Here's the next chapter! Thanks again everyone for the feedback! I hope you enjoy this one, although it's a little shorter than the last few.

The guards brought Enjolras to what seemed to be one of the oldest parts of the jail. The corridor was poorly lit, but the noise and smell of dozens of men cramped together filled in a a detailed picture better than any visual information could have. Enjolras knew the implication was that this block contained the prisoners deemed to be the most dangerous. He was determined not to show any fear as he discreetly took in his surroundings. It seemed that the guards deliberately set an excruciatingly slow pace. Enjolras was well aware of their motives; they wanted him to be afraid. He was unwilling to be afraid, so he quietly tried to gather information about his predicament.

These cells were a bit larger than the one he'd spent the previous night in, but they each held four men, making them seem incredibly cramped. Some prisoners were completely disinterested in the sight of guards escorting a new inmate, but many aggressively leaned against the bars and heckled Enjolras as he walked by; he took great care not to acknowledge them. Since all these inmates were being held pre-trial, they didn't wear uniforms and Enjolras realized that his clothes would make him stand out. Most of the other prisoners were dressed in some varying degree of rags. Enjolras' clothes had taken a beating from the fight, but it was still one of his nicer suits as he never changed from Lamarque's funeral. Now he stood out as rich and this would likely cause him problems he quickly realized. It was one minor but important detail he'd failed to plan for.

"Look at the clothes on that one! Don't see many bourgeois types in here!"

"Alms for the poor?" one pleaded sarcastically in response. His hand was extended so far out that he almost succeeded in grabbed Enjolras. One of the guards quickly hit his arm with club, and it shrank back into the darkness. Enjolras, though he had been the target of the initial ridicule, was horrified by the brutality and how much the guard seemed to enjoy doing it.

"You one of them rebel boys?" one voice called. "Bloody good job you did!" This was answered with an uproar of laughter. "Long live the Republic!"

"You kill anyone, pretty boy?"

"I bet he has!"

"No way," one began. "Just one of those little brats off playing French Revolution in the street!"

Somehow, this comment stung Enjolras worse than he knew it should have. His worst nightmare would be that his friends' efforts and sacrifice would be remembered in such a frivolous light. To him, the revolution was holy. But if the world dismissed it as short-sighted child's play, then, he truly failed.

"He sure is a pretty one," began a more menacing sounding voice.

"Could pass for a girl in a pinch, I think," replied another.

"I'll have to pay you a visit soon, gorgeous."

Enjolras repressed a shudder as best he could. The guards soon stopped in front of a cell. There were three prisoners inside. One was leaning against the bars to size up Enjolras. This one, tall and underfed, looked to be about eighteen, and he had an arrogant expression on his face which made it seem that jail suited him the way monasteries suit monks. He smiled slyly at Enjolras when the guards stopped in from of the bars. Of his other cell mates, one could hardly be seen in the shadows where he stood casually observing from against the wall; as far as Enjolras could tell, this man was huge. The third occupant was a frail looking old man kneeling at the foot of one of the wooden cots, quietly praying the rosary in a language that certainly wasn't French. Despite his education, Enjolras didn't have the talent for languages that Marius did.

"Get back, inmate," the guard barked at the young man leaning on the bars.

"You mean he's ours!?" the prisoner exclaimed sarcastically, ignoring the order.

"You'll back up now, or I can get the leg irons," the guard threatened. With a laugh, the prisoner complied. The other guard produced a key from his belt and started to open the door. When the barred door opened, they roughly shoved Enjolras inside, and in one fluid motion, they closed the cell with a miserable clanging sound.

It certainly wasn't the first time Enjolras had been locked in a jail cell, but something about the sound this time particularly unnerved him. He felt an onslaught of hopelessness that truthfully had far more to do with the loss of his friends than the loss of his freedom. The keys made a hideous noise in the lock.

"Hands," the guard instructed. Enjolras slowly complied without looking in any particular direction. When he slid his cuffed hands through the opening in the bars, one of the guards grabbed his wrists and yanked him forward.

