(Obviously this fic is an AU. It will be updated depending on reviews.)
Courfeyrac turned off his mind as soon as he stepped through the doors of the prison. This was a trip he made several times before in the past, and was finding it easier and easier to separate fact from fiction. How many of his stories featured some sort of cliched version of a prison? A damp, dark cell with a few bones resting in the corner. A small, confined space with the sound of dripping water somewhere overhead. The two lovers would meet, exchange passionate embraces, and one would promise the other that it would all be fine. That they would take care of everything. The ending was always happy because that's what people liked to read.
There was no dripping water here, no skeletons, and there was still the pleasant rays of sunshine coming through the windows. Barred windows, yes, but still openings that served as a view toward freedom.
It was May 23, 1834, and the Republic brought about by the '32 revolution was still upon them.
Courfeyrac allowed himself to be patted down, silently handing over his hat. His visits were becoming commonplace enough that he was starting to forget the stench of the guards, how the thick hands were far from gentle, the suspicious looks he received due equally to his profession as a lawyer and who he had come to visit. Courfeyrac had prided himself on being able to take on some of the more dramatic cases, those that typically involved a scorned lover in a fit of passion, or cases that he deemed interesting as he envisioned his opening and closing arguments. The courtroom was his circus, and he wasn't inclined to feel any sort of disgrace for himself or his chosen profession due to the judgmental eye of the guard.
Satisfied with finding nothing on Courfeyrac that could detain him further, the guard led him down a long row of corridors and jail cells. Courfeyrac had since traversed this same route, ignoring the few catcalls from the thieves, the appeals of innocence from the murderers, and the silence from the truly innocent or truly guilty. Sometimes even he couldn't tell the difference.
The air started to feel colder as they went downstairs. It was a temperature that Courfeyrac worried about concerning the prisoners kept below. Political prisoners, even in these times, were kept in the recesses of the prisons. Unlike murderers, their victims could number in the dozens with one impassioned speech. Their words could convince others to commit atrocities, and they spoke out against the Republic, against those serving in the committees, and they were tried and found to be guilty not just of treason, but of stirring the masses. Attempted-murderers, all of them. And if they could turn their backs on their motherland, then they were clearly capable of anything.
Courfeyrac had only ever taken on the case of one political prisoner within his career. He had left that sort of business to the other members of his firm, and the trial had left a bad taste in his mouth. It reminded him of the monarchical regime and how they saw demons everywhere in the shadows, in the corners of the defendant's eyes, in his mannerisms, and in his speeches. All completely false, of course, but Courfeyrac had himself a harsh time of the trial, finding himself blocked at every turn.
Fairness and justice still had a long way to go when it came to matters of speaking out against the government.
Still, he had not forgotten that trial. How could he? It was one of the very, very few he had ever lost and one of the few he had ever felt he needed to win. Even now he was sending forth appeals as he visited the prisoner.
The guard tapped on one particular cell with his nightstick. Not that he really needed to, but the noise roused a few others in different cells and it gave the guard the feeling of power.
"You've a visitor."
Courfeyrac would have laughed were it any other time. The prisoner was already sitting on the cot, having moved himself into position when he heard the footfalls. Courfeyrac had been coming around since well before the trial, and it was easy to discern the man's footsteps from the heavier clunking sounds of the guard's boots. Very few political prisoners received visitors.
"I'll need some time alone," Courfeyrac said. And he would get that time alone since he was the prisoner's lawyer. He didn't take his eyes off of the man on the cot. He only heard the guard huff in annoyance.
"Ten minutes," he said. "Then I'll come back to make sure you're all right."
The guard left, tossing one last suspicious look back at Courfeyrac. Lawyers for political prisoners always seemed to have some trace of treason within them to find sympathy with the miscreants, he thought.
Small wonder why people didn't care to take their cases.
Courfeyrac waited until he could no longer hear the guard's footfalls before he reached into his pocket and took out a billfold. Extending his hand into the cell as far as the bars would allow him, he held it out to the prisoner.
And he watched, unaware that he was holding his breath.
He watched as Enjolras moved himself off the cot, as he came forward to take the money from Courfeyrac's hands. He did not limp, he did not stumble. His eyes were still as clear as the afternoon sky, and his head was held up. He still smiled easily, which made Courfeyrac's heart feel like it was being shredded.
