Wow, I am on a roll! I have decided to take on the 100 Themes Challenge! Updates might be slow; please bear with me. You can find the list of themes on the internet - if any of you have an idea for what I could write for the next theme, don't hesitate to suggest it!

Note: These ficlets are in the same "universe" as most of my other stories (The Brothers universe, I call it), but there will be some changes, as I want to experiment. So don't be surprised if OCs are switched out and things happen differently.

Much love,

Unicadia


"How are you feeling, Marius?" M. Gillenormand entered his young grandson's room, along with a maid, who bore a basket filled with clean bandages.

"A little better," Marius croaked from the disheveled bed. Every part of him ached, but the pain from his injuries was less than before. His heart hurt more, though. The faces of those on the barricade kept appearing before his weary mind, tormenting him, never leaving him alone. What had become of them all? They said the barricades had all fallen; what did that mean for Enjolras and Combeferre, gentle Feuilly and sweet Joly? What of Courfeyrac, his friend? And Cosette, his dear Cosette. Would he ever see her again? His head hurt trying to think.

Marius let his grandfather tend to him in miserable silence. The doorbell rang far below downstairs, and the maid left. "Grandfather," he whispered.

M. Gillendormand smiled; a sad smile, Marius thought. "Yes, son?"

"When may I get up? I must find – the others."

"You are still too weak, and your wounds need more time to heal, Marius."

Marius sighed, and turned to face the wall. He heard the maid return. "Something for M'sieur Marius," she announced.

He rolled over. "Who was it, Nicolette?"

She shrugged. "Some officer. He said to give this to you." She handed a plain package to him.

"I will leave you now, Marius," said M. Gillenormand. "But do tell me what it contains." He exited the room along with the maid.

Marius examined the package. A half an inch thick and rectangular, he thought it must be a book. Why an officer would simply give him a book was beyond Marius' understanding, but curiosity urged him to untie the string and remove the paper.

And Marius gasped.

It was the sketchbook. How many times had Marius seen it pulled out, opened to a blank page, and scribbled in, the others pushing each other, trying to catch a glimpse of the drawing, only to have it hidden with an embarrassed smile? He touched the handmade, blood-stained cover, his finger tracing over the name carefully printed in the top left corner: Sacha-Josef Feuilly.

He made to open the book, but hesitated. In life, Feuilly never showed Marius its contents, not even to those closer to him, like Alexandre Bahorel. Would it be dishonoring to peer through it; to gaze upon Feuilly's secrets, the outpourings of his heart, the images he formed and cradled in his mind, all which he had hidden beneath his hard, stoic exterior?

Marius did not know, but he longed to lift the worn cover and discover at long last what lay under it. He stroked the edge of the binding, contemplating. Feuilly had considered him his friend. He wouldn't mind now.

Feeling a little guilty, Marius opened the sketchbook.

A half-finished sketch of Feuilly himself appraised Marius. But as he gazed at the self-portrait of the fan-maker, he realized it couldn't be Feuilly. The face was too angular and harsh. Indeed, Feuilly had possessed rather hard features, but they were excessively defined in the picture. Neither had his hair been so lank and stringy. His cheeks were far too sunken in, the eyes too devoid of life. For all of Feuilly's talent, he had not depicted himself kindly. Marius knew the artist had preferred revealing truth, but he thought he had been too critical of his own looks. He smiled, remembering Sacha Feuilly's wild auburn hair, his stinging brown eyes, the freckles dusting his sickly pale skin, his long bony hands stained with the paints he used to decorate fans, the thin coat he wore everywhere. Poor Feuilly. No, not poor. Feuilly would hate to be thought of that way. A tear rolled down Marius' cheek. He thought of Feuilly's gentle voice, a voice that rivaled Jean Prouvaire's, and how he would quietly sing to himself while he sketched.

Marius turned the page.