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The tears pricked viciously at his eyes but Enjolras would not shed them, he would not grant him the satisfaction!
“You stay in there until you know your place!”, thundered his father outside his room and he heard the key turn twice in the lock.
Enjolras shouted – one terrible, frustrated and desperate cry – and thumped both fists against the polished white wood of the door to his rooms. White pain shot up his wrists from the impact and he cursed out loud. Not that it would matter, after everything he had said to his father.
His cheek and jaw still hurt and he was sure he would bruise later. But he would have luckily received another slap around the face if that had meant that Benoît would have been spared the whipping.
It was unjust and cruel what his father had done. And Enjolras felt sick from fury whenever the thought pushed to the surface that the punishment was ultimately his fault. He had helped Benoît every evening to pack the things up that had not been eaten at the table, he helped carry them to the orphanage in the city and he had giggled excited with him every time they had had to sneak past the guards at the back gate to get back to the grounds of the mansion of his father.
And on the only night that Benoît had to go alone because his father received important guests – and Enjolras of course had to play the obedient son for those brown-nosers – he was caught by the guards upon his return and dragged in front of his father.
Enjolras had stood up, had faced his father and had defended Benoît. He had finally spoked up, had denounced his father's superficiality, the superficiality of their society and the terrible ignorance of the whole royalty of the realm. He had spoken of the terrible conditions the people lived in, about them being persecuted after hunting in the woods to feed their family, about the immoral system of their judicature and the lack of compassion in the people.
His father had not listened, had shouted at him and finally had lost his temper, hitting his son square across the face with a mighty back-hand slap that had knocked Enjolras right off of his feet. Then he had threatened him to sent him to the military academy once this – meaning the outrage he had called upon the family by defending a servant – was over where they would knock some sense into his thick skull.
Enjolras kicked the door with all his left strength and snarled. Then he turned to his room and let his gaze roam over the moonlight flooded habitation. The splendour and pomp disgusted him and he hated his life – hated it with the vicious heat of a wildfire. With six wide steps, the twelve-year-old crossed his room, climbed onto his bed – never minding the polished, posh, glossy glinting riding boots he was still wearing to his uniform-like clothes – and dragged the life-size portrait of himself off the wall, throwing it through the room against the door.
He would never go to the military academy to become a trained dog of the realm, a machine without a mind of his own and without a thought for compassion or justice. He would not follow in his father's footsteps and would become a stuck-up, self-important, brainless figurine of the king, wearing costumes, wigs and jewellery and chit-chatting the whole day long about unimportant things. He would not follow the system without questioning it. He would change the system!
Enjolras hopped off the bed and strode into the other room where his wardrobe and several chests stood along one wall while the other was filled with bookcases and his desk. He yanked the velvet hairband out of his lush, long curls and tossed it into the corner, shaking his head until the curls fell down to his chest and over his back. Of course he was forced to have his hair like that, his father always followed the latest trends in fashion.
He grabbed the blinking pair of scissors from his desk and raised them. The cluttering of the scissors was for some moments the only thing to be heard in the young master's chambers. Curl after curl of shining golden locks sailed onto the polished hardwood floor and shone in stark contrast to the dark colour of the dead wood.
Enjolras did not flinch once while he cropped his hair to a length that was reaching barely his chin, a length that was common in what his father called peasant-circles. The scissors followed the curls onto the floor and reflected the moonlight while Enjolras made his way towards his wardrobe, tugging one longer strand of hair behind his right ear. He knelt down and opened the lowest drawer in the big wardrobe. There he dug around until he found the rough sack with the things that Benoît had lent him whenever they had left the mansion to roam the city's outskirts together.
Enjolras dragged the cravat from his neck and tossed it aside. He did pay no attention to the ripping the buttons made when he tore his velvet vest open and threw it against the wall. The fury he felt had not yet subsided but rather turned into something cold and sharp, twisting through his guts with every thought Enjolras spared for his father or the injustice of the realm. He undressed quickly and cast everything that marked him as a rich boy aside until he stood in nothing but his breeches in the middle of his room, his pale skin shining softly in the moonlight. His fingers hesitated at the clasp of his necklace, the one he always wore under his clothes.
