A/N: Another chapter for all the wonderful people who have decided to read, review, favourite and follow 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 all with all my heart!

Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC and Stagepageandscreen's fantastic AU Dystopia titled (Un)natural selection which is where I got the idea for this from into something cohesive- please don't sue me!

Chapter 7

It's cold. It's so cold. Why is it so cold? He doesn't know and yet he should but he is so cold and so tired… So very, very tired…

The chill seems to cling to him, caress his aching, useless body with frost fragile fingers as an unknown spasm of pain pricks itself through the streak of inky blue that scars the pale underside of his wrist and thick, unwelcome fingers grip his limp, broken wrist in a grasp so tight he has to bite back a sudden, unconscious shout of pain as a sudden explosion of unimaginable agony bursts through the shattered tendons. Desperately he tries to evade the touch as he feels his other arm being slammed down onto a cold, hard, unknown surface and the icy bite of rusted manacles snap themselves over the already fragile ligaments in a vice like grip that try as he might; he cannot avoid. 'That's it pretty boy'; the soft, disturbingly smooth tones of the Official drip painful sarcasm as the arid stench of cigarette smoke being blown with sickening slowness makes him want to vomit; the volcano of burning bile suddenly surging through a throat laid barren with fear and thirst only to be cut short by the thick, wet pressure of the new gag that is thrust between chattering teeth.

He cannot let Them do that to him. He must not. He must not allow himself to become one of those pitiful shadows; programmed only to do the bidding of the Capital and yet They are close, too close and he is so tired of having to fight Them… So very, very tired…

'Just hold on Mon Petit. Please hold on. We'll find you; we're coming for you, both of you. Just… Just… Don't give up yet… Please… Please don't give up yet… We'll get you out of there…'

The sudden tangled yank of thick, unwelcome fingers caught within his hair as he desperately tries to throw his head back, the taught tendons of his neck screaming as they are forced to contract. 'You don't want to fight us Enjolras.' The silkily smooth tones that have haunted his rare moments of lucidity, plagued his every moment whilst he was locked within the darkness of his own mind cuts through his shattered conscious like a knife through cloth as he feels two thick fingers caressing the line of his jaw; gripping his chin between two, crushing digits as he desperately tries to yank his face away; but to no avail.

'You really don't want to fight us now my little Phoenix Prince,' he can almost taste the leering, broken smile cracking through the darkness as the voice almost cracks with unprecedented, unspeakable mirth at his struggles as he feels himself being slammed back onto the hard, bare surface and the icy metallic scream of a blade being placed lightly against the pit of his larynx; resting lightly against his Adam's Apple; the blade poised, expectant.

Just breathe 'Jolras. Please just breathe. It'll be all right; I promise. I… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… Mon Petit Ange… Mon Cher… I should've… I should've protected you… I'm sorry…

Oh Combeferre… It's not your fault Mon Ami… Mon Frere… Mon Cher… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… If anything it's mine… I should've… I wanted to… I'm sorry… Tell them… Tell 'Feyrac… Tell Grantaire… Tell Bahorel… Tell them… Tell them I'm sorry… I tried…

Without warning he feels a sudden surge of unwelcome tears stabbing through his retinas; fiery droplets of painful emotion catching on his eyelashes which he cannot blink back, cannot brush away as a vision of his oldest, closest friend, his brother in all but blood seems to rear up before his shattered vision before he can stop it as a wordless shout of pain filled anguish rises to his lips only to be cut short by the rough, wet pressure of the gag.

Combeferre… His large, dark eyes shielded by wire framed spectacles shining with a damned up waterfall of salty sadness as he felt himself being dragged away; struggling through Bahorel's bearlike grip as the fighter desperately tried to hold him back… 'Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen to me; you and Courfeyrac will get the others out alive. Get out of the city… Go… Go to the safe house… Use the back routes… Just get out my friend… Keep the others safe! Please… Don't worry about me… Just go! Please Mon Ami… We'll soon each other soon Mon Cher… Promise….'

Large, capable hands holding him in a fierce embrace as soft lips sweep a quick, chaste kiss over his forehead as together they curled up on the battered, second hand sofa in their student apartment; listening to the steady, freezing drumbeat of the rain hurling itself against the single-glazed windows and the shrieking howl of the wind as it chased itself through the silently frozen streets of the Capital. Dark eyed safety dripping from calloused fingers; the skin rough from years of leaking ink pens or doctor's instruments holding him as a voice full of rich dark sweetness quoting from the illegal copies of Robespierre, Rousseau, Desmoulins and Danton that they had smuggled from his fathers' library on a night home from boarding school; the thick, leather bound book resting lightly on his knee; the paper yellowing and crinkled with priceless antiquity in this City where procession of such documents was akin to Treason as together they poured over the spiels of ebony ink forming words bursting with the passionate flames of freedom as he caught his best friend's gaze and felt a grin of childlike happiness bursting from his lips as together their dreams slowly began to take shape; the seeds of change and progress slowly germinating through the words of their revolutionary forefathers…

