Title: Scarlet Promises

Author: Azn Eyes

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Drama | Angst

Disclaimer: Les Misérables, Victor Hugo

Summary: Enjolras—a leader in Paris' civil war—can shoot a man dead without flinching, can look death in eye without shying away. But what will happen to him in a showdown with his childhood friend? Should he spare Xellos' life and risk losing his own? One-shot.

Author's Note: I finally finished reading the 1200-something-paged book! In honour of my accomplishment, I decided to write my first "Les Miz" fic, which is a sort of alternate conclusion as to how Enjolras died in the civil war within Paris (Rue de Chanvrerie, I think). Some lines are quoted word for word from the novel. Xellos is my own character, but I got his oh-so-cool name from "The Slayers". The paragraphs in italics depict a flashback. This fic was edited a bit from its original version. I decided to make it one chapter instead of three since it wasn't very long.

Enjolras stood completely still once the last of his men collapsed at his feet. It was done then. Their battle was over, but the war was just beginning and only he, Enjolras, was alive. All others had perished, for the good of France.

'You fought well, men,' he said softly, pressing a hand to his heart in honour of his lost comrades. 'You fought valiantly.'

'I think we got all of them,' a soldier said from downstairs.

'I believe you are right, Sergeant,' another replied. 'I do not hear anyone else above.'

'Do you think we should send someone up anyway, just to be sure?'

Enjolras held his breath. If they came upstairs, that would be the end of him!

'No. It would just be a waste of time.'

He breathed a deep sigh of relief.

'With your permission, Sir,' said a new voice, 'I'd like to go up and check, just to be on the safe side. There may still be somebody up there.'

'Do as you will, Private.'

'Thank you, Sir.'

Whatever relief Enjolras had felt quickly turned to panic as the sound of heavy boots was heard, fast approaching. A moment later, a man climbed upstairs. His long hair was a disheveled mess, knotted by wind and blood; a pert nose was vaguely seen amid the mop of once-golden hair. Dark, heavy brows framed piercing blue eyes, which stood out in stark contrast to the man's rough, tanned skin.

Enjolras felt his heart contract when he first set eyes upon the soldier. That face . . . he knew that face.

'Xellos?' he inquired uncertainly.

Only just noticing Enjolras for the first time, the other instinctively raised his weapon. He seemed poised to pull the trigger, but then he realized who it was and slowly lowered his musket.

'Enjolras.' His voice was cold, devoid of any emotion. It was worse than if he'd screamed.

Enjolras looked away, unable to look his childhood friend in the eye. His hands closed into tight fists, trembling in obvious rage. Angered flames rose within his eyes and he clenched them shut, as if unwilling to believe what circumstances he was meeting Xellos in.

'So,' he said, 'you're one of them, are you?'

'As should you be,' Xellos replied.

Enjolras shook his head despairingly.

'No,' he said shortly. 'I will never join you.' He spat disgustedly upon Xellos' feet.

The latter, however, seemed unfazed by this and calmly watched him, as if waiting to see what the other man would do next.

'Why, Xellos?' Enjolras demanded in a shaky voice, finding it unbearable to leave the question unasked. He sank down into a nearby chair and placed his pistol on the floor, just within reach if the need came up to use it.

'I do what I do for the good of France,' Xellos responded. 'I am who I am for the good of France. How can you dare to turn against your country?'

'Turn against my country?' Enjolras scoffed, glaring at the former. 'I am turning against my country? Ha! Am I supposed to be like you? So smart! So important!' To his disgust, a single tear trailed down his cheek.

Xellos moved forward, as if to comfort his old friend. But then he suddenly seemed to remember who he was and thought against it. He maintained a respectable distance away from Enjolras and didn't dare to breach the invisible wall between them again.

'We used to be friends,' Enjolras said brokenly, his fists quivering in barely restrained anger. 'What changed?'

But he already knew the answer to that.

Nothing . . . and everything.

'Come along, Xellos!' ten-year-old Enjolras called out, beckoning to his friend with violent gestures as he raced down the boulevard. 'You'll fall behind if you don't hurry! The cops'll catch you!'

'It's not my fault!' Xellos yelled back indignantly. 'I can't run as fast as you guys can!' A sheet of sweat shone on his forehead and his breaths came out in short, ragged gasps. Every step he took was taking a tremendous effort.

Noticing how much trouble Xellos was having, Enjolras slowed his pace slightly until the latter caught up to him.

