[A/N]: Today is not my birthday, m'amie, as that will be on the fourteenth, but I will update anyway because I am not sure if I would be able to do so on that day. I'm not exactly disappointed if I only have a few reviews since they were note-worthy, and I promise you those things mentioned will be done when I have the luxury of time in my hands. I welcome reviews, anyway, because I like hearing your thoughts on this story. :) I do hope you enjoy it.

And special thanks to Romas1912 again for her wonderful suggestions and beta-ing this chapter. You've really helped me a lot, my friend! ^_^

Disclaimer: It is my duty to the law to hereby announce and proclaim that I own naught of the works and efforts of Victor Hugo and the whole production of Les Miz. Let me cry now.


+ Chapter 2 +

Young and Unafraid

Like the waves crash on the sand,

Like a storm that'll break any second…

- Workers ft. Fantine, At the End of the Day

This only goes to show what little people can do!

- Gavroche Thérnardier-Jondrette, Little People

Three days have passed since his father has forsaken him. He looked about in the little house his mother bequeathed him and has successfully memorized the ins and outs of it, even the secret nooks, where he can escape freely without being seen—given that the curtains would be drawn. It was a humble house, yet a serpentine one.

It was a marvel, and Enjolras has already seen the gold his mére hid beneath the bed, but he hasn't touched it yet. He still had enough from the money he learned to save from his school days. He stood from the chair he was sitting on, and paced slowly, hitherto and thereto, to think of the vast space, where the niche was situated and hidden below his resting place. It seemed as if you could, dare he think it, fill it with a few of covert things such as his muskets or pistols—which his grandfather gave him, but did not use—and have three or five women and children lay down, but there would still be enough space to utilize—perhaps, he could require it for their cause. He will have to remember to tell that to them.

It was quite suspicious of his mother, but he was thankful all the same. His mére did say to use it wisely and to his advantage. And a boon it was, for it was just at the back of the academy, and a little turn around the cul-de-sac, plus, a few shortcuts in the dark rues—oui, he would dare if he must, and he would be near Le Café Musain to discuss tactics or Corinth to proclaim their cause for the liberty of France. They had started planning for it already this week—well, years, even, but to have it in reality was near the eruption, especially with General Lamarque fading—that's what the doctors were saying. And although the leader of les mis'l abaissé has given it much thought, he would need every help he can get from his amis and the people—but the backroom of the café would always be a given place to begin their coterie's conventicles.*

Enjolras stopped pacing and gazed below from his window. He saw the usual people roaming about. There were still the sick and desolate families asking for help, a help that would always be slower than a turtle or a snail to come. He saw, as well, the malefactors, who lived as they dared, but not only because they've lost hope—it was the only life they were born into and thus, lived for.

He sighed, remembering an incident of two mornings ago—he was almost robbed of his wallet. It was good he managed to elude the miscreant, who had successfully escaped behind him. He wasn't sure who it was, but it was a girl—he saw a flash of a ragged burgundy skirt, and therefore, a gamine, who had tried to steal from him. He had heard the footsteps—though it was quite made silent to the ears for the very purpose of thieving—and was more than thankful for his excellent sense of hearing, then, for it saved him trouble. Enjolras was maddened a bit, but he understood how life was on the other side of the wheel. Well, at least, by eye and theory. He was just beginning to grasp the reality of its cruelty.

The blonde schoolboy reminded himself that this would be the people he had to fight with and for. But, once again, he felt a pang of anger and hurt in his heart, both coming from the hatred from his father and the healing pain on his abdomen. Enjolras felt that it was as if to die with his heart shattered in pieces. He wasn't a lad to gawk at a lady no matter how pretty—no, he was certainly not that kind of lad, who'd rather waste his time on idle affairs, but if this… soreness and emptiness were the equivalent of that, then he'd rather admit—though it may be difficult—to himself that he was brokenhearted.

