Hey everyone! So very sorry for the delay in posting! I've been quite busy with this and that, but I am definitely not giving up on the story! I don't want to make promises about a posting schedule, because I've learned that every time I do, I lie, so in the interest of honestly, I today say that the next update will be some date in the future ;-)
I apologize that this chapter is a little shorter too, but I really just was anxious to get the story back up and running.
Thank you again to my wonderful reviewers!
Courfeyrac was in terrible pain all the time. He tried his best to be stoic, but he felt like he was living in hell. He could still horrifyingly feel the leg that had been cut away a week ago. The pain came in waves. Just when he had enough relief to convince himself he must have imagined the whole sensation, it would come roaring back. It scared him, to think that this thing might terrorize him like this for the rest of his days, when it didn't even exist anymore. He felt pain in the stump too, but that was a different sort of pain. It was excruciating, but there was something comforting about the fact that he could make sense of it. Surely the end of a bone that had just been put to a saw would hurt. He had an easier time articulating that to Joly and Combeferre. But the pain in the leg itself was another beast. He worried daily that he was going mad, and he after the first few failed attempts to explain to Combeferre, he gave up.
Combeferre was so distressed by how unsuccessful they had been at mitigating Courfeyrac's suffering. As a student, he was ushered around from case to case by his teachers, and had very little experience in dealing with the aftermath of surgery, especially one like this. The best he and Joly managed to do was drug Courfeyrac enough to allow him to sleep large chunks of the day away. One great source of relief, though, was that he did seem to be healing. The swelling decreased a little every day, and the residual bleeding had stopped. It was clear that they had beaten the gangrene and saved his life.
Courfeyrac sat up in the bed, biting back the pain as Feuilly steadied him. None of them had left the apartment since Combeferre's dangerous excursion the first night. The Baudin's brought them everything that they needed, but now, a week out, it was beginning to wear on their minds. Courfeyrac, confined to his bed and in nearly constant pain, had hardly a chance to notice the days change, because there was no window that could be seen from his place. He was growing more distant, speaking less and less each day. Combeferre and Joly were so single-mindedly focused on his medical welfare that they didn't notice as early on as Feuilly did, but soon enough they took notice. Today, he was particularly despondent as the others tried to persuade him to eat some bread. Wordlessly, he would shake his head, then mutter something minimal about not feeling well and wanting to be left alone.
Combeferre anxiously paced around the other room. He hated to admit it, but he was avoiding Courfeyrac. He felt useless to help him and so guilty for causing him that sort of pain, although he knew how necessary it was. The truth was that being confined to the apartment was beginning to get to him as well. He was potentially in the most danger of any of them if he were to leave because of the incident with Javert. It might be a long time before he could see the outdoors again, and that frightened him. He thought of Enjolras and their fallen friends almost constantly. He worried about Courfeyrac. He found the most effective way to keep it all from overwhelming him was to force himself to be disconnected. It was unnatural for him, but it was working. He would play the doctor, and cast Courfeyrac as just a patient.
But what Combeferre didn't realize was the true cost of this. He was withdrawing further into is own world at the same time Courfeyrac retreated to his. The two who had been the closest of friends were becoming strangers in the tiny space of the apartment. Courfeyrac's depression was made worse by the feeling that he'd become a burden to Combeferre. He knew he was recovering, but there would be increasingly frequent times when he vaguely hoped he wouldn't.
"Combeferre," said Feuilly, suddenly snatching his attention. It was silent in the apartment. Joly had gone to speak with Monsieur Baudin about replenishing their cache of medical supplies. "He really needs you."
"Is the wound bleeding again?" Combeferre asked, immediately concerned.
"It's not his leg I'm worried about," Feuilly said gently. Combeferre averted his eyes in shame.
"The truth is," he started. "I don't know how to help him. Not in any way that counts."
"Of the three of us, I'm the least qualified in the department of fixing people," said Feuilly reflectively. "I certainly don't presume to know better what he needs. You're closer to him than Joly or I. That's why I think you'll be the one to pull him out of this."
Combeferre looked back up at him and nodded silently. Feuilly smiled encouragingly then went to join Joly in the other room. Combeferre uneasily went and sat by Courfeyrac's side.
Courfeyrac anxiously turned his head and stared vacantly at him. "Something wrong?" he mumbled.
"No," said Combeferre quickly, then felt ridiculous for saying it. "I mean, nothing new. How are you feeling?"
Courfeyrac's first response to that was an undignified cackle, but he repressed it in embarrassment. He let his head sink as low into the pillow as he could manage so as not to look at Combeferre.
