Chapter I

Enjolras drew in a sudden breath, and it was as if he had just inhaled some deathly toxic poisonous gas. Air entered his lungs like water pouring into a jug that was too small to hold it, filling it and spilling out over the rim. But water refreshes, quenches a man's thirst, eases the pain of hot wounds. Whatever liquid Enjolras had just pulled into his lungs was like melted magma rising up within a volcano, like a sudden fire that had long ago been smoldering with dimly glowing ambers had just erupted in his chest and burst into a furious flame that spread uncontrollably through him, attacking his throat, his lungs, his heart, devouring them and burning them up.

His lungs burned. His heart was like an iron hammer slamming against the steel anvil that was his rib cage. His head was pulsing with pain as his heart pounded in his temples. Enjolras started coughing. The deep, choking, strangled sound that came forth from somewhere deep within his chest was terrible as the thick liquid that had been condensing in his lungs began to stir, trying to force its way up his throat. This made his chest cave in and clamp up as if there was a snake inside of him constricting his lungs. At any other time a man in this condition would have been in the hospital as the doctors contemplated what medicines might be able to cure such a critical lung condition...or if the condition was curable at all. It is more likely that they would be contemplating how many more nights this man would have to suffer before the merciful Lord stepped in and took him away.

But Enjolras was not in the hospital. Nor was he attempting to do anything to quench the fire that burned inside if him. It hurt but he barely noticed. He was sure the other boys were experiencing the same pain. The thick smoke that filled the café was as good as poison. It was as if the red flame that engulfed the building transformed itself into smoke so that it could travel inside the bodies of its victims where it would then, again, take its true form and burn them up from the inside out.

Enjolras, ignoring the pain, gathered all the strength that still lingered in his body and threw the heavy wooden dresser at the door. The loud crack of the wood breaking could be hear through the hissing of the fire as the dresser collapsed into a heap of broken wood, and it sounded like logs in a hearth cracking as they burn.

Enjolras backed away from the door. He gripped an unloaded musket tightly in his left hand, as if it could still somehow protect him, and in his right hand the red flag. He held out his arms to push young men standing behind him farther away from the now blocked entrance.

Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre, his friends, stood beside him. They were all that was left of the Friends of the ABC. Before his eyes, Enjolras has watched as all the others fell. One by one they fell to the ground to drown in a pool if their own blood.

They were all going to die. Enjolras knew this. It was only a matter of time. If the French soldiers did not find them soon enough, they would all burn with the café. Burn with the revolution. The revolution was dying and the young revolutionaries dying with it. Enjolras has led his friends and all of the people to their deaths.

Over the roar of the flames, Enjolras could hear the soldiers crashing through the ground floor if the café. Everybody in the room froze as terrible anticipation fell upon them like the icy breath of death. There was no fear worse than the fear that comes when a man sits vulnerable, waiting for death.

Enjolras heard his friends whimpering softly behind him like terrified and helpless dogs. Even with the burning heat from the fire, which turned the café into a furnace, Enjolras felt the sweat that coved his body, beaded on his forehead, ran down his back, soaked through his clothes turn cold like ice and a shiver ran through him, and his flesh became cold as if death had already laid hands upon him.

Boom!

The sound of the riffles going of was like the screams of demons. Enjolras's heart froze in his chest and the rest of his body jumped with terror. But then he kept his feet. No bullet had found him. Instead of falling to the ground, he stood silently in the room and he watched Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre fall, their bodies no longer moving, their hearts no longer beating.

Panic began to set in on Enjoras and before he was aware if it, he was backing away from his friends' dead bodies, staring at them in horror as he watched a deep red liquid spill out from them and pool out over the floor, as if a bottle of red wine had tipped and the brew inside of it began to drain out over the wooden planks of the ground.

Enjolras might have stared at them until he too had been shot had he not felt a cool wind begin to blow down the back of his neck. The cool air was like the remedy of cold water being dumped on the head of a drunkard, awakening him from his dreamlike intoxication.

Enjolras turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw that he was standing only a few steps in front of the huge window that gaped, always open, like an empty doorframe, over the entrance of the café, overlooking the streets of Paris. Enjolras looked out the window now and saw the smoking remains of a dead cause that had once burned with the fragrance of life and now smoked with the repulsive odor of death.

Red. The blood of angry men...

That was part of the phrase Enjolras had used to rally the people. Now it came floating into his head like a phantom come to haunt him; the ghost of one of his dead friends, the friends that were dead because of him.