It is then decided—long before he was forsaken for choosing to abandon the power of wealth that could have been bestowed upon him by his family. But that is not the life he wanted—years so cold, empty, and dark under the suffocating pressures from the higher classes of society and his parents—especially his father—to study, work, serve and marry. It simply was not what he yearned for in this life. And no attributed statue or celebrated feast to a savage Antinoüs can make him weaken his resolve to be fierce and violent against such petitions.

Enjolras had long since heard the cries of the children of his fatherland, his Patria. It was agony—to see his brothers and sisters perish in their sufferings. Every day, he woke up from a clean, soft, and comfortable bed, but when he went out onto the streets, Enjolras would see how the youth were wasted and sleeping around the corners or alleys. Suffering and forgetting through the ways of Dionysus, just because they felt love scorned, justice mocked, and life killed them.

His mind pictured the flag of France, which was raised high and above the 'house' of their 'king'. Where are the leaders of this land? What beautiful show they present, what lovely vows they say for the poor and ill of their nation to their faces, but what of their promises and pleasant appearance when our backs are turned? Aucun.** What satiric jest of Shakespeare are they making?

This is the cross which he has to bear—a lovely gift from his Patria. Dejected for so long was their past, which he has to fight in the present, for the future of the ascending generations. This was his purpose in life. He didn't intend to be a hero, just someone who would lead his brothers and sisters to freedom, to their rights, to a new, beautiful, satisfied life... a leader who serves not just in words, but in actions.

He didn't want to fail his people like some of the officials in their land did. Enjolras has always felt this in his heart, stirring deep within the depths of his soul and mind to actuate it. He'd always look in the people of the streets, and it always struck him like a broken shard from a mirror's glass. They were a reflection of how hard it was to live in this harsh world.

So many lives… lost to a disease that could have been healed if they had enough money to buy a cure so expensive, so many days…. a street urchin could have spent studying at school and transcend. So many years… a convict could have spent working for a brighter future than stay behind the bars of an abysmal and cruel prison cell. So many….

He grunted and then moved away from the window, which revealed that day was soon fading and night was entering the expanse of the sky. Gather yourself, Enjolras. Be a man. It's not the time to be weak now; you still have to show your father and this country that you're strong and capable of leading others to emancipation, he silently encouraged himself in his thoughts. No time for tears, or fears. No, no, not today, and certainly not on the day of the revolution. He balled his hands and breathed, but even the magnificent marble statues of Michelangelo's David and Moses have its flaws.

Enjolras gazed at the clock hanging above the table where he kept his study manuscripts and things. Seven o' clock, it chimed. He better get to the café and meet with Combeferre and the others. It is time.

~o0oUn Cœur pour la Révolutiono0o~

On That Same Night…

"You carcajou!**** Don't touch me! Mon pére did not say so yet!" Éponine screeched as Montparnasse licked his lips and put a hand under her chemise. He ignored her and continued wandering around the places he wasn't supposed to. The brunette gamine shivered out of disgust—which was gravely mistaken as excitement by him—and felt her lips turn pale. She did not release a single tear, just let him have his way, for fear that she would face another beating from her father. Terror, after all, caused by a parent is crueler than the face of shadows.

She told herself she didn't mind, but the beatings were getting more and more frequent—all because she and Azelma couldn't give a sou back for two straight days. Languid, they were, her pére and mére accused, but they were doing all that they can! It was just harder these days. People were getting wiser and watchful of street urchins. She wanted to scoff at the people who pleaded in the streets, but found herself holding her angst. Begging for alms was more accepted by the society as a sight to behold and give mercy, but what of the 'fateful' miracles that occur in the night? Betrayal and treachery!

"Oi, 'Parnasse, Thérnardier's got a racket! He needs us—Gueulemer and Babet, too!" Claquesous shouted. Montparnasse grunted and removed his fingers from her buttocks. He huskily whispered to her, "I'll be back for more… later. Don't worry, I'll pay ye gold again. Better get ye'self cleaned up." He winked and then grabbed at her breasts to put his head between and squeezed them. He laughed as he went out.

