Chapter II

Enjolras's face suddenly became dark and hard, like stone, as he glared at Javert, hatred blazing in his eyes like fire.

Javert's eyes remained locked with Enjolras's and the two men glared at each other as Javert slowly came towards Enjolras, each of his each footsteps echoing quietly through the room. Javert's face was dark, hard, arrogant, angry, his eyes slightly narrowed, his brow furrowed, his lips in the grimmest ugliest frown a man could have managed—the same face he always wore, but now with an even deeper look of hatred and disgust. But there was something else in Javert's face too. Enjolras knew it was the pride that comes to a man when he has triumphed over an enemy that had wronged him and is now about to get revenge for it.

As Enjolras glared at Javert, he perceived an ugly wound high up on the left side of his forehead. Bruised and swollen, the lump that had appeared on his forehead was still coated with some of the dried blood that, apparently, Javert had attempted to wipe off. Enjolras had given Javert this wound himself. After Javert had punched him in the face in attempt to escape the revolutionaries, who had discovered his true identity, Enjolras had put an abrupt end to Javert's escape attempt by cracking a walking stick over his head and knocking him unconscious. By the wrathful glare that was now smoldering in Javert's eyes, Enjolras could see that he had not forgotten this encounter.

Javert stared at Enjolras with eyes that cut through him like daggers as he continued to move closer to the reason for the entire revolution, the look in his eyes dangerous, the looking on his face murderous. He was only a few steps away from him, and still moving closer to Enjolras, who did not waver, but held his ground like a stone wall that would not yield. Javert might have kept coming closer until their faces were only inches apart had Grantaire not stepped forward to stand between them.

Javert stopped and, for the first time, took his eyes off of Enjolras to look down at the drunkard who stood in his way. Seeing what Grantaire had done, Enjolras stepped forward to stand beside him. For a long moment, the three men stood piercing one another with their eyes. It was as if an internal war was raging between them, Enjolras and Grantaire on one side, Javert on the other, neither side yielding nor accepting defeat.

Finally, Javert turned his back on the rebels and turned to address the soldiers. "This man was the instigator of this revolution," Javert began. He motioned at Enjolras but did not take his eyes of the soldiers, as if the rebel was too disgusting to even look upon. "He unambiguously deserves death. But I will see to it that he does not die like this. To shoot him now would be to let the wretch die with pride and self-respect. Perhaps, some part of his twisted and disturbed mind, might even have tricked itself into believing that his actions were the right course. To kill him now would be to let him die thinking that he had achieved some victory. For certain, I do not wish to let the man who murdered leagues of so many of good, respectable, noble soldiers sleep without first paying for crimes."

Javert said all of this, his voice void of emotion. It was seemed as if everything he said made no difference to him at all. As if they were true. As if Javert really only wanted to see Enjolras suffer because it was a just sentence. But as Enjolras listened to Javert's words, he could feel anger intensifying within him. He knew that Javert wanted to see him suffer and it was not for justice, but for revenge.

"No, I will not see him die with his head held high," Javert finished, and as he said it, only Enjolras could hear the relish in his voice.

"At the least," Javert told the soldiers, "we shall have him publicly executed so that all of France can see what becomes of the man who betrays his country." At last, Javert turned his head and looked back at Enjolras.

Enjolras looked at Javert, his face dark, hating, but also sad. Deep in his heart, Enjolras felt the pangs of defeat. No one else could have noticed a change on Javert's stony face, but as this man fixed his cold eyes on him, Enjolras saw a shadow of a smile, like a ghost, cross Javert's lips, and for that moment, Enjolras felt an icy cold chill run down his spin, turning his blood to ice. For just a fraction of a second, Enjolras perceived that he was not looking into the face of any man, but that he looked into the face of a demon. Then, just as it had appeared on his face, it was gone and the same proud face of Javert glared at him. Enjolras felt his body relax, fear slipping away, and the relief that comes when a man discovers he had not seen something so terrible, but had made a mistake, flowed into him. But his heart continued to race in his chest.

"We take him alive," Javert said, turning back to the soldiers. "Bind his hands."

At once, a young man came forward, bearing a long, thin rope in his hands. As he quickly approached, Enjolras did not take his eyes off Javert. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras saw the boy slip behind him and a moment later, he felt him take his hands, bring them together behind his back, and begin to winding the splintery cords around his wrists, tying them so tight that they dug into his flesh. Enjolras made no attempt to resist. He stood there bold and strong, like a statue of marble.

When the boy had finished binding Enjolras, he moved on to the man standing beside him. Grantaire, following Enjolras's example, stood silently by his leader's side, and allowed the soldier to bind his hands.

As soon as Enjolras was bound, Javert went forward and seized him by his arm, yanking him off balance and causing him to stumble forward for the moment before be regained his footing. Grantaire watched Javert drag Enjolras forward and his muscles tensed.

