Enjolras reaches out, in silence, to press his brother's shoulder warmly.

"A profound subject," he says after a moment, voice deep with sincere feeling, "and practicality will follow."

It's not that tardiness doesn't matter, but -- "We have always welcomed you, and any thoughts you wish to share. There are others still alive in Paris who will do the same, my friend, when you're ready."

Marius's scars are hardly visible beneath hair and clothing. But Enjolras remembers: his face a mask of blood, the way he fell limp as a corpse at the last with an explosion of red spreading across his shirt.