A/N: I'M ALIVE! Exams are over! I never have to sit another paper until Uni! Woohoo! No more A-Levels!
OK... slight mental, tearful freak out over... This chapter is for all the wonderful people who have believed in me and in this story; namely Sarahbob, TotaltheMax and Rainwillmaketheflowersgrow who have all been incredible in acting as rocks with their determination to read more of this- you guys are all incredible and I love you all dearly and thank you from the bottom of my heart! Much love x
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 into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
The Tigers Come At Night
Slowly, they begin to fall into a routine in this strange, new reality that they have found themselves thrown into. If a routine could be the term given to the day to day existence of a group of battered French Republican rebels sheltering in the house of their leaders' sister from the full force of the tyrannical Louis Philippe and his National Guard, Combeferre thinks dryly as he marks Gavroche's arithmetic with one of Grantaire's artist pencils; curled up in a chair next to Enjolras' bed, spectacles perched perilously on the end of his nose as he squints through the flickering, guttering lamp light at the swirling dark grey shapes that spiel out across the flattened wood pulp crossed with inky blue lines in a ribbon of charcoal. It is evening and the lamps are low; the flickering yellow flames dancing across the shadowy walls of a room that stinks of fraternal companionship as a silver slice of moonlight falls through the high slashed window coating everything in a bath of silver brilliance.
Laying the pencil aside and marking his place with a scrap of ribbon, he removes his spectacles with a weary hand and rubs his exhausted eyes; allowing them to flicker over the cramped room that is full to bursting point with bodies crowded around the large bed with its mound of sheets and pillows where in sits Enjolras who is trying to teach Gavroche how to play chess. He is Apollo; albeit a cracked and broken imitation of the golden God; still a flickering shadow of his palpable fiery splendour, body thin and weak from the fever's fiery, perverted embrace; cheeks hollow from the hacking coughs which continue to slowly disintegrate his broken lungs; a statue in desperate need of an artist's loving caress in order to reshape the clay and paint the glaze until he can be whole and pure in all his godlike glory once more, but Apollo all the same. Apollo surrounded by his Muses, all devoted in the task of slowly putting their golden leader back together again, piece by painful piece.
Combeferre feels a ghost of a smile that is still tinged with anxiety tug at the corners of his mouth as he realises just how like Grantaire in the heat of one of his drunken ramblings he sounds, even to himself; a far cry from his usual calm, logical composure. He feels the smile tug painfully at his lips as he watches Enjolras try and explain to Gavroche in a hushed, husky whisper about the importance of protecting his pawns and feels his heart lift slightly in his chest as he sees the gamin's eyes widen slightly as the older boy deftly catches one of the jet black pawns with his knight of shining ivory.
The golden angel is thinner than Combeferre would really like, the cotton nightshirt hanging loosely off his emaciated frame which is open at the neck, the strings lying loosely against the pale skin that still holds a faint blush of the fever's nagging fire; so that a glimpse of the many bandages caressing his broken chest are just visible. His electric eyes are drooping slightly with a mixture of exhaustion and supressed pain; the icy irises still clouded somewhat by the nagging remnants of the fever that has enfolded him in its fiery embrace for so long and is still refusing to let him evade its grasp completely. Gavroche shifts slightly in annoyance as he watches Enjolras deftly capture his last remaining bishop with his queen; stubby fingers automatically reaching up to tug awkwardly at the newly acquired, itchy starched shirt collar that Courfeyrac with the help of Cosette and the promise of getting the first pick at Cook's newest batch of biscuits had managed to wrestle the gamin into that morning. Gavroche had relented, only on the condition that he got to decorate said biscuits with sugar icing and help hand them round at tea before finally consenting to the infernal contraption being buttoned into place.
Courfeyrac, who is surveying proceedings with a slight smirk dancing on his lips, reaches out to ruffle the gamins' mop of dirty blonde curls whilst strategically capturing one of Enjolras' lone pawns that their fearless leader had left unguarded. Seeing this, Enjolras huffs in annoyance and proceeds to continue his silent coup de état by cornering Gavroche's king into check; carefully and painfully manoeuvring his queen with his good hand whilst trying not to upset his sling.
