A/N: Another chapter for all the amazing, wonderful people who have taken their time to read, review, follow and favourite my work! You have no idea how much your support means to me and I love and thank you all from the bottom of my heart!
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 the friendship portrayed through Les Amis de l'ABC and Stagepageandscreen's epic AU Dystopia titled '(Un)natural Selection'- please don't sue me!
Chapter 12
It is only when the smoke clears that the true extent of the damage is realised. Sparks of fire pulse through the thick, airless, indigo clouds; their heavy shadows soaking up the desperate chaos that had swooped onto the arena as soon as the combined power of nine voices rent the air; slicing their way through the sticky persona of calm, collected, propaganda blazed lies that has engulfed the steadily choking population for far too long. It is only when distant, throbbing echoes of the panicked mob that had stormed the arena are at last silent; the franticly fighting bodies desperately trying to escape the line of the Official's fire and the steady, silent sweep of sickly, stinging tear gas that had enveloped the panicked populace in a silent swirl of invisible smoke which made little more sound than the footsteps of ghosts finally evaporated does the carnage become clear.
Corpses litter the sand; their sickingly scarlet lifeblood oozing out of gasping, fish like mouths; the eyes blank, dark pupils rolled to heaven as scrabbling digits are stilled in death's everlasting embrace. The sand is awash with stains of scarlet, the bubble of frantic, gasping breaths tugging at frozen lips; their souls departed before they even hit the ground. And yet it is the residue stink of gunpowder mingled with the sparks and peppery spice of fire that is the worst of the several silent killers at work in this bloody chaos. The fiery stink spat out from the rifles of the Officials envelops the arena in a silent, deadly claustrophobic embrace; steadily suffocating its victims until they gasp for breath, choking on nothing but waste and ash until at last their scrabbling hands cease their clawing and their souls are allowed to take their final flight.
And yet some are not so lucky. All around the stands the faint, pitiful, pleading cries of the injured and the dying can still be heard; gasping for water as their throats burnt with the silent, molten fire emitted from the teargas; hands scrabbling, clutching on nothing but air as from somewhere deep within the piles of rubble the high, thin, monotonous wail of a pleading child searching in vain for their parents can still be heard as it is caught in a faint, plaintive howl and thrown into the thick, indigo carpeted sky.
'Please… Please… Water… Just a sip… Give me strength… Get me out… Out of here… My wife… My… My children… They need me… Please…' Scrabbling, claw like hands reach in plaintive supplication; snatching, clawing on nothing but air as the remaining officials move in a silent swoop through the broken stands; cradling the muzzles of their rifles to their chests like trophies as one by one they put the unfortunate souls out of their misery.
The silence that follows the short, sharp shots of the rifles is deafening. It sweeps into the arena on huge, invisible wings; circling the blood bathed sand like some huge, invisible vulture; watching its' prey, waiting to strike. The sweet, sickly salt of death is sharp on the wind; cutting through the clouds, soaking up the screams of the terrified citizens, the rattling wail of the rifles, the pleas of the injured and the dying as the few survivors beg their loved ones to hold on until help can be brought and it will all be all right again; even though deep down they know that nothing will ever, ever be all right after this and the lie that slips off their thick, airless tongues will be nothing but that; a sharp, painful lie cutting through oblivion.
The eight Selected huddle together in a corner of the arena; away from the light, away from the noise, away from the broken carcasses of the machines which once imprisoned them; their broken bodies trembling within their tattered rags. Their blank and yet not sightless eyes gaze unseeingly up at the thick, indigo sky that; not so long ago was a blaze of fire and colour; wondering what the future will hold. A tall, lanky yet muscular boy of no more than seventeen whose face once glowed with oriental beauty, his burnished copper skin radiating with light and life sits apart; his long fingered hands clasped together as a faint tremor racks through his frame; shaking him with silent, convulsive sobs. His eyes are squeezed shut, his mop of sunset gold hair falling haphazardly into his scarred face so that all that is visible is a single scar of silent silver carving it's way through the battered olive skin.
'Sébastien… My name… My name is… Sébastien Lefebvre... I'm 17… 17 ½ and I…. ' The haltingly repeated refrain is just audible as it stumbles through thick, bloody lips over and over again; the one thing that is keeping him from falling headfirst into an abyss of misery and despair. His hands feel oddly cold now, the thin muscles of his fingers tight and tense as they clench against each other as the fist rocks gently in time to the stumbling shake of his body.