'Are you all right?' he asked his friend concernedly. 'Maybe we should stop for a while so you can catch your breath.'

'No!' Xellos protested. 'There's none of this "we" stuff. You go on ahead. I won't let you get caught by the cops just because I can't keep up!'

'What? And leave you alone?' Enjolras inquired. 'No way! I'm going to stay right here beside you. And if we get caught, then so what? We'll eventually be let out again anyway, right?' He flashed Xellos a friendly smile, and the other gave him one in return.

'Thanks,' Xellos said softly, 'but you don't have to do this.'

'I want to.' Enjolras reclined against a nearby wall and clasped his hands behind his head. 'Even if we do get caught, it'll be worth it. I'd do it all again to see how those people reacted.' He laughed loudly. 'Did you see those washerwomen run when Prouvaire and Combeferre put toads down their shirts. I never knew old ladies could run so fast!'

'Yeah? And what about when Courfeyrac threw that garden snake at those rich kids!' Xellos laughed.

Enjolras almost doubled over in laughter and he clutched at his aching stomach.

'We've had some great times, Xellos, my friend. Great times . . .'

'Why did you betray us, Xellos?' Enjolras asked, trying to thrust the childhood memories away.

'I did not betray anyone!' Xellos retorted, wielding his musket around carelessly. 'It is you who has betrayed someone . . . your mother, your country.'

'You killed my friends, and having thus done so, you have betrayed our friendship,' the former said, adopting the same cold composure as Xellos. 'You shot Gavroche, who was naught but a young child. You and your little friends took Jean Prouvaire prisoner and slay him! And what about Combeferre? And Courfeyrac! What of Père Mabeuf? And Bossuet and Joly and Feuilly!' More angry tears threatened to fall from Enjolras' eyes. 'How could you? How could you kill those whom I love most, who I love so very dearly?'

'As if you have not done the same to me?'

'I haven't,' Enjolras stated. 'I shot men working for the government—soldiers, National and Municipal guards. I have not killed anyone as close to your heart as my friends were.'

Xellos' jaw twitched furiously and he raised musket menacingly.

'Take that back,' he warned.

'No,' Enjolras replied; he raised his chin defiantly.

'Take that back!' Xellos ordered, itching to pull the trigger and rid himself of Enjolras forever.

'And what if I don't? You'll shoot me, Xellos?' Enjolras asked, a wicked grin darkening his features. 'Well, two can play at that game.' He raised his and stood up from his chair. Leveling it with Xellos' head, he placed his hand on the barrel. He knew that there was only one shot left in his gun.

He just wished that he hadn't been forced to use it on his old friend.

Xellos briefly glanced down at the weapon the other man's hand.

'Oh, so you wish to kill me, do you, Enjolras?'

'That is the main idea,' Enjolras shrugged.

More moments passed in silence, and neither man dared to shoot first, even with the knowledge that the first shot would also be the last.

'You realize that you are terribly outnumbered, don't you, Enjolras?' Xellos asked with a sly grin. 'Legions of men are downstairs at this very moment. All I have to do is call them up. Then you will be shot.'

'And if I shoot you before you do?'

Xellos' grin widened evilly.

'The sound will be heard by the other soldiers . . .'

'And I will be shot,' Enjolras finished lazily.

The other man snickered.

'So you see,' he said, tightening his grip on his musket subconsciously, 'I hold the winning hand in this card game.'

'Ah, well, luckily for me then, there are no cards,' Enjolras sneered. 'And this is no game. At least if I am the one raising the alarm by shooting you, you will be dead. I need not worry about your life any longer. If I am to die, I am going to take you with me.'

Xellos glared at him.

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Oh, I would.'

'Is that a threat?'

'No,' Enjolras said with a smirk. 'It's a promise.'

'Ah, but you are always one to break your promises, aren't you?' Xellos inquired, lowering his musket.

'Of what do you speak?'

Xellos raised his eyebrows pointedly.

'You do not remember? Then let me remind you . . . It was quite a few years back, after we'd pulled another one of our childish pranks . . .'

'Argh!' Xellos suddenly cried out, tripping over a man's outstretched legs.

'Hey, watch where you're going, kid!' the citizen snapped. He flashed Xellos a look of pure evil before returning to his newspaper.

'Then don't put your feet where someone can trip over them,' the fifteen-year-old shot back, gingerly getting to his feet. He halfheartedly kicked at the bench the man was sitting on before lowering himself onto it.

