Hi everyone!
It has been brought to my attention by some of the readers that this story, particularly chapter 8 (the recent chapter when Enjolras was being tortured, and I did make the warning before that chapter more explicit) contains violent and heavy content that might better fit an M-rated instead of a T-rated fanfiction. Please let me know in a review or PM if you agree and think I should change the rating to M. If the readers believe this story should be M-rated, I ready agree and will change the rating. It is you that matters. So please just let me know.
So, that being said, I have another warning for the upcoming chapter. This chapter is not nearly as bad as chapter 8, but the beginning section of is kind of iffy, kind of gross. I do not think I made it too descriptive, but the whole idea is pretty disturbing. So if you want to skip the beginning of this chapter, by all means. You will probably be able to see it coming.
I hope you enjoy this chapter even though it is a bit grim, and I do apologize about this, I really do. After this chapter, though, I think you will find this story much more agreeable.
CHAPTER X
Execution
In the late winter of Paris, the water was frozen as was the earth. No crops, no food grew. Those who were fortunate enough to live in a warm home did not go cold. Those who were fortunate enough to have the money to buy bread did not go hungry. However, the poor and the homeless suffered greatly. Huddling under thin blankets or tattered coats, they curled up in dark corners and pressed their bodies against the icy walls of buildings in attempt to evade the merciless wind. Many of them were inflicted by hyperthermia, frostbite, freezing, and death. Likewise, many of them starved. Many of them died.
The animals were starving, as well. The deer in the parks, the birds in the skies, even the rats in the sewers, there was not enough to feed them. If ever they came upon a scrap of anything that seemed as if it could possibly be digested, they ate it greedily and desperately. There was not enough food for them all to eat. The first to find and consume whatever little food there was, were the only that survived.
Armies of rats, their bodies shrunken, their ribs visible, their stomachs empty, and their minds set only on finding something to eat, vainly wandered the prisons of Paris. They found nothing. They began to die one by one, and the company slowly shrank in side. Soon, there would be not one left. Yet, there was no halt. Wanderers fell and died, but the procession continued on. There was no room for compassion, no time for lamenting. Those that could kept moving forward into the cold and the darkness in search of a scrap of food that was not there.
Wait… Here was something! Resting immobile upon the floor there was… something. Yet was it, perhaps… food? The heat and the stench of it was what drew the rats toward it. Yet, what was it? Was it edible? Could it be the meal to save these dying creatures? One of the rats hungrily scurried to the newly discovered specimen and took a small nibble of it. Yes! It was food! A piece of meat!
In seconds, the rats swarmed upon it a mass of bees coming upon, attacking, and destroying their victim. The little beasts devoured the meat so quickly it was startling. The meat was still fresh, still warm. Yet, the creature could not have been still alive, because it did not stir or even flinch as this army of rodents began to eat it. The food was bursting with liquid, as well, and the meat was easy to get to—most of the skin it seemed had already been torn off. It was food. It was a feast!
Despite his effort to stay awake, his mind was wandering in a subconscious world between sleep and waking and his eyes had slid shut. It was the soft rustling of movement beside him that jerked him abruptly to his senses once more. The Algerian turned his head and looked hopefully at the cell beside him, believing that Enjolras was finally beginning to stir. What he found in reality was a horror that chilled his blood and froze his heart. There were rats all over his friend's body, and they were eating him alive.
"God!" Like a ruthless beast pouncing upon its prey, he lunged at the hideous creatures and attacked them with his bare hands. "Get out of here!" he roared furiously. "Out! Get out!" Most of them did not flee at the mere threat of his voice, so he wildly hit the creatures with his bare fists and knocked them off of the bleeding body. He swatted them madly, he threw them across the cell, he slammed them against the walls, he crushed them in his fists—he did anything to get them off of his friend. As his hands and arms made contact with the rats, they turned their fearsome little faces, hissing and shrieking and snapped their small but painful jaws at him in attempt to fight back. Even in the presence of an enemy vastly larger and stronger than themselves, the rats did not run. At last they had found food, and they would not leave it easily. Starvation seemed a grimmer death than anything this man could do to them. Starvation was slower and more painful. Yet, the Algerian managed to fight them away. When they finally retreated, man's heart was pounding like a drum, his arms were bleeding and burning in places where the rats sank their sharp teeth into him, and several of the beasts lied dead on the floor around him. His eyes darted to the motionless body of his friend.