The weight of an unknown hand pressing itself with a light, tender firmness to his shoulder makes him start and glance up in fear; his heart hammering painfully against his ribcage. But it is not an official who meets his eyes. A tall, gangly youth of about twenty or so kneels before him; his mop of dark hair a tangled birds nest of smoke as wide, deep green eyes silently search his face.
'It's all right', the voice is full of a sense of forced calmness as he tentatively reaches a long fingered, dirt- smattered hand to find a pulse point, his calloused fingers lingering slightly over the taut tendons of his neck.
Sébastien doesn't know what to think. Everything is so strange, so confusing, so utterly unreal as the world slowly comes back into focus that he doesn't want to think and yet the unknown ex- student; at least he thinks he's an ex-student; he looks too old to be a school leaver and too young to be a worker is making it all the more harder as he feels his hand being taken lightly within a calloused palm and a soft, reassuring squeeze running through his body.
'What's your name Mon Ami?' Something in the student's tone makes the younger boy think of the tall, blazing beautiful youth with the bloody halo of matted curls and fiercely passionate azure orbs which had seemed to bore into his very soul but there is also something tender there; something full of gentle, yet probing urgency which, stupefied as he is; he can't quite place.
'Sébastien… Sébastien Lefebvre...' A short nod, pieces of an unknown jigsaw beginning to fly into place behind the wide, dark eyes.
'Joly', he replies quietly after a moments pause; squeezing Sébastien's hand gently, his grey-green eyes flickering momentarily towards the centre of the arena, a worried muscle tightening almost imperceptibly in his jaw as he does so.
'You're… You're a student?' Sébastien's brain feels as if it has been stuffed full of buzzing cotton wool as he shakes his head, desperately trying to clear it. Joly nods as he holds his gaze, his eyes pooling with concern as he flick yet another worried glance over towards the centre of the arena.
'Was a student. Aetiology. My contract was cut when the War ended.' Joly shakes his head sadly and glances curiously back at Sébastien, his eyes flicking up and over to the thin intersection of scars that caress his cheeks; making the younger boy blush and drop his gaze as he sees the unspoken question rising and falling within the wide, dark pupils of the older man.
He doesn't want to have to tell Joly; tell this student, this passionate bringer of hope and life and courage when he had thought that all was lost whom he has only just met how he came by the scars. How it had taken three officials to pin his struggling body to a table; how the bare, unpolished wood had cut through his thin shirt as the knife hovered in a flash of shockingly silver metal glinting through the darkness. How the grating loud, thickly accented voice of the Juvenile Interrogator had slapped him over and over again, the sting of the words more painful than any physical hit as the same harsh, unforgiving syllables bored their way into his brain like the thudding, never ending pulse of an electric drill.
'I am asking the questions! You answer!' A sudden, glacial shard of terror clutches at his heart as he remembers the thick, nicotine stained fingers digging into the flesh of his cheek; the arid, smoke stained breath threatening to choke him as the knife worked its' way delicately down the lines and bends of bones; the achingly thin, evenly placed cuts too thin to be truly painful and yet the sight of the sickingly scarlet blood blooming in red rosettes against his cheek combined with the harsh, hard breath on his cheek and the terror clutching at him, the ever present knowledge that it is his fault, if he hadn't been so foolish, so desperately reckless then he would never have got into this mess made him want to vomit. He remembers too the cold, hard bite of rusted manacles snapping themselves over his wrists, the fragile ligaments fighting fruitlessly through their metal prison, the throbbing agony of the steel capped boot as it had kicked him over and over again; relishing in the mutilation of any bare scrap of skin it could find before his useless body was thrown back into the crushing, never ending darkness of the holding chamber.
'I am asking the questions! You answer!'
The images must be present in his face, the memories swirling through his irises like ink across paper as Joly nods in silent understanding; the grip on his shoulder tightening in silent solidarity. 'It's all right' the action seems to say. 'It's going to be all right. I understand. Truly Mon Ami.'
They remain silent for a moment; Joly's fingers rested lightly on his pulse point as he listens to his breathing, the oxygen fighting through his lungs growing sharp with every breath he takes as he feels the medical student's eyes on him once more; compassionate understanding which he knows that he does not deserve pooling through every finely worked strand of greenish-grey. The moon slips suddenly out from behind a cloud; bathing the scene in a flickering bath of silver brilliance; coating the blood stains, the corpses with an almost otherworldly light. Joly's eyes scan the scene and despite his better judgement, Sébastien follows his gaze; taking in the dead, the dying, the steadily moving and yet eerily silent cloud of black swathed officials swooping like carrion crows across the sand before landing on something that in the chaos and confusion of only a few moments ago; he hadn't noticed. Two figures remain huddled together as they kneel in the sand; only the ragged rise and fall of their chests giving them any sign of life.
