Warnings: alternate reality, emotional Enjolras, descriptive violence
Disclaimer: I don't own Enjolras, or the book Les Mis, or the musical play, or the movie, or Aaron Tveit's wig.
Hope you enjoy.
Dead. They were all dead. And he was still alive.
Enjolras looked down at the bodies of his friends, his brothers who had been standing, fighting, and breathing beside him only seconds before. The fire that had taken their lives had come up through the floor, from the national guardsmen who had forced them to take cover in the wineshop.
Less than a minute ago, he had been frantic with fear for everyone's lives, frantic to protect them. Now that fear had died with his friends.
The sudden deaths of his friends and the abrupt diffusion of the overpowering fear left him shaking, but Enjolras realized he didn't feel anger – not toward the people of Paris who hadn't risen to their aid, nor at his fellow rebel leaders who had let their barricades fall, not even at the guardsmen who had shot down the brothers he'd loved.
Instead, he only felt ready. Ready to die, ready to end his life-long fight.
Ready to let others rise.
Now the whole building shook as national guardsmen pounded up the stairs. Enjolras threw a glance over his shoulder, out the window behind him, but he wasn't seeking an escape. The street below was running with blood. He visualized his blood mingling with his brothers', dripping down to create a river that would water the dry meadow of souls in France who were thirsting after freedom.
When he turned away from the window, the guardsmen stood before him, but the vision was foremost in his gaze. The beauty of the vision made him able to look on the bodies of his friends without being crushed by unspeakable guilt. They had not thrown their lives away following him; they had sacrificed their lives for the good of France. As would he. And someday, others would rise.
Dimly, Enjolras was aware of the guardsmen mumbling amongst themselves. "That's him, he's the leader."
"Shall we shoot him where he stands?"
"Or shall we wait and make a statement all of France will understand?"
"Shoot me," Enjolras challenged, then felt his fervor slip. Grantaire was forcing his way through the guardsmen, his eyes locked on Enjolras. And Enjolras knew what he was about to do.
No, Grantaire, this isn't your fight, this isn't your love, Enjolras wanted to protest. We died for love of France. Grantaire, go back to your bottle.
A national guardsman grabbed Grantaire by the arm as Enjolras felt other hands take hold of him, dragging him away from the window. The guardsman tossed Grantaire into Enjolras' place. "Shoot this one. I want to hang the leader publicly."
The grand vision cracked. Enjolras felt it shatter as he caught one last glimpse of Grantaire's face before he was shoved down the steps and the muskets reported behind him.
He fell to the foot of the stairs, wrenching his shoulder as he landed. The red flag he was carrying had become snagged on the banister at the top of the stairs and was now spread out above him. The guardsmen ripped through it as they crashed down the steps. Before Enjolras could stand, they were hauling him up and pushing him out the front door, out onto the red-washed street.
He landed on his knees, splashing blood up into the air. Enjolras felt some of it, warm against the side of his face, and tasted it on his lips. Then he felt a hot gun barrel slam into the side of his head, and red turned to black.
Not complete black, however, because he knew. He knew they were dragging him through the streets, shouting to people that they had stamped out the rebellion and one of its pitiful, detested leaders was theirs to torture and execute. He knew also of the blows they were continuously bestowing on him, but it wasn't until he'd fallen from the force of a strike across the back of his shoulders and his body refused to get back up that he truly understood what they could do to him.
They could make him look defeated.
Because no matter how much righteous defiance still coursed through him, no matter how badly he wanted to fight back, his body was failing him. And that was what the guardsmen wanted. They wanted to parade and hang the broken, wretched rebel, not the beautiful, strong rebel glowing with love for his country.
The realization hurt Enjolras worse than the kick to his side that crunched bone and made the gray-black world spin. At the barricade, he'd stood front and center when the shooting began, trusting his life to the ordainment of God and Patria.
Why couldn't the Powers have allowed him to die there? Wasn't it obvious that his dying there would have been better for France?
A blow to his head followed the kick, and this time the world stayed black.
"You worry too much," a low voice murmured, and Enjolras felt a hand brush his cheekbone, wiping away blood. He gasped in a breath at the contact and struggled to open his eyes. The hand fell to his chest. "Enjolras. It's only me."
When he finally forced his eyes open, his vision was blurred, but he could see that a girl was kneeling beside him.
"You say that like I know you," Enjolras said, confused. He didn't know any girls.
"You cried when I died," the girl told him softly.
Enjolras raised his head at her words and tried to see her face more clearly. "Eponine?"
For a second, he saw Eponine's bright, beautiful eyes, shining with tears. Then the face changed to a woman he didn't recognize. She had flaming red hair as red as his flag, a blue and white gown, and a proud but compassionate look in her eyes. "No," she said, her voice like music. "La Mere Patrice."
