This story is on a temporary hiatus, but I promise I will finish it as soon as I finish "Angel of Stone" and "Between Love and Loss"! I've just been trying to write too many fanfictions at the same time! Thank you all so much for understanding. You are all the best, and you mean so much to me. Thank you.

Chapter I

~The Cup of Evil~

Grantaire sat in his usual corner of the Café Musain, sitting in his usual position, at his usual table, in his usual chair, as usual, a bottle in his hand and a young woman, though she was not the same woman as yesterday, in his lap. He was drinking, and smiling, and drinking, and laughing, and drinking, and whispering things into the young lady's ear that made her blush, and giggle, and gaze upon him with longing and loving eyes. Then he grinned back at her, smiling at her with that same charming air that had stolen the hearts of so many women. Their hearts had been stolen, intoxicated, warmed, and then broken. Then the poor girls were left alone, to suffer in despair, confusion, and brokenness, to endure the cruelty of the world, and to pay whatever consequences for their actions.

Grantaire was charming. Faltering. Deceiving. He played a cruel game of which he called "Love." Many young women were caught by his trap. As he smiled at them, and looked longingly into their eyes, and pressed his lips to their ear and whispered "I love you," as he held them close against him, held their heads to his chest, as they felt his body pressed against their own, as they listen to his heartbeat, and he said to them, "I will always love you," as he whispered false words of love, and made false declarations, and made false promises, countless young women had fallen for him. She fell for Grantaire. For his charm, for his words, for his promises, and for those treacherous words whispered as she lied in bed with him, hugging him closely, as he gently stroked her hair, and said, "I love you."

She fell for Grantaire. She bought into his lies and false promises, and she believed that she had, at last, found love. She believed that she and this man would be together forever. She believed that he really loved her, and she really loved him. In most cases, she loved him, adored him, worshiped him, and she would have done anything for him, she would have given him anything, she would have trusted him with anything. She made the mistake of trusting him with her heart. She loved him, she submitted to him, she slept with him, and hardly a week, a day, an hour later, he left her.

Then she was left alone, broken, confused, afraid, lost, and hopeless. Sometimes she would go running back to Grantaire, trembling, weeping, begging for him to return and come back to her. "But you loved me! You told me that you loved me!" she would cry out through her tears, but he would brush her away and merely reply, "Darling, love is a terrible thing. It is treacherous, and cruel, and brutal, and cold, and deceiving. One way or another, it always betrays us."

Then, the poor girl was on her own, abandoned, forgotten, ruined, broken, and poisoned by Grantaire. She was, more often then not, a good person at heart. She was young, virtuous, good, and pure. But blinded by the sweet intoxication of love, she was deceived. She was ensnared by the trap of evil.

The nature of man is not good. It is sinful, rebellious, wretched, wicked, cruel, lustful, selfish, and driven by savage desire. It is impure, unclean, and it hunts like a wild beast with ravenous hunger for the delightful taste of pleasure. For the treacherous cup of evil. Man drinks from the cup of evil, and he is intoxicated by the rebellious, prideful, and selfish sensation of sin. At once, he goes out seeking for more.

The soul of a man is different. The soul is the part of a human being that is alive. It governs the entire being and makes a man who he is. It has the power to think, to judge, to make decisions, and to act. It is the mind, but beyond that it is conscience and it is the heart. The soul is the man, himself. It is the part of a man that is capable of being good, but it also capable of being despicable.

God offers man the cup of goodness, the cup of righteousness, the cup of purity, and the cup of salvation. If a man chooses to accept this cup, if he takes it and drinks of it, then he will obtain all of these things. He will be good, righteous, pure, and in the end, he will obtain salvation. Through Christ, a man is capable of being something more than his nature.

But Satan offers the cup of evil. While the cup of the Lord is pure, clean, righteous, and joyful, the cup that the Devil offers is sinful, delightful, lustful, selfish, and he who drinks of it receives great pleasure. The taste of sin is sweet. A man takes it, and he feels that he is free, that he is a rebel, that he submits to no one, that he has no king, that he, himself, is the ruler, that he is the master of himself, that he is greater than all others, that he is greater than God. The Devil's drink is treacherous and it is deceiving. For the man who drinks it does not realize that he is, indeed, a slave. He is a slave to his sin, and he is a slave to Satan, the one who has deceived him.

Both of these cups, one good purity and the other sinful sweetness, are offered to a man. Human nature loves the cup of evil, as it is wielded to play to the desires of man's corrupted hearts. To the eye it is inviting, to the body it is pleasing, and to the mind it is satisfying. But by the conscience, it can he turned away. It takes a strong person to reject the cup of evil, the clever trap of the deceitful one.