'Checkmate', his voice; so usually filled with the roaring flames of passionate hope for his beloved Patria is husky from lack of use as Gavroche stares at him with wide, incredulous eyes; his glaze flickering from one face to the other; lips pouted in annoyance as he takes in the slow grin spreading across Courfeyrac's lips and Enjolras's tight, pained smile as he gazes back down at the board and then back up at his friends; these boys who have welcomed him into their pack with laughing smiles and whispered kisses before shrugging and slipping off the bed. Combeferre watches him weave his way deftly across the packed floor with a slight smile dancing across his lips to where Grantaire is trying to sketch Cosette and Marius who are reading Wordsworth or some such Romantic poet in translation that none of them save Combeferre have ever heard of by the flickering light of the guttering table lamp. The soft French phrases filter through the heady atmosphere, the steady iambic pentameter floating on Cosette's lark like tones cocooning everything into safety as she curls up next to Marius; one hand resting protectively on his good arm as he gazes down at her; soft brown eyes filled with silent, passionate adoration for his angel. His lark that he intends to propose to as soon as Combeferre allows him out of bed for stretches of time longer than half an hour.
'Tough luck Mon Ami', Enjolras' voice is little more than a hoarse whisper that is laced with exhaustion as his good hand crashes against the board; sending the remaining pieces flying across the snowy white coverlet. 'Damn it', he mutters, the words slurring slightly as he desperately tries to fight the unstoppable force of oncoming exhaustion that is threatening to overwhelm him; more to himself than to anyone else as he tries to sit up straighter; a flickering wince of pain escaping dry lips as the shattered muscles in his leg contract in silent, screaming agony. Combeferre's eyes flick upwards and in an instant he is beside the bed; one steadying hand gripping his friends' shoulder in silent reassurance as he feels Enjolras' warm, comforting weight lean into him, feeling the numb digits of his good hand fall into his open palm and squeeze painfully as the sudden burst of icy fire ebbs away, blue eyes gazing up into his own in silent desperation. 'It hurts 'Ferre. Why does it hurt? Why does it hurt this badly? I… I thought…'
A whispered, suddenly salty kiss caresses the marble forehead and Combeferre sinks to his knees, blinking back the sudden, painful pricks of emotion dancing at the corners of his eyelids as his hand snakes across the marble chest; fingers dancing as gently as they can over the cotton that hides the multiple bandages cocooning his best friends' broken lungs into safety. A faint groan escapes the bitten lips as another flurry of pain chases itself through the battered body as he feels the haloed head turn into his chest, biting back the sudden, fiery, hacking cough that threatens to throttle him once again as Combeferre brushes a stray lock of gold out of the wide, blue eyes still dancing with the ashes of the fever's fire. 'I don't know 'Jol. I just don't know. I wish… Oh Mon Cher… I wish I could take all the pain away… I would take all the pain away, you know I would. We all would, you know that. Please be brave Mon Petit, it'll all be over soon, I promise…'
Combeferre's heart twists painfully in his chest as he feels his hands tighten around Enjolras' trembling frame; clutching him into a capable embrace, a lone finger reaching up to trace the quivering chin; never even thinking for a moment about letting him go as the fiery, hacking coughs continue to throttle him into submission. Thick fingers begin to entwine themselves in a mop of golden curls; slowly carding themselves through the tangled locks with all the care and devotion of a mother bear grooming a wayward cub as Enjolras sighs brokenly as the coughs begin to subside into ragged, jarring breaths landing choked and broken against his heart. Faintly, he hears the creak of a door being pushed open as he allows his fingers to continue drifting through the golden curls; feeling the mattress groan in protest as another body sinks gracefully down beside him; the warm, slim weight of Henriette a bolstering comfort as she smiles down at her brother slumped in exhaustion against his chest.
'Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet'*, a soft hand traces the line of the marble cheek as a whispered, contented sigh escapes the virgin lips; Rousseau's familiar mantra making him feel suddenly light headed as he sinks into Henriette's comforting bosom. A faint trace of an exhausted smile dance across cold lips as a second pair of fingers continue to card through his hair. Fingers that still hold a faint, lingering odour of honeyed lavender as a whispered kiss sweeps the marble forehead and the exhausted body slumps back into the waiting embrace as Henriette presses the water glass to the icy lips which accept the frigid liquid with grateful, silent thanks.
