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2014-01-13 04:37 am (UTC)
It wasn't so dark near the edge of the forest. It's not yet sundown; but twilight is creeping on, and the tall trees here have blotted out the sunlight with astonishing rapidity.
Enjolras hears Grantaire's voice, too low to understand at this distance, but with a familiar cadence. Discoursing on nothing to no one, for the sake of the empty words. There is plenty of precedent for that.
Enjolras would like to be getting back. A city street at evening or night he knows, with or without the lamps lit. A forest is different; he doesn't know what lurks in these shadows. He had learned Paris's streets by the mile and by the inch, but there is very little known here. He pushes forward. The track has grown quite faint, but the underbrush isn't thick.
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