Until the Earth is Free

Author's Update: I've changed the cover image. The old one was rather poor quality but I'm quite happy with this one. It features a screenshot of Samantha Barks as Éponine in the 2012 movie on top, and a still of Aaron Tveit as Enjolras at the bottom.
Edit 08/29/14: cover image has been changed slightly for a different shot of Éponine. Text has also been altered slightly.

Disclaimer: I still don't own Les Misérables. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing fanfiction about it. You'd have to be a bit pretentious to write fanfiction for your own invention, wouldn't you?

Brief Warning: This chapter contains some coarse language and brief implications sexual content, so reader discretion is advised.

::

Chapter Seven: You Have No Chance

July 11, 1831
329 days left

By the time the rest of les amis finally arrived, save Marius, the secret room above the café was quickly lost to its usual atmosphere. There was wine being downed and the occasional drunken, slurred shout from Grantaire. Occasionally the cork of a champagne bottle would go flying in the air with a prominent pop! and this would cause the students to laugh and shout, ducking to avoid the airborne cork before it caused damage. Sometimes a student (namely Courfeyrac) would attempt to catch the cork, resulting in more laughter. They were all men in the room, but despite their mostly wealthy and upper-class backgrounds, these men were loud and obnoxious and rowdy. Jokes that would have caused the worst scandals were told. The room was noisy and bright, and in every sense of the word it was so very alive. Only Enjolras stayed out of the fun, hunched in the corner at a table while sorting through papers. All this happening before the meeting even began.

Needless to say, the leader in red was growing thoroughly irritated.

The twenty-two-year-old buried his face in his hands and groaned, turning over a leaf of paper and growling in frustration. He looked at his pocket watch again. Marius was now twenty minutes late. He resolved to give his friend an extra five minutes before starting the meeting without him, and in his eyes, that was quite a fair gap. He looked up again to see if Marius had arrived yet, but there was no such luck. He did, however, spot Gavroche trotting over to his corner. The young urchin sat down next to Enjolras and grinned brightly.

"What's the matter, then, Enj?" he chirped. "You don't look too 'appy."

Enjolras gritted his teeth. He cared for the boy, he truly did, just as he cared for all his friends. But sometimes the child's overly cheerful attitudes could irritate the student, especially when he was already in a notably poor temper. Enjolras was very much the sort of man who appreciated time alone once in a while. Moody and succumb to headaches, Gavroche's radiant cheeriness sometimes grated on him. More often that sometimes, really. Most of the time. Sighing heavily he answered, trying not to lose his patience, "Marius is late, as you well know. He is frustrating me quite a bit."

"Oh." Gavroche pondered this for a moment, then shrugged, token grin back on his face. "Well, he's usually late, isn't he? I wouldn't let it bother me. Always got his head in the clouds. Aw, he was like that even before Cosette."

This was probably true. Enjolras was the leader, Jehan the poet, but Marius was the dreamer. The statement of this fact made Enjolras smile lightly. "Well, yes. I do suppose that is true. But this gives him no excuse to be so very late every single – "

"Day?" Marius popped up behind them. "Yes. I am terribly sorry. I was … preoccupied. Forgive me." He offered an apologetic smile, one which was not mirrored on Enjolras' face. The leader's jaw was set in a tight line, the irritation clear in his eyes. He let out one long, heavy sigh before rising and banging down on the table once. This, he'd discovered, was the best way of catching their attention. Once he'd tried clapping his hands, but Jean Prouvaire declared it too "degrading". The poet was probably right, and Enjolras abandoned the practice.

"Marius has arrived. At last." Enjolras emphasized this with a pointed look at Marius, who stood awkwardly in the middle of the room as all eyes turned on him. He jumped right into the meeting, headfirst, as he did through life. Taking risks without thinking of the consequences. Enjolras was a man who acted on gut instinct, on his heart and on his belief.

"As you can see, I have conducted a few basic redecorations this room. Nobody comes up here, save the bartender. He is already perfectly supporting of our cause so I do not believe he shall mind terribly. It provides the atmosphere for our beliefs – "

"Basic?" Courfeyrac echoed with a laugh, one which was instantly cut off by Enjolras' glare. A pause, and the leader continued.

"I have been thinking of ways to spread information in regards to our cause in the most subtle manner possible. Quite naturally, the government shall attempt to oppress our cause and we needn't have that before the revolt even starts."

Combeferre cleared his throat. "Actually … I do believe we may already be facing a bit of a problem."

Enjolras turned to face the bespectacled student. Concern flashed over his face, a disconcerting look to see on the leader in red, their image of hope and strength. After some hesitation, he said softly, "Proceed."