Yet, still, there are those who are deceived into drinking from this cup and they take it unknowingly. Blinded by love, by joy, by lust, and by the charm of deceit, the young woman fell for Grantaire. As she loved him, as he held her, as he told her that he loved her, as she submitted to him, as she followed him to his bed, she drank from the cup of evil, and she mistook it to be the cup of love and of joy. Only once Grantaire had broken her heart, did she realize what she had done. But by this time, it was too late. Grantaire had taken from her, her pride, her respect, her innocence, and her purity. He had scarred her with a mark of evil, and he had left her alone to suffer it by herself. At this point, he was gone and she was on her own.

Grantaire was a cynical man of doubt, of skepticism, of caution, and of sin. He was a drinker, a drunkard, a rover, a gambler, a doubter, a deceiver, a doubter, a cynic, a skeptic, and he took great care not to believe in anything. Anything that a man believes in, according to Grantaire's theory, would only betray him, abandon him, and leave him with a lost mind and a broken heart. He was careful as to not be deceived and fall into this trap. The trap of belief, of trust, or of love. He wielded the trap himself, as so he would not fall into it. He waved a hand a religion, he laughed at passion, he ridiculed dedication, and he shook his head at belief. Whenever he saw someone who had put his faith in something more than what was visible before him, Grantaire would shake his head and think, "Poor fellow. He believes so strongly. He is so sure. He will be disappointed."

Grantaire was not handsome. His clothes were dirty, wrinkled, and untidy. His hair was thick, black, long, curly, messy, wild, untamed, not groomed, and not bothered with. His skin was darkened by the sun, scarred in some places, and simply had the rough look of a rouge. His eyes were dark in color, bright in liveliness, but vacant in any type of will or passion. His, also, eyes were, more commonly than not, red and watery for the intake of so much alcohol. His face had somewhat of an unhealthy look, and there were often dark shadows hanging under his eyes, either from illness, from lack of sleep, or from the consumption of an extremely unhealthy amount of liquor. His body was ruined, weakened, and destroyed by the alcohol that possessed him. He was not handsome. He was ugly. But beyond that he cared nothing for himself, that he did not attempt to take care of his own body, and the damage done to him by alcohol, beyond all of this, he had a captivating smile and a certain charm that was easily able to lure in women. He was a good charmer, a good liar, and a good trickster. He was vain, hopeless, selfish, and loveless.

But even still, when he was so skeptical of belief, so critical of passion, so disdainful to love—real love, that is, as he told these young women that he loved him, but he did not love them, at all—there was one thing that Grantaire believed in, one this that Grantaire had a passion for, one thing that he loved. Enjolras.

Enjolras was a handsome young man, who was the utter most opposite of Grantaire. He was strong, brave, bold, selfless, faithful, passionate, dedicated, and he believed in the unseen, the unknown, and the impossible. He believed in God and he trusted Him. He believed in love, although he did not love any woman, and he did not have a family, he loved his friends, although he hardly showed them this or let them know it, and above all, he loved France, he loved Liberty, and he loved Freedom. Still, beyond all of this, the most passionately, the most vigorously, and the most selflessly, he believed in the Revolution. He was the icon for a freedom, the symbol for the people to follow, and the leader of the rebellion. He was the chief of a small group of students called the Friends of the ABC, and he led them in the fight for freedom.

He was inspiring, moving, and awe-striking. He spoke of freedom, and his voice was like the song of the angels, beautiful, powerful, moving, and its splendor passed into all those who listened to him, and they trembled in awe, as if they had been touched by a being of Heaven. In times of quiet, he was a soldier, a commander, a king. But when he spread his wings and took flight, he would go soaring like an angel through the heavens. All who saw him, heard him, or felt his presence would be left in a state of admiration, of amazement, and of awe. They would feel that they had just witnessed a vision from God.

Enjolras was like that of the great cherubim. He had the power to turn to pure water even the hardest heart of stone with only his words. He was unearthly and he was majestic. Beyond the magnificence of his soul, his outward beauty was angelic. His body was like that of the ancient statues of the gods, flawless and beautiful. His skin was fair, smooth, and had a look youthful and pure, like a being already glorified by the Curator. His hair, long, fair, curly locks of gold, fell down his neck, blew in the wind, and glowed in light like the rays of the sun. He had a stern, serious, grave, and majestic face, like that of a marble statue of a king. His lips were pure and they had never kissed or had been kissed by a mortal being on this earth. His cheeks were smooth, fair, and soft, and they were highlighted in gentle red as if brushed lightly by a rose. But beyond all of this dawn, the true wonder of this being could be found in his eyes. His eyes were blue, clear blue like the sky, but a shade darker, like the sky just before the sun sets. Like the sky, his eyes held an endless depth, hidden mystery, and the wonders of life. When looking into his eyes, one beheld a boundless and untamable life, a harsh severity, a restless will, and a passion that blazed like fire.