It held a small medallion with a portrait of his mother – of who he only had scarce memories given his young age when she had died – and on the other side of is younger sister, Cosette. She had been given into the care of his father's sister once she had come to an age where he had deemed it wise to let her be educated by a woman instead of a man. He had not seen her in three years. She must be ten by now and Enjolras yearned to be with her.
He left the medallion where it was and started pulling over the brown linen trousers, the wide, beige shirt and the pecan brown vest with the countless patches. Leaving the rest of the clothes – two spare shirts and chausses for when it was colder – in the bag, he shook out the plane cap and dragged it over his head, stuffing the loose curls under the coarse fabric with energetic and edgy movements.
He would take no money, no other possession of his, although his heart bled about all the books he had to leave behind. The only thing he would take though were one of the duelling pistols that hung in a wall mount over his desk. His father had never known that he had once bought gunpowder and a few bullets on the market and they were still hidden safely in the drawer of the desk. He stuffed the ammunition into the sack as well and pushed one of the pistols into his waistband.
Without looking back once, Enjolras went back to his bedroom, pushed open the large window and tossed his sack out into the darkness. Climbing onto the windowsill, he filled his lungs with air and jumped. It was not even more than two metre but the impact still managed to knock the air out of Enjolras' lungs, like it had done before. Searching the bushes under his window, he found the sack in no time and took off.
Ducked low, Enjolras made his way to the back gate like he had done so often. But tonight, Benoît's gasping breath was not in his ear and the familiar black shadow was not following on his heel. By now, Benoît and his guards had most likely reached the palace and would head down into the dungeons were Benoît would be kept until his father would deem it right to let the scullion go or re-employ him.
Anger made Enjolras' steps faster and nearly carried him over the narrow garden-wall. Huddled up on top of the wall, Enjolras looked around. Not a soul to be seen, his father was an idiot to sent the guards from the back-gate to bring Benoît away. And so no one saw the shadowy figure of the slender boy jump from the wall and hurry over the meadow behind their mansion towards the soft rising foothills of the mountain ridge at the northern edge of the realm.
His breath burnt in his lungs after running for some time. Enjolras looked over his shoulder and found that he could not see his father's mansion or the lights of the surrounding estates anymore. The foothills covered him from the civilised world and Enjolras felt relieve and a sense of freedom course through his veins while he ascended a small hill.
He had not known how constricted he had felt, how trapped until he had left the fatherly estate. He had no money, no belongings but what was on his body but yet Enjolras felt relieved and happy. A new start was dawning before him, a chance to change things, to help the people. He would not return to the royal estates or the city but instead would go into a village, would find himself an occupation and help to rebuilt, to grow, to develop. And slowly he would built up a resistance. A brotherhood that would help the outcast, the lower people in society, those who needed help.
Enjolras smiled in the darkness, a fierce and hopeful sight for those who would have seen him, had he not been completely alone. He felt encouraged by his successful flight and hope rose in his chest while he strolled down the hill towards a small cluster of trees to his right. Looking up at the moon, Enjolras decided that it would be best to seek cover there and spent the night in relative safety.
He found a wide, old oak tree between which's roots he settled down, using the sack as a pillow. He grasped the pistol with one hand and turned onto his side, feeling sleep dull his senses down. He had not felt how tired he was while he had still been furious about his father and his injustice. Enjolras' last thoughts were directed at Benoît who also haunted his uneasy dreams.
He had not slept long when the sound of rough laughter shook Enjolras from his sleep. In the blink of an eye, the boy sat bolt upright and looked around, his hand clutching the pistol shaking just a little. Remembering that he had not even loaded the pistol, his heartbeat quickened. The sound of hooves echoed through the clear air of the early morning and he heard a few rough voices singing a rowdy tavern song. Judging from their slurring, they were probably drunk.
Quietly, Enjolras gathered his things and disappeared into the cover of a few dense bramble-bushes to the right of his provisional bed. Hunkering down, he watched a few figures come into view. Eight tattered looking men on gaunt horses were heading towards him, following an invisible trail that Enjolras had not seen upon coming here. A few were singing, others were talking to each other and the man in the lead counted some glistening gold coins into a bag that was propped onto the saddle's pommel in front of him.