His first instinct was to make sure Enjolras was still alive. Thank God. He was. His chest still managed to expand and compress as his lungs fought to breathe. He was struggling, but he was still breathing. He was still alive. The Algerian checked to see how much damage had been left by the rats. They must not have been upon him long before the Algerian noticed them, because the damage was minimal. Enjolras was lying on his stomach, and the Algerian had covered most of his mutilated back in ripped up cloths. Thus, the damage left by these rats was mostly on his arms, legs, and sides, where there was nothing to cover his wounds. In these places, the rats dug deeper into the gashes already in his flesh and ripped away some of the raw tissue that covered his bones. Had the Algerian not seen the rats, he might not have noticed the difference in the wounds except that they were bleeding heavier now. Still, if Enjolras was going to bleed to death, the rats would not be the cause of it. If he was going to die of some disease or infection, they might have contributed in killing him.
The Algerian immediately did his best to cover the new wounds. He ripped a long strip of fabric from the bottom of his trousers—from his bare feet to his knee was now exposed—and tore it up. He pressed the thin material against the raw wounds of his dying friend in attempt to stop the bleeding and to keep away whatever vermin might attempt to assault him again. That was all he could do. Enjolras needed attention and treatment far greater than was possible for this former doctor, fellow convict to give him. He would have done so much more if it was in his power, but it was not. This was all he could do.
The Algerian sat close to his friend and leaned back against the wall of his cell. This time his eye remained open, and he did not tire. Knowing that lurked around him the presence of a foe and of danger, any weariness that previously befell him vanished. He was vigilant. He kept an assiduous watch and remained ready to fight off the rats the moment they returned. It was not long before they did return. They were stubborn, and they were persistent. Even when they were chased off several times, in a matter of minutes, they came back. They always came back. Algerian managed to fight them off each time, and they did not touch Enjolras again.
Thank goodness it is winter, he thought bitterly as he watched the rats retreat. As he held the cloth to Enjolras's wounds, he could feel hot blood seeping through the fabric and sticking to his hand. If it were summer, there would be bugs. Flies, mosquitoes, larva… It would have been nearly impossible to keep them away. They would eat this man alive.
He stayed by his friend's side and waited for him to wake up… if he was going to wake up at all. In his condition, the Algerian was not convinced the young man would ever open his eyelids again. He had tried to tend to his wounds and his broken body, but it was not enough.
Now it was late in the night or more likely early in the morning. It was still dark. At sunset yesterday Enjolras was finally returned to his cell. He was misshapen and barely recognizable. He was naked. Even after he endured so many years in this jail, witness so much injustice and cruelty, survived beatings and punishment, the Algerian was astounded by what he saw that night. He was outraged and infuriated. They tortured this man to a point beyond anything he had ever seen before. Did these men have no consciences at all!? No souls!? Their souls were the spit of the Devil. Did they not have even the decency to put clothes back on this man's body before they threw him into a cell with countless convicts, many who now behaved like the animals they had been treated like for endless years? It was disgusting! Disgusting is not even a word gruesome enough to describe such inhumanity. Such filth. They treated this man worse than they treated the animals! Worse than they treated the rats that littered this prison and fed on human flesh! Was this prisoner not a man!? Was he not a man created in the same image of the same God, who fathered and loved him!?
No. Not in their eyes. In their eyes, a convict was not one of their fellow men. He was nothing. He was dirt, thrown by the wind and trampled by boots. He was treated and regarded lower than the animals. He was lower and grosser than the maggots that crawl through the mud and the worms that wriggle beneath it. A convict was not a man. A convict was a doomed soul condemned to a hell on earth and perhaps a hell grimmer still in the next life.
The Algerian did everything he could for his friend, but there was not much he could do. As soon as a guard passed their cell, he began to plead with him. He said the rebel needed to be hospitalized. Or at least, he needed to be seen by a doctor at once. He needed immediate and intensive medical attention and care or else he would die. If he stayed in this filthy and this freezing prison cell, the Algerian said, the man would die for certain. "What is his number?" the guard replied.