Combeferre nodded to Gavroche, who was sitting down beside him. Gavroche stood up and cleared his throat. "Got interrogated by a police inspector t'day. Didn't know his name, but he asked me 'bout the room, and I was very clever. I'm usually clever when it comes to these sorts o' things, see. It's cos I'm a terribly good liar, if I do say so meself." Gavroche smirked, trying not to look too pleased with himself. Sadly his friends didn't seem to agree with his great cleverness, so he huffed and went on. "Anyhow. I was very clever and I lied. Told him this was where the wine was kept, and I was fetchin' some for the bartender."

Enjolras chose to ignore Gavroche's brief monologue and instead responded with a frown. "Whatever did he ask you?"

"Just what I was doin' up there, what was kept in the room. He also asked if there were meetings." He shrugged. "I dunno. Probably he's still on our tracks. I mean, I don't know if he believed me or not."

"Which Inspector?" Enjolras demanded.

Gavroche shook his head. "I dunno. Didn't ask now, did I?"

Enjolras let out a whooshing breath and sat down. "If this is the case … we may very well be in more trouble than I imagined."

::

On the other side of the city, in a very different room, sat a very different group of people. There were just three of them – two men and a woman. One man was older, about sixty, and the other could be called a boy, being just over nineteen, with his sleek dark hair and a face that retained its youth. But despite his young face, he was cold with a half-smirk on his handsome visage and eyes that showed no care or love for those around him.

The one-room flat was grim in every sense that the room above the Musain was lively. It was the hangout of criminals and scum, and you could tell by just looking at it. There is a difference between the flat of men like Thénardier and the flat of the poor. The poor will do whatever they can to liven up the place. A single flower by the window. The curtains, if they are lucky enough to have them, wide open. Perhaps they will be cleaner.

This flat was different. No flowers in a glass by the windowsill. The shutters closed tight. The entire room stank of alcohol, the faintest trace of urine and vomit. Broken glass and discarded old paper littered the soot-covered floor. Only a single candle lit the room, used as a source of simply seeing, not one of light.

"She's been gone a full two weeks," growled Thénardier. "Both of 'em 'ave. And I'll need the two brats. Can't get by without them, fucking stupid though they are. And I don't know where the bloody hell she could be."

"We'll be needing the brats back," Madame Thénardier added. "They can be useful. Sometimes." She'd stopped addressing her daughters as the children or the girls long ago, and she'd never cared for her son. Now they were simply the brats. She might have loved them, a bit, somewhere in that wretched heart of hers. But it was hard to tell. Even she denied her affection for them, not because she was afraid of it, but simply because she truly believed such affection no longer existed.

Montparnasse leaned forward, that omnipresent coy smile teasing his lips. "Surely," he suggested nonchalantly, "the girls've gone to live with their brother? Probably know where the brat lives."

Thénardier huffed in frustration, slamming his fists down on the table, strongly enough to make all the furniture in the flat rattle. A bottle of liquor, almost entirely full, trembled slightly where it stood on top of a half-rotted dresser before falling in silent compliment to the ground. There, it shattered, its clear contents spreading. Nobody paid it any mind. "Yes! But I need to know where! And she'll be far more trustin' o' you than me!"

Montparnasse doubted this, but he smiled. "Anythin' to bring the children home," he purred. He stood gracefully, and sauntered out of the room. Briefly, he paused and turned. "Oh, and I'll be expecting' some kind o' payment for my services … monsieur." His voice dripped sarcasm.

Thénardier waved a hand. "Out with ya."

The young man obeyed, but as he made his way down the stairs, he already knew just what would be payment enough. And he knew that Thénardier wouldn't even care. Much. Because he was a man who put his gold in front of his family, and this was just another one of those cases. He wanted his daughters back not because they were his daughters and he worried for them, but because to be frank, they were useful to him. And if he could get them back, he really didn't care what condition they might be in.

Montparnasse knew this. And so he could have his fun.

::

Meanwhile, the two Thénardier sisters had been living with their brother. Of course they had; where else had they to go? Sometimes they would sleep in the stone elephant with him, the hole in its stone underbelly just wide enough for them to squeeze through. It didn't just house Gavroche's tiny form, for he looked closer to seven despite being ten years old. Other nights, like this one, they would go out barraging for food while he attended his precious meetings with his friends. He would always bring something back, and they would have a small crust or rotted vegetables. It was hardly a feast, but they got by, and for urchins, they were rich.

The nights were sticky and hot, and oftentimes Éponine would climb out of the elephant and lean against its stone legs while staring up at the sky. The stars were always there, watching her, guiding her, looking over her. Mocking her.

