Guest: Well thank you very much. I wanted Elise to be "modern" in a sense, but still within the context of where they are living and fighting. She is one of my most favourite characters to write. Thank you for reviewing, it's always nice to see a new reviewer.
moonlightandmagnolias85: I sent you a private message, but I will answer you here as well, as I do with all my reviewers. Thank you so very much. The beginning with the chair was actually part of another story that stalled and I had absolutely no idea what to do with it, and then it hit me. I so enjoy writing Elise's character. She just strikes me as someone who wants to be heard, and she will do whatever it takes in order to make it happen. Thank you so much for reviewing, I'm very glad you like this.
A/N: This chapter contains a scene that people may find to be a little out of character, especially for one particular man. Please note that he is acting out of desperation and fear, and those two emotions combined will do strange things to people. And please, feel free to leave a review, the door is always open.
ooOoo
There are children standing here, arms outstretched into the sky. Tears drying on their face: he has been here. Brothers lie in shallow graves, fathers lost without a trace, a nation blind to their disgrace, since he's been here. And I see no bravery, no bravery, in your eyes anymore, only sadness.
No Bravery- James Blunt
ooOoo
It was only after making her way over to Joly and the others that she realized just how cold she was, even with Enjolras' coat around her shoulders.
"Mademoiselle!" she heard as she made her way back to the window.
Looking down, she indeed saw Joly sitting with a group of students whose names she did not know.
"Yes, Joly?"
"Is this what you were looking for?" he held out a near empty bottle to her.
"Yes, but one minute, if you please," she made her way down to the group and accepted the bottle, this time draining it. "Oh, thank you, kind sirs. This is entirely necessary. It goes down nicely."
"Not at all. There is plenty. We all need it tonight, it seems," A young man, darker than both Enjolras and Joly spoke up. He took her hands in his, exerting gently pressure. "My condolences, Mademoiselle. On your son. Is there anything we can do for you?"
She gave him a small smile, not even wondering how he would have found out. Joly must have told them, or perhaps she had a voice that carried very easily.
"Merci, Monsieur. What is your name?"
"My name is Courfeyrac."
"Ah well, Monsieur. Since I know you cannot bring my son back to me, I ask that you all kiss me one last time before we die," she answered, suddenly realizing that this would be the third man on the barricade that she would be kissing this night. "Oh my God. Antonin, forgive your fool of a mother."
"You're not a fool," she heard a voice from behind her. Enjolras had come to join them. She could only assume he had been listening quietly. "Keep the faith. It's always darkest before the dawn."
"Thank you, Enjolras. I only wish I could believe you."
He nodded once, deciding that it was wisest to say nothing in response. "Do you still wish for each of us to kiss you?"
"No Monsieur. I wish for another mouthful of wine and to try to forget what a foolish, grieving mother does when she has no hope left."
She hung her head, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She sank down low and leaned against the barricade, suddenly realizing that a very large piece of wood from a smashed piano was poking her in the back.
"Elise…"
"Enjolras," she answered, not looking up at all, speaking into her hands. "If you are going to tell me that it was not my fault that Antonin died, or that you fight now in his name, save your breath. Now, unless you are holding a cup of wine or offering other services so that we are not alone tonight, those are offers that I will gladly take. Otherwise, leave me be."
"Elise…" he whispered again, extending his hand.
She looked up and accepted the offer, standing up and staring at him.
"As you said, the demons and ghosts stay with us forever," he stepped closer, nearly eliminating the gap between them. "You did everything you possibly could to save him. Of that I'm sure."
She willed herself not to collapse under the storm of grief that threatened to swallow her.
"None of us can fight this battle alone, even if we fight for different reasons entirely."
She took a deep breath, turning her head away. To look at him right at that moment would have made her resolve crumble. Did she really want to be part of this? What sort of wild idea had she entertained, thinking she could exercise the guilt she felt by fighting a losing battle on the barricade?