“How much, Maurice?”, called one of the singer.
“Enough for all of us.”, grumbled the counting man called Maurice back and glared warning at the man next to him who had raised himself in his stirrups to stare into the bag.
“'Twas a genius' idea to raid tha' mill. The miller was filthy rich!”, crowed another man and laughed delighted.
“And now he's as poor as a church mouse!”, gloated another one and Enjolras felt his heart beat faster – from anger, this time.
“And we can finally spent some money on better horses!”, grinned the man next to Maurice.
“I bet mine would still make a good stew.”, laughed another.
“Let's sell them to some poor sod!”, proposed one of the singers, “I bet around here live a few desperate agrarians who we can wheedle the last coin out of for these foul animals!”
Enjolras twitched forward a few inches, anger cursing through him once again. These men were poor, he could see that plain as day. And instead of sticking to their own people, instead of helping them, they were making profit out of the other's misfortune. Frustration and anger curled up in Enjorlas' guts and he lowered his hand towards his waistband, grabbing at the handle of his pistole.
“Shut up, all o' you!”, bellowed Maurice, “Something's moving in them bushes!”
Enjolras froze up. Over their merry-making and their careless demeanour he had forgotten to be careful. Before he could move further, two men spurred their horses into the bushes and forced him to topple into the group of men who were shouting surprised, gloated and whistled through their teeth upon discovering their unwanted audience.
“Well, well, well!”, grinned Maurice and leaned forward in the saddle to lower his ragged looking sabre towards Enjolras, placed the tip under his chin and forced him to get up, “What have we here?”
“Looks like a rather scrawny squirrel, I'd say.”, grinned one of the men and bared his teeth at Enjolras.
He raised his head towards Maurice and willed his voice to sound stern as he said: “Let me go or you'll regret it.”
A blast of laughter cut through the night and Enjolras flinched a little from the cruel sound of it. His heart was thundering and his blood rushing in his ears and he was sure his face was bright red by now. He felt not the slightest bit as brave as his statement had sounded. He was in trouble... big trouble.
“Regret it?”, asked another bandit and drew a heavy looking club from a nook at his saddle, “Why? What will a snot-nosed, scrawny little shit like you do to me? Bat your pretty little lashes until I back off?”
The others laughed cruelly and drew daggers, short swords or spears as well. Enjolras gulped and planted his feet firm onto the ground, glowering at the man closest to him who raised his dagger to his throat and ran the blunt side over his own throat, snarling at the shivering boy.
The smack that hit Enjolras over the back of his head was aimed lousy and hit his shoulder and neck more than his head. Enjolras did not black out as planned but sunk to his knees, groaning in pain from the blow, seeing stars and hearing a high whistling sound in his ears.
“Search the bastard!”, ordered Maurice.
Enjolras heard men dismount and fought himself up into an upright position again, his head swimming and tears streaming from his eyes from the white-hot pain in his neck. The world was spinning and he had trouble making out his attackers. But he would not back down, he would not allow those criminals to abuse one more innocent person!
An arm wrapped around his throat while another hand closed around both his wrists, drawing Enjolras back against a warm body that stunk of urine, sweat and stale beer. He retched – partly from the smell, party from being choked – and started struggling against his captivator. Another person came towards him – he still couldn't see clear enough to defend himself – and Enjolras waited, waited until it was nearly too late. He kicked out just as the man was reaching for him.
The howling told Enjolras that he had aimed well. The man folded in half and the one behind him laughed cruelly while tightening his hold a little more around the throat of his hostage. Enjolras choked and tried to wiggle free while some of the men mocked the one who had gone down.
“Stop playing with him!”, ordered Maurice and rolled his eyes, “How hard can it be to search a child?!”
“I am not...”, gasped Enjolras and threw his head back, batting the back of his head against the nose of the man holding him which resulted in him letting the boy go and collapsing to the ground, clutching at his nose, “... a child!”