"86592."
The man shook his head. "86592 has been sentenced to execution. He is going to die either way." They refused to help him after that. The Algerian asked the guards for clothes, bandages, a needle and thread, clean water, alcohol, and medication for Enjolras, but they granted very few of these requests. They gave him a needle, some thread, and a bit of water. The Algerian put rags around Enjolras's waist to conceal his nakedness. He stitched up the wounds he was about to stitch, those that still had enough flesh around them that they could be closed. He had to rip up his own clothing and use it to dress his friend's wounds. He used up all of the water trying to sooth the burn that deformed Enjolras's face. He reset the bones, which had been displaced again and broken a bit more, in Enjolras's wrist, and bound it tightly. He found that two of Enjolras's ribs had been broken, but there was nothing he could do to fix that. Ironically, he was, for once, glad that the lower half of Enjolras's lung was missing, or else the ribs could have punctured it when they broke. As for the bleeding trench in his gum, it would probably require stitches and oral surgery, but he was not a dentist. Still, he would have attempted to fix the man's mouth if he had the tools to do so. He did not. The needle he had to work with was much too large and probably not very clean. The rebel's mouth would become infected for sure, and such an infection would kill him.
He is going to be executed anyway, the brutal truth reminded him, and his heart sank into despair.
That does not matter. I have to do whatever I can for him. I have to at least try to help him. I have to try to save him. Then, as the Algerian continued to repair—or at least attempt to repair—the man's ruined body, his mind was racing. "There are other ways of getting out," the rebel had said to him not long ago. What other ways? What was a way out of this godforsaken place!? Was there any way? That did not matter. He had to find a way. He had to get his friend out of here… before it was too late. Looking at the mangled corpse before him, he feared it might have been too late already.
He rolled up a small piece of fabric, the cleanest bit he could find, and put it in Enjolras's mouth. He closed the man's jaws so the cotton was pressed against the wounds in his gum and soaked up the blood before it spilled down his throat and choked him. By this point, a dreadful fever had come upon Enjolras. Even in the chill of winter and the cold of this cell, Enjolras's skin was hot to touch. The Algerian could not help him. There was nothing he could do but trust the cold of the cell and the grace of God to keep the fever from getting to high and killing his friend. So he sat by the rebel's unconscious body and waited for him to wake. He was exhausted and as the night lingered, began to fall asleep. He was suddenly awake again, alert, panicked, and afraid, and he was faced by the rats. Now, he was again sitting beside Enjolras and waiting for him to wake… or waiting for him to die.
God, please… the doctor found himself silently speaking to the Lord. Why? He was unsure. Even if the prisoner survived the next few days, he would be executed at the guillotine. Perhaps, it would be better if he simply died right here in this cell. It would less painful if he simply did not wake up. It would be easier. It might almost be peaceful. It was better this way. Yet, this man found himself praying nonetheless: Lord Jesus, please, spare this man. Let him wake up. Let him live. He is young. He is a good man. He does not deserve this. He never deserved any of this. God, I know You are just. If You are good, if You are merciful, spare this man. Save this child of Yours.
…
The night was fading. Morning was coming, and the sun was rising. He could see its dim light coming forth from the darkness, burning through it, and chasing it away. Even in this hell-bound place, the darkness fled away from the light. Even in this place where there was no light. He watched the light of morning grow stronger and spill into the barred window of their prison cell. As the dark and cold, ice coated, chamber illuminated, his heart great only darker. Dawn was at hand. There were always executions at dawn.
The rising of the sun did not bring hope in this place. Instead, it brought only doom. It brought destruction. It brought death.
His insides did not twist and convulse as one might have expected. Instead, he felt dead inside. Empty. There was nothing. His soul was dark and cold like this prison cell, and he was no longer capable of feeling. It felt like ice. Like death.