A sudden choking sob rises and dies through his throat as without warning he feels thick, unwelcome hands easing themselves around his matted mop of blood caked golden curls and supporting his head as thick fingers clamp down on his nostrils and something jarringly plastic is forced over his suddenly gaping, gasping mouth that is thick with blood, salt and fear. Oh Mes Amis… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… Dimly he hears the whirring click of a ventilator clanking its' way into life somewhere above him as thick, disjointed voices float through a brain struggling to remain conscious. A desperate, pleading shout that is sharp with unimaginable agony as the ominous, metallic click of a safety catch makes him suck in an involuntary shout of terror as his brain finally catches up with the rest of his screaming senses. No… No… Not Bertrand… They can't… They wouldn't… But he knows deep down, in some distant part of his shattered psyche that They will; that They will anything and everything in Their power to squash and extinguish the rising fires of dissent and change which are lapping dangerously close towards the cold, clear land of regulated loyalty towards the Council and the Capital on which the new regime thrives.

'No! No you can't! Please… Please just let me see him… I'll… You bastard… You bloody bastard… I'll… I'll do anything… Please…' The voice tails away into a sudden, strangled shout of pain and a hard, harsh laugh that echoes eerily through the holding chamber as he desperately tries to throw himself against his bonds and understand what is going on; but the restraints holding him are too strong and as he tries to rise again; a sudden, excruciating explosion of pain flashes through his legs and thick, unwelcome hands force him none-to-gently back onto the stretcher; lingering for the briefest of moments as they trace the burn marks that caress his shoulder blades rising through the sweat soaked linen. 'Don't try and fight it boy,' the unknown voice is harsh with something he can't quite place; the clipped constanents of the Capital rough and worn with age as he feels a heavy hand grip his shoulder and force him back; the unknown digits digging painfully into the thin linen of his shirt as he desperately tries to blink away the steadily approaching darkness that is threatening to overwhelm him as the medication finally begins to take effect.

Desperately he tries to keep his eyes open; but the optical orbs are slammed shut by a irremovable force and refuse to do his bidding as the darkness that he has for so long tried to avoid finally consumes him and he is lost; falling in a helpless, pain filled arc through the drugged darkness of his broken mind.

Bertrand feels like he is living in a nightmare and try as he might; he can't wake up. In a blur of tear stained, pain filled fear he feels himself being marched away from the holding chamber and into a smaller cell where he is forced into a hard backed chair; his legs threatening to buckle as he desperately tries to twist away from the harsh, unknown hands that continue to hold him in a fierce, unrelenting embrace; the look of terrified agony burning within each strand of cerulean blue brilliance branding itself like fire against his eyelids as he desperately tries to think. But any sense of rational thought feels like an impossible dream at the moment so, gritting his teeth he allows himself to be half pulled, half dragged along the non-descript shadowy passageway and into the depths of the Capital building.

The flickering glare of an energy efficient light bulb burns his retinas as thick hands shove him further into the chair and the cold, burning bite of a rope cuts within his wrists as he feels his arms being forced behind his back and the sudden metallic click of a safety catch being slid of as the icy metallic beauty of a revolver is slotted against his temple. 'Don't move traitor.' The voice is cracking with expectancy as the sudden sensation of thick, unwanted fingers tangling themselves within his hair and pulling his head back so that the suddenly taught tendons of his neck scream with unheard cries of unbearable agony as his heart leaps into his throat and settles there; desperately trying to keep him grounded in a life which deep down he knows is over.

The arid stench of cigarette smoke makes him want to gag as he feels a sudden river of panicked sweat erupt over the back of his trembling hands which he balls into fists because he cannot allow Them the opportunity of sensing his weakness and pressing Their advantage; not now, not when so much is at stake, not when a life; a little life with so much fire, so much burning, palpable energy hangs in the balance and he cannot let Them do what he knows They want so much to do to Enjolras, he can't! Desperately he tries to shake the sudden mirage of agonizingly painful memories off, desperately trying to focus on the immediacy of his situation and gain his bearings as he feels the revolver dig itself deeper into his temple; hears his heart beating in a sudden, ragged rythmn somewhere near his Adam's Apple as he finally manages to lift his exhausted eyes to take in his new prison cell.

The room is small; the walls splashed with chipped whitewash; the only illumination coming from a naked light bulb that is swinging perilously like a clock's pendulum; the flickering, fading light casting huge, grotesque shadows over the walls. A bare wooden table sits in front of him; with a sheaf of thick, Official paper and a pen lying across words which he can't make sense of; the thick spiels of ebony ink unravelling themselves through a brain that is numb with pain, fear and shock. The cold weight of the revolver digging itself into his skin makes him tense as a low, soft laugh rings through his ears and the sound of the door being banged shut sends a shiver of terrified foreboding coursing through him; as quick and as painful as an icy torrent of water being cascaded over an already freezing body.

