A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story! You have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you with all my heart!

Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C18th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

Chapter 3

The sound of unknown boots tramping heavily across a bare stone floor combined with the slamming of a door assault his ears with a ferocity that he didn't think possible as he slowly tries to pull himself back into consciousness; carefully manoeuvring each fragment of his shattered soul into place for the next attack.

Everything hurts. The pain from his assaulted limbs has consumed him so completely and there is no way out; no way of escaping the rushing wave of silent, agonizing fire that is slowly eating him up from the inside and refuses to let him go. Oh he wants to let go; silently begs his useless, broken body with every last ounce of shattered strength left in him to grant the chance of freedom from this unknown, agonizing hell; but it won't.

It refuses him that one simple pleasure because in some distant part of his exhausted, pain filled, broken psyche that hasn't as yet been obliterated into nothingness by pain; he knows that he has to hold on. Knows that he has to keep fighting, that he cannot let Them realise that he is close, so close to giving up, that it is imperative that he keep fighting against Their vice like grip with every fibre of his being if he even stands a chance of seeing his friends, his stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers again…

An unwanted, choking sob rises and dies through his throat as he silently calls out to them; the achingly familiar syllables dancing on his tongue sweeter than the thought of any number of release papers. Bahorel… Bossuet… Combeferre… Courfeyrac… Feuilly… Grantaire… Jehan… Joly… Gavroche… Marius… The name of the Monarchist is a new one on his list he realises dully as their faces seem to rise through his shattered vision and he clings to them; praying that they have reached the security of the safe house and that they are together; safe and whole and pure in their knowledge of their friendship. Oh Mes Amis… I am so sorry…

A harsh bark of unknown laughter is followed by a sudden spasm of unimaginable agony as thick, unwelcome fingers yank unexpectedly at his hair and force his head up; the suddenly taught tendons in his neck screaming unheard cries of agony as he desperately tries to lash out at his captor; realising too late that he is still chained; that his limbs are still broken; that he is alone and probably underground; although he can't be certain and that… The thin, bitterly clear note of a knife being placed blade downwards against his neck rips through the thought like a sword through cloth as a hard, cruel laugh rings softly through his ears that make the hairs on the back of his neck go suddenly razor sharp with fear.

'That's it my pretty,' the voice is disturbingly soft and painfully smooth as he feels the knife slowly work its way up his neck; carefully caressing the lines of his throat, falling gracefully into the pit of his voice box as the grip tangled in his hair tightens; the unknown, the unwelcome fingers digging painfully into his scalp as he keeps his eyes on the metallic flash of silver dancing in and out of focus through his shattered vision. He can't breathe. All the oxygen seems to have vanished from his lungs as he continues to struggle; fighting fruitlessly through the vice like grip, knowing that it is hopeless and yet unable to stop himself because he has to fight; it is in his very being to fight and keep fighting the heavily oppressive hand of the Capital until at last, at long last his dreams for a free France are finally realised.

'They always give me the quiet ones,' the voice begins softly, almost reflectively and Enjolras feels a tremor of foreboding slice through him as the knife presses painfully into the flesh of his cheek; the insertion point leaving a stinging stab of pain before it is pulled away again.

'But they always talk in the end; when I'm through with them.' He smiles suddenly; the typical mess of broken, yellowing teeth that come from the poor diet eaten by the wardens and lesser officials leering horribly through the darkness in a plume of arid cigarette smoke as Enjolras desperately tries to twist away; realising too late that he is still manacled to the wall as a screaming burst of blinding agony rips through his shattered wrists and makes him suck in an involuntary gasp of pain that rises and dies through a throat now thick with fear.

The smoke stings his eyes; minute pricks of unbearable agony momentarily blinding him as he desperately tries to keep them open even though all he really wants to do is to slam them shut and keep them closed so that this doesn't have to be real, this could all be just a nightmare brought on by the stress of leading the Resistance which he will wake up from; which he has to wake up from and be safe and whole and warm in the love and company of his friends.

But he also knows that this is what They want; They want him to lose himself like this, lose his grip on reality until all his defences are down and he is easy prey and he refuses to give Them that so easily. He can't. Not now. Not when so much is already at stake and... The conflicting emotions must be present in his face; swirling through the rainbow mask of brutal bruising like ink over parchment because the Official laughs a hard, cold laugh that echoes eerily off the bare, stone walls as the knife now runs itself daintily along the ridge of his larynx; the pressure of the blade increasing ever so slightly as the sweetly perverse dance of death continues up to fall through the thin, sweat soaked linen of his shirt and into the pit of his shoulder blades.