The Algerian was told by no body, but he knew. In his heart, he knew. This morning would be the last. This dawn would change everything. They would come for him. They would take him. The Algerian would never see him again. He knew this morning was the last time he would see his friend called Rebel, his friend whom he loved like a brother but whose name he did not even know. Now, it seemed, he would never know this man's name. What a strange thing. In the past, names never mattered. Neither he nor the rebel bothered to ask the other for a name. It was as if their names were forgotten, or as if they never existed at all. But now, in their parting, he wished he had known. He wanted to remember his friend not by his number but by his name, because he was indeed a man—a good man—with a name and a soul. He was not just a number. He was not just a convict. He was not just a rebel.
It was too late now. After this dawn, he would never see this man again. It was his heart and his soul that told him this. Perhaps it was Providence. It was not something he guessed. He knew. He knew in his heart this was truth.
And so it was.
The Algerian shifted where he sat against the stone wall, and turned a sad gaze upon his condemned friend. A trickle of red, like a calm stream of rainwater running slowly down a windowpane, flowed from the corner of Enjolras's mouth and down his cheek. His friend ripped another piece of fabric off the leg of his trousers and gently dabbed it against the rebel's lips to wipe away the blood.
Even as lightly and carefully as he touched him, it awoke a sensation like a bullet slamming into his jaw and going through his head, ripping off the flesh, shattering his skull, penetrating his brain… It was agony that knocked him unconscious. It was agony that awoke him. Enjolras awoke abruptly and suddenly, panicked and afraid, certain that he was still being tortured. The pain was still torture.
His eyes tore open. He could only open one eye. At least, he could only see out of one eye; he was unsure if both were open. His vision was not right. He could not see anything clearly. He saw as if looking through a dark and hazy veil of mist and fire. It burned his eyes. Images were warped, and blinding lights that were not really there sprang out at in from the darkness, hidden beasts waiting and pouncing. His screaming body jumped as did his heart. He lurked away from the man beside him, flipping his body over; his torn back slammed into the stone beneath him, bring forth a wave of pain similar to a wave of the ocean pounding into him, throwing him down, and crushing him upon the coast. Both of his hands, no longer bound, flew to the hand touching him, hurting him, and brutally seized the wrist as if ready to break it. If Enjolras's own wrist was not broken and his dominate hand not impaired, he might have crushed this wrist with force enough to break it. Now, however, he was wounded. He was weak, and he was dying. The man looming over him was strong.
"Easy, Rebel!" Despite being startled by the man's sudden actions and despite the pain that burned his arm as the rebel's figures dug into his wrist and the bleeding wounds left from the rats' teeth, the Algerian's voice remained gentle and his manner restful. "It is only me."
Enjolras stared at the face above him, his lungs gusting like the winds of a mighty storm and his heart pulsating like his throbbing body. His express remained frightened and confused. His figures remained locked stiffly around the Algerian's wrist, as if they had become stone. Perhaps his mind was gone in a state of delirium, the Algerian thought grimly. Enjolras did not seem to understand what was being said to him, what was happening, where he was, or who he was looking at.
"Rebel, it is me," he tried again, speaking calmly and slowly, making his voice clear and strong. "The Algerian. Your friend."
This was the first time either of these convicts had called themselves friends.
Enjolras did not move. For the next moment, his face did not change. He still did not seem to understand. Then the Algerian watched a faint light of perception appear behind his eye. His figures first loosened around his wrist. A moment later Enjolras let go of his friend's arm. His own arms fell and came to rest upon the stone floor. He let out a painful breath, and his lungs could be heard vibrating. He coughed. Great amounts of blood came up his throat, and he spit it out on the floor beside his face. He closed his eyes and let darkness envelope him, embrace him up like a blanket. He focused on breathing.
Breathing was everything. For the last four years of his life, breathing was everything. It was the only thing. If he kept breathing, he kept living. It was that simple. Breathe. Breathe through the pain. The pain will not go away, but if you breathe through it, you will endure through it. Keep breathing. Keep living. That is the bargain. That is the truth. So breathe. Breathing is everything. If you focus on breathing, you will not focus so much on the pain. Breathing hurts, but it is not as hard was the pain of living. So breathe. Just breathe. Keep breathing; keep living.
"They are not here anymore," he heard his friend's voice—his voice was compassionate and smoothing, but Enjolras could hear the emptiness, the despair, within it—speaking through the darkness. "They are not here to hurt you anymore. We are back in our cell."