"We're doing this to free the people who live as you've had to," he explained, taking her chin and turning her face back toward his eyes. "It's not fair, as no mother should lose a child as you did."
"And what of your mother?" she challenged. "You speak of trying to exercise my demons and my own story of losing a child. What about your own mother? She used to kiss you when you cried, cradled you to her breast. Do you not think she would not feel unimaginable pain if she were to lose her son too? This must be killing her!"
"I have not seen my mother in over three years," he answered. "We write often, I told her of this months ago. She knows how I feel about it; she knows why I must fight."
A fool's answer if she ever heard one. She nearly ripped her hand out of his grip. "You're naïve and idealistic. In a place like this, it is sure to get you killed."
"I am prepared for that."
"No you're not, Monsieur. We're horribly outranked and outnumbered. Even I can see that, and I've only been here for a little over two hours. Tell me, have your ever fired a gun? Apart from the one you're holding now?"
Silence.
"Your silence does you no credit, sir. Let me tell you, I have fired a pistol as you did earlier, and there is no pleasure in watching men die. War is a cruel mistress, Monsieur, and you would be hard-pressed to find anyone, man or woman, living the life of the poor who would disagree with me."
Elise could no longer hide the fact that her son's death and the cost of living her day-to-day life had taken most of her strength. Factory work for a small wage left her with very little, as she had had to sell almost everything she owned in order to get her son a doctor. Hard work had calloused her hands and blackened her fingernails. In truth, she did not shy away from hard work, but the relentless torrent of grief coupled with working 10 hours every day and going home to take care of everything was beginning to take its toll.
Enjolras, on the other hand, had lived the life of a rich man, regardless if he had grown up to have no use for it. He had filled his head with knowledge and ideas of changing the world after reading countless texts of those who had tried the same thing.
And how many of those revolutionaries had since met the guillotine?
"I don't deny that this is a very dangerous enterprise," he answered her. "Every single one of us knows that we could die when the shooting starts again. Why do you think we sing? It is not so that we may occupy the hours."
Courage could only carry you so far, she thought to herself. Like most things in life, it runs out, and there is not always an opportunity to find more. Especially not at the bottom of a wine bottle.
"Fair enough," she agreed, placing a hand on his chest. "You're very brave, Enjolras. And a brave man deserves at least some sort of recognition for the work he's done."
His brows knitted, if only for a moment.
"Perhaps there is another way to explain this," she stepped back from him and pulled the pins that held her hair back. It fell past her shoulders, settling with a slight bounce.
Enjolras had very little experience with women, if any at all. He had no idea what she meant, pulling her hair down like that. The only woman he had ever dreamed of was his Patria; of France. If Elise was implying anything other than what he thought…
The look in her eyes told him everything. No other words were necessary. Silently, he took her hand, small but strong, in his, larger and covered in dirt. He let her lead, allowing her to breach whatever distance may have been left between their bodies.
Feverish kisses, then an urgent rush over the barricade and against the wall. Fingers fumbled for buttons and laces, skirts pushed up and trousers unbuttoned. There was no time for what poets described as "l'amour". This was absolutely nothing of the sort. This was a vanquishing, no matter how small, of need, loss, and terror.
He hissed as he finished along with her, very much surprised. Having very little to no experience in said subject left him reeling and unsure of what had just taken place. Had he really just taken this young woman against the wall?
Suddenly he could not think clearly. His head was spinning as he made himself somewhat presentable once again, trying to focus on her as she smoothed her skirt and adjusted her chemise. He kissed her once more before they climbed back over the other side of the barricade, looking slightly disheveled.
A long look from the others, a smirk from Courfeyrac, and a look of loathing from Grantaire, who seemed to always have a wine bottle glued to his palm.
"What?" Enjolras ground out, gritting his teeth.
No response.
He nodded, keeping his eyes locked with Grantaire, who looked like he was repressing the urge to be sick.
Almost defiantly, Enjolras kissed Elise's hand in thanks, nearly reveling in the fact that Grantaire could say absolutely nothing about it. Not that he liked the man anyway. He did not believe in anything, least of all the Revolution.