"Listen boy," he whispered. "These are bloody animals they've seen fit to put you with. Everyone on this block has been here before and most are career criminals who can't be sent to the scaffold fast enough if you ask me. I don't know why I'm sympathetic, because I'm sure you deserve it for your rabble-rousing, but for your own foolish good, keep your head down. If they try to get money off you, do your damn-well best to get it to them. You can afford it and you probably won't have much further need of it." Then he undid the cuffs, and he and his partner were quickly on their way back through the noisy corridor.

"Keep quiet, you bloody dogs!" he shouted as his partner banged on a few cells with his club.

Enjolras leaned against the bars absentmindedly until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Caught off guard, he was suddenly grabbed by the collar and forced to turn around. The young prisoner was surprisingly strong, and Enjolras was too stunned to fight back effectively. In an instant, he felt a crude, jagged object pressed heavily against his throat. He instinctively leaned as heavily back against the bars as he could manage, but cursed himself for displaying any weakness. The other prisoner just glared at him viscously and pressed the makeshift knife as hard up against his skin as he could without quite drawing blood.

"So what's a pretty boy like you doing here with the likes of us?" The knife dug deeper, this time breaking the skin slightly and Enjolras felt the warm liquid seep down his neck from the spot where the tip was. He realized that if he so much as breathed too heavily, his throat could be slit. He figured that this boy wouldn't kill him deliberately because he it would hard to extort or otherwise profit from a dead man, but he was probably reckless enough to do it accidentally. Enjolras didn't really care what happened to him, except for his vow to Grantaire that he would fight until he couldn't anymore, and his vow to Patria that he would bravely be an example to others. He could achieve neither of these ends if he was murdered by an unbalanced cellmate on his second day of imprisonment. So he had to be careful.

"Let me guess, it's all a misunderstanding and you're totally innocent," the prisoner pressed on, his face right in Enjolras'. "And it will be sorted out as soon as your father hears about it? Well, pretty boy, I'll tell you what, I'm not. I'm here because I killed my first man before I was fifteen. My first robbery way before that. And I'm good at it. They've never been able to pin a murder on me; they're gonna try with this one now, but they won't succeed. I slip in and out of here like a hotel. I could break out of here any minute if I got bored, but I stick around until the trial, just because it's good sport. I'm looking at you kid, and I can tell you're no criminal. I heard about your little riots and I'm not impressed. Don't think I won't kill you if it suits me for some reason, you hear me?"

"I killed a lot of men during my little riots," Enjolras said quietly. He realized there were two ways he could go about this: either meekly hope not to incur any wrath, or establish himself as someone who could hold his own. Maybe it wasn't the wisest decision he ever made, but in an instant, he chose the latter.

Then, in a quick motion that Bahorel had taught him a few years ago, he seized control of the other prisoner's knife and soon reversed their positions, pinning him against the bars threateningly. He hoped this gamble would work. To say he'd killed a lot of men was probably an exaggeration, but if he could convince this other prisoner he was dangerous, maybe he would be left alone. He dug the side of his forearm into his foe's neck in a barehanded choke hold, then with his other hand, threw the knife out through the bars into the corridor. It was a crude example of prison handiwork that had surely taken the young man weeks to forge; Enjolras figured he was better off if the thing was out of the cell, rather than having to fight to keep control over it.

"I've got police, National Guard, and civilian blood all over my hands and absolutely nothing to lose. Since I'm not a jail-breaking, slinking coward who won't face the consequences of his actions, I know I'm not going anywhere from here but the Abbey of Monte à Regret." He'd heard Gavroche use dozens of crude gamin slang terms for the scaffold and was glad to have remembered one now in hopes that it would add the needed touch of authenticity to his performance.

"I've been a murderous worm's executioner before. Perhaps you should take care not to give me reason to play the part again before the real one comes for me." He almost lost his nerve making this last threat. As necessary as he saw it, killing Le Cabuc haunted his conscience. Enjolras never wanted to kill again; he would far rather die himself. His own words alarmed him; no human, no matter how hideous his crimes, was a "murderous worm" in Enjolras' eyes. This was the emptiest of his threats, but he had to be convincing to save his own hide long enough to finish his work.