Enjolras was unsure if it was vomit or blood fighting its way up his aching chest and into his burning throat. He tasted both in his mouth. Without opening his eye, he parted his dry lips, and a weak voice fell out of them. Just the slight motion of his jaw it required to form words and speak them was excruciating. "What time is it?" Enjolras could not have guessed for himself if it was evening or morning, day or night. His vision was distorted. Everything around him seemed dark as if an hour in the blackest part of the night was reining over France, but if that were true he would not have been able to make out the image of his friend's face.
The Algerian answered gravely, "It's almost sunrise."
"Oh." The fabric inside his mouth rubbed against the hole in Enjolras's gum, and pain ripped through his entire his jaw, his skull, his head... He winced and failed to withhold a muffled cry.
"You are in awful condition, Rebel," the Algerian did not attempt to hide the truth. "Your back is a bloody mess of deep wounds, raw flesh, and stitches; your wrist broke another time; two of your ribs are broken; three of your teeth are gone; and your face..." He trailed off. He fell silent. There were simply no words to describe what had become of his face.
Enjolras ended the silence. He wearily lifted one eyelid and struggled to make out his friend's face through the fog that shrouded his vision. He spoke in a lifeless voice like a man already dead, "And my eye?"
"Your eye is still there," the Algerian said, grateful that he had at least a shadow of something encouraging—or else, at least something that was not overwhelmingly discouraging—to tell his languishing friend. "I do not think your eye, itself, was burned. But everything around it..."
Enjolras muttered in that same dead tone, "I cannot see out of my eye."
"You cannot open your eye," his friend informed him. "Not right now, at least. Your eyelid was burned badly... and so was everything around it... It might be a while before you can open your eye again." In attempt to give his friend at least some hope after this grim news, he added, "But I do not think that eye was blinded. I think you will still be able to see out of it."
Enjolras attempted a curt nod, but even this slight movement caused overwhelming pain. A moment later, he was closing his eyes again and barely managing to breathe through the pain. God! Good Lord! Breathe. Just breathe.
"You need to rest, Rebel," he heard the Algerian telling him over the hammering of the pain. "Do not move at all unless you have too. You are in terrible condition... I did what I could, but... but that was not much." He was quiet for a minute. He sighed. "Rebel," he said softly. "I do believe you can survive this. If it were any other man, and he was not placed a hospital and treated by an army of doctors, I would not have thought so. But you are strong. You have a will like no other man on the face of this earth. You can survive this, Rebel. I know you can."
Enjolras did not answer for a long time. He was quiet for so long, the Algerian began to think he was not going to reply at all. He did. At last, he spoke in that same cold voice. Sometimes, when a man knows his time left on this earth is short, it is as if his soul departs before his physically body meets death. He is then a living corpse, an empty coffin, a body cold and empty inside, a man without a soul. "Do not trouble yourself over it. It does not matter." It was torture just to move his jaw and speak, but he ignored the pain and went on anyway. It did not matter anymore. "They are going to execute me now anyway. The general told me himself. I will be beheaded at the guillotine... very soon. Probably today." Enjolras opened the only eye he could open and with much effort focused it on the barred window across the cell. "Look," he said emptily. "It is sunrise."
...
It was almost the moment he spoke these words. It was almost as if he said this, "It is sunrise," and he pronounced his own order of execution. He commanded his own death. The quiet chamber of this desolate jail was awaked by a crash like thunder, a metal door thrown open and slammed into a stone wall. They turned their eyes in time to see three guards appear suddenly at the gate of their cell. Two of them stood a step behind the other; their guns were out and held at the ready, aimed into the cell as if they expected a ferocious lion to come charge out of it to assail them. The third guard approached the cell door. He held in his hand a large ring of keys and a wooden rod, which was often used to beat a prisoner that did something wrong, something worthy of punishment. In was around this time each morning the guards came to retrieve the men and transport them to the galleys where they could work. Yet, these guards—it only took one glance to know—had not come to fetch the chain gang.
The man closest to the gate, the man with keys and a rod in his hands, spoke in a loud voice into the cell, "We need prisoner 86592."
