A/N: Contary to popular belief, I am now, after a LOT of drafting, able to present to you my next installement of When Tomorrow Came! As I am not male, French or living in C18th Paris, how can I possibly own Les Miserables? (Do I really need to go through that again?- I am simply trying to place my love for the Barricade Boys into some cohesive structure) Thanks again for all the lovely reviews and the fact that you my wonderful followers actually like this story- you have no idea how much it means to me! Enjoy x (Also this isn't Cosette/Enjolras- she's simply being Cosette and wanting to comfort everyone!)
The sound of hurried, anxious footsteps cuts through his reverie like a knife. Terror leaps up into his throat and he feels his eyes slip shut; as he tries to steel himself for the inevitable discovery. Tries to ready himself for the fiacre door to be yanked open and the rough hands to pull them forcefully out into the weak summer sunlight. For the cruel bite of rope on tender flesh, the agonizing crunch of metal on bone, before the brutal separation into cold, dark cells to await their fate. He is ready, he tells himself firmly. He can take anything they will throw at him. He will not allow himself to be defeated by them. He cannot let himself give into them. There is too much at stake. Too many lives are hanging in the balance and it is all because of him. It will be his fault if they die and he is ready to take the blame. Ready to accept the consequences of actions that at the time seemed so vitally important that he hardly cared what hand he was dealt. He cares now. Cares that it is because of him that they could all die, could die here and now; when death is the very thing that they are trying to escape from. He can feel eyes on his face and turns to see Feuilly watching him with wide, shocked eyes; his face paper white as he turns back to the door. He tries to smile, but finds that he can't, so he simply nods; thinking suddenly of his fallen friends and what they would say if they could see him now; the glorious, golden leader cornered like a wild beast with no way of escape. Painful hatred surges up his throat like fire and he coughs; the sound echoing eerily through the silent carriage; burning his already tender mouth.
Bahorel's laugh rumbling through the packed Café as he jokes with Courfeyrac about his latest girl. Jehan's poetry spilling out from a body so young, so precious that it was hard to believe that he had even understood what they were fighting for. Joly's anxiety as he sits with one bare foot propped up next to a slumped Grantaire who is lost to the world, telling a forever patient Combeferre in frantic, whispered tones about the dangers of foot rot. Bossuet's witty sarcasm as he breaks yet another of Nicolette's glasses with Gavroche clinging to his shoulders as he piggybacks the gamin over to his cluttered table that is a mess of paper, charts and used ink bottles with the latest news from the streets. Eponine's large, pleading eyes gazing after Marius as he disappears into the night for the umpteenth time…
The sound of a door slamming and the sudden pain of fingers squeezing his so hard it hurt; throws him into reality like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. He blinks, his shattered eyes momentarily blinded by the tantalizing glimpse of the outside world before the door slams itself back into safety. A pale, summer sun flickers faintly through ominous steel grey clouds which have enfolded the world in a thick, grey blanket of a bitter sea fog. The harsh, salty sweetness of the sea air makes his head spin as he glances down to see long, thin fingers clutching at his. His eyes wander upwards to see Cosette's pale, frightened yet determined face watching his; a mixture of fear and admiration etched in each delicate strand of grey blue in her wide eyes; which strangely do not look as if they are outwardly afraid. To him she looks brave. A strong, determined young woman who is ready to risk everything she knows and trusts for boys she has hardly met. Inexplicably, she makes him think of Henriette and the last time he saw her, standing in the cool pink dawn that had risen over the hedges of the grounds at the old house in Amiens on the day of her marriage to a well off Cavalry Officer in the King's Guard from Toulouse who was fighting over in England.