Mother France.
Enjolras caught his breath, groaning because it hurt to breathe. "I would cry if you died. But you're not dead. I won't let you die," he promised.
The woman touched his face again. "Now you understand why I couldn't let you die either."
"But I failed you," Enjolras protested. "Your people aren't free. You should have let me die."
The love of his life leaned over him, pressing her lips to his ear. "Do you trust me, Enjolras?"
"Yes," he breathed.
"Then don't worry so much," she told him, kissed his forehead, and disappeared.
Enjolras lay still for eternal minutes, his body trying to breathe even though his mind wanted to give up on breathing. If he opened his eyes, he could see he was in a dim cell that looked as hazy and gray as the smoke of the rifles firing over the barricade. But it didn't matter if he left his eyes shut or opened them, he didn't see the gray stone walls. All he saw were the faces of his friends, faces of the men who had been glad, with courage and cheer in their hearts, to follow him to the barricade and let their blood water the meadows of France. Faces that tormented him because his blood was still pumping through his insignificant body.
The streets had been red with his friends' blood. They'd died martyrs. He was going to die a disgrace in the eyes of the people. The misguided leader who had led their sons and brothers to death.
God and Mother France knew the truth. But the people wouldn't.
An eternity later, the pain of his wounds finally overcame the pain in his heart, and he slowly gathered himself together. He was leaning back against the wall, nursing a piecing pain in his side, when he realized there was a face in the cell that didn't belong to a phantom friend or La Mere Patrice.
The face was dirty and pale, staring curiously out of a bundle of gray clothing and huddled against the far wall.
"Revolutionary, are ye?" the face asked, almost mockingly.
Enjolras didn't reply. He didn't want to talk, he wanted to die.
The face smirked. "Hot-blooded revolutionary indeed. Fighting for the common people, but too uppity to speak with his cellmate."
"That is not so, friend," Enjolras replied quietly. "Trust me, you would not benefit by conversing with me. In truth, listening to me might get you killed."
"That does not sound like a leader's rhetoric."
"I'm a leader of ghosts," Enjolras said shortly, turning his head away.
"Are the ghosts pleased with the way your passion has turned to despair?"
Of course, he'd landed in a cell with an occupant that refused to shut up. "I'll ask them tomorrow after I'm dead. Now please leave me alone."
The face sighed, and the bundle of gray clothing it was attached to began to scuttle across the floor. "Can't, monsieur rebel."
"Why not?" Enjolras asked faintly. As sharp as the pain was in his side, the pain in his head was dull and thudding. He let his head fall back against the wall and exhaled.
Then gasped in a startled breath as he was slapped across the face. "Don't close your eyes," his cellmate ordered. "You shouldn't sleep if you have a concussion."
"I didn't close my eyes," Enjolras protested groggily, feeling a twinge of anger.
"Look at me," the creature demanded.
Enjolras complied simply out of desire to get his cellmate to shut up. He expected to see some twisted, insane old man.
But his presumptuous cellmate was clearly a young woman.
A young woman with flaming red hair. Dirty, tangled hair, but definitely red – a rather rare hair color in France.
I never dreamt an incarnation of La Mere Patrice would slap me, Enjolras thought wryly.
The girl frowned. "What?"
Had he said that aloud? Enjolras began to shake his head but stopped when the dull aching turned to pounding.
The girl made an exasperated noise. "You're strange and I'm probably stupid, but I want to help you. Is that understood?"
"Quite clearly," he murmured, averting his gaze from the girl so she wouldn't see the flash of pain in his eyes that wasn't caused by physical grieves. Wouldn't the others be laughing at him now. He'd told them once that France was his only mistress, and now here he was with the first girl he'd spoken to in years, and she looked like the vision he'd received of Mother France. Courfeyrac would have invented at least three jokes by now.
He risked another glance at the girl. "Pardon my impertinence, but it's rather odd to see someone with red hair."
"It's also rather odd that someone who looks like they're dying cares about hair color," the girl sniffed.
"I'm not dying," Enjolras muttered. "I'm not that blessed. And I didn't mean to imply that your hair is odd, I just meant – "
"Just hush," the girl interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Hush before I start doubting my sanity." She leaned back and looked over him critically. "I don't even know where to start with you, you're such a mess. What hurts worst?"
My heart, Enjolras thought, but decided the girl wanted a more useful answer. "My side, I reckon."
The girl touched his once white, but now dirty and bloodied shirt. "Have you been shot?"
"I – " he inhaled sharply as she prodded his chest. "No, I don't think so. I can't remember feeling pain until after I was arrested and they started beating me."
"Probably a rib or two broken then," the girl mused grimly, continuing to explore his wound. "I've had the same experience once or twice myself, so don't worry, I know what to do."
