Author's Notes: So I finally saw Les Miz in musical form a couple of nights ago and was enchanted. Needlessly to say I was attacked by the urge to write Stolen Child. This came instead. I'm a little hazy on the canon-ness. Pardon me, thou almighty gods of canon (and AmZ) for the blasphemy I'm about to bestow on you. Enjolras strikes me as very young and is it just me or does Javert speak like Sam Spade in this story?

Apollo and the Wolf
By: Lady Erised

Sweat and fear hung in the air like storm clouds. Enjolras was only half-aware of the stench as he walked through the ramshackle camps behind the barricade. All around were the faces of the young, and the dying citizens of his brave new world. As he passed, each would look up at him with searching dark, but hopeful eyes. He was their little god. They trusted him, Sweet Jesus they all trusted him.

He shivered a little, finding a bit of ground to stare at so he wouldn't have to see them watching him. It had occurred to him somewhere in his head that he had no idea what he was doing; he wasn't a leader. He had dreams of course, and followers, but that didn't for a moment mean he could achieve all those glorious dreams. He was a leader of course, but was he really arrogant and brave enough to pull this off?

He would have too, he thought grimly. He had chosen this, and there was no going back.
Was there?

Unbidden, his eyes traveled to the corner of the café.

There, unadorned and unassuming amid the stockpiled guns and corpses, was the prisoner. He had his head bowed and somehow, despise his bindings had maneuvered to be resting on his knees even with his back pressed firmly against the post he was tied to. His hair had pulled lose from it's queue and hung wildly about his face, shadowing his dark face even more. Enjolras took several nervous steps forward, eyeing the figure thoughtfully. The spy had his eyes closed, and his lips moved slightly.

Praying, perhaps…

Enjolras found himself kneeling in front of the prisoner, as a child at the feet of his tutors.

"Keep watching," Growled the man, that made Enjolras flinch despite the fact the officer posed no threat. "I might do a trick."

Enjolras swallowed and sat up. "You are called Javert."

The prisoner raised his head slowly, settling dark brown eyes on him that pierced. Enjolras flinched. Javert smiled.

"Do you require anything? Are you well?"

The officer shifted, pushing his weight from one leg to the other, looked away and shrugged. "I could stand to have these bindings loosened a bit." A dry grin. "Maybe taken off. Promise I won't try to run. Honest, sir."

Enjolras felt his stomach lurch and forced him to look away.

"Look at me." Javert demanded. "If you're going to be the people's hero, you would be wise to look at the man you'll kill in their name."

"You are dying for crimes against the people."

Javert stared at the ramble that surrounded him. "How small the people look from here. But fine, I'll indulge you. I am dying for the people, but you are still the one who'll kill me."

"I never asked to be their hero!" Enjolras shouted. "I'm here for justice."

"So am I."

Enjolras slumped to sit on the floor. He followed the older man's gaze out into the group and the faces he knew and cared about. Outside it was quiet, and he could see the soldiers' shadows moving in the dark. He saw Javert watching them too, and something strange glittered in his eyes. Was he afraid? Underneath the exterior of brashness and cruelty was a simple desire: basic to all men. He wanted to live.

Enjolras couldn't blame him. He shared the same desire.

"Why did you come here?" Enjolras whispered. Someone handed him a pitcher of water and he drank. He helped Javert, wordlessly.

The officer shifted again. Enjolras glanced behind and saw Javert's wrists were raw from trying to unfasten the ropes. There was a stubbornness in the man that rivaled his own. He respected it. "I was ordered to."

"Do you always obey?"

"When the orders make sense."

"Did they today?"

"How many are here do you think? Dozens or hundreds? Do you think they fight for the freedom of their neighbor or themselves?"

"It doesn't matter what brings them here, only that they fight."

Javert laughed, and again the strangeness of his eyes dimmed. "How useless. You would throw your life away for an ideal.

"Wouldn't you? Die for justice…"

"What I serve is not justice. It's the law."

"So you agree that it is cruel?"

"It is the same for all and what can you say that for?" Javert laughed again and turned away. A particular boy caught his eye and stayed there. Enjolras followed his sight.

The boy was no different then the others. Young and frightened, he was gripping the rifle in his hands like a woman, keeping it close. He was a little darker then the rest, his hair straighter and coarser. His clothing, though dirty, had more color and wear then his counterparts. He was staring at a nearby group. Words and labels of Gypsy and thief were being exchanged and directed at the boy, who seemed more resigned then anything at the words. Javert was glaring and realized too late that Enjolras' eyes had returned to him. He looked back down.

"Do you know what I was doing at your age?" Javert suddenly asked. His voice had taken on a softer tone, and the age suddenly crept into it. The man looked tired, resigned and bitter. "I was at Toulon."

Enjolras jerked his head over.

Javert smiled. "A guard. Not a prisoner." His smile faded. "You've never seen desperation until you have faced a man of the chain gang and told him there's nothing else. That's cruelty, hero, that's pain. The truth of a life voided of all chance, opportunity and family…made so because a choice. An action probably not thought through but made in a moment. Tell me, then, what of those who live behind walls and bars…" His face darkened again. "What of the children born there, and the people left to be forgotten and broken down…how do they measure in your world? Those who were given the chance of acceptance and threw it away. Should they be pitied?"

"You pity them."

"I was a guard."

"It's in your voice."

"You mistake the emotion. I envied them."

"Why?"

Javert turned and stared into the boy's face. He hesitated and then look back to the boy. "Roll up my shirt sleeve, hero. The left one."

Enjolras maneuvered himself to do so while shielding his actions from the others. When the arm revealed its secret, Enjolras withdrew as if he had been struck. He turned and stared at Javert. "A convict's mark."

"For the unforgivable crime of being poor and of the wrong caste." He looked back, smiling still. "Tell me, hero." The voice broke a little. "I really want to know. Where does the criminal fit in your new world? In your brand of justice, where does the wasteful and the bitter measure…where are the cruel?"

Enjolras continued to stare at the man for a long time, unable to speak and torn between the revulsion of the man's bitterness and the pity for such a figure. "I fight for the people…"

Javert snorted and looked back to the children. "How small they are."

"I didn't finish," Enjolras said, as he rose slowly. "And for the day where monsters like you are no longer created…or needed."

Javert snapped his head towards the Apollo. He flinched again. "I am a monster now?"

"Yes…" Enjolras said softly. "Because you choose to be. You were given life, as every man is, and you made your way as best you thought you could. It's not wrong but it's not just. You hid. Like those you guarded…you broke down." Enjolras hesitated before turning away because the door had opened and admitted an old man in a uniform. "And I do pity you."