They both knew it was coming. Before the guard even spoke these words, before the guards even arrived at the door of the cell, they knew it was coming. Yet, nonetheless, the Algerian's heart dropped. Enjolras's did not. He hardly felt anything at all. Already, he was numb inside. Dead inside. The blow hit him, but he did not feel it.
"Come forward now!" the guard shouted when no one acted immediately in the cell.
"He cannot walk," the Algerian snapped back at the man.
The guard his head suddenly and eyes of rage landed on the convict. He saw the man—what might have once been a man—lying on the floor beside him. Then he had no doubts that this prisoner had spoken true. A man in such condition would not be able to walk. "Very well," he replied coldly. "Then you will bring him here."
Jesus, the Christ, the Lord and Savior of the world, the forgiveness of sins, the cleaning of souls, whose blood was spilt and became the waters of baptism, was led up the hill of Calvary carrying upon His back His own cross, the splintery wood He would been nailed to and He would die upon. As He climbed the mountain, burdened, wounded, dying already from the torture they inflicted upon Him, as he fell into the dirt, as He suffered agony, humiliation, disgrace, torture of the body and soul, the Romans saw a man passing by, a man called Simon of Cyrene, and they commanded him to help our Lord carry the cross of our sins. What was in this man's heart as he helped an innocent man walk each step closer to His death, to His murder? Was it indifference? Confusion? Fear? Was it guilt? Regret? Sadness? Pain? Was it pity? Compassion? The scriptures tell us not.
The gospel of Mark says the stranger was "forced" to carry the cross, suggesting that he might have been unwilling. Did he want nothing to do with the likes of a criminal? Did he want not to deliver a man to His death? We know not if Simon was a Jew, if he knew God, or if he knew the promise of the Savior. As he climbed that hill, the burden of another man's death upon his back, did he know who it was walking beside him? Who is this man? did he wonder? Did he wonder if he was carrying the cross of a criminal, or perhaps of a murderer? Did he know he carried the cross of the Messiah? Did he know that the man dying beside him, the torn flesh brushing against him, the blood staining his clothes, could save him and his soul? Did he know that when he looked with wonder and rumination at this condemned man beside him, he looked upon the Almighty God.
What did he feel when he watched them put nails through His hands and feet and raise the cross above the earth? Was he glad that he helped this man carry His cross? Perhaps it made the climb easier, perhaps not so painful. Was he glad he helped this man? Or did he regret his actions? Did he wish he had refused to obey the Romans? Did he wish he would have spoken? Did he wish he would have answered, "No. This is wrong. No man deserves to die like this. I will not carry that cross." Perhaps then he would now be hanging on a cross beside Him. So then was it not better that he remained silent? Or did he still feel regret?
Did he regret? Did it matter? What is done in the past cannot be undone. No regret or remorse can change that. It takes only a minute, only a second, to make a mistake that will leave lasting and lethal damage. It takes only a second to make a mistake that will change everything. What is done is done. On cannot change what is done. No wishing, no willing, no longing no matter how great will change that. Once it is done, it is done. There is no sense in looking back. There is no sense in wishing. There is no sense in weeping. There is no going back. Only going forward. So do not look back for too long. Do not drown in regret and sorrow. Look back once, only long enough to see the mistake and learn from it. The past is over and done, but the future remains before one forever. Forever does not mourn the past. So look back long enough only to learn from it. Repent. The blood of the man dying on the cross is the only water that can wash away the past, those sins. Take this cup and drink of it. Taste the sweet, the joyous, the incredible taste of salvation. Embrace the mercy of love. Adore the love of the King. Praise Him! Then look forward.
The guard said, "Then you will bring him here," and the man was faced with a choice where he had none. Like Simon of Cyrene, he was forced to do this. He had no choice, yet he could made the choice. He could have spoken. He could have said, "No. No man deserves to die like this. I will not bring him to you so you can torture and murder him." Perhaps then he would only have been taken from his cell and executed alongside his friend. So then was it not better the he remained silent? Perhaps so. Perhaps not. Who is to say? Yet, as for the Algerian, he regretted his decision. He regretted it long and hard. His mind lingered on it all throughout the day, and it kept him awake at night. He did not stop regretting, and wishing, and hating himself. He did not stop looking back. He never set himself free of his burden. God forgave him. Perhaps, his friend forgave him. But he did not forgive himself. So his heart was heavy in his chest like a rock. His conscience tortured him. He never stopped looking back. He looked back forever.
