A/N: This is based very closely on a dream I had recently. I hope you catch the lyric snatches from "Drink With Me" and "I Dreamed a Dream," even if they aren't too obvious. But they're still there. I may expand on this story if people show interest in it, but for now it is a completed one-shot. The cover picture belongs to Jiří Zůna on Flickr, so I don't own it. Anyways, please enjoy.
Edit: Found this song a day after posting Land of the Lost and I really thought it matched the story. It's called "Poison Oak" by Bright Eyes.
-Gav
We were trapped. Trapped on a seeming endless platform. Trapped in no-man's land, for what might be very close to forever. A starched white platform stretched out as far as the eye could see, making a bright contrast compared to the quickly darkening sky above. The sky seemed almost artificial, stretching above and even around us like a shredded tarp, bright specks of light shining through the holes. Scraggly trees branched out sporadically on the starch-white surface of the ground. A chilly wind howled across the land and nipped at ears and noses and anything uncovered, turning them red and numb with cold. The place wasn't heaven nor hell, but it was closer to the latter.
Random beings, if you could even call them that, were also scattered about the barren landscape.
My friend Enjolras was curled up on his side a few feet opposite from me, his long, thick, gator-like neck snaking around to glimpse the flickering stars. While we were getting ourselves exiled to this land, he was turned into a mini Brachiosaurus. Yeah, Brachiosaurus. The dinosaur. He was about as big as a large dog. He couldn't talk anymore, but I think his voice would have sent us all to the edge. It was a tough, commanding voice, but sometimes with a softer edge that made you want to melt into it. His customary red hoodie? Gone. His rich and rare laugh? Gone. His wild blonde curls? Gone. All that remained of his former self were his eyes. Sorrowful, bitter, and frank, a gorgeous blue that almost rivaled that of ice.
The rest of our little gang were all human, at least on the outside. Long months of killing and hiding had twisted the hearts and soul of every one of us, and no one was the same.
A man was rocking back and forth under the tree which was our temporary home. Bossuet had been affected the most. From the little that we could get out of him, he was captured one night and then tormented badly. He was but a shell of him former self, which had been so cheery and full of life even in the best of times. His old name, Lesgle, had been changed so he could have another chance at the cruel monster called life.
Another man was stretched out on his back, fiddling with a gleaming knife and watching the sky. Jean Prouvaire had been a poet. The key words there are "had been." He and Bossuet had been partners on the Mission where Everything Went Wrong. He had been tortured just as badly as Bossuet, but refused to break, even though that had cost him the lower half of his left leg. Now a shiny, platinum bionic one replaced the former flesh. He was a man of iron and irony. His formerly mellow and flower-loving heart had hardened to something none of us knew. Sometimes, late at night, we would sit together and hold hands, watching the stars which were so captivating, longing for the life that used to be.
Éponine had been a successful assassin before she had met up with us. She had worked for the Monarchy for seven years, almost as long as the war had been going on, and knew her way in and out of nearly any place that you could think of. She was our guide, the most experienced of the group, the one most ready to kill should the time come. Her smile as it had been on Earth was gone, and remained a haunting memory. She was wearing supple and worn black leather as clothing, and was crouched by Bossuet, etching something into the tree trunk with a single, dagger-like fingernail.
A blotch of carrot-colored hair stood out against the shadowed white floor, belonging to a hulk of a man. Feuilly had not been through as much as some of us. He had never been caught. The worst wounds he suffered were from rejection of everything and everybody. Except us. Feuilly had been a hard worker back on Earth, and had the muscles to prove it. He and Combeferre kept morale up in the group.
Combeferre...Combeferre was gone. Not dead, or at least we hoped he wasn't dead, but Missing In Action. He was a rebel like us, he was one of us, so of course the Monarchy would be out to get him. We had lost Combeferre on the Mission where Everything Went Wrong. Combeferre had been the best friend of Enjolras and I, at least when we were back on Earth. He was half of me, and without him I felt empty. His quiet laugh and piercing hazel eyes haunted me every night and every night I prayed he would come back.
He wasn't the only one Missing, though. Bahorel, Joly, Musichetta, and Marius had gone on a Mission one night and had never returned since then. We hoped and prayed for them but everyone knew that their chances of survival were bleak.