Now the men grew uneasy and Enjolras knew he should be running. But he would not be bullied. He had allowed that for a long time – from his father, his tutors, his relatives – and now would be the end of it. His fingers closed around the hilt of the pistol and he drew it, aiming it at the face of the man who seemed to be the boss of the horde – Maurice.
“I'd advice you to leave me the fuck alone, or you will regret ever taking sight of me!”, snarled Enjorlas and felt that he could only scarcely control his fury anymore. He wished desperately to have loaded the pistol before leaving because if the men did not back down now, they would discover his fraud.
The man he was aiming at jerked his head at something behind Enjolras and this time the aim of the man was better. Enjolras collapsed like a sack full of rags and blinked against the stars in his vision, against the howling in his ears and the unconsciousness that was washing over him. Hands closed around his shirt and he was lifted into the air, his head lolling to one side while he still struggled to remain concious.
The man had blood under his nose while he snarled something at Enjolras he did not understand. He felt cold metal against his throat, the biting pain of a cut and then there was light and screams and warmth. The feeling of his mother's hair tickling his face enveloped him, the smell of her rose and thyme perfume, the odour of the honey cakes she had fed him with when he had been a small child, the smell of Cosette's bathing oil swirled all around him while he dropped to the floor.
Opening his eyes, he saw a figure running away from him, a figure that was ablaze with flames – the same flames that enveloped Enjolras and promised safety and home. He struggled to sit up and saw the men fleeing, their horses racing off the path and storming away, their riders just clutching on to the reigns and the saddle to stay on top of the spooked animals.
Enjolras turned his face while he felt worries and hate and despise struggle against his own confusion in his heart. There, standing half over and half beside him, was a dragon. A red, lithe, sleek dragon who snarled into the direction of the fleeing men, still glowering and still puffing fire out of her nose. A bit to the side sat another dragon of the same sort, taller, stronger, maybe older. The dragon over Enjolras turned and looked towards him, telling him not to panic.
Enjolras flinched once he heard her own thoughts mingle in his mind and was asking himself if he was loosing his mind, if the hit over the head had damaged something within him that would be causing his hallucinations now. Crawling away from the dragon, he tried to suppress his fear, remembering that dragons could smell fear.
She was not going to hurt him, she told him and her voice echoed through his mind, sounding so much calmer and relaxed than he was so that he started to relax as well – involuntarily.
“What... what is going on? Who are you?!”, asked Enjolras and hated how insecure and afraid his voice sounded.
Her mother called her Ruby and she was Enjolras' companion.
“My...?”, stuttered Enjolras.
Ruby went into an explanation that she hoped Enjolras would believe her. Her mother had always told her that every dragon had a human counterpart in the world. As long as both of them had not found the other, they felt incomplete, lonely and lacking. Her mother had helped her on the search, thinking that she knew who might be Ruby's companion. Only fire could show a true companion though that's why Ruby had breathed fire on that bandit. She had been afraid when she had seen them threatening Enjolras, that is why she had acted although her mother did not want her to.
“I... I don't understand...”, muttered Enjolras, rubbing his face with both his hands, sitting down on the ground again after getting up because he was not sure if he could stand any longer.
It's supposed to be easy, told him Ruby. But she let him know that she also understood that he was confused, she had been at the beginning as well. Then she asked him to listen to his heart and tell her whether that gnawing feeling, that sense of loneliness, of being misunderstood was still there.
“This is nonsense...”, murmured Enjolras, constantly slipping further towards a panic attack because there was a dragon who claimed to be his life-partner of sorts and who could describe how he had felt all his life while he had been with his father without knowing Enjolras for longer than four minutes. He rested his face into his hands and tried to calm down. There must be a logical explanation to what was going on here.
But he could not stop himself from searching his feelings, wanting to see if that dragon was right. And she was, surprisingly enough. Where usually had been a black void in his chest, there was the feeling of belonging, of whole-ness, there was a feeling that connected him to this slender red dragon who sat in front of him, sending waves of calm and reassurance towards him that managed eventually to calm his singing nerves.
Raising his head from his hands, he looked at her, looked into the yellow, intelligent eyes of the dragon and asked one question: “Why didn't I know of this?!”