But they got by well, they really did. Gavroche was well used to the streets, such a clever young boy. A much brighter child that the rich kids who went off to their boarding schools in tiny suits, learning to recite tedious passages and memorize useless facts. He knew every corner, every shop. Who was willing to give out old scraps to the street children and who would chase them out with a shaking fist, or, more commonly, a broom. Gavroche knew everything. And his bright spirits – that grin on his face, his shining blue eyes when they weren't obscured by his overlong blond hair – helped to keep Éponine whole, helped that little bit of her that wasn't already dead mostly alive.

Azelma was quieter. And she complained. She always had been. She wasn't nearly accustomed to life on the streets as Gavroche and Éponine were, but she'd never adapted properly. Even so, she could be clever when she wasn't whining. Most of the time she did what she was told. But if there was one person Éponine had always had in her life, one person she trusted, it was her sister. And she couldn't have been happier that 'Zelma was there with her.

Tonight was cooler as Éponine and Azelma set out. Their brother secure at his meeting in the café, most likely not to return until the early morning, they trekked through the Paris streets with the darkness of the night-time as their cloaks and shields. There was a shop they knew, a shop they could steal from. The owner usually threw out perfectly good food in the back and they'd be able to get at it. Gavroche had told them about this place, how it was often the source of his meals, and Éponine wished she'd known of it before. Of course, her father wouldn't steal from the backs of shops. Not like this. No, his thievery and conning was a much grander scheme that resulted in gold. Not food.

They'd left a note in the elephant, which said nothing but the name of the shop. Gavroche couldn't read, but he could recognize shop names if he was familiar with the symbols of the letters.

The back of the shop was surrounded by barbed wire. The owner, naturally, was not fond of urchins picking through his food, and the sharp fencing usually warded them off. But not Gavroche.

"Just put on some gloves," he'd explained. "An' cut through the wire. It ain't tough, it's easy enough to cut through with a pocket knife if you're careful not to cut yer fingers." And he gave them his gloves. They were men's gloves, and too big for his tiny hands, but they fit Éponine.

Now, she crouched by the barbed wire fence, peering through. She held her pocket knife in one hand, an unlit match in the other. Éponine turned to look at her sister, who hovered nearby with the gloves.

"Azelma," she instructed, "give me the gloves and I shall cut through the wire if you hold the match."

Azelma shook her head stubbornly. "No. I shan't. I'm sure I wouldn't like to burn my fingers, and my hands are cold besides." As if to emphasize this, she brought her hands to her mouth and blew to warm them, rubbing her fingers together. It was warm out, but her fingers were numb and chapped with chill.

Éponine was concerned for her sister, but she sighed. "'Zelma, please. Please. We shan't find good food otherwise. If your fingers are cold, then the flame from the match will warm them. You know that."

But the auburn-haired girl only shook her head. "I don't want to burn them."

"Don't be silly. Give me the gloves and take the match!" Her voice rose, but only slightly for fear of waking the shopkeeper upstairs. Even so, the sharpness in her tone was enough to startle Azelma. The younger sister handed over the gloves, which she'd been holding tightly. In return, Éponine lit the match and gave it to her sister.

Azelma held it gingerly between her pale, numb fingers, at arm's length. Éponine flashed her a look of irritation before slipping the gloves onto her hands. Concentrating, she took her pocket knife and sliced through the wire. Once. She broke into a tiny grin.

She repeated the process, taking a small piece of barbed wire between her fingers and slicing through it with the knife. And again. Again. Again. She nicked her finger on the wire a few times, drawing blood, but it was no matter.

Hold. Slice. Hold. Slice. Hold. Slice.

How long she worked at the mindless task, Éponine didn't know. It was promising, but slow and tedious. The flame from the match died sometimes. Azelma would throw it away and Éponine would pull a new one out from her pocket and light it, which her sister would then gingerly take.

Éponine was still working, by the light of their fourth match, and nearly done too, when Azelma whispered suddenly, "'Ponine."

"What is it?"

"I do believe heard something."

"We are in Paris and certain to hear many noises. Bring the light back, then. I can't see." She turned back to her task. Hold. Slice. There was now a large hole, large enough to climb through if they were careful. Just to be safe, she started to make a few small slices in the wire surrounding the hole.

"'Ponine!" Azelma said again, more urgency in her voice this time.

Éponine huffed. "'Zelma …. "

Until her sister uttered five words that stopped her, made her blood run cold. Funny what five little words could do:

"It's him. 'Parnasse. He's here."

Éponine spun. And there he was, Montparnasse, the only man other than her father she truly loathed. That same terrible, teasing grin on his face as he leaned against the nearest lamp-post. He flicked out a small, but deadlier, pocket knife of his own, which glinted in the half-light menacingly.

"'Ello, 'Ponine," he said. "I've missed you, and Papa misses his little girls too. Won't you come home?"