"It was a dumb question," Combeferre answered for him.
"Yes it was," Courfeyrac agreed tensely, but with a bit of forced humor, in a desperate attempt to seem himself. He and Combeferre uncomfortably stared at each other for a while. "I haven't seen today's paper," he said after a while. "Is there more about Enjolras?"
"Not since yesterday," said Combeferre. He had obsessively read every printed word about the upcoming trial, and would mercilessly grill the Baudin's for every bit of knowledge they collected in their travels out and about. "What do you know about this Jarnot?" Since his injury, Combeferre had hardly thought to recognize Courfeyrac as a source of information, and now he cursed himself for that. Courfeyrac knew a great deal about the law and the Paris legal community.
Courfeyrac was almost surprised to hear the question. The information that Claude Jarnot was taking the case had stung him heavily, but he hadn't told this to the others because they never talked about Enjolras with him, for fear of that the stress would harm his recovery. They didn't realize though that this sort of condescension was the most stressful thing they could inflict on him. So it was for nothing that they remained ignorant of Jarnot, except for what was printed in the papers.
"He's the best at what he does," Courfeyrac said solemnly. "He won't do anything dirty or underhanded; he'll be scrupulously by the books and make sure that Enjolras has everything he's entitled to."
"That's good, isn't it?" Combeferre asked nervously, but he could tell from Courfeyrac's tone that there was more to be said.
"He doesn't lose," said Courfeyrac. "Enjolras will have as fair of a trial as he could ever hope for, and he'll be dead within a month."
That sort of bluntness wasn't Courfeyrac's style and it compounded Combeferre's agony at that prospect for Enjolras. He drew a deep breath and had to stifle a wave of tears.
Courfeyrac turned his face away to hide his own. He hadn't meant to be so harsh, and vocalizing what he thought was inescapably Enjolras' fate brought a painful new realness to it.
"I should be there," Courfeyrac mumbled. "No one would have known me or remembered me from the barricade. If I'd not been so foolish as to be hit, we all could be safe. I could go to him, not leave him to face this alone. I could have represented him; I couldn't win, but it would be better than being alone. I'm a useless cripple who's failed everyone. You all wasted your bloody time fixing me." His words trailed off into unintelligible sobs.
Combeferre instinctively grabbed his hand.
"No," he insisted. "No, that couldn't be further from the truth. You've never failed Enjolras or anyone."
Courfeyrac still wouldn't look at him, but suddenly, Combeferre understood what he had to do. He had to give Courfeyrac the chance to feel like a living person again. Suddenly he realized the fatal error in his treatment plan. But fortunately, he quickly had a plan for how to fix it.
He pulled Courfeyrac's reluctant hand to his face and kissed it, then quickly stood up. "I will be back momentarily." Before Courfeyrac could respond, he was out the door.
In the front room of the apartment, Fueilly and Joly were at the small table eating lunch together. Combeferre quickly rushed to the table, giving them both concern that something terrible had happened.
"I need you both," he said, almost breathlessly.
"Dear God, what's happened?" Joly snapped, leaping to his feet.
"We're going to get him up from the bed!" Combeferre said, almost excitedly. "We're going to get him up and sitting in a chair having lunch with the rest of us, not in his bed like an invalid."
"Are you mad?" Joly asked incredulously. "He's not ready!"
"We've waited too long already," Combeferre looked at Fueilly and could tell instantly that he agreed. But convincing Joly would require a little subtlety. "His muscles will have already begun to weaken terribly after so long. I'm concerned about bedsores as well. He has to get up soon or he could have another set-back and we may loose the window for getting him strong enough to walk when he's healed enough for a prosthesis."
The ominous warning achieved its desired effect on Joly. He swallowed hard as a bit of the color vanished from his face. Then he silently nodded and followed Combeferre and Feuilly into Courfeyrac's room.
"Courfeyrac, sit up," Combeferre ordered. The patient, who had just dried his eyes gave him a puzzled look, but before he could object, Feuilly was taking his arms and helping him into a sitting position. "You're going to get up and walk to the other room today."
"Combeferre," Courfeyrac started. "Don't tell me nonsense like this."
"It's no such thing! Here," Combeferre said, as he took one of Courfeyrac's arms from Feuilly and the two of them helped him turn and swing his legs over the side. He was disturbingly light and easy to move, even in spite of his initial confused resistance.
"See, you're partly there already," said Feuilly when Courfeyrac's bare left foot touched the floor. The sensation was almost a shock to him.