She had been standing at the large, gilded bay window; her face reflected in the light pink gold dawn as the sun gracefully rose out its indigo bed to signal the start of a new day. A new life. He remembers feeling suddenly awkward as he stood in the dark doorway; gazing at the graceful, Grecian goddess whose hands had come to rest on the gilded lid of the old harpsichord which was horrendously out of tune and would only play if 'Riette tinkered Purcell's 'Dido and Aeneas' on it several times a day. He suddenly realised just how cold and silent the house would be if; no not if, when she left and couldn't bare it. He remembers unwelcome tears pricking painfully at the corners of his eyes and furiously trying to blink them back before she realised just how weak and wretched he would be without her. She was his rock whenever their Father mocked his fledgling revolutionary beliefs or lashed out at their mother for no reason and he could do nothing apart from hold her in a futile attempt to shield her from the ongoing, uncontrollable, relentless rages. She had been the one who had slipped into the dank, sunless nursery whilst he was recovering from measles and had slipped the bolt on his shutters with a wicked grin so that he could at last see the world shrouded by a soft, grey cloak of light, morning drizzle. She had been the one who had sat and debated with him about Robespierre and Danton's conflicting ideals when he had got a little stronger and had been able to sit outside on the white bench on the gravel terrace overlooking the sloping lawns and sprawling flower beds for a few hours at a time; before his parents had had him taken by carriage under the beady eye of his Tutor to his horrendous, compulsory Choir practice. She had been the one...
'Don't worry about me René. I'll be alright. The Captain,' (She never called him by his full name he had noticed, his innocent twelve year old brain suddenly puzzled. Why not?) 'The Captain is a good man, he will look after me. He has a large estate about two days ride from London. Imagine!' He couldn't though. Back then, London had just been the name of a fantasy city in distant Angleterre; nothing more. She had glided over to him then, floating over the polished Oak floorboards in a vision of white cotton and seed pearls; her blonde hair, a streaming golden waterfall tumbling carelessly down her back and kissed his burning cheek, thumbing away the streaks of unwelcome silver coursing down his face. I'll write to you mon Chérie. Yes? Please say yes, my darling. I'll miss you.' He had remained silent; gazing up into her calm, composed face, silently committing every feature of her angelic face to memory; and yet knowing that each time he thought of her, he would remember her in a different way. Knowing that he would never truly see her as 'Riette ever again, that she would soon become a married woman and would be Henriette; the paragon of the virtuous wife and mother. There would be no more pranks now, he saw that. No more heady summer days lying in the orchard under the trees, watching the sun slip silently in a blaze of bloody gold into the dark indigo horizon. No more trips into Amiens with picnic baskets and checked blankets, glass bottles full to the brim with ice cool eldeflower cordial and a deftly stolen bottle of Papa's best Burgandy... So he watched her, drinking her up, commiting each and every part of her face to memory; knowing that it would never be enough. Why did she have to leave him? Why now? Why had their parents consented with the marriage? Or had it been Fate? It wasn't fair...
The smattering of freckles which caressed the bridge of her slightly upturned nose. The chicken pox scar just below her left eyelid. The dimples that bloomed in her flushed cheeks as she ran into the hallway from the garden; her feet bare, the hem of her dress sullied with mud and grass stains; clutching a jar full of tadpoles in her hand; beaming at her governess's look of utter horror as she stood in the door of the schoolroom, hands on hips, waiting for her wayward charge to finally compose herself with ladylike decorum. Her large, calm blue eyes that could look almost green in some lights, twinkling with the thought of yet another prank as she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him away from his books. 'Come on René! You'll love it!'
He has misinterpreted her, he realises suddenly, shaking off the painful memories of that last morning with Henriette. He had always considered her in his brief knowledge of her as being Marius's angel sweetheart as a delicate Fury; whose power came not in the traditional shades of fire and brimstone that Grantaire has so often told him in his moments of rare sobriety but in the cold, icy art of seduction that he has so diligently tried to avoid being ensnared into. Now he understands how wrong he was. Now he understands that she is just as scared as him, that she truly understands the implications of their revolution; implications that he thought, in his hot headed innocence that he knew. Implications that only now, when their lives are so perilously close to being snapped by Fate's cruel shears, he is beginning to understand. She tries to smile as she takes in his pale face; the wide, blue eyes the colour of calm water still filled with the remains of a sudden, fiery fury that is slowly ebbing from his battered body like the tide being whisked away from the beach.
