"Enjolras!" Combeferre cried out. Enjolras turned to face his comrades, who were
running through the open doors of the Café ABC, excitement flashing in their eyes.
"At Notre Dame the sections are prepared!" Combeferre continued, grinning like a
madman.
"At Rue de Bac they're straining at the leash!" Feuilly continued, directly
behind Combferre.
"Students, workers, everyone! They're all rousing, ready for a fight! Nearly all
of Paris is behind us!" Courfeyrac exclaimed giddily, clapping the other two on the
back. Enjolras beamed, clenching his fists in triumph. "The moment is fast
approaching. It's so close, their hearts are afire with revolution! But we cannot relax,
not even the slightest bit. Not too much wine now, boys! The army to come is a
dangerous foe. They've got more men and weapons than we, and though we can just
sit back and swat them away like verminous flies, the national guard is another
matter entirely." He explained, glancing around at all of the men surrounding him,
each one hungry for freedom. "What we need now is a sign. One to rally the people,
to call them to arms, to beckon them to fight alongside us!" He continued, and his
fellowmen looked as exhilarated as he felt. Enjolras had always been excited by
these sort of things; ever since his father had told him all about politics as a child,
and he had grown up listening to them, formulating his own opinions as he grew.
Finally he went off to the university, learning about the law, growing angrier and
angrier each passing day as he read the about the government and how it worked,
though outside the university walls he saw these officials feeding off of the poor's
weaknesses. And now, here he was, about to lead the so-called "children of the
gutter" to the freedom they so well deserved. Just then, Marius, his comrade and
right hand man, walked in, barely walking straight, eyes dazed and staring ahead.
"Marius, you're late." Enjolras said calmly, staring the boy questioningly.
"What's wrong with you today? You look like you've seen a ghost." Joly
chuckled as Marius blinked and turned to him.
"Here boy, have some wine. Tell us what's goin' on." Grantaire drawled,
slapping the boy's back, sending him stumbling forward a few steps. As soon as he
recovered, the glazed look returned to Marius's eyes. "A ghost? Perhaps she was a
ghost. One moment she was there, the next gone." Enjolras suppressed a groan,
pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingertips. Could the boy have picked a
worse time to fall in love? It remained silent for but a millisecond more, then
Grantaire burst out laughing. "I am agog! Is our little Marius in love at last? While
you rouse us with talk of triumphant battles, he waltzes in like Don Juan! This is
better than watching an opera." He snorted, making the others roar along with him.
Enjolras shook his head, face stern. He knew that none of the others could possibly
be as passionate as he about the rebellion, but he expected a bit more than this
childish behavior, at least. He raised a hand slowly, and they all went silent. One of
the good things about being the leader of a revolution, no matter how dynamic, is
the respect you earn getting there. "It is time for us all to decide who we are," he
began, trying to catch each eye in the room, make sure they took this serious as the
day was long. "Is that what we're fighting for now, a night at the opera? Gentlemen,
have you thought to yourselves of the price you might pay? Or has this simply
become a game to you? Well, I can feel the winds of change beginning to blow, and
the colors of the world are altering with it. Our flag shall be one of Red; color of a
new day's, no, world's dawn, and the flush of angry blood, and Black; the dark of ages
past, and the color of the dreadful night that will at last end!" He cried out, and the
others cheered. All except for Marius. "Please, you must try to understand… no, how
could you when you were not even there! I was struck to the bone… all in a moment
of breathless delight! Now I can hardly tell what is right or wrong." Enjolras sighed.
The poor boy looked more muddled than ever, pleading aimlessly for someone to
understand. Watching the lovesick pup, he'd never been more grateful that Patria
was his only mistress. Patria, who he loved with a passion more blazing than any
wildfire, who he would fight for 'til his heart stopped beating. "Marius, you're no
longer a child. I know your intentions are good, but there is currently a higher call.
You need to forget about this girl, for our little lives don't matter at all now. Not
when there is such a great goal to accomplish." Marius looked down at the floor, but
obviously the words knocked a little sense into him, because as the others began to
chant, "Red, the blood of angry men! Black, the dark of ages' past..." he joined in with
them. Content to have nudged everyone back into order, Enjolras began shouting
orders again. There was so much work still to be done, and so little time to do it!
"Well Courfeyrac, do we have all our guns? Feuilly, Combeferre, time is running
short!" He turned to Grantaire, who had just downed another bottle of brandy. "For
God's sake Grantaire, put the bottle down! Do we have all the weapons we need?"
