Les Hommes de la Miséricorde

(Men of Mercy)

A/N: Hello all! Thank you again for all of your continued support on this story, it is much appreciated! I am putting a FEELS warning on this chapter, as I got emotional while writing it and watching the Les Mis film on loop. But I do hope you enjoy! Also the dream sequence is in italics here at the beginning.

Chapter 14: Remembrance

Sunlight bathes Enjolras in warmth, bathes him in warmth so pleasant that he doesn't want to open his eyes, just wants to lay here and sleep.

Until he hears the voice.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Bahorel says, and Enjolras can hear him snickering good-naturedly. "It's typical of you, taking too much on your shoulders, blaming yourself."

Enjolras sits up like a shot.

"Bahorel?" he asks, eyes widening as he looks over his friend's form. He looks like Bahorel alright, broad, grinning slyly, fists that look like they could punch through concrete and donning the brightest red and yellow striped waist-coat Enjolras has ever seen.

"Ah, glad to see you still recognize me," Bahorel jokes. "Although admittedly, I'm a little difficult to forget."

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?" Enjolras asks. "Or did I die?"

"No, you're not dead, thankfully," Bahorel says, a smidge softer now. "Combeferre would be furious if you were, he's put too much effort into nursing you back to health. And Grantaire didn't carry you all that way so you could die, either, and I don't think Gavroche would ever forgive you for such a crime. You and Marius have been worrying everyone."

"So dreaming, then."

"Dreaming. A visit from the great beyond. Something in between," Bahorel answers, his grin growing wider before turning serious, and when Bahorel is serious, Enjolras pays attention. "Now you listen here, Enjolras. You need to stop feeling guilty over our deaths. Grieving us is only natural, but no more guilt."

"I'm not," Enjolras stammers. "I…"

"Our awe-inspiring leader is lost for words!" Bahorel teases. "And yes, you are feeling guilty. Isn't he Jehan?"

"He is," Jehan says, inexplicably walking up beside Bahorel and sitting down on the grass, his shoulder-length light brown hair fluttering in the breeze. He's somber, but he still offers Enjolras a melancholy smile that Enjolras can't help but return. "And he shouldn't be."

"I'll third that," Joly says, appearing behind him with cane in hand and instantly tossing an arm around Enjolras' shoulder.

"I'd add in my lot," Bossuet says with a half-smile before sitting down next to Joly. "But I'm rather afraid I'd jinx it."

Enjolras gazes around at them all, soaking up their presence, soaking up the moment, even if it's just a dream. They're themselves in this particular unconscious venture; they're whole, rather than the black-eyed, blood drenched specters haunting him during his fever-ridden nights.

"I know you were at the barricades because you wanted to be," he tells them. "I know this cause meant as much to you as it does to me, that you were willing to die for it, that you did die for it, I just…I still wanted to protect you. All of you. I would rather it have been me."

"And that's just the problem," Jehan says quietly, peering at Enjolras and twirling a tiny picked flower between his fingers. "You need to stop wishing yourself dead instead of us, Enjolras. You are alive, and there's a reason for that. You need to find that reason and use it."

"I know," Enjolras says, his voice tight with held back feeling. "I…"

"You miss us and you're traumatized," Joly says simply. "It's hasn't even been two weeks, Enjolras, give yourself some time to grieve, to recover. Grieve, not guilt. It's bad for your health anyway, you know. It causes…"

"I don't think he needs a laundry list of the physical manifestations of guilt," Bossuet says with a chuckle, tapping Joly lightly on the shoulder.

"We…we feel like a broken unit without you," Enjolras admits, looking around at each of them in turn. He looks down, memories of the barricade flooding his mind with sharp, painful clarity.

You at the barricade listen to this! The people of Paris sleep in their beds! You have no chance, no chance at all! Why throw your lives away?

Damn their warnings, damn their lies, they will see the people rise…

"I'm sorry the people didn't come," he continues, clenching his fists. "I was so certain…they abandoned us because of their fear…"

At hearing the hint of uncharacteristic doubt flood his voice, Enjolras feels Jehan take his hand and pull him closer so that they're face to face, a gentle but still intrepid gleam in the poet's eyes as he intertwines their fingers.