He was the utter opposite of Grantaire, and he was everything that Grantaire did not believe in. Yet, Grantaire believed in Enjolras. He could not help it. He admired, respected, honored, and loved Enjolras. He loved this man like his king. Grantaire, who did not believe in anything, found belief in the man Enjolras. And so, he was a part of the Friends of the ABC. He did not believe in the Revolution, but he believed in its leader. Grantaire saw this young man, Enjolras, so brave, so certain, so selfless, so pure, so righteous, so good, and he yearned to be like the man that Enjolras was. But it was too late for that. Enjolras drank from the cup of purity, and Grantaire drank from the cup of wretchedness.

Today, was like every other day. Grantaire was sitting in the Musain Café with his friends, by they had gathered at a different table and were listening to Enjolras speak about the Revolution. In the mean time, Grantaire sat in the corner with a young woman, whom he hardly knew, in his lap and a bottle in his hand. "I love you," he told her.

She smiled, and blushed, and dropped her eyes away from him. "You love me?" she repeated in a soft whisper.

"Of course, I do," Grantaire whispered into her ear. "I will always love you."

She looked up to meet his eyes, and he smiled at her. Her heart fluttered with joy and swelled with love. "You have to stay with me," she whispered. "Promise me that we will be together forever."

Grantaire smiled. "I promise." Then, before she had time to reply, Grantaire took her cheek in his hand, brought her face toward his own, their lips met, and he kissed her. She let out a soft gasp at first, as this was the first time that she had ever been kissed by a man, but only a few moments later, she kissed him in return. Then, they were both kissing each other here in this café, the girl not thinking about those who might have been watching and Grantaire not caring. Their arms were entwined around each other, their bodies pressed together, and their lips continuously sliding over one another's. To the girl this was a passionate testimony of true love. To Grantaire it was simply selfish pleasure. There was no telling how long this might have lasted had they not been interrupted.

"Grantaire!"

The girl jumped, Grantaire sighed, and they both, breaking apart, turned to look upon the man who had addressed them. It was Enjolras.

He was standing before them, looking upon them with dark, scornful, and hateful eyes. "Grantaire, leave is woman alone!" Enjolras snapped.

"Leave us alone, Enjolras," Grantaire said in reply, as the girl tightened her grip on him, recoiled, tried to hide behind him, and looked fearfully upon Enjolras, as if she feared that he had come to take Grantaire away from her.

Enjolras scoffed at Grantaire and turned look at the woman. "What is your name?" he asked her. His voice was cold and harsh like the chill of winter.

She stared at him with wide eyes and a white face for a long moment, before she reluctantly and fearfully answered, "Pénélope…"

"Well then, Pénélope," Enjolras went on brusquely, "you best save yourself from grief and heartbreak and get out of here, at once. Do not listen to this man. The things that he says to you are lies. He does not love you. He is using you. If you fall for him then he will only break your heart."

"No, he won't!" Pénélope immediate cried out in protest. "Grantaire loves me!" But then, a moment later, she turned to look at Grantaire, as if asking him to confirm what she had just said. But to her utter horror he did not confirm what she said. In fact, he did not even deny what Enjolras had said. He did not even look at her. He was looking steadily upon Enjolras with sad and disappointed eyes, not trying to protest against the man's words. It almost seemed that he was admitting these words to be true…

"He will leave you," Enjolras went on, unaffected by any of this, by Grantaire's glum expression, or the girl's utter shock, horror, and sorrow. "He leaves them all. Only yesterday he was sitting in that exact chair with another woman saying the exact words to her yesterday that he has, no doubt, said to you today. Do yourself a favor, girl, go home. Leave now before he ruins you."

During Enjolras's speech, Pénélope stared at Grantaire, his face white and afraid, her eyes wide, desperate, pleading, and confused. But Grantaire did not acknowledge her, at all, until Enjolras had finished speaking, and she tugged at Grantaire's sleeve and cried, "Grantaire! It is not true, is it? Tell me that it is not true, and I will believe you."

When she said this, Enjolras scoffed, turned away, and let out a grunt of disbelief, of scorn, and of frustration. Women in love were impossible. She was blinded by her passion. It was almost frightening how greatly love could poison her, what it could do to her mind, how it could dull her judgment so that she believed everything that the man told her… even if the lie was as obvious as trickster in front of her.

Grantaire finally turned his head to look at her. His face was almost void of emotion, except, perhaps, disappointment. He just stared at her, saying nothing. A dark look, as if a shadow blocked the sun, then came upon the girl's face, as she began to understand the true. "Is it true?" she questioned again. This time, her voice was cold, dark, angry, as well. But still confused and heartbroken.

Grantaire stared at her for another long moment, before he sighed and said to her flatly, "I really do think that you are pretty." This was not meant to be a complement. It was not meant to, in any way, comfort her, reassure her, or make her love him. It was a way of saying, "I do think that you are pretty, but everything else was a lie. I do not love you. I was using you. Yes, what Enjolras has said is true." The girl understood.