"I don't think I can do this," said Courfeyrac reluctantly. "How do you intend for me to walk? Did you forget how that often requires a pair of legs?"
Combeferre's heart leapt with joy to hear Courfeyrac make a snide comment, so much so that he hardly noticed the centre's pessimism.
"That's what we're here for," said Combeferre. "Joly, you take the left and I'll take the right; we're about the same height so this should work well. Feuilly, you follow closely when we get moving in case we get unsteady or have to stop." It was reassuring to see Combeferre take charge so adamantly, that they all instantly complied. Joly was quickly at the side that still had a leg, and Feuilly waited eagerly to help the second he was needed.
Courfeyrac reluctantly put his arms around his friends' shoulders.
"When your ready, try to push yourself up with your leg; we'll help you," Combeferre instructed.
As down as he'd been and as skeptical as he felt, Courfeyrac allowed himself to hope that this might work, and suddenly the promise of being freed from the bed enticed him so much. He gritted his teeth and focused all of his strength into his left foot. Immediately, he was frustrated with how week he was. If not for the strong supportive arms on either side of him, he never would have been able to budge.
It was very little thanks to his own power, but in a moment Courfeyrac was standing. This simplest of actions filled him with an ecstasy that he thought he could live the rest of his life on if he had to.
But the moment was soon marred when it hit him how weak he really was. His leg shook violently and he began to feel dizzy.
Joly was so afraid that they'd made a terrible mistake, but he didn't dare say so. He held onto Courfeyrac for dear life and awaited Combeferre's instruction.
"Ok, you need to hop forward," Combeferre explained nervously. "Lean on me."
Courfeyrac nodded and anxiously summoned all of the strength he could find to push his solitary foot off the ground. As soon as it lifted, he panicked, felling horribly unsteady. Out of instinct, he leaned all his weight onto his right leg; he could feel it beneath him, ready to steady him.
To Combeferre's horror, Courfeyrac began to sink rapidly to the ground, leaning on the phantom limb. Joly pulled him up from his side, and Combeferre bent low to catch him, with Feuilly grabbing his waist. Together, they averted a disastrous fall and only Courfeyrac's pride was injured.
"It's not there anymore, my friend," Combeferre said gently. "You'll have to adjust to that." Courfeyrac nodded silently, but stared down at the ground.
"Can you continue?" Joly asked, almost hoping he would say no. He was now very convinced that he wasn't ready.
Courfeyrac thought in that instant that all he wanted was to return to the bed and be left alone. He was sweating bullets and shaking harder than he'd been before. The chair in the kitchen seemed like it was a thousand leagues away. He would never get there. He sank his head low and shook it.
"Ok," said Combeferre quietly, filled with guilt that his experiment had done more harm than good. "Feuilly, come around to this side and we'll ease him backward."
Feuilly complied and Courfeyrac just leaned on Combeferre and Joly, catching his breath. He didn't want to lift his head; he had never felt more low. He wouldn't have lifted it, except by reflex when Feuilly, now ahead of him tried to get his attention. When he did, he caught a glimpse of something past Feuilly entirely, and all the words his friends said were lost to him.
Courfeyrac saw past Feuilly to the apartment's largest window. It was a lovely June day, and they had left it open, with the old curtains blowing gently in the early summer breeze. The sun filled the room. The empty chair right beside the window seemed to call to him like a siren. If he could cross this arduous expanse, he could sit in the sun and fell like a human again. To him, the prospect seemed more like scaling Mount Olympus on the hope of joining the gods.
"Wait," he said. He had to repeat himself loudly to secure all of their attention, but once he had it, no other words were necessary. They knew instantly how important this was to him, so Joly, Feuilly and Combeferre again took their places at his side.
Not a word was spoken between the four as they set out across the apartment, but none were needed. Courfeyrac boldly lead the way, shaking and sweating the whole time. It took a miserable and painful amount of time and Courfeyrac nearly fell several times, but soon they were at the table.
When they reached the closest chair, Feuilly ran to pull it behind Courfeyrac, but he shook his head, gesturing toward the one under the window; it was the furthest away, but Courfeyrac would not be denied.
Seated at last beside the open window, Courfeyrac for the first time in days felt the sun and the breeze on his skin. He was exhausted and panting, but never more satisfied in his life. Combeferre and Joly, disturbed by how much weight it was now clear that he'd lost, were hardly at all tired from having done most of the work in getting him there.
The four survivors of that ill-fated collection of friends shared a real meal all together for the first time since their world had been blown apart. Courfeyrac knew that it was a long way away, but for the first time since the barricade, he had hope that he might one day feel whole again.