"You can't make me! An' who needs weapons when, with brandy, I could
breath 'em all to death?" Grantaire gurgled, taking another sip. Enjolras turned from
him, unwilling to waste time arguing, and instead looked to the men he'd addressed
first. They took one look at his expression and gave their reports. "In St. Antoine
they're with us to a man!" Courfeyrac nodded to him. Enjolras saw the little boy,
Gavroche, barge in the doors, but was too busy listening to these accounts to
acknowledge him. "In Notre Dame they're tearing up the stones!" Combeferre added.
"We've got twenty rifles, good as new!" Feuilly shouted from the back where
they were storing all their weapons.
"There's twenty rounds for every man!" Joly counted.
"But double that in St. Port Cloud!" another man, Jean Prouvaire, directed
towards Joly.
"Plus the seven guns in St. Martin!" Lesgles grinned, like everyone else, at
their growing numbers. All of a sudden, a bellowing, "LISTEN EVERYBODY!"
sounded out, and the Café dropped into a stillness so quiet you could have heard a
pin drop. It was none other than little Gavroche, who was now perched on top of a
table, arms crossed, annoyed, in front of him, though a flash of smugness danced
through his eyes when he saw the attentiveness he'd grabbed. It was then he
remembered that rather important message he was to deliver, and said in a solemn
voice, "General Lamarque is dead." No one was shocked, no man gasped or hung his
head low at this news. They all knew it had been coming for weeks. And it was
exactly what Enjolras had been waiting for. "Lamarque is dead. But his death is the
hour of fate! On his funeral day they will honor his name, all with the blaze of
rebellion in their eyes. Yes, using the death of Lamarque we will kindle our flame. On
his tomb, the tomb of the people's man, we will build our barricade!" He shouted in
conquest, thrusting his fist in the air. The men went wild, cheering and shouting,
"Viva le Republique!" none even attempting to contain the rush of anticipation that
now pulsed through their veins. And Enjolras was no exception. "Now let us take to
the streets with no doubts, just joy, in our hearts, that the people will rise up to meet
us, and we will finally be free!" He was screaming as loud as his lungs would allow to
be heard over top of the others, but he didn't care. After a while, his companions
were gasping for breath, and Enjolras took the opportunity to say the words his soul
had been aching to shout for weeks now. "Can't you just hear the people sing?
Singing the songs of angry men. This is the music of the people who refuse to be
slaves once more! Now, as our hearts beat, they echo the beats of the drums! A new
life, one of freedom, is about to start, perhaps in a matter of days." That made a
whole new set of shouts erupt from the men, and their hearts were indeed pumping
so quickly it was like the quick sounding beat of a thousand drums. "Who will join in
our crusade? Who will be strong enough to stand with us? Beyond the barricade is
there a world you want to change?" Combeferre added in, saluting Enjolras. A few of
the others echoed his call, everyone chanting together, and then Enjolras dismissed
them, dispersing the meeting on an elated note. He left the ABC, walking down the
crowded streets of Paris with his adrenaline pumping. A blood red flag… the sign of
the barricades of freedom… it was just so perfect! Everything was falling into place,
and with so much spirit of revolution alive in his dear friends, so much planning that
had gone into this coming battle, how could they lose? His conscience nagged him as
he thought this, whispering every little thing that could possibly go wrong, but he
tried to shove it to the back of his mind. Positive thoughts, positive outcomes. There
was no turning back now. He continued on down the street, seeing happy first class
citizens (all naïve and nearly exactly the same as the last), a few policemen, and, off
in the shadows where none of these puppets of the ruling would dare to look, the
dirty, ill, lowly, and poor. He saw children watching fearfully with eyes wide as a
dog's who has been abused far too much, women with silly grins upon their faces,
obviously driven to the point of not caring about what they did for money, and
then… the Thénardier's. He knew their trade; one of corruption and thievery, and he
knew the little street girl, Éponine. She followed Marius around like a pup trails its
master, and it was painfully obvious the girl was infatuated with him. But, it seemed
the only one who couldn't see it was Marius himself, so they all had to watch,
shaking their heads, as she desperately tried for his attention, and Marius noticed
about as much as one would notice a flea on a dog. He caught her eye, and she
smiled when she saw him, quickly glancing at her parents, who were trying to lure
passersby to throw them coins to pay for their 'poor, nearly dead daughter' who was