'Shame though,' Enjolras doesn't want to hear it and yet he can't stop himself as he feels the body move closer towards him; each step seeming to last a lifetime even though the space between them is little bigger than a heartbeat. The rough, wet pressure of the gag is still thrust firmly between his teeth and forcing its' way down his throat makes him want to vomit as he continues to eye the knifes' progress; all the while trying and failing to keep his eyes on the official as the blade shivers, slips and a trickle of blood; too shallow to be truly painful but still feels like utter agony blooms from the wound; marring the marble skin in a bead of sickingly scarlet pain.

'Who knew marble could bleed, eh?' He doesn't reply; he can't; not with the pressure of the gag and the bitter aftertaste of chloroform threatening to pull him back under into its' dark embrace with every passing second he hangs there; fruitlessly trying to banish the ever present, silently screaming ache of his muscles as they are slowly pulled apart; willing himself to stay conscious, stay present until this endless, perverted torture session has finally reached its' climax.

'Bastard' he finds himself mouthing against the thick wad of material that is forcing his jaws apart in a painful grimace as the official takes another step towards him; twisting the knife upright so that even in the crushing darkness Enjolras can just about make out the icy, metallic glint of metal dancing through the space that is no bigger than a heartbeat that separates them. 'Bloody bastard', the words scrape painfully against a lolling, useless tongue lying thick and dormant within a mouth that stinks of blood, salt and fear. The official doesn't seem to notice as the knife continues to shiver against his skin; the blade continuing its' dainty dance of death as it is now pressed firmly against the hard, high lines of his jaw; caressing the marble masterpiece like a lovers' hands; exploring every pore of alabaster brilliance as it plans its' next assault.

He tries to jerk his jaw away; but the thick, unwelcome fingers gripping his chin are like a vice and pull it forward into the cold embrace of unknown skin. The frigid pressure of a thumb presses itself firmly into the soft flesh of his cheek; the dark eyes sparkling with an almost inhuman, unprecedented malice as their glittering pupils bore into the cerulean blue orbs; branding themselves into each finely worked strand of azure brilliance; silently relishing in the torment they can see there; in the unspoken, choked up fear that is written as clearly as if it had splashed across the marble masterpiece with ink.

'Play nicely Enjolras,' the voice purrs softly as the knife flicks itself into the crook between the official's thumb and index finger; the cold, metallic weight working its way slowly down his neck so that it finally comes to rest inside the pit of his larynx once more. He can hear his heart beating in a ragged, frantic rhythm against his chest; the tiny organ hammering against his ribcage, can feel the icy rivers of panicked sweat erupting over his shaking hands fettered high above him as the tendons slowly pull themselves apart, can taste fear's itchy, arid dryness tickling his throat as a perversely small smile caresses the Official's lips as the grip tangled in his mess of sweat soaked, blood caked curls tightens momentarily and without warning he feels his head being jerked back; the taught tendons of his neck suddenly ablaze with pain as he throws his head against the uninvited digits; throwing his whole weight back against the wall in a desperate attempt to evade the touch as the knife rips itself in a sudden blaze of heat down his throat; the action so painfully quick that he doesn't even have the chance to scream.

Not that anyone would hear him, he thinks bitterly as without warning he feels the grip in his hair loosen and the pain in his neck abate ever so slightly as his weight collapses back onto his chains with a grunt of pain; his broken body suddenly unable to support itself without the solidness of the Official's hands keeping him upright.

Silence. A silence so thick that it is suddenly hard to breathe. He slowly pulls his head back up to meet the glittering malice dancing through even strand of onyx coloured brilliance; hating himself as the leering, broken face swims in and out of his shattered vision. 'We don't want to kill you,' the voice is disturbingly smooth; full of an almost childish sense of hurt as he continues to glare at the leering mouth with as much venom as he can muster, knowing that it is only a flickering, guttering flame of his usual glacial intensity and yet welcoming the sudden blast of pain that explodes through the mask of brutal bruising as the taught, battered skin contracts. No, he thinks in a sudden rush of bitter understanding.

No, you don't want to kill me. You just want to see how far you can go before I break and tell you everything. You want to make an example of me; make an example of the resistance and I won't let you do that. Not now. Not after everything else you've done to us. I won't let you. But go ahead. I am ready. Do your worst.

'We just want information,' the Official continues, the voice taking on a dangerously soft pleading quality that jars against his ears as thick fingers continue to caress the hard fine lines of his jaw; the knife still glittering just out of his line of vision. 'You will give it to us, won't you? The Council is so longing to hear what you have to tell us...'

He must have made some sort of involuntary noise that dies against the thick, wet softness of the gag as the grip on his hair tightens and the knife is brought down carefully; the blade shivering inches from the dip of his left shoulder as it freezes in expectancy; inches above the alabaster masterpiece.