She stared at Grantaire for only a moment longer, her face falling even darker, darkening with sadness and with brokenness, but also with anger and with that dreadful fury that comes to a person when she has discovered that she has been deceived. Then, suddenly disgusted as if she had thought Grantaire a king and had suddenly discovered him to be scum lower than the earth, she pushed Grantaire away from her, hastily got off of his lap, slapped him across the face, turned away still glaring at him, turned her back on him, and stormed out of the café.

Grantaire and Enjolras both watched her leave, saying nothing. Grantaire's face was slightly disappointed, but other than this, he did not seem to care much, at all. Perhaps, he would miss out on one night of pleasure, but there were plenty of other women. He did not love her anyway.

"This is disgusting," Enjolras finally said, breaking the silence.

Grantaire turned his head to look up at the man, he still seated in his chair, a bottle still in his hand, and Enjolras standing tall, proud, and strongly on the other side of the table that separated them. The piece of wood that separated sin from righteousness. "What is disgusting?" he asked his leader.

Enjolras abruptly turned his head to look scornfully down upon the drunkard. "You are disgusting, Grantaire!" he cried out in outrage. "Look at you! Look at the woman, whom you have hurt! It is despicable! You take in women and then break their hearts! You destroy their lives! You ruin them!"

A small, sad smile spread across Grantaire's lips as he looked up at this man. This man who he admired so much, this man who he believed in, this man who he would have followed into death, itself, this man who only hated him, rebuked him, and scorned him in return. "I love them," he said, innocently and guiltily at the same time.

Enjolras scoffed and rolled his eyes in anger. "You use them," he corrected Grantaire. "You are selfish and cowardly. You tell these women that you love them, you use them, your ruin them, and then you leave them. That, Grantaire! That is disgusting!"

The smiled faded off of Grantaire face, and he reached for his bottle. He had barely managed to raise it to his lips, however, when Enjolras cried out, "Put the bottle down, drunkard! Is that your only resort to anything?! To everything?! To drink you life away?! You are a fool," he said darkly, and he shook his head. "You are a coward."

These words hit Grantaire like a knife. He felt a pang of the sadness in his heart, and he could feel it sinking in his chest. He loved Enjolras. Not romantically, but like a father, a leader, a king, a god. But Enjolras hated him so much. Enjolras despised him, scorned hi, rejected him, and hated him. It hurt Grantaire. Enjolras hurt Grantaire worse than anyone else could have, worse than anyone else would have been capable of hurting him. Because the one thing that Grantaire believed in called him a fool and a coward.

He slowly lowered the bottle away from his lips, set it down on the table before him, and then stared at it, sadly and shamefully. He did not want to be the way that he was. He did not like being like this. He wanted to be like Enjolras. He wanted to be good, and brave, and strong like Enjolras. He wanted to make Enjolras proud. But it was too late for that, now. Long ago, perhaps, but not now. Now, Grantaire was a terrible man. But long ago, things had been different.

Still starring at the bottle, unable to look up at Enjolras, he struggled to speak, but his voice came forth as a whisper so soft that Enjolras could barely hear him. "You don't understand."

Enjolras, showing no pity, no sympathy, no change in mind, replied harshly. "No, I do not understand. I do not understand men like you, Grantaire. You do not believe in anything!"

Then, Grantaire whispered, "I believe in you."

Enjolras rolled his eyes and walked away.

For a brief moment, Grantaire allowed his eyes a glace in that direction so that he could watch Enjolras walk away. Enjolras was right. He was a disgrace. He was disgusting. He was a fool, and he was a coward. Enjolras hated Grantaire, and Grantaire hated himself. Grantaire sighed and looked away. He reached for his bottle, and this time, he raised it to his lips and took a long drink.

Enjolras did not understand. No body could understand. Grantaire never wanted to be what he had become. But he, like so many others, had been deceived. He drank from the cup of evil, thinking that it could help him, that it could make things better, that it could save him. But it had ruined him. Now, he was trapped, and there was no way out. Now, he was trapped to live in sin forever. Now, Grantaire was a slave to his sin and to his bottle.

But he had not always been this way. There was a time long ago, long, long ago, years ago, that things had been different. This was so long ago that Grantaire had nearly forgotten it. No, he had not forgotten. He would never be able to forget. He had tried to forget, but he would never be able to. He had tried so hard. He had tried to drown the memories in his alcohol. Sometimes his liquor numbed his senses, sometimes it fogged up his mind, sometimes he was almost able to forget. But the scars were always there on his heart, to haunt him forever, never to go away. He would never be able to forget. Even as hard as he tried, even as he drowned his soul in alcohol and in sinfulness, he knew that he would never really be able to forget. The past would haunt him forever. Grantaire would never be able to go back. He would never be able to change.