"You're predictable only in your generosity, Courfeyrac," Enjolras said, his voice also sharp and clear. He couldn't very well say his speeches here, Courfeyrac knew. It had been Courfeyrac who had spoken for him for so long before, who had lost his voice as he tried to speak against the offenses to Enjolras' name. His friend, who had been run through the mud, who had suffered far worse at the hands of his beloved Republicans, still stood proudly within his cell, like the sunbeams that came in through the window. Enjolras wasn't allowed such a treat within his own cell, but he produced his own light, Courfeyrac felt. He was dirty, yes, but it was a shallow filth, one easily washed out. Instead, Enjolras appeared to be akin to a king on his throne, though Courfeyrac knew he would so hate the analogy. It held quite a few grains of truth. Majestic was not the adjective one would use when describing a prisoner, but it suited Enjolras. He would never bow his head to anyone, would never look to be the submissive, downtrodden prisoner. While others were quick to renounce, Enjolras was quicker still to hold fast.
This did him far too many favors with those who took his side, and far too few favors for those who wanted him out of the way. His unwillingness to play the game of the guilty vs. the innocent was something Courfeyrac had disagreed with him many times over the trial. This was doubly difficult since Courfeyrac knew his friend so well and to tell him to be something he wasn't felt almost like a betrayal, and he had so rarely disagreed with Enjolras about anything before in the past. Certainly never anything political.
"I'm trying to get you an appeal. If we can push it all back another week or two or even a month-" Courfeyrac started.
Enjolras shook his head. "There is no need. The verdict would be the same either way. Were they to give me another trial, it would be just as rigged."
"But still, we must try!"
"No, Courfeyrac."
He must be hearing things. His hands curled around the bars. "Enjolras, in two weeks time, you will be brought to that scaffold. Your hair will have been cut, your collar torn, and your head will be displayed as a warning to all!" Losing the trial had been a horrible punch to the gut to Courfeyrac, but hearing the sentence made him feel as though his own throat had been slit. His friend serving a life sentence in prison would have been preferable. There would be time for appeals, time to work within the government. But a death sentence, and in such a way, not only destroyed any chance for time-stalling tactics, it also showed Courfeyrac that the government well and truly wanted Enjolras dead.
This he knew could not happen. He knew it on a visceral level that he couldn't explain. He wasn't as much of an iconoclast as the others, but he did realize that the destruction of Enjolras could very well start a new snowball rolling down a hill. It was a strange idea, really, that one man could potentially raise quite a bit of havoc, especially with a severed head, but Enjolras had fans. He had people. He had groups that agreed with him even if they had never met him personally. He was one of the faces of the Republic, and his trial had generated quite a lot of attention.
Aside from the political aspect, Courfeyrac felt doubly focused on the more personal criteria. Saying that Enjolras was a friend to him was doing a severe injustice to their friendship. It was burying what felt like a lifelong commitment. Enjolras, he felt, was a part of him, just as he hoped he was a part of Enjolras. They connected in ways he could barely explain, and he was always masterful at putting the depth of his relationships into words. Enjolras was not his everything, but he played a part and had a role in everything. In the end, Courfeyrac could only admit that he had little desire to live in a world without the man, and Enjolras' words right now were stinging him far more than he dared to let on in this place.
"I'm aware of the sentence. I was there to hear it. But what is needed from you is your attention towards others. The other political prisoners-"
"To hell with them," Courfeyrac spat out and immediately regretted it. His knuckles were turning white around the bars. "Your trial was a sham, fine. Your appeals will be much the same, so be it. But if you think for one moment that I'll let you ascend that scaffold, that I'll stand idly by while your head is cut off-"
And then Courfeyrac stopped because Enjolras had placed his hands against Courfeyrac's, and his skin was so very warm, and it had been so long since last Courfeyrac felt Enjolras' touch. Enjolras' gaze, typically downcast in contemplation, now locked with Courfeyrac's.
"You've been willing to stand by me throughout all this time, Courfeyrac. You have trusted me. You have been willing to go where I led, and I have loved having you by my side. I would be lying if I said I didn't think this day would come. This Republic, it is not what we had desired to truly put in place, but the people will not be swayed through words this time around. Only by action will they make any movements. If my blood will set into place that which needs to be in order to truly free them, then I'll gladly let them have it all."
