but he caught it mid-swing, wrenching it out of the man's hand with a roar and turning the weapon on its original wielder. A sickening crack was heard, and the man fell over, dead or passed out. It didn't matter which.*
*A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and, after stunning the attacker with a hit to the gut, he shot him as well, growling as he turned. As he did so, however, someone ripped the club out of his hands, and while he managed to doge the majority of the following blow, it hit caught his shoulder. He roared in pain and shot the man. Whirling to face the rest of them, he realized he only had one shot left, and there were four of them.*
*It almost reminded him of the first time he'd died--surrounded by his enemies, with only one friend. One who had left long ago. In the split second before one of the remaining attackers brought a club down on his head from behind, a lot of feelings swirled in him--guilt, for Bella and Renn and Grantaire and all the ones he'd hurt; regret, for those he had gotten killed; pride, for the revolution that had succeeded; love, for his children... but above all, there was acceptance. There wasn't anything left for him to do here; his goals were attained and he had left behind two beautiful children in the meantime.*
*A mail coach found him dead on the road, his coachman shot and his carriage looted. It was in the newspaper by the next morning.*
((Anyone who wants to can take credit, and if nobody wants to, I'll come up with some kind of long-ago grudge explanation when Adi and Nicki have it looked into.))
*As he pondered this, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Frowning, he rapped on the roof, and heard... good God, was that a gunshot? Moving as quietly as possible, he reached for his pistol in the trunk on the seat opposite from him. He had just caught hold of it when the door slammed open and two large men pulled him out.*
"What do you think you're--" *There were more. At least ten, all musclebound and larger than he--and he was no lanky milksop. And most of them were holding either a gun or a club.*
*If it was action he had been missing, here it was, he thought suddenly, and after that there was no thought. Without waiting for an explanation (he likely wouldn't get one), he elbowed his two captors in the gut and shot the nearest thug once free. The rest, stunned for a moment, pounced.*
*He was surprisingly agile and strong for a man of his age, and managed to weave and shove his way out of the melee while dispatching two more--he had been sure to take out the one holding the gun first. One came at him with a club, but he caught it mid-swing, wrenching it out of the man's hand with a roar and turning the weapon on its original wielder. A sickening crack was heard, and the man fell over, dead or passed out. It didn't matter which.*
*A flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and, after stunning the attacker with a hit to the gut, he shot him as well, growling as he turned. As he did so, however, someone ripped the club out of his hands, and while he managed to doge the majority of the following blow, it hit caught his shoulder. He roared in pain and shot the man. Whirling to face the rest of them, he realized he only had one shot left, and there were four of them.*
*It almost reminded him of the first time he'd died--surrounded by his enemies, with only one friend. One who had left long ago. In the split second before one of the remaining attackers brought a club down on his head from behind, a lot of feelings swirled in him--guilt, for Bella and Renn and Grantaire and all the ones he'd hurt; regret, for those he had gotten killed; pride, for the revolution that had succeeded; love, for his children... but above all, there was acceptance. There wasn't anything left for him to do here; his goals were attained and he had left behind two beautiful children in the meantime.*
*A mail coach found him dead on the road, his coachman shot and his carriage looted. It was in the newspaper by the next morning.*
((Anyone who wants to can take credit, and if nobody wants to, I'll come up with some kind of long-ago grudge explanation when Adi and Nicki have it looked into.))