The paved streets of Paris had been painted red from the dark river of blood that ran down the roads and towards the café like a stream. The blue sky had become black, poisoned by the same smoke that condensed in thick clots of mucus inside of Enjolras's lungs. The bodies of the young boys, Enjolras's friends, who had so boldly hoisted the flag of revolution as they took to the streets singing of freedom now, littered the red streets of Paris, slumped against the sides of buildings or lying in heaps on the ground. And there, blocking the street in front of the café, was the smoking remains of the barricade.

Angry shouts and heavy footfalls coming from just outside the room told Enjolras that the soldiers were making their way up the stairs. He turned back around in time to see the door jolt as something heavy slammed into it. The blockade that he had quickly thrown in front of the entrance held for the first few blows to the door but that was all. Then the door burst open and a steam of French soldiers, dressed in uniform, flooded into the room.

At once, they saw Enjolras standing helplessly before the open window, the useless musket still clinched in his hand, as if letting go of it would be letting go over everything. Enjolras watched as the soldiers surrounded him, trained their guns on him, and waited for the order to fire.

As Enjolras looked out into the faces before him, expressionless, cold, hard like stone, he felt his grip on the musket loosen. The gun slipped out of his limp hand and fell to the floor, where, with a soft clatter it hit the ground and then went still. Enjolras had let go if his gun, the battle, the victory, but he still gripped the flag in his right hand and it hung limply by his side.

The general—Enjolras recognized him as the man at the barricade who first gave the order for the French to attack, the man who had declared to them before the battle, "You have no chance. No chance at all. Why throw your lives away?"—strode to the front of the army and looked at Enjolras. Enjolras looked back at him, looked into the general's dark, cold eyes, eyes that revealed nothing, eyes like vacant windows that had nothing behind them, eyes that had seen so much horror that the soul behind them no longer responded to it, the eyes of solider. Enjolras looked into these cold, dead eyes and wondered what they saw. They looked back at him, saw him standing helplessly in front of the window, but is that all they saw? Did this man feel pity? Did he feel pride? Shame? Triumph? Who could have said? The man's face revealed nothing. He looked at Enjolras, his eyes remained on him for a brief moment, then, he turned to the soldiers and ordered them to ready their guns.

Then that anticipation came back to him. That terrible, blood-freezing, fear that fills a man when he stands before death, waiting for it to claim him. He felt as if his heart dropped into his stomach and anything in side stomach had dropped straight out of his body. There was nothing left to fill him except a deep hallow hit, a cold feeling of emptiness, the bitter feeling of defeat, and the terrible fear of death. He looked into the barrels of all the guns aimed at him and the sight of them was like looking straight into the face of death. Death is ugly, repulsive, terrible. Upon looking at it, Enjolras felt that he would throw up. He stared at the end of the riffles, waiting for them to go off. Waiting… Waiting…

Fear. Fear that is deadly. Fear so terrible that a man loose complete control over himself. Fear that feels as if there are snakes slithering and contracting in a man's gut, trying move upward and out of his throat. Fear that paralyzes him, makes his body tremble uncontrollably, fear that chokes him, makes him certain that he will become physically ill and vomit. Fear that is painful to the point of suffering. Fear that is lethal. Fear that is agony.

For the brief moments when Enjolras stood before those guns, waiting for the end, he felt this fear. Then, quick footsteps echoed through the café and everyone in the room knew that there was someone moving quickly up the stairs. Enjolras, along with all the soldiers, turned their heads just as a man hurried into the room where Enjolras stood waiting to die.

At first sight, anyone could see that this man was not, what was called, a "proper gentleman." There were many who would have said that he was not a gentleman at all. The man was like the rest of those in this battle: little older than a boy. This man, however, had an even younger air about him. Simply by looking at him one could see that this was a man full of the jubilant life of childhood, which many "gentleman" frowned upon. The man was not very big nor was he very tall. Upon looking at him someone saw a man very small and not very strong. His wide eyes were the color of the sky when the day is clear and only golden rays of sunlight pass through the heavens. A wild mess of thick, curly black hair sat on top of his head with the impression of someone who had just rolled out of bed after a particularly fitful sleep. His face was pale and there was deep contrast between his white face and the dark lines that shadowed under his blue eyes, which right now looked slightly red and swollen. The man might have been very handsome had he attempted to care for himself, but one glance denied him that. The man looked poorly kept, very dirty, and slightly sickly. But it was plain to all that looked upon this man that he had been ruined by alcohol. He was a drunkard, and for that, proper society had no respect for him.