Enjolras straightened up and raised his head to meet Javert's eyes. Javert glared back at him for a moment. A moment later, Enjolras barely saw it coming before Javert's club slammed him in the side of the face.

Enjolras fell backwards. For a moment he was aware of nothing except for the dazing pain pulsing in the left side of his face. His head began to throb as dark spots swam across his vision, threatening to blind him. For a brief moment the world around him was a confused jumble of swirling colors and unintelligible voices that seemed to be echoing from far off in the distance.

As soon as Javert struck Enjolras, Grantaire let out an angry cry and bolted forward, pulling away from the soldier that had not yet knotted the rope around his wrists. Easily pulling his hands free of the unfastened cords, Grantaire went straight for Javert and was upon him before the second it took for Javert to look up and see him approaching. In one motion, Grantaire stepped between Enjolras and the inspector and, striking the man in his chest with both hands, forcefully pushed Javert back away from Enjolras.

This action was like a spark going off to trigger an explosion. In a quick series of actions that took less than a matter of seconds of occur, Javert's hand flew to his pistol, the soldier who had been binding Grantaire's wrists raced forward in a panic and seized Grantaire's shoulders, restraining him, the general turned his pistol to aim it at Grantaire, several of the soldiers, unsure what to do, followed their general's lead and trained their weapons on the pair of revolutionaries.

Then, everyone in the room felt fall upon them the great tension, anxiously, fear, and suspense of two opposing forces in standoff be pushed to the edge and prepare to cross the line, stepping out of the standoff and entering into the war. It seemed that everyone in the room held their breath.

Enjolras carefully laid his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, as to tell him to stand down. Grantaire did not seem to notice, he looked boldly at Javert, his eyes burning with a dark fire, his face angry and glaring, his head held high, defenseless yet bold, not a shadow of fear on his face.

"Grantaire..." Enjolras said softly. He watched Javert's hand gripping his pistol, not drawling it out from his belt but granting full access to it at any moment. "Grantaire..." Enjolras quietly whispered again, when he did not seem to hear him the first time.

Always obedient to Enjolras, Grantaire resisted the urge to punch Javert in the face and, glaring loathingly at him, let out a deep sigh and took a small step backward, moving away from Javert. Enjolras let his breath out.

Most of the soldiers began lowering their weapons, and those that did not, at least stopped aiming so fixedly at the two young men. This seemed to be a huge relief for the young soldiers whose guns were aimed at Grantaire. They were just boys. They did not want to see any more death today.

Enjolras, who had no taken his eyes off Javert, did not fail to notice that the man was still tightly gripping his pistol in his hand, his finger on the trigger. Enjolras's eyes moved from the gun to look Javert in the face and suspiciously search it for any hint of what the man was thinking.

Javert looked at back at Enjolras for a moment, their eyes locked. Then he stepped abruptly forward, seized Grantaire's shoulder with one hand and with powerful strength, flung him out of his way.

Grantaire, being small, light, and weakened by alcohol, was thrown off his feet and to the ground. He did not catch himself in time and his face slammed full impact straight into the wooden planks of floor.

Sudden fury burst within Enjolras. Grantaire, letting out a quiet moan of pain, lifted his head and Enjolras could see blood running down his chin and the gaping wound where his lip was busted open. Enjolras, driven by rage, acting on impulse, suddenly lunged at Javert.

Javert, already anticipating the assault, immediately raised his club and swung it at Enjolras. This time it struck him in his right side, slamming into the lower chamber of his ribcage. The way Enjolras was turned towards Javert, the way the club was swung from the side, the strike came in a deadly angle. The impact of the blow was so forceful that everyone in the room could hear the crack.

Crack!

The pain hit so hard that Enjolras could not even scream. It was so terrible that it seemed to ride up within him, choking him, strangling him. The world around his began to spin into a confused blurry jumble and darkness began to cave in over his vision. He couldn't breathe. All the air was forced out of his lungs and, though he tried desperately, he could not manage to pull air back into them. He began to panic. He felt like he was trapped underwater, without oxygen without air, unable to breath, unable to get out. Enjolras felt that he was trapped like this for hours, when in reality it was only a few seconds, but it was agonizing.

He let out a quiet strangled gasping sound as he managed to draw in a short, cut-off, breath. He stumbled backwards, bent over in pain as he painfully dragged air into his lungs and then forced it back out. Instantly, he tried to move his hands to clutch his side where the pain was worst, but they were bound behind his back, and there was nothing he could do. Instead, his fingers dung into the fabric of the red flag, and he held it as hard as he could.

All of this happened so fast that no one in the room had time to react until this moment. Grantaire was the first to respond. Even in his drunken state, he was the first to understand what had just happened. Javert had hurt Enjolras.

"Hey!" Grantaire yelled in rage. In that same moment, he jumped to his feet and took one fierce step towards Javert.