"One day they will rise," Jehan tells him, gripping his hand with ferocity. "And you know that, Enjolras. You've always known that. You have eternal faith in the beauty that will be the future, you have more belief than anyone I've ever known, as well as the strength to fight, to make the hard decisions, and I will not see you let go of that. The 19th century is great, but the 20th century will be happy, remember?"

"Our sacrifice will mean something," Joly adds sagely. "Of that I can promise you."

"And you will keep fighting," Bossuet says. "All of you will. Together. Always together."

"In memory of you," Enjolras says firmly. "Always in memory of you."

"And for Patria," Bahorel says, teasing but sincere. "Can't have you forgetting about your Mistress France."

For the first time since the barricade, even if it is just a dream, Enjolras' smile reaches his eyes, and they shine a sparkling blue as he etches his friends' faces in his mind. He has a sudden urge to ask Grantaire to pick up his paintbrush again so he can paint their friends' faces so he never forgets them, so that none of them ever forget the way Bahorel's grin always fills to the brim with laughter, the way Jehan's eyes glow with bright fervor when he discovers a new poem, the way Bossuet's expressions are nearly always bursting with some degree of cheer, even when he's distressed, the way Joly always rubs the tip of his nose with his cane absentmindedly, a smile spreading slowly across his face when someone says something amusing.

"We have to go now, I'm afraid," Bahorel says. "But do tell the others hello for us."

"I will," Enjolras answers as Bahorel pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. "And I will also tell Courfeyrac how much he would have hated that waistcoat," he adds mildly.

Bahorel's laugh rings through the surrounding sky. "Nonsense, Courfeyrac would love this. Feuilly would hate it though. Likes too many soft colors for a fan painter. I'd expect more flare."

Bahorel ruffles his hair before letting go, then Joly and Bossuet hug him both at once with great enthusiasm and he memorizes the moment. Jehan hugs him last.

"Remember what I said," he warns. "Or I shall write a very angry poem about it."

"I promise," Enjolras whispers back.

And then they're gone.

Enjolras' eyes open slowly, and there's sunlight filtering in through the window; he's in pain as is usually the case in the mornings, and shifts up, trying to avoid making it worse. He doesn't like taking Laudanum in the morning because it makes him hazy, but he fears he may not have a choice on this particular day.

"You're awake earlier than usual," Grantaire's voice says from his right, and Enjolras opens his eyes fully and turns his head.

"Am I?" he asks, sitting up further, wincing.

"It's only about nine," Grantaire answers, noting his expression and pouring a dose of the Laudanum, which Enjolras waves away in protest, and to his surprise Grantaire doesn't force the matter.

"Combeferre would insist I take that," Enjolras says, glancing at the bottle, perplexed.

"Well, I am decidedly not Combeferre," Grantaire jokes fondly. "No glasses, less medical training, and although I'm well read, seem to lack the ability to keep all the information ever created in my brain."

Enjolras chuckles softly, but sadness swoops through his stomach when he remembers his very recent dream.

"What's wrong?" Grantaire asks, searching Enjolras' face. "Did you have another nightmare?"

"No, not at all," Enjolras says, looking up at him and once again seeing the genuine concern in his eyes. "It was a pleasant dream, actually. I saw…I saw Jehan, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel, and they weren't like they have been in my nightmares, they were just…themselves."

A sad smile tweaks Grantaire's lips and he looks down for a moment, words for once, evading him. Grantaire is famous for his diatribes and Enjolras is capable of speaking at length to crowds, of inspiring them with his words that are lit with the living, breathing flame of his passion, of his love, and yet in the face of this grief, they are both rendered silent.

"Their funerals," Enjolras says, the hint of a revelation in his voice. "They must have…my mother said she saw bodies being retrieved from the barricade, so their families…there must have been funerals."

Grantaire looks at him again, mildly startled.

"Yes, Enjolras I'm sure there were funerals," he says slowly, as if he's concerned that fever has once more overcome Enjolras and he will bolt for the door as he had on that first night.

"We didn't get to attend them," Enjolras clarifies, feeling as if someone has sent a fist flying directly into his gut. In all of the rush, in all of the insanity, this thought hadn't occurred to him until now.