Ruby looked to her mother and then back to Enjolras. She shrugged her shoulders. A dragon had just shrugged its shoulders. Enjolras rubbed at his eyes and sighed deeply. He shook his head again and asked another question, because millions of them were burning on his tongue: “How did your mother know it was me?!”
Ruby huffed a little and curled up at Enjolras' side, carefully resting her head in his lap, looking up at him fondly and a little concerned. She sent pictures to him, pictures that Enjolras recognized as memories: a young girl, lush blond curls, wide, blue eyes, a white summer dress, playing in a garden. Enjolras first thought that it was Cosette, but then he saw that she was taller, had fuller lips and hair only a shade darker than his sister's. His mother in her youth. A red dragon landed and breathed fire at his mother. She shrieked and yelled, but did not catch fire. Then she ran and the dragon tried to follow but lost her once she went into the house. The dragon was chased away by guards, nearly killed in the attempt to find his companion.
Ruby told Enjolras that the dragon in her memory was her father who had tried to be with his companion – Enjolras' mother. He had died off grief two years ago, never letting Enjorlas' mother out of his sight and ultimately finding his end when Enjolras' mother had been dead for a few years.
The boy started to shiver and could not help but press his hand between Ruby's eyes, carefully scratching the scales because he could feel her loss and her sadness in his body like it was his own. He gulped a few times and murmured: “I am sorry for your loss.”
Ruby snuffled a little and pushed her head into his hand, humming-grumbling-purring deep in her throat, a sound Enjolras had never heard before but managed to calm him down immediately. He felt a sudden connection to this dragon, a connection that went beyond words and he knew she felt the same.
“So what you're saying is that every person has a companion?”, he asked quietly while she closed her eyes and enjoyed his patting. Enjolras had never been a tactile person, but with her, this felt right and natural.
She nodded and explained that the earlier a dragon found their counterpart, the deeper they could bond with each other and the more they would need each other in their lives. She let him also know that the longer it took for a dragon to find their partner, the more desperate and angry they grew – resulting in really dangerous and vile dragons, driven to madness from despair of not finding their companion.
“And the humans?”, asked Enjolras.
Ruby huffed and raised her head, looking Enjolras in the eye. She told him that they suffered as well, feeling incomplete, lacking, inadequate and unloved. They grew bitter and desperate, unable to live a fulfilled life, they became lonely and depressed. They – ultimately – turned as mad as their dragons.
“That is terrible...”, muttered Enjolras and thought about the humans in the city and the whole realm who thought dragons were dangerous and would never find their partner from fear of getting close to the dreaded animals. He thought about the rules and laws against dragons, about the ban to have a dragon as a pet, like some people had had a few years ago.
Suddenly a few pieces slipped into place and Enjolras recognized a pattern. A few years ago, people had started living with dragons, holding them as pets, as they said. What if those had not been pets but the companions of the people? The laws had gone up only months later, dragons had been banished and declared dangerous, the king had formed a new post called the First Hunter of the Realm. This man lead a troop that killed dragons and arrested humans living with one.
But why? Why would the king not want to have humans and dragons live in peace? What was so dangerous about the people being happy and whole?
She did not know and Enjolras could also not come up with an explanation. He looked down at her and patted her head again. Gnawing at his lower lip, Enjolras nodded a bit to himself and told Ruby then: “We need to tell the people. We need to explain and help them find their dragons. The king can't forbid his people to be happy, he can't forbid us to find our destiny... We need to show the people that he is wrong!”
Ruby wondered how the hell he wanted to do that.
“We can talk to them. Well, I talk and explain and you can show them the trick with the fire later. We need the people to understand. Maybe if we show enough people, they will help us to reverse the rules and laws of the king. Maybe we can even make the king see?!”, Enjolras told her and got up, turning towards Ruby's mother. She looked inquisitive at her daughter and Enjolras understood that only Ruby could hear him.
She would help him no matter what he planned, Ruby informed him and pressed her head against his neck, sniffing noisily at his curls. Enjorlas reached up and scratched her between the nostrils while he smiled up at the moon and the stars.
This was his purpose now: to make the people see and to fight suppression. And together with Ruby, Enjolras was sure to be able to make a change.