To his horror, the man under his grip just smiled slyly. The next moment, he felt enormous hands grab him from behind and drag him back into the darker corner of cell. Soon, heavy fists were pummeling him in the face and on the torso. The blows kept coming ceaselessly. Enjolras' eyes weren't well adjusted to the dark, so he had an incredibly difficult time dodging them, and never once succeeded in landing a counterstrike against his assailant. His mouth was starting to fill with blood after the seemingly iron fist connected with his jaw and he felt a tooth break. One more hit to the side of the head and he started to feel dizzy.

In the heat of the chaos, Enjolras failed to account for how weak he really was. He was still battered from the barricade, he hadn't eaten or slept since the night before the funeral, and he had only had a small sip of water since arriving at the jail. When the large man grabbed his left arm and twisted it so hard that Enjolras felt and heard his wrist break, he staggered on his feet for just a few seconds before collapsing in a heap on the stone floor. He stayed conscious for a few more seconds as he felt two pairs of feet kicking him brutally from both sides. Then darkness kindly set in and reprieved him of further punishment.


Monsieur Gillenormand was in hell. When Marius was brought to his house the previous night from the barricade, he was sure that his beloved grandson was dead. The boy had lived through the night but barely. Now the old man sat at his bedside, gently dabbing his pale forehead with a cloth, being careful of the cuts. The wound in Marius' shoulder was already infected and he was suffering from a raging fever. The doctor wasn't optimistic.

"Monsieur," he had said before leaving in the early morning. "I think the best thing is to stay by him and keep him comfortable. I'm so sorry, but it probably won't be long. I'll be back every few hours between my other rounds." The hopelessness was devastating. Gillenormand had lived an astoundingly long life, but he had already outlived one of his children. Now his Marius was dying, and there was so much that needed to be said. He wanted to beg Marius' forgiveness for his role in their estrangement. The only thing worse than the boy dying was him dying without knowing how loved he was.

"Oh, I'm an old fool," he muttered at Marius' bedside. "Please forgive me. Your whole life, I kept you away from your father. He loved you as much as I did, and now you're going to go be with him and leave me behind. I suppose I deserve that. I was wrong, so very wrong." He broke down into unintelligible sobs and tightly grabbed the boy's seemingly fragile hand. Marius did not stir.

Suddenly, he heard a tap on the door.

"Father," said his spinster daughter behind the door. "There is a gentleman and his daughter at the door asking after Marius."

"Leave me alone!" Gillenormand cried. "Tell the vultures he's dying and I won't have his peace disturbed."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand was taken aback. No matter how callous her father always was, she never failed to be surprised and mildly offended by his mannerisms. She quietly closed the door and began to make her way down the hallway to tell the visitors off.

After she was gone, the old man at Marius' bedside had an epiphany. He remembered that Marius told him about a girl before. During one of their last conversations, he told him about a young lady called Cosette. He was in love with her and wanted to marry her. Monsieur Gillenormand scoffed at him and they parted bitterly.

The girl coming to visit with her father must be Marius' Cosette.

Monsieur Gillenormand was on his feet in an instant. He leaned over Marius and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll be right back, son. I'm going to bring back Cosette. Your Cosette, she's here. You'll hold on for her, won't you? Oh, of course you will!" And with that, the old man scurried out the door as fast as he could manage.

In the parlor, Marius' aunt was talking to an white-haired gentleman with a kind face who tightly held onto a beautiful young girl. She was crying quietly.

"I'm so sorry," she said with a highly artificial tone of sadness. "But Monsieur Marius cannot receive visitors. I'm afraid he won't be with us much longer, dear."

The girl leaned heavily into her father's side as the tears flowed freely. He stroked her shoulder. She took a painful breath, then tried to speak. "Please just let me say goodbye."

"I'm sorry," the aunt repeated.

"Mademoiselle," began her father. "Can I please speak to Monsieur Gillenormand?"

"Yes!" cried a voice from the top of the stairs. The grandfather dashed down the stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him. He turned his attention to his daughter. "You foolish woman! You were going to tell Marius' Cosette to leave! No, she must be at his side! She could help him pull through! How dare you try to send her away!"

"But Father, I," his daughter tried to object, but was quickly cut off as Monsieur Gillenormand reached them in the parlor.

