Ok, thanks for the grand total of three reviews. Hopefully, with the main story posted, I'll pick up a few more. Or maybe I'm just impatient….God, I'm too used to the Cats fandom. Instant reviews, all saying the same thing. Oh well. As with Civil Misery, lyrics are in italics, and thoughts are bold italics.
Disclaimer: No cookies, but maybe this will help. The song is by Renaissance, the book by Hugo. Nothing is mine, except for Kolya and Anya.
*Two and a half years later…December of 1830, Paris, France*
The day was like any other. The poor were suffering dearly from the winter's chill, and the rich were still raking in the money. Yes, it angered Enjolras, but he understood La Belle France. Her people would not rise while the blood is frozen in their veins. He hunched over, working on the speech he was to deliver the next day.
Pays the price, works the seasons through
Frozen days, he thinks of you.
Cold as ice, but he burns for you!
Mother Russia can't you hear him, too?
The voice, infinitely sorrowful, rose and fell with the verse. "Pardonnez-moi, Madame…who is it you sing of?" Ordinarily, Enjolras had little to no interest in music, but he couldn't help the sheer sympathy that one is compelled to feel at the song, sung from a well of grief and personal experience.
The woman, older and hunched from a lifetime of hard labor, answered slowly. "Mon petit- a revolutionary like you, good Monsieur." Her French was heavily accented and she looked as if it were an effort for her not to slip into her native Russian. As Enjolras gave her a questioning look, she continued her song.
Mother's son, freedom's overdue.
Lonely man, he thinks of you.
He isn't done, he only lives for you!
Mother Russia, can you hear him too?
For half a second, Enjolras could have sworn she was glaring at the paper on his table.
Punished for his written thoughts, starving for his fame!
Working blindly building blocks, number for a name…
His blood runs frozen to the snow!
The song broke off with a harsh sob. Enjolras, having swallowed despite a dry mouth, glanced uneasily out the window, where snow was indeed falling. Soon enough, he was able to force himself back to his work.
"What have you done for your precious Republic, Monsieur? What have you given or suffered through? My Kolya…he was a political prisoner. When they took him away from me, he didn't go without a fight. And that was my last image of him….bleeding into the first snow of the season. Prisons in Siberia…they aren't like your prisons. He died within a month…and he was lucky. Most die within the first week."
Enjolras looked up at the last, his temper frayed and his pride bruised. "I'm sorry for your loss, Madame, but I fail to see what it has to do with me." His voice was frosty, but the words only half-true. While he was sorry, he was also comparing himself to this 'Kolya.' There was a man who'd given up his freedom, his sanity in all likelihood, and ultimately his life for his Motherland…and what had Enjolras done for the Republic as of yet? Given a few speeches and given up the bourgeois comforts.
Red blood, white snow
He knows frozen rivers won't flow!
So cold, so true…Mother Russia, he cries for you.
She trailed off and turned to her drink in silence. Not a single tear for his mother…but his very life's blood for his Motherland.
Little did she know, but the same thought was going through Enjolras' mind. He never forgot about that day, and if ever his faith in La République would waver, he thought of Kolya. I owe it to them to carry on.