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Mors Certa

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“I tire of this game. Come to me, you’ve made me wait long enough.” Death is sprawled out on Enjolras’ bed, his coat covering the blankets in in darkness. Enjolras knows Death makes a tempting picture, but he keeps his eyes firmly trained on his desk and on the letters he is writing.

“I’m busy. You can have me when France is free,” Enjolras tells him.

Death laughs, smooth and low. “I’m a patient man, but not that patient. What arrogance, my love, to think that you alone can make such difference.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? Or do you harass everyone like this?”

“Don’t be stupid, darling. I’m here because you love me.” Enjolras hears Death moving behind him, but he refuses to look, even when he hears Death’s footsteps right behind his chair.

“I love liberty more.” It’s pointless to deny that Death calls to him; Death only laughs when he tries, and he fools no one. Not even himself, unfortunately.

“I am liberty,” Death whispers in his ear. “Liberty and equality. All men come together with me, and find brotherhood. It’s me you’re striving for, little solider, and I’m already here.”

Enjolras’ breath catches, and he struggles to concentrate. He closes his eyes and pictures his friends, imagines them having to fight on without him, and feels his resolve return. “I’m not selfish enough to seek freedom for myself, while my fellows are denied it. Go away.”

“As you wish.” Death draws back a little, and leans against Enjolras’ desk. “I’m going to take Lamarque,” he says, in a conversational tone. “I’ve held off for your sake, but it’s time.”

Enjolras’ pen stops moving. Time indeed. Death tangles a hand in Enjolras’ hair, and turns Enjolras’ face towards him. “You know what you must do, beloved. Play your little war games, then come to me.” Death leans in for a kiss, and Enjolras lets him take it.

Patria is his mistress, but Mors is his master.