Éponine stood there for a moment in utter shock and horror. She could not believe this! Her father… just sold her like she was not his daughter! Again! What kind of pére does that? She sighed. You ask yourself—a master of mischief and treachery is what! The brunette gamine scolded. She cannot cry—she has got to be strong. You cannot live in the world being weak. The weak are always stepped on, spat on, and rebuked for it, so she decided to put on a brave face. But sometimes, she dreamed wistfully of the world's, well, the bourgeoisie's, riches; but no, that wasn't enough—she has got to make it real once more. Once more….

She threw a glass on the floor in her angst. Éponine felt the broken shards of the glass puncture her feet, but she ignored it. She saw and heard the common people go about their daily business through their window—which isn't really a window, but more like an open square to gawk outside—but her eyes were looking at something distant—a faraway memory when her father and mother cherished them all when they were children. Éponine felt tears water her eyes and blinked thrice to stop them from falling. Another noise woke her from her reverie—footsteps, tiny footsteps that hit the ground quite bouncily—it was her little brother Gavroche. Zounds! What a nice surprise—a visit from the little bird!

"'Ponine!" he said, smiling gaily, "'Ey, are ye all right? What's with the broken glass?" He kicked some bits away as he noticed the blood coming from her feet. Éponine sighed again and helped Gavroche. "No worries, just slipped from my hand, you see," she answered wearily. The little blonde gamin nodded, but said back, "Really? I know it's no' my bus'ness ye see, but when I came ye were just standing like the statues of those kings—bleh —and ye looked mad and sad or what."

Éponine bit her lip in irritation. Her little brother was perceptive of people. Very. She hated it when he would just look at her and see what was going on with her, even if they saw each other very little. Gavroche, who was rubbing his small hands, stared at her expectantly—waiting for a bit of explanation with what she was going through. She gazed at him and pouted. "Fine," she surrendered. "Things are getting pretty desperate, 'Roche. But don't worry about me, I'll make it. Azelma and I will. You? Still living in the elephant at Place De la Bastille?"

The little gamin smiled and nodded. "Oui. Still living on crumbs, though," he answered, scratching his head. Éponine sighed and stood to get something on her old man's coat. She took a loaf of bread and few spare sous and gave it to him. "Take that, and give it to your other amis, as well. Don't waste it too much. It might be all I can spare you tonight for this week," she replied. Or perhaps, forever, the gloomy sister thought.

Gavroche smiled widely and gaily again. He strode towards Éponine and hugged her as gratitude for the bread and sous. "Merci, merci, 'Ponine!" he exclaimed, and a few seconds later, released her. "Y'take care of ye'self, a'right? 'Zelma, too! Oh, right, where's she and mére?" The eldest sister grinned back a little, but frowned when he mentioned their mother. "Well, they're at St. Martin, earning a franc or sou, or doing a racket, just like pére and the Patron-Minette. I'm just here on watch for tonight as punishment for disobeying pére, though."

Her brother nodded sadly when she mentioned their mother, but stared at her worriedly when she said the name of the gang. "'Ponine, be careful, will you?" he said. "An' do try to 'void that—whossat, oh right—'Parnasse guy, I don't like 'im that much, really." Éponine grinned bitterly at little Gavroche's understanding and fretting over her. He was still a kid who knew too much of the world's cruelty. It wasn't good, but she couldn't do anything about it. Well, he was braver than her and Azelma since he managed to run away, but that still didn't mean that it was right for a boy—a child like him—to live that way—uncared and unloved, that is.

"I don't either," she said truthfully. "But I've got no choice because he pays pére rhino***."

Little Gavroche shrugged his worries away and replied, "Well, ye know I'll just be around, so scream or shout if ye need me." Éponine smiled and patted him on the hair. Her younger brother glared at his treatment from her, but she just chuckled and responded, "A'right. Now, go. Take care of yourself, too, oui?" The young gamine stepped towards the door and then turned, smirking smugly. "Look, 'Ponine, I may look just 'ike a pup and easy to pick on, but I 'no' 'ow to bite. Rawr!"