actually getting up and scurrying towards Enjolras. " 'Ello Monsieur Enjolras!" she
said, walking up to him. He nodded towards her and replied, "Good day,
Mademoiselle." He knew exactly what she was going to ask, and that she wasn't just
trying to be friendly. "Marius around?" He held back a sigh at this girl's incessant
fixation before responding, "He isn't with me, but I'm sure he hasn't gotten too far
from the Café. Good luck finding him, and good day." She did a sort of clumsy curtsy
before thanking him and running off. Her parents were now yelling after her, but of
course that didn't discourage her at all. "Why must she kiss those boys' feet? They
ahn't as special as they think they ah." He overheard Mme. Thénardier hiss to her
husband. He ignored her comment and continued on his way down l'rue, noticing a
great crowd ahead. He approached it curiously, and as he got closer he could hear a
faint voice shouting above the others, who were cheering in response. He raised an
eyebrow, breaking out in a small grin. 'A rally, eh?' he thought. He always enjoyed a
good public speech; whether he agreed with the cause or not was usually the
question. He got to the edge of the crowd, but his line of vision was obstructed by a
tall man in a top hat standing in front of him. But he could hear the speaker perfectly
now, and was completely struck with awe. "Brothers, sisters, listen here! We may be
covered in grime from head to toe, our clothing may be torn and wearing away, and
our backs may be weak with sickness; but they, those who say they are "running the
country", they have grime in their souls, their fancy clothes mask the swine they
really are, and they are weak, not with illness, but with cowardice. They feed off of
our misfortune, our blood, sweat, and tears, and what do we get for it? Tell me sir,
because I am not aware of one thing." The lad paused for a moment, cupping his ear
to hear the responses from the crowd. "Nothing!" everyone, including Enjolras,
screamed. The boy straightened back up and continued, "That's absolutely right! We
get nothing to our benefit, even though it's us they're working off of. Well tell me, my
good people, is this the definition of fairness?"
"No!" another roar burst forward from the crowd. Enjolras had pushed his
way through to the front, and saw that the boy making the speech had eyes the color
of sea foam, alive with ardent flames. He looked absolutely delighted with the
reactions he was getting. That wasn't all he looked, though. Enjolras noted that the
boy couldn't have been any older than a teenager. He wore a dusty gray cap on his
head, and his tanned skin was smooth as a duchess's. His lips were plump and rosy,
and besides his thin, dark eyebrows, there was no hair on his childlike face
whatsoever. For the first time ever, Enjolras saw what others saw when they called
the revolutionaries schoolboys, for this boy looked like a child's doll. And yet his
words were so powerful, so enthralling; he was hypnotized just like the rest of the
crowd. "So are we to sit back and watch as this so called "government" ruins the
lives of our parents, husbands, wives, daughters, and sons? Or are we going to rise
up and take a chance at liberty? Join me, brethren, so that we may at last be free!"
The boy bellowed, punching a fist in the air. The crowd exploded with cheers;
clapping as loud as they could, chanting words of battle and rebellion, and turning to
each other, wide-eyed, and discussing the exhilaration of the boy's words, their
plans to help with whatever crusade was to come. An idea had formed in Enjolras's
mind, one that involved recruiting this young advocate of independence to stand
with them at the barricade. He watched as the boy jumped off the platform (really
just a few old crates pushed together), landing agilely on his feet before pushing
past the last few men standing in his way and rushing towards him. "Excuse me!" he
called to the boy, who stopped and turned around to look at him. He caught up and
found himself looking down ever so slightly to look the boy in the eyes. Now,
Enjolras had always been tall, but this boy was a full head shorter than him. "How
can I help you, Monsieur?" he asked.
"Well, I couldn't help but overhear your speech, and you…" he trailed off as
he watched the boy reach up and pull off his cap… letting long, glossy locks tumble
down her shoulders. His jaw dropped open, and he stuttered, "You—you're—
you're…"
A/N: Hey guys! For those of you who found this story because of your reading my Phantom/Les Mis crossover, than you so much for taking the time to look at it! And for those of you who just stumbled across this, I hope you enjoy! Ramin Karimloo is my Enjolras, because that man is a singing GOD, but I stuck with the book's description of blonde hair. Ramin with blonde hair… can't you just see it? X) Anyway, thanks for reading, I'd love to hear from you, so R&R! :D ~DonJuana