(no subject)
When Combeferre had awoken that morning, he had been glad that he had something to do.
It had been early when he rose, even for one such as him who did not usually linger in bed. He arrived at the clinic even before his shift officially begun and had spent those early hours fiddling with slides of various plant specimens he had collected of late. The task gave him a way to pass the time during what was sure to be a long and slow shift, but more than that, it gave him something with which to occupy his mind.
It was June fifth, after all.
By the island's calendar, one hundred and seventy-seven years had passed since he and his friends had marched in General Lamarque's funeral, a march that quickly descended into riots, just as they had hoped it would. It had been less than two years for him, though, since they had gathered the carts, and paving stones, and general detritus of the city in order to build a barricade. They had declared the Republic of France within those self-made walls, and on this day, in that place, democracy had reigned.
It wouldn't last, of course. If today was the anniversary of a birth, tomorrow would be the anniversary of death - the death of their hopes, the death of friends, his death.
Combeferre tried not to dwell on it, at least not for now. Fiddling with the microscope, looking at slide after slide, it gave him enough to do - enough to keep his mind active and occupied. But still, he fidgeted. He spent too much time adjusting the eyepiece, too little time at notes. Bits of seeds were lost and plants smeared. For all he struggled, he was getting nowhere. Too easy was it to picture scenes of triumph and defeat than to focus on the tiny optical reflections in front of him.
When he heard someone come in, it was with relief that he looked up. "Yes, can I help you?"
[Friday morning clinic shift. Immediate slowtime as I will be in and out all day, but tag away! If your pup needs medical attention, remember to post at island_medical]
It had been early when he rose, even for one such as him who did not usually linger in bed. He arrived at the clinic even before his shift officially begun and had spent those early hours fiddling with slides of various plant specimens he had collected of late. The task gave him a way to pass the time during what was sure to be a long and slow shift, but more than that, it gave him something with which to occupy his mind.
It was June fifth, after all.
By the island's calendar, one hundred and seventy-seven years had passed since he and his friends had marched in General Lamarque's funeral, a march that quickly descended into riots, just as they had hoped it would. It had been less than two years for him, though, since they had gathered the carts, and paving stones, and general detritus of the city in order to build a barricade. They had declared the Republic of France within those self-made walls, and on this day, in that place, democracy had reigned.
It wouldn't last, of course. If today was the anniversary of a birth, tomorrow would be the anniversary of death - the death of their hopes, the death of friends, his death.
Combeferre tried not to dwell on it, at least not for now. Fiddling with the microscope, looking at slide after slide, it gave him enough to do - enough to keep his mind active and occupied. But still, he fidgeted. He spent too much time adjusting the eyepiece, too little time at notes. Bits of seeds were lost and plants smeared. For all he struggled, he was getting nowhere. Too easy was it to picture scenes of triumph and defeat than to focus on the tiny optical reflections in front of him.
When he heard someone come in, it was with relief that he looked up. "Yes, can I help you?"
[Friday morning clinic shift. Immediate slowtime as I will be in and out all day, but tag away! If your pup needs medical attention, remember to post at island_medical]