When the guard ordered this of him, he was momentarily torn and did not know what to do. What could he do? He looked fearfully down at Enjolras, and their eyes met. Enjolras spoke not a word, but he did not have to. Hid friend understood. It is alright, was what Enjolras told his friend without opening his lips or making a sound. This has to be done. It is alright. It is better this way. Help me get up.
The Algerian gently put his arm around his friend's back and a hand on shoulder. He helped him sit up first, slowly, carefully... easy. Despite the impatience of the guards, he let Enjolras sit still on the floor for a moment, resting in his arms, to catch his heaving breath and to wait for the pain to lessen. It was Enjolras who at last made the first attempt to stand. "Easy, Rebel," his friend said softly to him. "Carefully." His arms around the man and Enjolras's right arm—his left shoulder still hurt from being dislocated, and he could not lift it well—over the Algerian's shoulders, he helped Enjolras stand and walk slowly across the cell to the gate where the guards were waiting for him. It was nearly Enjolras's full weight weighing upon this man, and soon the Algerian was practically carrying him. It was a short distance, but it seemed long. It seemed so long. A road of toil and pain that would never end. Perhaps, in this moment, this convict who was an innocent and a good man felt something as Simon of Cyrene felt as he helped Jesus trek that path to Golgotha. He wanted this path to end as soon as it could. He simply wanted it to end. He wanted it to end now. The end meant death, but death was better than this life, this hell, that this condemned man was enduring now. Yet, at the same time, he did not want to deliver his man into the hands of a beast, which was a death painful and shameful. He wanted to help this man, and he was helping him by helping him walk and carry his burden. Yet that did not seem like enough. He wanted to help him, really help him. He wanted to save him. He wanted to, but he did nothing, as he perceived that he could do nothing.
As they walked, the Algerian could hear Enjolras panting and struggling to withhold cries of torment, torture. "Almost there, Rebel," he whispered. "Almost there. It is almost over."
And there was that promise once more: It is almost over.
At last, when they came to the gate, the guard unlocked it. The door opened, and Enjolras was immediately seized by brutal hands that dragged him away from his friend's caring grasp. Now he was in the hands of men who did not care about him, men who hated him, men who wanted to see him in pain. The guard closed the door and locked it. Enjolras and his friend were separated by those iron bars. Their eyes met and remained steady. For the next seconds, their gazed did not part or waver. They spoke no words, but they both understood. They both said goodbye.
A second guard grabbed hold of Enjolras, and they yanked him away from the cell. He let out a short cry as the pain increased, rising above his head and attempting to drown him. One guard followed behind with a gun aimed at the prisoner, and the two others dragged him down the corridor. His arms and his shoulders screamed as they pulled the weight of his body, and his bare feet and ankles tore against the rough stone of the floor until they abraded and bled. Pain consumed his entire body, his entire being. Darkness closed over his vision, and then, for the next stretch of time that seemed it would never end, Enjolras was being dragged, as if by the hands of the Devil, through oblivion and pain. He could hear the footsteps of the guards echoing through the prison and through his mind. That was all he could hear.
God, he remembered thinking. Does this tunnel ever end? Will it ever end? It's so far...
The next thing he was aware of, his body and face slammed headlong into a stone wall... no, it was a stone floor. This was followed by a loud noise behind him—a heavy door closing loudly. He still could not see through the darkness and the pain.
"This is the prisoner, is it not?" a stern voice said from somewhere around him.
"Prisoner 86592," one of the guards confirmed.
"Good. Put some clothes on him."