The man stopped suddenly when he saw the mass of soldiers standing before him, their muskets out and aimed. He looked around at them, his eyes wide and confused, as if he were a man who, by some unlucky chance of fait, had appeared in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then the man's eyes came to rest on Enjolras, and all at once his confused, startled face was replaced by a face of grave understanding.

The soldiers looked doubtfully at the man as he stood wavering in the doorway. Upon seeing him, many of them frowned, finding it obvious that he was not anyone of any importance or anyone in alliance with the noble French army. Who then was he? A citizen that had stumbled into the wrong situation, or one of the rebels?

While the soldiers looked at this man, trying to decide who he was and what to do with him, Enjolras knew this man as soon as he stepped foot in the room. Grantaire. A drunkard, a gambler, a charmer, trickster, a skeptic, and a doubter, who believed in close to nothing unless it had to do with drinking. Yet this man was one of the Friends of the ABC. Enjolras had never liked the man. He was always too drunk, too lazy, or too afraid to consider the revolution, and there were several occurrences when Grantaire had publicly gone against Enjolras, trying to convince the people why not to rebel. Grantaire believed in none of the things that Enjolras believed in, like the revolution, the Republic, the freedom of the people, and the divine plan of Providence, and everything that Enjolras did not believe in, like drinking, chasing women, enjoying like while a man still can, and letting the world unravel without interference. No, Enjolras did not care for Grantaire. At times, he even despised Grantaire, and he did not try to hide his feelings from the drunkard. He let him know it.

But in returned, Grantaire admired Enjolras, respected him, and obeyed him. Grantaire looked at Enjolras and saw, not a mere man, but a leader, a god, a king. Enjolras scorned Grantaire, scolded him and slandered him. While Enjolras always thought the drunkard heard his voice but did not even perceive any of what he was trying to tell him, Grantaire heard every word he said. Every scornful word from Enjolras was like a blow to Grantaire, which made him pick up a bottled and drink himself to unconsciousness.

Enjolras had forgotten all about Grantaire. He was with them at the barricade, stayed with them through the first battle, and also through the second, but that night, while Enjolras and the boys were tending to the wounded and preparing for the final battle that was to come the next morning, Grantaire had found refuge at the bottom of a wine bottle.

When Grantaire stumbled through that door, when his blue eyes met Enjolras's, the memory of the last words that had been exchanged between them suddenly flashed through Enjolras's mind. Grantaire was drinking after the battle. At first, Enjolras had tolerated it, but then Grantaire started getting very drunk—that is, drunker than usual. Enjolras, already angered and vengeful after many of his friends had fallen in the battles, poured all the wrath that had been brewing inside of him for so long, a terrible wrath of hatred that was meant for the French government for everything that they had ever done to him and the people, out onto Grantaire. Enjolras emptied the heavy burden of hatred that weighed down his soul by loading it, blow after blow, onto Grantaire. Grantaire heard every word, and each one pierced him like a knife.

Their conversation had concluded when Enjolras had finished yelling at Grantaire and had turned to leave. "Enjolras despises me," Grantaire muttered under his breath, to no one but himself.

Upon hearing this, Enjolras turned around and snapped, "Grantaire, you are a disgrace to France and a disgrace to this barricade. And you are a disgrace to everyman here who is willing to give his life for something they believe in." Then he had turned his back to Grantaire and walked away. He did not see the pained looked on Grantaire's face. He did not know that these words hurt Grantaire more than anything else that Enjolras had ever said to him. Because Enjolras told Grantaire, directly to his face, that he had disgraced him, and Enjolras was the one being on earth that Grantaire ever wanted to make proud.

Now Enjolras stood, looking into thus same man's eyes and it was Enjolras's turn to be disgraced. Ashamed. Grantaire had been right. The revolution was a fantasy. Enjolras had led his friends to revolution and he had led them straight to their deaths. If he would have taken Grantaire's advice, not rebelled, not gone to war, those men would all still be alive right now. But instead, they followed Enjolras, and they were all dead.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire with sad eyes, knowing that the man would finally repay him for all the terrible things that Enjolras had ever said to him. He knew that Grantaire would turn to the soldiers and cry out, "Here! This man was their leader! Take him! Hang him! Torture him! Parade his body around the streets so that all the people will see what happens to you if you attempt to defy the good king!" Then Grantaire would walk away untouched. Maybe even honored. The French army might even pay him to tell them all the secret plans of the revolution, which he knew but did not agree with. Grantaire's arrive here made everything so much worse. Enjolras would have rather been shot then taken. But maybe this was fait, the work of the just Lord. Now Enjolras would pay for all the sins he had committed against Grantaire, and whatever sentence would be just.