'That was brave', she all but whispers as she glances anxiously towards Marius who is deep in conversation with Courfeyrac ; his eyes sparkling with the flickering flames of mischief that makes him think of the old days back in the smoky safety of the Café Musain when the lovesick Bonapartist had first joined his motely band of revolutionaries and dreamers. Eyes that have still not lost the haunted expression of supressed pain and loss that he knows none of them will ever lose entirely. An expression of the undiluted longing that they all harbour for the old days when the revolution had been little more than a dream and not the haunting, blood splattered reality now clawing at the dark corners of his brain. That had been when the others… When they were still hoping, still dreaming of a free France… When they really, truly believed that their actions could ignite the fires of change and yet… and yet... 'Let others rise to take our place… Until the Earth is free!'
'That was foolish', he corrects her; the words scraping painfully against his mouth that still feels as if he has swallowed hot ashes, as he desperately tries to shake off unwelcome memories of the Barricade that are crowding at the dark recesses of his brain. 'I… I put you all in danger… I should…' She shakes her head sadly at him and tries to smile, her hand suddenly gripping his jacket tighter, short nails digging into his flesh. The sudden increase in pressure makes him tense as he tries to calm his frantically beating heart. No… Please… No… Not after they'd come this far… He feels Cosette rise and looks up to see M. Frauchlevent standing over him; gazing with wide, exhausted eyes at the bodies slowly unravelling themselves to meet the next move on this steadily changing board that holds the game of life.
'Papa?' Heads turn at the sound of Cosette's voice as she moves slowly through the cramped space towards her father, her hand slipping from his; leaving a faint whiff of cinnamon lingering tantalizingly on his fingertips. 'Papa, what is it?' Her hands shake slightly as she puts a hand on his shoulder as he feels another presence; a very familiar one drop down beside him. The smell of ink and sweat mixed with musty leather makes his nostrils tickle as he feels a calloused hand slip into his shaking paw and the warm comfort of another body collapse next to his own. Combeferre. Oh God… 'Ferre, please tell me I'm not dreaming… Please…
Relief, blissfully cold relief washes over him as he feels his muscles relax into Combeferre's comforting weight and his aching shoulders slump. Combeferre. 'Oh 'Ferre…. I… I… thought we'd lost you…' Blinking back unwelcome tears, he feels a hand reach over to cup his chin; forcing his face round. The eyes behind the spectacles are wide with fear and yet filled with such compassionate determination as he feels a sudden rush of unadulterous love for his friend. His friend who was willing to walk through Hell and back again… 'It would take more than a blundering customs official to finish me off Mon Ami', his voice is gruff with emotion as he pulls his blond companion closer into his chest; his arms locked around the stained cotton sling that feels like a dead weight across a heart which is hammering so hard that it is a wonder that it has managed to stay contained its ivory cage of bone.
'I was worried for you!' He looks up in mock outrage at the grin which is tugging at Combeferre's unnaturally serious face; a grin which lights up the smattering of freckles, the chicken pox scar in the shape of a crescent moon beneath his left eyelid that could mar the mould of dark perfection, but instead intensifies it. 'I thought…' He swallows, unable to put into words the icy wave of panicked fear that had crashed over him when he realised that his first and best lieutenant was missing. How much time has passed since then? He doesn't know. Doesn't want to know. How much time do they have left? Not enough. And yet it continues to run on unheeded, continues to slip through his scrabbling fingers like running water through cupped hands...
A/N: Please feel free to read, review and make any suggestions necessary: I'm welcome for anything, suggestions, constructive critisim etc! The next chapter may and this is true; take some time considering it's still being written and needs proofreading and if it's anything like this one, a horrendous amount of picking apart; as well as the fact that I've got my schoolwork and revision (damn A Levels!) so you, my dears will have to wait. That is, unless, you see that little white box? *hint* Like I say, reviews are like my virtual chocolate and so you know, maybe...?