"I'm not worried," Enjolras breathed a wry laugh that ended in him gritting his teeth in pain. "I'm dead anyway, mademoiselle. Your concern for my state is appreciated, but there's no need to bother. I'm sure they'll hang me in the morning."
"That's the kind of attitude that got you into this state," the girl rebuked. "Disregarding your life like it's nothing. You don't deserve to die any more than I do."
Her words made him pull away from her ministration, and he caught her eyes when she looked up. "You're right," he said with as much force as he could gather. "Every life matters, and neither of us deserve to be here. But they don't believe that. And that's why I'll be dead, and you're locked in this hole to die."
She gave him a glimmer of a smile. "Now the passionate revolutionary appears. You're wrong on one account though," she insisted. "You're not dead yet. And while there's life, there's hope. Isn't that what you were fighting for?"
Enjolras let his eyes flicker shut as he took a painful breath. "The passionate revolutionary died with his friends at the barricade," he muttered. "There's no hope for them or him."
"I'd hit you if you weren't already hurt," the girl remarked, returning to his wound. "That's a warning. No more talk from you, monsieur. Just help me get your jacket and blouse off so I can clean you up."
"Enjolras," he told her, not sure why he wanted her to know. "My name is Enjolras. And now I will stop talking if you so wish."
She laughed faintly. "Stop talking gloom and death is all I ask, Enjolras. I've had enough of it to last my lifetime." She fingered a long tear in the sleeve of his jacket, caked in dirt and blood. "Heavens, I wager this was beautiful once, such a rich red. You've had beauty in your life, Enjolras. Be thankful for that."
"And you've obviously had nothing beautiful," he whispered, feeling something in his heart tear just like his sleeve. "That's why I couldn't live content in my decadence and my privilege. Not while the common people of France lived with the ugliness of the world."
"Oh, I'm common now, am I?" She grinned, yanked on his torn sleeve, then shoved him onto his side so she could peel the jacket off his back. Her actions were strict, reproving, and inconsiderate of his pain. "I thought I said no more talk of gloom and doom."
"I'm sorry," Enjolras gritted out through a clamped jaw. "I won't speak of it again."
The girl balled up his jacket and tossed it to one side. "Good." She pushed aside his vest and reached with both hands for the already torn collar of his shirt, sliding her fingers under the cloth, skimming against his skin as she undid the buttons. "I'll be gentler this time," she smirked, easing his shirt open and pushing it off his chest.
It was strange enough, Enjolras reflected, to have a girl talking to him. Stranger still that in what were probably his last few hours on Earth, this girl whose name he didn't even know had suddenly and ruthlessly descended upon him. If not for her mocking smirk and near viciousness, he'd have supposed she was an angel or another dream of France personified. And yet, like she had chided, she wasn't a common street whore. When he looked at her closely, he could see she had too much of an aristocrat's look in her face. But a bourgeoise girl, no matter what her crime, wouldn't be locked in a filthy jail cell, would she?
"Who are you?" Enjolras asked in a low voice as the girl pulled a water bucket closer and dipped a rag into it.
She gave a short, rueful laugh. "I knew this was coming." With an eyebrow raised, she glanced at him. "You finally realized I'm not the urchin you assumed me to be?"
Enjolras shrugged uncomfortably. "Never mind. If you do not wish to discuss – "
"I can't," the girl interrupted. "It's a secret that's keeping me alive." She leaned over, her lips brushing his ear in the same way La Mere Patrice had touched him in his dream. "But do I really need a name? Maybe I am La Mere Patrice."
Enjolras jerked back, shocked. "You – you heard me say that. Right after I was thrown in here. Didn't you?"
She smiled enigmatically, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. "Did I? Now here, take this," she instructed, tossing him the wet rag, "and wash your face. There's so much blood on you I can barely see what you look like."
"I thought you were going to wrap my ribs," Enjolras remarked, wincing as he raised his arm to bring his hand to his face and still reeling from her reference to his dream.
"I will, once you stop being nosy and complaining and look more presentable."
"You're not exactly clean yourself you know," he countered. It wasn't like him to be snide, but the girl annoyed him.
"I've been here longer," she reminded.
Enjolras ignored her for a second and focused on trying not to shake as he washed the blood from his face. He knew most of it wasn't his.
"Here, let me do it," the girl said quietly, without the usual bite in her tone. "You're just smearing it."
"No." This was the blood of his friends. It was sacred. And it was on his hands. He'd leave the blood and take it with him to the grave if not for the sake of presenting himself as defiant and dignified when they hanged him.
The girl, tactful for once, fell silent as he worked.
"Do you know what time it is?" he asked her when he'd finished and the rag had turned red.
She took it and wrung it out over the bucket. "Late afternoon, I'd say. They tossed you in here around midday, and you were out for hours. Why?"