A flutter of bloody, sweat soaked golden curls. A glint of moonlight rising off wire framed spectacles. A crowd of bodies pressing close but not too close, their movements timid, unsure of themselves as they move towards the pair. Sébastien feels his mouth go suddenly dry because… No… That couldn't be… That fractured shell of humanity wasn't… Without warning, he remembers the last words he had heard ringing from a body that had been set alight with conserved fire during the wait before the Selection. Remembers the sparks of hope, of life, of liberty itself leaping high within the broken orbs of glacial blue as the warmth of another body pressed itself against his own.
'When we die tonight, we will die in a tomb flooded by the light of a new dawn surrounded by the mothers and fathers of the Republic. Our sacrifices to freedom will not be in vain, I promise.'
Out of the corner of his eye, he can just distinguish a single tear slicing itself down Joly's cheek as his lips begin to move; silently spelling out words, names that Sébastien can only just make out.
'Enjolras… 'Jolras… Oh Mon Ami... What have They done to you Mon Cher?'
Combeferre doesn't want to let go of Enjolras. He never wants to let go of him again, let him out of his sight again but he knows that they have to get out of this blood bath, that they have to somehow get out of the Capital, find Bertrand, find Sébastien and get back to the Safe House all without getting re-arrested. The idea, quite frankly, terrifies him.
He can feel the weight of his friends' eyes on him, the sense of loss, anger, confusion and sheer, wounded agony painfully palpable as they edge towards the centre of the arena; even their tiptoed footsteps sounding oppressively loud in this sandy, blood soaked Hell. Only Joly stays behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Combeferre can see the thin, tall profile of his fellow Medical student kneeling a little way away beside a Selected who looks little more than seventeen, eighteen at most. The sight of the broken boy; who should have been at school, should have been finishing his education and yet has been subjected to such indescribable horrors makes Combeferre want to vomit and it is all he can do to restrain the sudden, fiery volcano of bile from crashing headfirst into his throat. He has to be strong. He has to remain strong; if not just for his own sanity then for Enjolras, for Courfeyrac, for Grantaire for all the others and he cannot allow his emotions get the better of him now.
Almost instinctively his grip around his oldest, closest friends shoulders tightens; drawing the thin, broken body closer as the battered frame is wracked by continuous, choking sobs which can't or won't be supressed.
'It's all right. It's… It's all right… I'm here… I'm here Mon Petit… I've got you…'
And yet the images of Enjolras; trussed up like an animal being dragged to the slaughterhouse; the passionate Phoenix Prince bound, gagged and yet silently screaming in agony against the jarring plastic pressure of the oxygen mask as the myriad of snaking tubes had slowly begun to suck away all his fire, all his hope, all his fraternal, youthful fervour refuse to be subdued.
Convulsive, shuddering sobs seem to wrack his leader, his brother in all but blood's frame; shaking him with such a force as if he were nothing but a ragdoll. His head is pillowed up against the joint of Combeferre's shoulder blade; the mattered, blood stained golden curls slick with a slowly crusting mixture of sweat and shit as silent rivers of tears slowly leak from glazed, glacial blue orbs and Combeferre feels his heart break all over again, pain's silent dagger slowly twisting its' way through his ribs and plunging itself into his broken heart as he wishes he could take all the pain away. All around him he can feel the gaze of his friends' boring into him; the heart wrenching agony pooling from Grantaire's emerald eyes almost unbearable to watch, the desperate shroud of iron composure thrown over Bahorel visibly slipping as their passionate, usually indestructible fighter struggles to control his volatile emotions.
Combeferre doesn't want to think about what is going on behind the walls thrown up in every finely worked strand of emerald brilliance of the cynic's eyes, now tinged with sharp and painful shards of red. Tears seem to flow unchecked down the cynic's cheeks; scars of salt staining the skin that he doesn't seem to notice or even care about. His eyes are only for Enjolras and seeing the cynical walls crumble with such ease makes the guide's heart twist painfully in his chest because he can only guess at how hard it must be for Grantaire right now. How hard it must be to see the usually superhuman, godlike figure that he adores and loves and reveres above all things look so broken, so lost, so helpless; so very, painfully human.
