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2014-01-13 04:10 am (UTC)
Enjolras is not a man much enamored of nature. He is aware, distantly and intellectually, that there is much of use in it, and much that other men find worthy of both study and enchantment. Still, these matters -- trees, grass, flowers, clouds, sky -- have never held especial interest for him.
That remains true. But Milliways is a teacup to be imprisoned within, however many newspapers and baffling strangers it contains. There are few friends, no cause, no city streets. A man chafes to explore the edges merely for the chance to see something new.
He had come to the forest's edge out of curiosity and boredom mingled, and walked a ways down the nearest path. Just when he was considering whether to continue on or go back, he saw Grantaire's back disappearing between trees along a narrow path like a goat-track.
Enjolras is not overly sanguine about his own ability to navigate through unknown woods. But he is even less confident in Grantaire's, especially if Grantaire has been drinking; which, it must be admitted, he usually has been, even if his steps appear steady enough.
Enjolras weighs his options. Then he makes a mental note of the direction of the sun and of the open lawn behind him, and follows.
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