The other glared at him for a moment. Then he decidedly got up and walked away.

'Bastard,' Xellos muttered, carefully taking off his boot. His ankle seemed to have twisted with his fall, for it was rather heavy and swollen. There was no way he'd be able to run with it!

'Xellos! Hey, Xellos!' he heard his friends calling for him.

'I'm over here,' he yelled back, wincing as he pulled his boot back on.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras suddenly appeared around the corner, steering clear of a shrub and running towards him.

'What happened?' the first boy asked, seeing Xellos' flushed face and pained grimace.

'Yeah, you were right behind us,' the latter added.

'I tripped,' Xellos replied. 'I don't think I can run anymore. You guys go on without me.'

The other two exchanged a secret look.

'No,' Enjolras replied.

'Enjolras is right,' Courfeyrac said. 'We've been through this before, Xellos. No matter how slow you are, we aren't going to leave you behind. You're our friend!'

'Come on,' Enjolras said, hooking his arm around Xellos' waist and helping him stand. 'We'll help you walk. We're almost at the café. We can lose the cops in the crowds there.'

Xellos heaved himself to his feet and allowed his friends to half-carry him along the street. Then he suddenly noticed something—or rather, someone—that made his heart stop beating inside his chest.

'There's coppers ahead,' he told his friends. 'Leave me here. You guys still have time to escape.'

'But you—' Courfeyrac began, but Xellos abruptly cut him off.

'GO!'

Enjolras sighed.

'We're not going to leave you like this.'

'I'll be fine!'

'I believe you, but I'd feel a lot better if we hid you under a bridge or something first.'

So that's what they did.

Eventually, Enjolras and Courfeyrac left him alone with the solemn promise that they would return once they lost the cops' trail.

'Don't worry,' Enjolras repeatedly reassured him. 'We'll be back. We'll come back for you.'

'But you never did,' Xellos said brokenly.

'That was years ago, Xellos!' Enjolras replied earnestly, wringing his hand together. 'And we told you why we never came back—we were caught!'

'Nevertheless, you did break your promise!'

'Oh? Like you've never broken a promise!' Enjolras retorted. 'At least in that situation, Courfeyrac and I had a reasonable excuse.'

'I have never broken any promises to you,' Xellos responded coldly. 'I am a man of my word.'

'So, when you said we would all be friends forever, you were telling the truth?'

Something sparked in the soldier's eye, like a glint of firelight on a blade.

'That was a long time ago,' he said quietly.

'So promises you made a long time ago no longer account for anything?'

Xellos sneered.

'Ah, well, I am glad I broke that promise, else I'd be dead along with your comrades here.' He gestured towards the dead bodies littering the ground at Enjolras' feet. 'Pity they all had to die. They fought well.'

A fiery anger rose within Enjolras, and it was all he could do to keep it at bay.

"Don't let him see how much he's winding you up," his conscience fiercely told him. "Don't give him the pleasure of seeing how much he's hurting you."

'So, I guess our friendship is over then,' he said, staring at the floor, crimson with human blood; he unknowingly lowered his weapon.

'It has been for a long time,' Xellos replied. He looked upon the defeated man with . . . pity? Compassion? It was difficult to identify what, for the raw turmoil of emotions clouding his sapphire eyes was utter chaos to say the least. Or what he was thinking was unknown, though it was likely something along the lines of "Should I have the pleasure of killing Enjolras myself, or instead have the other men come up and shoot him."

Whatever his thoughts, they were abruptly interrupted by a call from downstairs.

'Hey, Xellos!' a sergeant shouted. 'Is there anybody else up there with you, or are they all dead?'

Xellos remained silent, not knowing what to say. He looked Enjolras in the eye, trying to gauge the other man's reaction. He, Xellos, had said so himself—their friendship was over. His mind seemed to suddenly clear and the answer seemed to come to him almost immediately.

'Aye, there's someone here,' he said, his eyes hardening to ice. 'It's the leader!' Xellos lowered his voice slightly, referring only to Enjolras now. 'I swear that as long as I still draw breath, I will see you dead!'

Enjolras sneered heartlessly.

'You would die before your stroke fell.'

'We shall see about that.'

They both started as the sudden thunder of hoarse grunts and heavy boots signaled the arrival of the National Guard.

Enjolras was trapped!