"Merci, Enjolras," she leaned toward his ear. "Though I'm afraid we were not inconspicuous at all. They know exactly what just happened, and I do not think they are inclined to like you for it."
The look on Grantaire's face said everything. It was stony, repressing rage and heartbreak. If Elise didn't know better, or at least thought she knew better, she would have guessed that Grantaire was a little bit in love with Enjolras.
The man who had never shown any interest in any lady besides his country had just made desperate love to a woman who had only existed for two hours, at least to their thinking it was two hours. The world and all they knew was turning itself on its head.
"Joly," she called, hoping to break the tension in the air. "Your jacket, Monsieur. Let me patch that for you."
A silent understanding passed between them as Joly shrugged out of the jacket and handed it to her. Enjolras, stoic as always, went to check that the guns were still in working order. The rain, damn it all to Hell, had soaked the powder. He turned his head for a moment and watched as Elise pulled a needle and thread hidden within the folds on her skirt and hastily patched the holes in Joly's jacket, just as Notre Dame chimed six.
In the distance, they heard the unmistakable sound of marching and drumming.
She bit the thread and stuck the needle in the material of her shirt. Everyone climbed over to the other side of the barricade as quickly as they could, grabbing whatever guns and ammunition they had within sight. Hiding among the debris and rubble, she very cautiously poked her head over a ruined desk, and came face to face with an entire company of French militia.
Reaching behind her, someone handed her a gun, already primed and loaded. She took aim, taking care to keep her face hidden.
Suddenly, the marching and drumming stopped.
"You at the barricade, hear what we say to you! You are alone, no one is coming to assist you; you have no chance. Why throw your lives away?"
Damn you and everything you stand for! she thought bitterly, suddenly more committed to the cause and these young men than she ever thought possible.
"Vive la Revolution!" she shouted in response.
And then, the first shots.
It was over in a matter of minutes. After half an hour, there were bodies everywhere. She had absolutely no idea how she had survived, or why. And where was Enjolras?
She sighed, resigning herself as best she could. "Damn it, mes amis," she whispered to herself, wiping the sweat and dirt from her face, her shirt and skirt splattered with blood that was not entirely her own. "You were supposed to lead a Revolution; not this."
As she took her first tentative steps through the streets, she scanned the sea of bodies and blood that now watered the cobblestones. They were all there: Joly, Courfeyrac, Grantaire, even that young boy called Gavroche.
Dear Lord, Gavroche. He couldn't have been more than nine or ten. He hadn't even done anything except try to get them dry ammunition from the dead soldiers just beyond their reach. He'd sung at the militia, taunting them. He was no threat to them at all, and yet they shot him. A child! What kind of law allows such a thing? Taking shots at children indeed.
So many lives wasted over a simple protest.
"Madam," she heard a voice behind her as she bent to close the child's eyes and straighten the lapels on Joly's jacket. "Madam, you should not be here."
She turned to see a police officer. She recognized the man as the one they all called Javert. Always following the letter of the law, it was said. He had even run after her son when he got too close to the river. He'd grabbed the then two-year-old Antonin by the shirt collar and escorted him back to her, scolding him that he should not be running from his Maman and to do what he was told. In hindsight, she wondered if the man had been almost unnecessarily harsh with the boy, or if he indeed recognized her at all at this moment.
"And why not, Inspector?" she answered, her voice quaking. "These men died noble deaths, fighting for what they believed in."
"Noble to whom?"
"Those who love their country," she bit down on her tongue. "Monsieur, please. These men are my brothers. At least let me take something home to our mother."
Could he tell she was lying?
"She's an old woman, Monsieur. Does she not deserve to know the fate of her sons?"
She was sure not even the Inspector could argue with such logic.
He said nothing, merely walking away from her.
Breathing a sigh of relief as soon as he disappeared, it was only then that she realized that Enjolras was not among them.