'You…you…' the words are muffled against the fabric of Henriette's robe; the ends slurring slightly; faded from a deathly combination of exhaustion and suppressed pain as she kisses him again; a tender, whispered kiss that flies over the marble forehead, silencing him into safety. Enjolras pulls away from the kiss and tries again; lolling tongue stumbling painfully over the words as the blissful cloak of dark oblivion steadily pulls itself over his exhausted self; making any sense of rational impossible for his usually furiously active mind. Combeferre can't bear it as he watches his friend struggle over the words that not long ago would have slipped like honeyed silk from his tongue; flicking his gaze over to Courfeyrac who nods in silent understanding and moves away over to where Feuilly, Gavroche and Henriette's nine year old son Georges are watching Grantaire's creation take shape under the thick fingers stained with dust and darkness; the charcoal flying like a black swallow over the crisp, white artists paper procured by Toussaint on a visit to the local market with Henriette's maid Anna. Combeferre likes Georges, he's tall for his age and although he's younger than him, is kind to Gavroche; even offering to teach gamin how to fish when they next go down to the lake below the farm. A tall, stocky nine-year-old with a mop of reddish brown hair and a plain face completed by large, wide, greeny-brown eyes and a smattering of freckles caressing his broken nose makes the guide think instantly and inexplicably of Bahorel as he watches him throw an amicable hand over the smaller boys' shoulder and grin toothily at Grantaire who smirks back in reply.
Bahorel, the gentle giant of Les Amis de l'ABC. Bahorel with his receding mop of reddish brown hair and broken nose; dark eyes dancing with silent mischief as he listened intently to Enjolras discussing his plans for their next bid for recruits to the cause; a glint of mischievous delight leaping high in wide, dark pupils at the thought of another possible protest against the tyrannical Bourgeois regime that he hated with all his heart. Bahorel swinging Gavroche onto his shoulders as he piggybacked the snow soaked gamin over to Enjolras' table cluttered with used ink bottles, maps and charts of France and Paris itself by the fire to get warm and relay the latest news from the slums of St Michel.
Bahorel with his deep infectious laugh rumbling loudly through the packed Café as he beat a very disgruntled Courfeyrac at cards, almost upsetting an intoxicated Grantaire's empty bottle of Absinthe that the cynic still clutched at protectively in a steadily weakening grasp. Bahorel stumbling into the haze of anxious anticipation that had enfolded the top room of the Café Musain in a clutching embrace, battered and bruised when the last barricade of the 1830 revolution had finally fallen. The gentle, courageous fighter who adored his friends, staggering into their fragile haven; supporting a semi conscious Jehan, one limp, tattered arm slung over his shoulder as he stumbled into their midst. Jehan, whose thin, freckled face and wide honey coloured eyes had been marred by a mask of brutal bruising; as he gently eased the trembling, half-conscious poet into a chair with a whispered kiss falling from thick, trembling lips before calling in a loud voice that was rough with anxious emotion for Combeferre to come and help him.
Combeferre still remembers Jehan's injuries. Can still recite his prognosis, diagnosis and treatment word for word, even now; two years on, as he had searched the thin, battered face for any flicker of recognition; one trembling finger slowly reaching up to brush a blood caked curl of ginger hair out of the pale face as the poet's head lolled into the dependable security of Bahorel's chest; bloodied lips parted slightly as he had struggled for breath. Concussion. Two broken ribs. Possibility of a punctured lung due to gunshot wound to chest. Broken nose. Compulsory bed rest and observation from his willingly devoted friends for at least two weeks if not more. Ah, what a waste! Such a bitterly, tragic waste of a life that had been filled with such bright, hopeful potential and yet was deemed only fit enough to be snapped cruelly short on an icy June dawn by the resounding rapport of a bayonet chorus as the shivering, battered body shouted a final farewell to the beloved Revolution. 'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!'
He still hears the flickering wince of pain echoing through the packed room that stunk of feverish anxiety for those not yet returned. A wince that had brought Courfeyrac who was helping Joly tend to Bossuet who had suffered from a jagged cut to the temple courtesy of a flying shard of glass hurrying over with a bowl of water, stained crimson with the slowly unravelling tendrils of hydrated blood and a clean cloth; hazel eyes wide with worry.