'That won't be necessary', a hard, deep, cold voice booms through the silence as the twinkling slosh of liquid being poured against glass combined with the scrape of another chair against the bare, wooden floorboards makes him slowly lift his head and glare into the face of his oppressor.

'Will it?' A tall, thickset Official with a shadow of scraggly beard scruff caressing a prominent jaw and small, dark eyes that sparkle with an almost childlike sense of questioning sits down heavily in the opposite chair and takes a long, deep draft from the glass. Watching the swirling, dark liquid disappear through the cavernous mouth makes Bertrand realise just how thirsty he is as his tongue begins to itch and he has to swallow convulsively to stop.

'Let Enjolras go', he can feel the ice in his voice; dark, treacherous ice dripping from each growled out syllable as he keeps his eyes on the large, battered face that makes him think inexplicably of Bahorel; their courageous, passionate fighter; the rock of the Revolution now wanted for crimes of High Treason like the rest of them; cornered like frightened rabbits into the darkness of the safe house. Play your cards slowly Bertrand; he can almost feel the thickly comforting presence of the fighter and for some strange reason; Bossuet; although he knows that there is no time to question the strange workings of his exhausted brain standing over him as he tries to plan his next attack on this ever changing game of Life. Play them slowly and always watch your opponent; you never know when Lady Luck's going to turn against you.

Dimly, he can still feel the metallic iciness of the revolver lodged within his temple; smell the sweetly perverse stink of nicotine clinging to the Official who is barring his every chance of escape and even if he did; he knows inexplicably that it would just lead to an early death by the cold, icy darkness of a gun barrel and he does not want his friends, his brothers to have that on their consciousness's.

A deep, dark laugh that booms through the sudden silence cuts through his reverie like a knife through cloth as he raises his eyes to meet the small, glittering irises watching him with an expression of almost pitiful disbelief etched like ink over the plain, blank features. 'Let Enjolras go?' The laugh simply gets louder as one of the Official's hands hits the table with a crashing thud; almost disrupting the now empty glass that totters perilously for a moment before righting itself and Bertrand feels a sudden, inexplicable wave of white-hot fury bubble up inside inside his chest; threatening to burst through him as he desperately tries to remain calm.

'Have you lost your wits boy?' The official spits out the last word as if it leaves a sour taste in his mouth; each syllable laced with malicious, icy contempt. He glares back, clenching his teeth painfully against the sudden tirade of stinging remarks that are crowding round his bloody mouth; words that will as surely as he knows his own name will only quicken his death sentence and Enjolras… Oh God… Enjolras…

'Let Enjolras go? Let the leader of the damn thing we're trying to quell go? Boy… You're smart, surely you know what will happen if we let your precious angel go? You saw what it was like before War didn't you?' He pauses here and despite all of the rest of his senses screaming for him to disagree; Bertrand has to see his point. 'You saw the corruption, didn't you? Yes; of course you did, but you were probably too young to understand what it really meant.' He breaks off and rubs a aghast hand over his chin before enunciating his words with deliberate care; as if speaking to a very small child as waves of unbearable, silent fury crash over Bertrand as he struggles to remain calm, to not raise to the bait which is dangling tantalizingly in front of his shattered psyche. 'This Regime… The Council… The Selection is here to protect you Citizens from what happened before. Why do we have the Selection boy? Can you answer me that?' The words have a sudden, deadly calmness to them as the Official leans across the table and Bertrand has no choice but to hold his gaze; knowing that he has to keep silent, knowing inexplicably that the rules of this strange, new game of Life have changed without his explicit knowledge and he will have to reclaim his place as a player before it is too late and the die are recast.

'To… To root out traitors and insurgents and…' The words feel painfully childish to him; even though he knows that this is exactly what this Official wants and he will have to play his game even if it hurts as the words tail away and a sudden, desperate thought that initially makes no sense at all crashes through his brain in a sudden, painful swoop of realisation. 'NO!' Desperately he tries to stand; realising too late that he is still bound to the chair, that there is still a revolver slotted within the slight indent in his skull that holds his life together, that his voice is threatening to break, cracking like that of a terrified child… 'No! No! No you can't! You… Bastard… Bloody, fucking bastard… Please… Please just let me see him… Let me see him before… I'll… You… I'll… I'll do anything… Please…'

The Official watches his struggles silently, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he takes another swig from his glass and makes an almost invisible nod to an Official which in his terror for Enjolras, for his friends, for the Resistance, Bertrand had not spotted; standing like a dark cloaked ghost in the shadowy recesses of the chamber. He sees him now through suddenly bloodshot eyes; tears he cannot remember shedding slicing like salt soaked fire through his cheeks as he continues to struggle; not knowing or caring that it is completely hopeless, that nothing will save Enjolras now, that…

