This is his child. This revolution is what he has been working towards for so long. As he stands on the sidelines of the funeral march, his eyes fill with so much light that anything he looks at could catch fire in an instant. His face is stony, and yet it is still plain to anyone who is paying him any attention what is burning underneath that outward expression. This God - this Apollo, this embodiment of freedom - is seeing before him the epitome of man. He sees all which he has created before him. The crowds of people who are going to fight for France surround him, and he is overwhelmed. These people trust him, are fighting with him, are standing by his side to save themselves and their country. He keeps back sobs and screams and shouts of victory and joy, choking them back with deep breaths and the start of the people’s song. The words are the gunfire, and the music the blood running in the streets. He chooses not to listen to this, and instead focuses on the now. His blood will run blue, white, and red in the streets, and his skin will be mottled red and black when he falls, and he knows this all; he knows it, but he blocks it from his mind as he begins this revolution which has become his child, his mistress, and himself. The fire in his belly is spreading, coming through his mind and igniting the revolution in waves of sunlight and sparks. He waves his red flag with strong arms that are soon to wield weapons; he stands on the carriage with strong legs that are soon to hold fast against soldiers who corner him in his cafe. His life comes with this revolution, and it ends with this revolution, and he could not be any happier for this. There are no descriptions that will properly convey what Enjolras is thinking, what he is feeling; there is no way for Enjolras to tell anyone what this truly means to him, what emotion fills his heart, what fire fills his soul. He inhales deeply around himself, and he starts the revolution.