Javert, as if he had been expecting this attack as well, turned on Grantaire almost the same instant he cried out, and then a gun went off.

Enjolras's heart stopped. His blood froze in his veins. For that moment, he felt the same fear that possessed him when he watched Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Joly get killed. The hollow empties, again, filling his gut, he looked up, terrified of what he would see.

He saw Grantaire stumble backward, his skin gone pale, a look of shock upon his face. Enjolras's eyes darted to look where Grantaire's hand left hand had fled to, and he felt a deep dread as well as that terrible, agonizing fear fall over him. He felt his entire body become weak. His chest clamped up and he could not breathe. He suddenly became very dizzy, and he thought he might pass out.

Grantaire's hand was pressed against the lower left side of his stomach, just above the curve of his hipbone. There was dark blood seeping out from between his fingers, rapidly spreading across his clothes, running down his leg, staining his pants, engulfing his body as if it were the fire engulfing the café.

Grantaire's eyes stared down at the blood flowing out of him, and he watched it confused, as if he did not understand what was going on. After long moment, he slowly raised his head and his eyes found Enjolras. Enjolras looked back into Grantaire's blue eyes, overcome with fear. Grantaire looked back into Enjolras's eyes, his face sad, for just one more moment. Then he fell.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras cried in panic. Forgetting the terrible pain in his own flesh, Enjolras lung forward, trying to run to him. But he had barley taken a few steps before Javert caught him by the arm, holding him back. Enjolras, now headless to anything around his except for Grantaire, who lay silently on the ground, clutching his wound as his life drained out of him, struggled to get away, not taking his eyes off his fallen friend.

But Javert was too strong. Leaving his hands on Enjolras, restraining him, Javert turned to the army behind him. Many of the young soldiers were watching the situation was terror, their faces fearful, or shocked, or upset. The general had stood still and silent, like a statue, as he watched everything with a blank, passive face, almost as if he did not see anything that had just happened.

"That man was not of any importance to us," Javert addressed the general. "A drunkard and a fool, and with very little significance, there would be no point in taking him with us." Javert did not even spare Grantaire a glance as he started back across the room towards the army, dragging Enjolras along behind him.

"No! No! NO!" Enjolras yelled as he was pulled away from Grantaire. He began to struggle with all the strength left in him, frantic and mad like a wild animal caught in a trap. "NO! Let me go! Let me see him! Grantaire! No! Let me—LET GO OF ME!"

It seemed to take up all the dying strength left in him for Grantaire to weakly raise his head and look at Enjolras. He opened his lips and quietly said something. Enjolras could hear his voice, weak and feeble, but he couldn't make out what Grantaire had said. "What?" Enjolras called out, desperate to understand what Grantaire wanted to tell him. He saw Grantaire open his mouth and try to speak again, but this time he could not even hear the words leaving his lips.

Javert pulled Enjolras over to the soldiers, and, Enjolras did not interpret what he said to them, but he heard Javert's deep, cold voice exchange a few words with someone, and then they were leaving, dragging Enjolras out of the room, taking him away from Grantaire.

"Wait! No!" Enjolras cried out in a panic as he jolted forward, trying to pull free of Javert's grasp. "He wants to tell me something! He wants me to stay with him!" No one seemed to hear anything Enjolras was saying and they continued to take him away. "No! Stop! Let me go! Please! Let me go to him!" Now, Enjolras was begging.

For the first time, Enjolras took his eyes off Grantaire and look at Javert. Enjolras's face was so sad, so scared, so desperate, so helpless, so hurt that it would have melted the heart of a man whose heart was crafted of stone. But Javert's heart was made of something harder.

"Please, let me go to him!" Enjolras, proud, strong, brave Enjolras, a man who had never in his life accepted help from anyone, who would rarely ask for anything, and would never lower himself to the level of begging, was pleading like a child, desperate, broken, afraid. "Just let me stay with him until it's over"—by this he meant until Grantaire had died—"and then I'll go with you! Then, I'll do whatever you say! I won't argue; I won't resist anything! Just let me see him!"

Javert, who until this moment had not even acknowledged that he heard Enjolras speaking, looked at Enjolras out of the corner of his eye. His gaze was dark, cold, and merciless. Enjolras knew at once that this man was not going to show him any compassion.

Suddenly more desperate than before, Enjolras turned back to Grantaire. His head was resting on the ground, his white face turned so Enjolras could see it. His eyes were still open and fixed on Enjolras.

"Grantaire!" Enjolras cried out again, as he was being forced through the doorway. Enjolras knew that the next thing he said would be the last thing he would ever say to Grantaire. Maybe, the last words that Grantaire would ever hear. What to say? Enjolras did not know. There were so many things that he wanted to say to Grantaire, but now that the time had come he did not seem to know.

Just as they were pulling him out of the room, without knowing what he was about to say, Enjolras heard his own voice cry out, "I'm sorry!"

And those were the last words he would ever say to Grantaire.