"Oh, bless you Monsieur!" he cried when he greeted Valjean and recognized him as the man who carried Marius in the night before. "You've saved him a second time by bringing her here! I will be in debt forever! It makes sense now! You're the father of Cosette and the savior of Marius! You must be a saint!"

Cosette was still crying, but a smile spread to her lips. Her father was a saint.

"How is he, Monsieur?" Valjean asked.

"Not well," said Gillenormand honestly. "The doctor thinks he won't live, but I think Cosette will change things! What a beauty she is! No wonder my Marius is so in love you, my dear!"

Valjean was concerned by the old man's optimism. It was touching that he was so glad to see Cosette and he was sympathetic to his grief, but Valjean knew that her presence wouldn't stop death if it was truly upon Marius. He was worried that if he died, she would be crushed. He always wanted to protect her from the harsher realities of the world because of how much she suffered so early in her life. But there was no protection from this, so the best he could do was to help prepare her for the worst outcome.

"Can I see him, Monsieur?" she said timidly.

"Of course! Why, I insist on it," he said. "Come with me. You too, Monsieur...?" He suddenly realized he didn't know the name of his grandson's rescuer and felt terrible shame over this.

"Fauchelevent," replied Valjean extending a hand to shake. It was eagerly accepted by the grandfather. "Ultimus Fauchelevent."

"I am at your service Monsieur Fauchelevent," Gillenormand replied. Valjean and Cosette somberly followed him up the stairs to Marius' room. Cosette knew to do so was bad manners, but when she saw him, she was too overwhelmed to care; she ran to his side and grabbed his hand.

"Oh my darling!" she exclaimed, crying harder. "Please come back to me, my darling. I don't think I could bare to be without you." Valjean was saddened by the sight of the boy. He looked almost worse than he had before, except that he was clean now. Valjean prayed silently as a servant brought over chairs for all three of them to sit at Marius' bedside.

Cosette never let go of his hand, as the three sat in silent vigil. Marius never stirred.

"Do you suppose any of his friends made it?" Valjean mused. When he fled the barricade with Marius in tow, it looked very bad. So many had already been killed. That morning he read the papers with interest, but they focused more on those insurgents who had been captured. Valjean didn't know many names of the boys who'd been there, so the accounts were unhelpful.

"I don't know his friends," said Monsieur Gillenormand. "A bunch of rabble-rousing villains who pulled him into this mess! If they've all been shot, good riddance!" This troubled Valjean. He didn't view them this way.

"Monsieur," he began. "With all due respect, I'm sure that's not entirely fair."

"I hardly even know him anymore," said the grandfather, burying his face in his hands. "Now he's going to die thinking I despised him!"

"Monsieur," Valjean began again. "Marius carried a notebook with this address asking to be brought here. He loves you, and he knows you love him. We need to have hope that he'll pull through, but if he doesn't, you at least must know that."

Gillenormand didn't reply because he could never articulate such a sentiment, but Valjean's words were comforting. But he didn't have to; Valjean understood. The three didn't speak much, but Cosette and Valjean stayed for hours. Marius occasionally moaned in his sleep but was never lucid enough to realize who was with him. He seemed to be in pain, which distressed Cosette terribly.

When it started to get dark, Valjean gently coaxed Cosette to come home with him.

"Papa, I want to stay with him," she pleaded weakly. She was doubtful that if she left him, he would even be there in the morning.

"He needs to rest," said Valjean. This wasn't a strong argument, but Cosette didn't protest again. "I promise we'll come back if Monsieur Gillenormand permits it."

"Of course," the grandfather interjected. So they left together, under a cloud of sadness. On their carriage ride home, Cosette buried her face into Valjean's embrace and cried more. He wrapped his strong arms around her and tried to help her hurt less.

"I love you so much, Papa," she said quietly. He replied with a kiss on her forehead. Now he finally understood. Just because she loved Marius didn't mean she loved him any less. Even after so many years, she still had so much to teach him about love. It filled him with guilt and sadness that Marius' suffering was what prompted this revelation, and he continually prayed that the boy would survive. But after what he'd seen that day, it was a hard hope to cling to.