The ringing click of a phone being disconnected somewhere in the shadows brings him spiralling back into reality as the icy mouth of the revolver digs deeper into his temple and the short, harsh laugh of the official who is holding his life in his hands resonates softly through suddenly screaming ears. He can feel a sheen of sweat trickling through his hairline; catching on a mop of russet brown curls as his eyes slip suddenly shut and he keeps them closed; futiely praying to whoever may be listening that this is a dream, that this is just a nightmare and he is going to wake up, he's got to wake up…

'Come along boy, we haven't got all day,' the cold, symmetrical plastic of the phone feels jarringly alien to his hands as he feels one of the bonds securing his hands to the chair slicing itself free as the trembling limb is lifted to grip the phone; suddenly nerveless digits slick with sweat as they stumble over the buttons; trying to make the call.

He can feel the weight of their eyes on him; can taste the sickly stench of fear radiating from every crevice of his body as his fingers stumble over the numbers; praying that someone, anyone will pick up on the other line; that he can at least have the small comfort that Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel did manage to get the others to safety despite the danger; if nothing else.

The sound of the other phone ringing in the safe house seems to come from a long way off as he feels the ice of the revolver pushing itself further into his skull; senses the lone finger itching to slide away the safety catch as without warning the phone beeps itself onto the answer machine and what little composure he has managed to conserve within himself finally slips away into the crushing darkness of oblivion.

'I'm sorry, but the person you have called is unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message after the tone. Once you've left your message just hang up or for more options; press 1 at any time. Please be aware that The Capital exercises the right to listen into all phone calls and so any or all information will be closely monitored and stored for further observation. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. Long live the Monarchy!'

He can feel his heart beating in a ragged, disjointed rythmn against his chest; the tiny organ straining frantically against the ivory cage of bone as he desperately tries to swallow back the slowly rising barricade of painful terror that has risen without warning through his throat and begins to speak; hoping against hope that someone, anyone will pick up the message and soon.

' Bahorel… Feuilly… 'Ferre… Look mate… I… We're…' He stops and swallows; squeezing his eyes shut as the revolver digs itself deeper into his temple and the stench of the cigarette smoke threatens to overwhelm him once more as he remembers Enjolras; sees the leaping, licking, living flames of passionate life and hope guttering, failing, dying in the azure irises as he crumpled against his chest; too weak to move or speak as all the fire he had conserved within him ebbed away in a blood curdling, heart breaking scream of furious, agonised pain.

They've started the Alteration… I tried… I tried to stop them and Enjolras… Oh God… Enjolras… I just… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… He's… But They told me… They've got conditions and…' The sound of another safety catch being slid off in the silence of the shadows catches him unaware as he dares to catch the gaze of the Official still sat across from him; silently watching his struggles as a small, sweetly perverse smile tugs itself across his lips.

'Go on boy'; the smile, the small, dark eyes glittering in the shadows seem to say. 'Go on. They'll be so worried about you. Put them at ease won't you and send the Capital's condolences and our most sincere apologies? Well done.' The silent sarcasm dripping from those small, dark pupils makes his blood boil with an unspeakable, unfathomable rage as he tears his gaze away; slicing the connection in half like a white hot blade searing itself through skin.

He can feel tears in his own eyes now as he reaches once more for the phone; minute pricks of fiery, painful emotion that he doesn't bother restraining as they pool through his pupils; all sense of composure now shredded and thrown into the winds as he tries again.

'They want information… Just… Just tell Combeferre… Tell Bahorel…' He can't continue. There are words, there are always words; he can feel them rising through his throat, dancing on a tongue aching for the cold, clear sweetness of water and yet dying as they hit the tear stained barricade of painful terror that is blocking his mouth.

Without really understanding why, he feels the machine slip from shaking, nerveless digits, hears the long, steady beeping whine of the connection snapping itself apart as the phone crashes to the table and he buries his head in his free arm; finally allowing the tsunami of pent up, anguished pain to overcome him.

I'm sorry… I'm so, so sorry… I tried… Oh Mes Amis… I tried… Forgive me… Please…

A/N: Well that was emotionally draining…

Note on text

If anyone watches Game of Thrones, I am shamelessly basing my poor, broken Bertrand on Robb Stark's reaction to Ned Stark's death in Season 1 and Richard Madden's heartbreakingly emotional performance to try and stop myself from drowning in a great big pool of tears- it's not working!

I am so sorry for the wait on this update but I've been up to my ears with writing Critical Essays and sorting out Bank details and general Uni life so I have had very little time to even think about writing this chapter- even though it's been in my head for goodness knows how long!

Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!

Much love and enjoy x