And then there were the few of us who were not alive or Missing. Cosette and Grantaire. They were dead. Gone forever, although probably to a happier place than the hell we were living.
We were not the only ones who had been exiled here, though. Small groups of others, either people or something best-like and far from human, wandered about the strange land we were in. There were a few loners, but they never lasted long. Hunger was a main problem here, in the lands of the Lost, where no one wanted to go. But sometimes there was no choice.
Sure, we could get out. This odd, hellish land seemed to go on forever, but there were a few trapdoors. If you opened them, it looked like one of those apocalyptic video games that used to be so popular. Clouds of deadly gasses from bombs filled the view of some trapdoors. Others sported views of battlefields spattered with blood and bodies. Still others offered the sight of swirling portal-like tunnels, also known as wormholes, that led to who-knows-where. The worst thing to see if you looked into a trapdoor- if you were lucky enough to find them -were the cities. Cities lacking in the former hubbub and life that once filled them; cities scattered with the dead; cities taken over by the Monarchy, cities with fierce battles raging on and on. Cities no one wanted to see or visit.
We used to hold Missions and meetings there, to meet up with the other rebel groups and plan attacks on the Monarchy. Now, if we ventured out, we'd be demolished. Some people were sent to the land of the Lost for a reason- to never return.
Thoughts were interrupted by a throaty gasp from Enjolras. He struggled to his heavy feet and kind of staggered over to where I sat, leaning against the cold bark of the deathly dark tree. I looked up at the stars to see what all the fuss was about.
You see, the reason we held such a fascination with the stars was because of what they told. Sometimes, glowing letters would grace the sky and spell out the name of ones who had given their lives for a better universe, one lacking the Monarchy. Something up there could tell when it was one whom someone in the land of the Lost held dear. Every night we watched for the names of Combeferre, Bahorel, Joly, Musichetta, and Marius to appear. So far, they hadn't.
Until tonight. Tonight there was a familiar name up there.
Combeferre Toulon.
It was spelled out in large, crooked letters but the words were more than clear enough. It was Combeferre. My best friend. GONE. Forever.
The shock hit me like a knife in the chest. It was cold and hard and took over me like a freezing ray. Panic set in and I leapt to my feet, certain I could reach the star and tear the name down from there, because it couldn't be. It couldn't! Combeferre was NOT dead, he was NOT gone, he was ALIVE! Surely he was okay, surely this was some kind of starry glitch. But no, logic told me, he is dead, he is never coming back. The stars don't lie! Never have, never will!
I smacked my head on a low-hanging, ebony-colored branch and sat back down on the cold hard ground with a thud. Screaming started and I looked around to see who it was before I realized that it was coming from me. Sobs racked my whole body and made the screams sound like a tortured banshee as they ripped loose from my throat. On and on it went as I shuddered and stared at the sky.
Surely it was wrong it HAS to be wrong Combeferre is alive and he cannot die and NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO how can it be how can he be gone no no no no no no no this is all a dream no it isn't how did he die oh my god no no no no no no no no no no no no no no how oh this can't be real HE'S GONE!
Tears streamed down my face and splattered everywhere as I sat there, frozen, and simply screamed. The agony of it, the sheer agony, tore me. A knife slipped from a pocket in my jacket and clattered onto he floor, but I didn't notice, I was too busy screaming in horror. I screamed until I was pretty much coughing up blood and my throat was so sore I thought I must be dying.
A pair of lost, bloodshot eyes stared hopelessly at the fading letters that would never, ever, fade from a memory which remembered too much. The way he laughed and his eyes shone like diamonds, the way he never strayed from my side on a Mission, the way he would toast everyone if we completed a Mission successfully, the way his rough hand had grasped mine when we first met the Monarchy, the way he had helped Enjolras and I with homework back on Earth, the way he hummed in his sleep, the way he did everything was etched there permanently.
Numb fingers dug into the ground, desperate for a hold that would never appear, and stayed there, tense with the sheer agony of the situation. I shifted my weight and the knife I had previously dropped pierced my lower thigh, which immediately started coloring the ground with a ruby liquid. Jean Prouvaire was screaming my name and shaking my shoulders. I didn't notice. My mind was blank; I was too far gone. Just like Combeferre was.