Still sees Enjolras' exhausted eyes widen slightly as the bloody, battered and yet resolute Archangel finally stumbled into the safety of their haven, trailing the spicy fire of gunpowder combined with the cloying, metallic stink of blood behind him like a fog; his scarlet jacket torn and caked with day old blood and shit that had enfolded itself around him like a second skin. The chief taking in his bruised, bloodied band of stubborn revolutionary dreamers still clinging resolutely to his side as they watched him; eyes wide with apprehension for his next command. Still sees the shaking, marble fingers clenched tightly around the fractured remnants of a broken carbine as he had made a customary roll call; electric blue eyes still filled with the leaping flames of passionate fire flickering, checking, reassuring himself as each of his friends with the exception of the poet who had been slumped in unconsciousness in Bahorel's capable, clutching embrace answered to their names with ringing, exhausted conviction. Bahorel, their gentle, passionate, courageous fighter; now little more than a blank faced corpse; lying face down on the cobblestones of Rue St Denis; his sweet, scarlet sacrifice to his beloved country now only remembered by the dusty stones that had soaked up the blood of the martyrs who had willingly sacrificed themselves in a desperate, futile hope that a new world would one day rise up out of the smouldering ashes of the old in all its fiery splendour.
The sound of a door being slid shut jolts Combeferre out of the dark, spiralling abyss of his memories like a quick, painful twist to the wrist. Blinking, he looks up to see M. Frauchlevent framed in the doorway still fully dressed; save for his waistcoat which, like the rest of the men in the house has been discarded for shirt sleeves in a desperate attempt to evade the oppressive mid-June heat that spirals in visible waves off the cracked, parched earth; enfolding the choking house into a tight, claustrophobic embrace. Behind him, he can just make out Madame Flora and Adrienne; their hair long and loose; tumbling over their shoulders in manes of contrasting gold and ebony who slip into the room like silver swans; Flora to her children and Adrienne to Grantaire who is making the final, flourishing touches to his sketch of Marius and Cosette, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he surveys his potential masterpiece. But something's not right. Combeferre can sense it. Can see it in the look of grim determination in those wide, grey eyes which flash over the scene; one hand clenched tightly over what looks to Combeferre like a newspaper. His mind is racing; half formed thoughts tumbling through the dark cavenous abyss of his brain that make no sense and yet… What on earth?
He throws a quick, searching glance at Courfeyrac who shrugs; hazel eyes reflecting the same palpable confusion that is lapping at the base of his throat like flickering flames of molten fire. Instantaneously, his gaze races itself back to Enjolras and Henriette whose already pale faces are set and white as Flora pulls their broken, golden God into her arms and extends a hand to her daughter who takes the digits in a soft, reassuring squeeze before scrambling up onto the mattress beside her brother. Enjolras pulls out of the embrace painfully; eyes suddenly frozen into ice; only the inky pupils alive; dancing with a badly supressed confused fear as he grips his Mothers' hand; eyes flicking desperately over the apprehensive, fearful faces of his friends, trying to reassure himself that for now, all is not lost.
Out of the corner of Combeferre's eye, he sees Grantaire silently pack up his artist materials and stand with Adrienne, Feuilly, Cosette, Marius, Gavroche and Georges; the two children clasping Feuilly's hands, fingers scrabbling in a suddenly sweaty palm for the security of another's touch as they gaze at M. Frauchlevent's stern expression with huge, terrified eyes. Adrienne's hand rests lightly in the cynic's trembling palm; two pairs of wide, dark eyes huge with fearful anticipation as they watch their white haired saviour slowly close the door and turn back towards the silently expectant room. Grantaire's expression is unreadable, but Combeferre knows the cynic well enough by now to understand that behind the temporary walls thrown up behind the dark green eyes; his mind will be in turmoil; sudden, desperate conclusions flying through the dark abyss of his brain; figures and facts, ideas that make no sense whatsoever. What…? No… They can't have been discovered… How can they have been? They weren't followed… Were they? No… Please… Not now… No… Not when… Not Enjolras… Not Apollo… Not after everything… 'Make sure the others get out alive… Please… They'll listen to you… Promise me…'
Cosette makes to go to her father, to ask him what has happened; what could have possibly happened; but Marius' grip on her arm tightens and she turns back; blue-grey eyes meeting brown with a look of pleading anxiety etched on her fine features like ink. He shakes his head sadly; his gaze looking past her pale, determined anxiety for boys she barely knows and yet by some miracle have become the family she has never known; falling on M. Frauchlevent who smiles grimly before crossing the room and handing the paper over to Combeferre in silent invitation.