Enjolras lazily took in the appearance of his adversaries. Some of them were tall, some short. Some of them were muscular; others slim. Some of them were hairy or bald, dirty or unsoiled, attractive or ill-looking. Yet, of all the men standing in the room with Enjolras, none were Republicans.

Enjolras, suddenly conscious of his unkempt appearance and the one-shot pistol he held in his in hand, shifted uncomfortably under their intent scrutiny. He retreated to the corner of the room, planting the billiard table between himself and his assailants. The shattered remains of his leadership suddenly gathered together about him, forming an almost angelic glow about him.

There he stood—one man against an army. There he stood—the leader of the Republicans, the last of his troops. There he stood—proud and erect, ready to brave whatever punishment he had to.

'He's the leader,' Xellos said, his voice firm and resolute. Not the slightest hint of a waver was revealed in his tone, and it made Enjolras grow all the more bold.

'He's the one who killed the artilleryman,' another added.

'Well, he's set himself up for us,' the sergeant said. 'He's only got to stay there and we can shoot him on the spot.'

'Shoot me.' It was not a question, nor did it give the comfort of being a statement. Enjolras looked particularly hard at his old friend when he said that, as if subconsciously reminding him of their old friendship, of old promises made.

He flung his weapon away and spread his arms out, blatantly offering them his chest to shoot. The bold defiance of death is always moving {1}.

The nearest National Guard aimed his musket at Enjolras and prepared to shoot. But a few moments later, not a single shot had pierced the strange stillness that had overwhelmed the room. Eventually, he lowered it, saying, 'I can't. I feel as though I'd be shooting a flower.'

Some of the other men seemed to share this thought, for there was a quiet murmur of agreement.

'Enough!' exclaimed the brawny sergeant. 'Take aim!'

Twelve men formed up in the opposite corner of the room and silently charged their muskets.

The sergeant was about to give the order to fire when an officer suddenly intervened.

'Wait,' he said. Then he turned to Enjolras. 'Would you like your eyes to be bandaged?'

'No,' Enjolras replied firmly.

'It really was you who killed the artillery sergeant.'

'Yes.'

The officer stared at him for a moment, then nodded briefly to the sergeant. The latter was about to repeat his command of, "Take aim" when Grantaire suddenly stepped forwards.

'Long live the Republic!' he proclaimed loudly, drunkenly stumbling towards Enjolras. 'I'm one of them.'

The soldiers just stared at him. They had completely ignored him since they had entered the room, believing him to be dead. The term "dead drunk" was a very appropriate way to describe Grantaire's actions, or lack thereof. He had lain unmoving during the entire scenario, but now he was on his feet and took his place beside Enjolras.

'Long live the Republic!' he repeated brazenly, resolutely facing the line of muskets.

Enjolras gave the unmistakably intoxicated man a small smile, and the two clasped hands. He had never really liked Grantaire, but the loyalty the latter had just revealed towards his political beliefs was very touching. And the fact that he would rather face a row of weapons head-on beside Enjolras rather than pretend to be dead was almost heartbreaking, to say the least. It was almost as if they were . . . friends.

'Long live the Republic,' Enjolras whispered. All dignity forgotten, a lone, silver tear trekked down his face, leaving a thin streak of moisture in its wake.

'Might as well kill two birds with one stone,' the sergeant said, shrugging as if it were nothing. 'Take aim!'

'WAIT!'

All eyes turned to the one who had so suddenly interrupted the proceedings. To everyone's very great surprise, it had been Xellos!

'Wait,' the man repeated again. He tossed his weapon away and held his hands up in defeat.

'What is this? What are you doing, Xellos?' the sergeant demanded, his thick brows furrowing together.

'Something I should have done a long time ago,' Xellos replied. With firm steps, he strode towards the two men in the corner and clasped Enjolras' hand in his own. 'Long live the Republic!' he shouted.

The soldiers stared at him, surprised to see one of their own joining the enemy at such a perishing time.

'Grantaire's devotion was very moving,' Xellos said softly to Enjolras, 'and it reminded me a friendship that had occurred between two certain young boys not too long ago.'

'So what does this mean, Xellos?' Enjolras asked quietly, not yet daring to believe what had just happened.

Xellos winked at him.

'It means that I have kept my promise of friendship,' he responded. 'And that you have kept your promise of my death.'

Enjolras laughed hoarsely and tightened his grips around the hands of the two men he was proud to call his friends.

'Long live France!' he said with a chaste smile lighting up his face. 'Long live the future!'

His smile had not ended when the volley rang out.

The End.