It is only then that his broken vision picks up the flickering light of the cigarette dancing through the shadowy fingers of the Officials free hand. A half smoked cigarette that hangs loosely from fingertips stained a gruesome sickly yellow from the nicotine; a guttering, fiery ember still clinging to its' tip as it is brought up to meet the knife; the action looking as if in slow motion. Enjolras can feel his eyes threatening to close, the lids desperately wanting to slam themselves shut against the oncoming pain, but still he forces them open because he knows that that is the exact reaction that this Official wants out of him as he feels his whole body threaten to freeze up; balling into itself against the prospect of the pain. Dimly, he can feel his heart thumping in a ragged, disjointed rhythm against his chest; the tiny organ straining against his ribcage in a desperate, futile attempt at keeping him grounded in a life which he knows is over.

Oh Mes Amis… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… Just the information Enjolras. You know exactly what I mean; it's not hard…

The silky smooth softness of the Official's voice breaks through his desperate mental mantra and he shakes it off roughly; refusing to allow it access into the one part of his broken mind that he has managed to keep whole and pure; safe away from the tyrannous hands of the Capital, ignoring the sudden tremor of icy fear that cascades over him as his brain catches up with the full extent of the thought.

Information… No! No, you are going to have to kill me first and when you do, that secret dies with me; dies with the cause. You know that, don't you?

Oh but that's the point my little Phoenix Prince. Futilely, he tries to block the voice out of his mind, using all his will power to try and push the strangely soft tones that are dripping with unspoken malice back into oblivion, but still they stay: stubborn and irremovable and the knows now that there is nothing he can do.

All we want is information about your little secret; which I might add; is not going to be a secret much longer once I'm finished with you. The Council will be delighted to see you again once we're done in here; so if you just cooperate….

No… No… You can't… You wouldn't... Don't… Please don't…

A sudden, blinding flash of unbearable agony shoots through him as the knife is brought down in a sudden spark of white hot metal; the fiery tip glowing eerily through the darkness. Sudden, desperate screams seem to rise unconsciously to his lips; fighting through the blockade caused by the gag as he rears against the chains; fruitlessly trying to twist away from the fire that has consumed him as the knife slices through shoulder blade; the stench of burning flesh making him want to vomit as the pain continues to consume him as he feels burning pricks of fiery emotion stab through his retinas; salty droplets of anguished agony that he cannot blink back, cannot brush away catching themselves onto his eyelashes as he feels himself choke back another painful sob, trying not to think about his friends' reactions if they saw him like this; a broken, burnt, battered marble statue clinging to life by a fingertip.

'Oh Combeferre… I need you Mon Ami… I… I'm sorry… I can't… I can't do this… Please… I need you… All of you….'

'Relax 'Jolras. The pain will only get worse if you tense up so much Mon Petit and believe me; trying to stitch up a contracted muscle is not pretty... We will find you Mon Petit Ange… Just hold on… We will find you… Please just hold on for a little while longer… Please?'

Who had said that? And how can he relax? How he can possibly relax when he can't breathe, see, or think for pain is beyond him. Desperately he tries to focus on the words, the voices that float in a disjointed blur of sounds through his brain; but they refuse to make any sort of sense as he feels the cigarette twist with agonizing slowness through the pit of his shoulder blade as he bites back yet another scream of anguished rage; hears the Official laugh long and hard into his face; silently relishing in his agony as he frantically tries to twist away again; sucking in another, involuntary strangled sob of pain as his broken wrist twist through the rusted manacles; sending judders of unimaginable agony coursing the taught muscles of his arms; the tendons threatening to snap with every passing second.

How long has this been going on for? He doesn't know. Time has no meaning here in this crushing, unknown darkness and all he understands is pain; blinding, blistering agony that has consumed his very soul and refuses to let him out of its' thick, perverted embrace. All he hears are silent, desperate screams that make no sense as his mouth burns against the pressure of the gag and the low, soft laugh of the Official as he continues to struggle; because he has to fight; he has to find them; has to make sure that they at least are safe…

Dimly he feels the knife shivering against the cigarette; hears a low, soft laugh softly slipping back into oblivion, feels his useless, broken body being thrown roughly forward so that his whole weight is now resting on his broken wrists; the already shattered ligaments screaming silent, desperate cries of unheard agony as he silently screams for Combeferre and yet knows deep down that it is hopeless. That Combeferre, Courfeyrac and the others will never find him now as he hangs there in the darkness feeling the blood drip with sickening slowness down his shoulder blades and into the cigarette burns as he finally gives his useless body up into the blissful darkness of oblivion.

'Combeferre… 'Ferre… Please… I can't… I can't do this… Please Mon Ami… I'm sorry…. I'm so sorry… I tried… Oh Mon Cher… Forgive me… '

A/N: Please feel free to read and review! This chapter was really hard to write for some reason so any questions, comments or constructive criticisms will be very much appreciated!

Much love and enjoy x