So his friends had been dead for a while now. Had their families came to collect the bodies? Had they been placed in coffins, ready to be mourned and buried?
"Enjolras?"
The worried way she said his name jarred him from his thoughts. "Just... thinking," he told her. "My apologies."
"Apologies for thinking?" the girl needled, but her eyes were solemn.
"Thinking about death," Enjolras clarified. "And since you've already established your rules on that subject – "
"Forget the rules," she interjected, her eyes suddenly sparking with intensity. "This is absurd. I'm sorry. I'll shut up and mend you as best I can and you can say whatever you want. And then I'll leave you alone if that's what you wish."
"No, you misunderstood," Enjolras told her hastily. "I wasn't thinking about dying in the morning. I was just thinking about my friends."
The girl sighed, the quiet, mournful sound making her seem years older then she appeared. "I'm still sorry I've been impudent. It's just the way I keep myself sane." She was quiet for a long minute, then said, "I heard the gunfire this morning. And the canon fire. And I prayed the rebel leader wouldn't die."
"Why the leader?" Enjolras blurted, too surprised to feel anger.
"Because the leader has already sacrificed so much," she answered softly. "I know."
Enjolras nodded slowly. So the girl was a leader's daughter or sister. Or lover.
"I guess you probably wish I hadn't prayed that," she said awkwardly. "I'm sure you would rather have died with your friends. I'm sorry."
After becoming accustomed to her sharp demeanor, it was almost painful to see the girl so reserved. "Weren't you just telling me as long as there is life, there is hope?" he reminded her. "Don't be sorry. And thank you for the help."
A glimmer of the usual smirk returned to her face. "Don't thank me yet; I'm not done hurting you. Come on, let's take care of those ribs."
She'd been right, Enjolras reflected a short time later after she had finished tying strips of cloth around his ribcage. It had hurt. He'd had to keep a tight jaw throughout the process to refrain from swearing or making noise.
The girl, however, had both sworn and made sounds of disgust at the sight of the dark bruises beginning to appear over most of his body. Not that she had seen most of his body, just his chest and part of his back when she'd applied the wrapping.
Enjolras shook off the uncomfortable thought and pulled his torn and bloodied shirt back on, momentarily wishing for the drawer of clean shirts back in his room. At least his vest still looked decent. He gingerly donned it, moving slowly so as not to aggravate his injuries.
He was reaching for his black tie when the girl snatched it up. "No, monsieur, I believe this is mine now." She swiftly tied it around her hair, pulling back the dirty red curls.
"You do seem to have a better use for it," Enjolras noted, slightly amused.
"And it's only fair, since I sacrificed the hem of my shift to make you a bandage," she pointed out.
Enjolras looked down, feeling a flash of embarrassment. "I would offer you a more suitable recompense if I could."
"The tie will suffice," she said, sounding pleased as she touched the ends that hung down over her shoulder.
"I bought it when I first started college," Enjolras told her, smiling unconsciously at the memory.
The girl smiled. "And what's the story behind that?" Her nod indicated his red jacket lying crumpled beside him.
He picked it up and swiped at the wrinkles, swiped at the pain. "This was a gift. From my friends. After word came that General Lamarque was ill and we knew the time for revolution was approaching, I found this flung over my chair at Cafe Musain. They made me promise to take it off once the bullets started flying."
"Did you?" she asked, although her hushed tone said she already knew the answer.
"No." His intense study of the buttons on his jacket's sleeve was interrupted by two sudden dark drops staining the material, and Enjolras realized he was crying.
In the few seconds he took to blink away the tears and clear his vision, the girl knelt beside him and reverently touched the sleeve, smoothing the tear stains into the fabric. "Let these tears be their last blessing," she said softly.
Enjolras couldn't speak. He let his head bow over the jacket, let the girl reach up and soothe her hand against his hair and neck.
"For surely their love is still blessing you," she whispered.
You have permission to hate me for ending the first chapter there, but please leave a review expressing your hatred or love or indifference. And I'm sorry but I won't be updating this fic very quickly because of my immense class load at college, and I'm not even sure I know how I want the plot to go. So hate me for that too. Also, "the girl" doesn't even have a name in my mind. So if you want to suggest names along with a plot, feel free. I kind of wanted a name that has a double meaning of liberty or hope or something in French to keep Enjy wondering if this girl and him were brought together by fate. Along that same issue, I wanted to state that in my heart of hearts, I don't ship Enjolras with R, Eponine, or OCs even though I've enjoyed reading all those pairings. I truly only ship Enjolras with France. And if you're interested in knowing, I have read most of the Enjolras scenes in the book, watched the 25th Anniversary production on YouTube, and seen the new movie. And yes, my Enjolras is based on Aaron Tveit even though I loved Ramin Karimloo too.