Silently, he watches Jehan slip out from his place beside Courfeyrac and move towards the steadily crumbling cynic; carefully wrapping his arms around the trembling body as Grantaire silently collapses into the embrace. Whispered, almost lyrical sweet nothings filter towards him and Combeferre silently offers up a prayer of thanks to whoever may be listening for giving them their young poet and his abilities to read emotions and respond so well.
Enjolras' breathing is shallower than Combeferre would really like; carbon dioxide being forced from his lungs in short, sobbing gasps as broken fingers fumble for a moment; fisting themselves tightly within the fabric of his jacket. 'It's all right', he whispers soothingly; pressing their foreheads together in an act that he hopes speaks of kindness as he slowly pulls himself out of the embrace and for the first time since the desperate, panicked flight down from the stands; surveys his friend.
He does not like what he sees.
What little he can see of Enjolras' eyes are dilated whether through pain or some sort of drugged medication, he doesn't know; so much so that the inky pupils almost eclipse the glacial blue of his irises. The rest is squeezed painfully shut by a rainbow mask of brutal bruising that is slowly fading to a thick, gruesome yellowish purple with age and neglect. Blood crusts his lower lip, dribbling with sickening slowness from his broken nose and Combeferre remembers with a pang of pain how the Official's fist had swung without any of them realising it; only understanding Enjolras' grunt of anguished agony when the sickening crack of knucklebone hitting the nasal spine was heard. Blood blooms from a gash high within his hairline, a fresh river of scarlet trickling down his forehead. Another bruise has bloomed on his left cheekbone and Combeferre is suddenly painfully certain as Enjolras coughs back another sob that his beloved chief has broken teeth, hearing them crackle ominously at the back of the bloody mouth. His hair is a matted halo of blood, sweat and dirt which clings to the golden curls in clumps of shit; a far cry from the usual blazing beauty of Enjolras' locks which, when they were students, made him the talk of all the girls' conversations back at the University.
The sudden sound of heavy, limping footsteps snaps him out of his musings like a quick twist to the wrist. Allowing his finger to linger for a moment longer on Enjolras' cheekbone, he finally manages to tear his gaze away and look up into the once suave, darkly handsome face of François, now smudged with a sorry makeup of smoke, dirt, steadily forming bruises and gunpowder. His wide, olive shaped, onyx coloured eyes; one of which is half hidden behind what promises to be a splendid black eye; are pooling with concern as he gives the guide a short, sharp nod; his silence giving Combeferre s more distinguishable answer than a thousand words ever could. 'My men are out of the Capital. They're guarding all the routes to your safe house and are armed. I've had word sent back by phone, so you'll be expected. Don't worry, you'll be safe soon.'
It's only then that Combeferre realises who is missing as he gazes up into François's face; trying to thank him without words for all he has done for them, for all his men have done for them. In his arms, Enjolras shifts slightly, biting back a sudden cry of pain as he manoeuvres his weight in Combeferre's hold.
'François…?' His voice is little more than a rasp grating across his tongue; a far cry from his usual graceful eloquence by which he enthrals the crowds at the rallies with his passionate hopes and dreams for a free France. 'Where…?' The question collapses into a sharp bout of painful coughing and Combeferre flicks his gaze in desperation to Courfeyrac whose hazel eyes are red with silent weeping as he watches the pair in silence.
Combeferre feels his heart miss a beat; the tiny, frantic organ stilling for a millisecond that feels like an eternity as the dark revolutionary whose eyes are usually full of desperate, hopeful fire shakes his head. No… Not Bertrand… No… Not now… Please not now… Not after everything…
'I'm sorry… I'm so sorry... I tried… Antoine and I tried to find him, get him out before… But we… We…' Dimly Combeferre recognizes the name of François's second in command; but the words still refuse to make any sense to a brain suddenly numb with shock as François stumbles into a grief stained stop, his choked up stammering a far cry from his usual slick rhetoric.
'The Officials?' He asks finally; the small knot of dread that has entered his stomach tightening painfully as the silence stretches on between them until François nods mutely in confirmation; wide, dark eyes pooling with emotion. 'I'm sorry.'
Oh Bertrand…
'They'll want the rest of us then, won't they?' The sound of Feuilly's voice; hard and rough with a combination of inhaled smoke and emotion catches him unawares; but he nods across at the artist who is squatting on his haunches beside him; fear etched through every crevice of his face, not daring to look at either of the two leaders. 'What do we do? What can we do?' A sharp note of desperate anxiety has entered the artisan's voice as he glances down at Enjolras and then around the arena, his gaze training at once on the cloud of Officials who are working their way on the south side of stands, thankfully with their backs to them and then back down at the shell of their once proud leader still huddled within Combeferre's embrace. 'I don't know. I just don't know Feuilly. I'm sorry Mon Ami.'