'Page five', his voice is little more than a hoarse croak as his eyes land on Enjolras; full of silent, desperate regret for bringing in yet more pain to these men, these boys who have already seen more agony, more suffering than a human being should ever be held witness to and yet have still survived; pure and whole in the knowledge and warmth of their friendship. His heart goes out to them; silently fluttering through the spiralling, uncertain tension on silver wings. 'I'm sorry'.
The weight of the flattened wood pulp seems oddly alien between numb, shaking digits as Combeferre fights to hold it steady; eyes widening as they scan over the typeography that is steadily spiralling out into a long, illegible scrawl of black ink before his shattered eyelids as his brain fights to process the English words which he has known for years and yet suddenly sound as alien to his brain as if he were reading Chinese characters. He has to read the headline twice before it finally creates any sense of meaning for his temporary jammed mind. And again. And yet it still refuses to make perfect sense because this isn't happening. It can't be happening. Not now. Not after they'd been through so much and still survived. Not after… Not when… Not now… How could they have known? How do they know? He suddenly can't breathe; his lungs compressed against his heart, the oxygen fighting fruitlessly against the steadily rising barricade of white hot terror that is surging up his barren throat like lava; incinerating everything into fine, black ash. Breathe Henri. Just breathe. It's not what you think it is. It can't be…. Please, tell me it's not… He is so caught up in his desperate mental mantra that he doesn't feel the shaking pressure on his shoulder and only looks round when he feels thick hands cup his chin; trembling fingers tracing his cheek in silent, desperate anxiety.
''Ferre? What is it? What's… what's happened?' Closing his eyes for a fraction of a second; he blinks up at Courfeyrac's terrified face inches from his own as the trembling grip on his shoulder tightens instinctively. The hazel eyes are alive with fearful worry as they dance over to where Enjolras sits up in bed; blue eyes radiating with confusion as his gaze flies from friend to friend and back again. 'I'm sorry Mon Petit. So sorry'.
He can't reply. Can't move. Can't think. He's paralysed to the spot, numb fingers suddenly drenched in icy sweat still clutching at the paper; staring passed Courfeyrac's anxious eyes into the fires leaping high in his chief's inky irises and yet all he sees is a blank faced corpse; the sapphire orbs blindfolded, the golden curls stiff with a stinking scarlet halo, the alabaster skin sullied by a dark necklace of weeping bullet holes as the rapport rings out... Sudden, unbidden vomit rises through his throat like molten fire and he barely has time to choke it back before it erupts through his barren mouth in a volcano of fiery phlegm.
''Fey… 'Feyrac… I…' Dimly, he sees the pieces fly into place behind Courfeyrac's widening eyes as he snatches the paper out of his trembling, weakening grasp before it falls and the comforting coldness of something metal is forced under his quivering chin. He feels his knees give way as the fiery vomit cascades into the jug; his whole body shuddering under the weight of supressed emotion. Scalding, salty tears prick painfully at the back of his eyelids and he lets them fall as the choking coughs even out into shuddering, sobbing gasps landing choked and broken against the glass, the fiery vomit leaving his mouth painfully raw as he gasps for the sweet tang of oxygen. 'We've… The police…' He feels his eyes slip shut and tries again, forcing himself to make some sense of a situation that he really doesn't want to believe. And all the while he can feel the appalled horror of his friends' gazes intensify with every passing second. Just breathe Henri. And yet breathing seems to be an impossible dream at the present moment, so he begins to count his heart beats instead; each thudding iamb throbbing painfully through the thin cotton of his shirt. I. 2. 3. 4. 5. Just breathe… They'll understand… It'll be alright… It's going to be alright. It's got to be alright. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. The silence that has suddenly enfolded the world into a clutching perverted embrace so completely stretches for what feels to Combeferre like an enternity but is only the length of a ragged, jarring breath. Stretches. Billows. Snaps.
'The police know about us. They know about Enjolras.'
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, suggestions, comments and constructive critcisisms are like chocolate to my brain! Much love and enjoy x
Note on text:
'Patience is bitter but its' fruit is sweet' : Jean Jacques Rosseau- In memory of the fallen who gave their lives for Patria on 5-6th June 1832 (I know it's late but better late than never!)