Courfeyrac tried to pull away, but Enjolras held tightly to his hands.
"Let me be the hero one last time."
There was a note of finality within Enjolras' voice, something that Courfeyrac never wanted to hear again because it sounded almost desperate. Pleading.
Courfeyrac held Enjolras' gaze as long as he could, wrestling with himself. Logically, he grasped the purpose of Enjolras' words, what his death would mean, what it could very well do to the whole of France. Enjolras and himself weren't the only ones aware of how corrupt the Republic had become. The straws were piling up on the camel's back, and the arrest of Enjolras was started to make the animal shake. His demise could very well be the final move.
But then what? They would take on this new Republic? They would instill something better? Maybe.
Enjolras would still be dead.
Courfeyrac's gaze turned angry. "A new Republic on top of your bones. You think that would appeal to me?"
Enjolras' expression turned sad. Courfeyrac hardened himself against it. He had to in order to keep his mind. "I think you have forgotten that everything has its price. If you're unwilling to pay, then do you really deserve such a Republic?"
"I'm willing to pay," Courfeyrac growled, harsher than he intended. "I paid ten-fold already. We lost Bahorel and Jehan in the barricades of '32. We had to see the corruption unfold around us that felt as though we've had another revolution stolen. We need to deal with corrupt deputies after their own power. The Republic has come and it is tainted, Enjolras! It is tainted and you are a damn fool if you think for one second that I'll allow them to claim you!"
He was panting after his speech, feeling both angry and reinvigorated. He had entered the prison feeling downcast, exhausted, and not looking forward to telling Enjolras that he was going to have to try another appeal since their last was overturned. Now, he felt like raging at the world and becoming that unstoppable force that he knew his friend once was in order to instate their new government. If Enjolras couldn't do it, he would pick up the slack.
Enjolras merely sighed. "You may not have that much luck, but you know that there's nothing I can do to stop you. Clearly you won't listen to reason."
"If reason means letting you die because of the foolishness and greed of others, then I have no need of reason!"
"Inquire too much and you could be sharing my cell."
"Then we'd die together, and I'll go knowing I've done all I could, and I will burn the executioner's ears with my words when I get up there!"
Enjolras gifted his friend with a long-suffering look. "You can be so very stubborn."
Courfeyrac grinned, it was slightly predatory and contained very little of his old humor. "When it comes to you, I can be many things. You're appealing to the wrong person when you wish to use logic, and there's no use in appealing to my heart as you're far more tangible to me than the elusive 'other people' we've fought so hard for. You will not be a sacrifice. No one should be a sacrifice." He lowered his voice, but spoke no less intensely for it. "I will see you out of here. I will see you free."
"Spoken like a true Republican," Enjolras admitted, though he didn't sound defeated at all in his argument. "You will do as you do and I shall wait. We'll see who wins out in the end, but it does seem that you've more the burden on your side."
"Says the man in the cage."
Enjolras scoffed. "Go out then and see the sun for me."
"I would, but they locked it down here," Courfeyrac responded, his voice softening still. He could have sworn he saw Enjolras blush, and he raised one of his friend's hands to his lips to kiss the knuckles. "My romantic flair makes me wish to vow your freedom from your somewhat errant knight."
"You're a paladin, Courfeyrac, not a knight. One day, you'll learn the difference."
"Or you can tell me the difference now."
Enjolras lightly stroked a finger over Courfeyrac's hand. "A knight is one who charges in. He thinks of little else but the command of the king. A paladin is the one who obeys the will of the light, no matter the cost."
"The cost is much too high."
"The cost is exactly right for a society."
"I do not much care for this society then," Courfeyrac said, and this time it was his tone that held a finality to it. He released Enjolras' hands as he heard the footsteps of the guard approaching.
Enjolras stepped back into the shadows of his cell.
Courfeyrac nodded to the guard. "My business here is done." He could not count this as a successful trip, but he left the prison feeling a little better about what he had to do next. While the sun shone down on him as he left the prison and he found himself once again in the company of other passers-by on the streets, he couldn't help but feel that he had left civilization behind him, still residing within a cell below the feet of society.