Éponine chuckled. Nodding after, she was about to say goodbye, but when she blinked, Gavroche was no longer there. Shaking her head and thinking, Just like airwell, more like the bird that he is. He was witty and a swift little kid, after all. She'd pay with everything she had just to have a day with her siblings. They were estranged from each other for so long before, but she tried to reach out to him. Not like she couldn't try. Her pére and mére have disowned him because they didn't really love him—more on their mére, oh, and not to mention, sold two of their younger brothers to a stranger for money. She didn't blame Gavroche for his flight. He'd rather be free than caged.

Suddenly, she heard a gunshot below. Éponine peeked from their 'window' and saw that the victim of the bullet was a bird—a tiny one, with its brown and wide wings still apart as if in midflight. She raised her brows a bit—who kills a bird as little as that one in the night?—but sighed sadly. People would do everything and have anything for food, so they can fill an empty stomach. Unconsciously, the desolate girl clutched her abdomen and felt deflated.

It was time to go outside for her stroll. Maybe it would take her mind off the food, or maybe she would at least glimpse the head of m'sieur Marius. That would help. Sighing dreamily, Éponine trudged out silently into the rues of Paris. Managing to avoid the calls of men and a few steps hitherto and thereto later, she found herself on the bridge crossing over the river Seine. She leaned on the rail, not minding the people walking to and fro behind her.

The pensive gamine put a fist under her chin and gazed down the river, liking the splashing sounds of the waves as it hit the rocks. The light of the moon illumined the water, and Éponine smiled because of the reminiscence of it to the sparkle of diamonds and jewels she often saw displayed on the stores. She wasn't ignorant as to how it would feel like to have it on her, since she's managed to steal one from a mademoiselle—since that one was quite arrogant—once. She's caressed and loved the feeling of feeling like a bourgeois lady—that is, well, until her pére had to sell it right after.

Frowning, Éponine looked up at the moon and stars. "Moonlight, be my friend tonight, will you?" she muttered sadly. "Starlight, will you promise to shine for me, too?" She knew it was foolish to talk to the heavenly bodies, but she just wanted company. For so long, so long since she had been truly happy... darkness had been her stonehearted protector, but the light was always her freedom and savior. Satisfied with her stroll, she began to walk home when she suddenly spotted the tall figure of a fair- haired and light- complexioned being. He was with a company of amis, she observed.

Squinting, she saw the unmistakable red coat of the monsieur. He was talking to one of his friends—well, that was what she assumed, given the jovial air and carefree manner of chatter amongst them—but he managed to perceive her lone figure on the bridge. Éponine gazed back, raising a brow, but turned when he did the same and continued her interrupted walk home. Hugging herself from the cold, she thought, He cannot recognize me, surely? I hope not, since I tried to steal from him. Shaking those thoughts away, the desolate gamine hurried her steps before her pére and the others got home.

~o0oUn Cœur pour la Révolutiono0o~

*Coterie –a clique; people who usually meet together; Conventicles – secret meetings

**Aucun – None.

***Rhino – money (laypeople's—or rather 19th century French argot—term at that time. If you read the novel, the Thérnardiers used it to refer to money when they tried to steal from—and murder—Valjean, who at that time made himself known as a brother to M'sieur Fauchevelent; so you can say that's like after the moment Cosette and Marius eyes each other for the first time if you're referencing the 2012 movie. It's quite the same with the play, but the variations with the scene in the musicals are far too many to say).

****Carcajou! - wolverine; glutton.

Light- complexioned being – if you, well, read the novel (again), this was how Grantaire (or Navet or both; I am fairly certain, though, so if you read it, feel free to correct my daring) described him in the St. Denis part of Les Misérables. I had to borrow it, for description's sake. Forgive me, Victor Hugo, if I had to. Don't worry I credit it to you still.

(Source/s: Simon & Schuster's Enriched Classic 2009 Complete and Unabridged Paperback Version of Les Misérables, Google Translate—ah, hehe.)


[A/N]: I hope everyone's all right? I'd like to hear your thoughts. :) I really admire little Gavroche here. Rawr.