'Enjolras? Enjolras, 'Jolras, we need to get out of here. Can you stand Mon Ami?' On reflex, Combeferre keeps his voice low and steady, determined not to frighten his friend as the broken angel nods; once bright eyes awash with pain, awash with guilt and grief and sheer wounded agony gazing up at him as he bites his bottom lip; one hand reaching up to grip at Combeferre's jacket to steady himself as he pulls his breaking body up into a standing position.
Biting his lip at his friend's stubbornness, Combeferre turns to Bahorel who looks lost, his thick fingers worrying at a loose button on his jacket and gives him a short, accepting nod. 'Come and help? Please?' The fighter, one of the strongest amongst them, save for Grantaire nods as Enjolras' fingers shiver in their hold as they dig almost painfully into his shoulder; his legs threatening to fold with every moment he remains upright. He wobbles and almost falls with another cry of agony as with one fluid motion Bahorel manages to sweep his body into a clutching embrace; choked out words of whispered comfort going unheeded as he gives the others a short, swift nod.
'It's all right. He's safe. He's here.' They come slowly, cautiously; Jehan clutching at Courfeyrac's hand, the other supporting a trembling, tear stained Grantaire whose eyes are almost popping with confused concern as he takes in his broken marble God lying cradled within the fighter's arms, Bossuet casting Joly a searching look as the medic slowly supports the boy Combeferre saw him with earlier over to their group.
Enjolras is barely conscious by the time they all make it; their steps cautious, their breath hitched with choked back sorrow but he manages a a tight, heart aching sad smile; one hand fisting itself tightly within Bahorel's jacket, the other reaching out for Combeferre who takes it gladly for a moment that feels like a lifetime but in reality is only the length of a ragged, tear stained breath; fingers skimming gratefully over the known skin, sucking in a breath as he realises that nearly all the fingers have been broken and not reset. Without warning, he feels the rush of sudden anger which has been lapping at his throat for so long now flooding its' way through him and he bites it back; gently massages the tense, tight knuckles, relishing in the warm weight of the skin, in the knowledge that Enjolras is here, he's safe whilst flicking his eyes in questioned concern to Joly, who is all but carrying the younger boy he saw earlier towards them.
'Later', the medic's gaze seems to say as he shifts the teenager's weight into a more comfortable position; carefully slinging his arm over his shoulder to support the sudden excess. Combeferre nods. Now is not the time for introductions and yet there is so much that still needs to be said, so much that needs answering and there is so little time… Instead he casts his gaze back to François, who nods in return; silently agreeing that the back routes leading onto the other side of Capital Bridge and then through the South side of the slums would be the best route if they do not want to be tracked and found within a second of escape.
But only if they get out now. Get out now under the cover of the night and get as far away as possible from the Capital, from the Arena, from all the memories, all the pain that have swept them up into a choking, claustrophobic embrace and refuses to let them go. Get back to the Safe House, back to where they will be able to rest and sleep and finally; finally he will be able to tend to Enjolras' injuries and find out the identity of the strange new boy whom Joly has befriended.
His eyes then travel back to Bahorel who is cradling his precious cargo like a mother carrying an infant; wide, dark eyes pooling with unshed tears as he glances back at the guide for more instructions.
Combeferre doesn't have the energy to give them. He can feel his legs threatening to fold, his whole body trembling with the sudden, crushing weight of exhaustion. He tries to step forward, tries to move towards Enjolras because he needs to be with Enjolras, he has to be with Enjolras now that they have finally found each other; but his legs don't want to support his weight.
And then Courfeyrac is there.
Steadying, living, loving Courfeyrac is there, holding him upright, pressing his shivering body close into a clutching embrace as the tears come; choking, breathless sobs growing sharp as thick fingers reach up to card themselves gently through his hair, pressing their foreheads together as he silently rocks him back into safety. From somewhere he thinks he can hear François's harsh, Northern accent calling them with whispered urgency and a distant, disembodied shout which he supposes comes from one of his men; but is too tired to work out whom.
'Come on Mon Ami. Let's get you home. It's all right.' Courfeyrac's voice is choked with supressed tears as Combeferre allows the centre to sling his left arm over his shoulder and support him out of the arena and into the darkness of the Capital; where, he silently prays; they will at last be able to find safety.
God this chapter was emotionally draining to write, even more so with the fact that essay season is about to start… Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x