Grantaire looked back at the soldiers for a moment and then back to Enjolras. Enjolras expected him, at any moment, to call him out to the soldiers… but he didn't. Instead, in one bold action that was the one action of a man determining his fate, choosing between good and evil, between life and death, Grantaire stepped forward. At once, Enjolras and Grantaire's mind became one and they both understood. The cold, stone heart of Enjolras melted. Shame, sadness, happiness, and pride all swelled within him at once as Grantaire made his way quickly through the soldiers, and strode across the room to take his place standing beside Enjolras.

While the general repeated the order, and the soldiers readied their guns to shoot, Enjolras and Grantaire had not taken their eyes off each other. For the first time in ages, a smile spread across Enjolras's lips, and for the first time in his life, Enjolras smiled at Grantaire, his heart bursting with pride. Not a moment later, a small smile spread across Grantaire's lips, and the two men smiled at each other. Any walls, any barriers, any differences that had been cast between them, keeping them apart, suddenly crumpled and these two young revolutionaries could have been brothers, eternally untied.

All at once, Enjolras's soul erupted with the same flame that burned within him as he first stood before the people, rallying them and kindling the spark of the revolution. The same pride, certainty, eagerness, readiness, courage, passion, and will that pushed him to start the revolution burned in him now and there was not a shadow of regret in his heart. He was no longer afraid. He felt no shame, no sorrow, no defeat. The revolution of the Friends of the ABC would not go in vain.

With one burst of courage, Enjolras turned back to face the soldiers, no longer sad or afraid, but bold, courageous, and triumphant. One would have thought he had just won a great victory over death, and not that he stared death in the face. He suddenly raised the flag high above his head, holding up the banner of the revolution. Grantaire took a step closer to Enjolras and gently laid his hand upon his leader's arm.

Black. The night the ends at last... Enjolras thought as he watched the soldiers ready their guns. Now, at last, it would all end. There would be no more pain, no more suffering, no more poverty, and no more slavery. At last, they would all be free…

"On my order," the general commanded, nodding to the soldiers.

"Ready…"

Enjolras drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"Take aim…"

Enjolras braced himself for the impact.

"F—"

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

The voice boomed out, cracking like lightning rolling like thunder, from somewhere behind the mass of soldiers. At once, the room fell silent. For a moment, nobody stirred, but time seemed frozen where it stood. Then, the soldiers began to shift, as to let someone move through their ranks to the front of the crowd.

Enjolras slowly lowered the flag as his eyes followed the top of a tall black hat slowly make its way through the army. Enjolras could not see the man's face, but just by looking at the surprised, timid, even scared expressions on the faces of the young soldiers as they hurried to get out of this man's way, he knew that this man was of high authority and of high power. A faint look of fear even flashed upon the lifeless face of the general as he laid eyes upon the man coming forward. At last, the man came to the front of the group and Enjolras could see his face.

Shock. Surprise. Disbelief. Enjolras recognized the man at once, but had to continue to stare at him for several moments to make sure that he was not mistaking. Enjolras stared at the cold, stern face that stood before him, penetrating him with dark, glaring eyes, and he felt as if he were staring into the face of a tiger about to pounce on its prey.

The general stepped quickly to the side and bowed. "Inspector Javert…"

"General…" Javert responded without taking his cold eyes off of Enjolras. He stepped forward, moving closer to the two young revolutionaries, who stood motionless and confused before the window, through which could be seen the burning remains of the revolution.

This can be right! Enjolras thought as he stared at the man before him.

Javert was dead. He had come, a spy, to the barricade, but the boys had recognized him and took him captive. Enjolras had heard the gun go off, then seen the man who shot Javert appear and confirm his death. Unless the man did not really shoot Javert…Enjolras's thoughts rushed though his head, speeding along as if they had to hurry before it was too late. The man let him go. Enjolras had trusted the man who came to the barricade. This man had saved his life and the lives of many others that would have been killed. Enjolras gave Javert to the man trusting that he would kill him…

What then? Was that man also a spy? Part of the French Army? Was it planned that he came to the barricade just so he could deceive them into letting him set Javert free? Or did he let Javert go out of mercy?

Enjolras pushed the thoughts out of his head. It did not matter now anyway. Javert was alive and stood before him, strong and powerful, the French army at his command, Enjolras at his mercy.