He heard for a moment a faint shuffling sound. Another bullet pierced his body when something was thrown at him and hit his shoulder. Enjolras weakly lifted his face off of the floor and stared at what it was that hit him. Based on the pain, he expected to see a guard with a club or a whip, but instead he saw balled up on the floor in front of him soft cotton garments, a red shirt and black trousers. He stared at them for a moment, not comprehending why they were there or what he was supposed to do with them. Oh. He was now to dress himself, and the guards would mock and torment him as he struggled to pull the light fabric over his wounded body. So be it then. They could mock him now. At least, he would not be naked when he stood before and died before the people of France... his people, whom he gave up everything for trying to set free.
With trembling arms and shaking hands, he pushed his body up off the floor. He managed to sit. The rags that his friend clothed him in when he was unconscious in the cell had come off, leaving him exposed and humiliated. He took up the garments, and tried to clothe himself. Just the slight movement of his muscles was agonizing, but, ignoring the pain, he dragged the trousers up his legs. This was bearable, at least, because there were not as many wounds on his legs, except for where the rats had attacked him. Enjolras saw the blood, he felt the burn, and he vaguely wondered where these wounds came from—not that it mattered now. Once he reached his groin area and pulled the trouser up over his waist, it became harder... more painful. It was almost impossible for him to somehow get the shirt over his head and slide it over torso. One wrist broken, his other shoulder dislocated, his ribs broken, his back mutilated... Yet, somehow, he managed to do it. The guards jeered at him the entire time while he was doing this. He heard them laughing and remarking, but he pretended not to. He ignored them. Once he was dressed, rough hands grabbed him once more and pulled him to his feet.
He swayed on week legs. He tried to steady himself. His vision became even blurrier and harder to see through, but when the wave of dizziness passed, he saw before him a tall man sitting behind a polished desk, his eyes fixed not on Enjolras but an open book spread in front of him. Who this man was Enjolras had no idea. He had never seen him before. He was evidently some kind of official with some authority, because of he wore uniform with many metals upon it; beyond that, his very pose declared his rank. Enjolras, wondering where he was, where these men had brought him, briefly glance around the room. It was unlike most in the prison, clearly meant for guards and officers, not for prisoners. There was beyond the polished desk, a fine chair, a fireplace, a bookshelf, a large French flag hanging upon the wall, and a large window without bars over it. Looking through the window, was a clear view of the red sun rising over the guillotine.
"86592," the man behind the desk addressed Enjolras without raising his eyes from the book. Enjolras turned cold eyes upon this man and listened. Feeling only deadened inside, he waited. He waited to hear the words that would condemn him to the death already upon him. "Enjolras, is it not?" This is the first time Enjolras heard his name spoken in four years. For the first time, the man raised his eyes from the book and met the prisoner's gaze. The convict did not answer, but it made no difference. Even with a shirt over his body, the neck of it hung low on the prisoner's chest, and the numbers could be seen scarred across it: 86592. This was the right man.
"Forty-five months ago, in the July of 1832, you were brought to this prison," the man continued in a hard and indifferent tone.
Forty-five months, Enjolras thought distantly. So it has been almost four years.
"You were arrested and found guilty of the following charges..." He looked down at the book again and read from a list. It was a long list. "Rebellion against your king and country, conspiracy to overthrow His Majesty, promoting and encouraging rebellion to your fellow citizens, heading an illegal organization known as the Friends of the ABC, leading an uprising on June 5, 1832, destruction of imperial property, disturbance of public welfare, rioting, revolution, murder, and treason, having betrayed your King, your leaders, your country, your people, and your motherland, France." At last, the man came to the end of the list, and he heaved a great breath. Apparently, he had used all of the air in his lungs while reading aloud. He raised his eyes and again looked into Enjolras's face. "For these heinous crimes, you were sentenced to a lifetime imprisonment, hard labor, and necessary floggings. However, for the greater good of this nation, you were placed under the custody and command of General Paye. The General tells us that you have been informed already, he had come to decide upon your public execution by guillotine."
Enjolras remained silent. Yes, he already knew this. It was no shock. It was no horror. In fact, Enjolras was not even afraid. He was ready to die. He wanted to die. His life now was the hell, and his death was the only escape from it. He wanted to escape. He wanted it to end. He was prepared and he was ready for whatever was to come next. He made his peace with the Lord, and he was ready to meet Him. He was prepared to die.
However, nothing could have prepared him for what the officer said next.