"No," Grantaire says, the realization dawning on him. "No we didn't. But funerals…sometimes they don't help, they just make you feel worse." His word are sprinkled with cynicism and yet he speaks them with the utmost gentleness as if he fears he will break something, fears he will break himself, Enjolras, or both, and Enjolras can almost see the colored memories of his brother's funeral swirling beneath Grantaire's dark green eyes.

"We need to honor them," Enjolras insists. "We need to do something, Grantaire, we must."

Before Grantaire can respond there's a soft knock on the door and Cosette enters, carrying a tea tray.

"Sorry for interrupting, but I made Marius some tea when he woke up and I thought you might like some," she says, setting the tray down on the bedside table and smiling warmly at the two of them.

"Thank you Cosette," Enjolras replies. "That was kind of you. How is Marius this morning? He went to bed earlier than usual last night."

"He's doing better, on the mend," she answers, pouring one cup for Enjolras and one for Grantaire. "Though he did rip his bandages in the night, so Combeferre is changing them now and checking him over. I think he must have had a nightmare, because I heard him shouting and insisting he needed to come and check on all of you, kept saying something must have happened to you, Enjolras. It took him a moment to realize he'd only been dreaming. I had to stop him from bolting down here."

"It's a shame we can't shut our minds off, sometimes," Grantaire reflects aloud, taking a gulp of his tea.

"Bolting after a nightmare seems to be a habit amongst us," Enjolras adds with a glance at Grantaire, remembering his first fever dream and his subsequent tussle with his friend. "Luckily people seem to be adept at stopping us."

"You came at me like a wall and knocked me to the floor," Grantaire says, laughing now. "And you don't even have use of both arms and legs at the moment. The sheer power of your stubbornness even when you are ridden with fever is truly a thing to behold, Enjolras. How did you stop Marius, Cosette, and come away unscathed?"

"I was checking on him while he was still sleeping," Cosette says. "And noticed he was distressed and pinned his arms down. He nearly struck me with his elbow when he woke up, he was under so much duress, but luckily he missed. Now he won't stop apologizing."

"That sounds like Marius," Enjolras says, good-naturedly shaking his head.

"I didn't mean to overhear," Cosette says after a moment. "But I heard you mention not being able to go to your friends' funerals and I…I think I might have an idea. It's not the same, but I spoke to Papa last night, and I thought perhaps you might…like to have a sort of wake for them? Light a candle, say a prayer? I don't know if that would help, I just…" she trails off, blushing slightly but still determined to get her thoughts across. "I thought it might be good for all of you."

Enjolras' eyes widen slightly, but affection for the kind young woman he's getting to know blossoms within him. He's watched her gentleness and patience with Marius as he heals, has watched her with Valjean, has been continually surprised at her desire to get to know all of them, of her desire to check in on him while he convalesces. Her father's decision to save them has changed her life, but she's accepted them with open arms and an even more welcoming soul.

"I think we all might like that," Enjolras agrees. "I think we all might like that a great deal."

A few hours later finds all of them sitting in a semi-circle of chairs in the parlor. Combeferre has allowed Enjolras and Marius out of bed for only an hour, and even still the worry in his expression is evident. Enjolras looks at the solemn group arranged around him; Combeferre is to his right, eyes roving over all of them with concern; Courfeyrac sits to Enjolras' left, his expression of sadness so poignant that it makes Enjolras' heart shudder for missing his friend's usual animation; Marius sits beside Courfeyrac, hand resting tightly in Cosette's; Feuilly sits next to Combeferre, head bowed; Grantaire sits beside Feuilly, staring into the glasses of wine Toussaint has brought them all, swirling it around in the glass, and Gavroche sits so close his arm brushes Grantaire's. Adrienne and Enjolras' mother sit together beside Gavroche, both observers of and participants in this intimate moment of intense grief.

Valjean lights two large silver candlesticks that rest on the edges of the mantel, their flames glowing brightly in the dimmed room, lit in memory of all of their comrades who met at the Musain, for all of their comrades that fought upon various barricades across Paris those that fateful fifth and sixth of June. To Enjolras it is feels far and yet alarmingly near, feels like over the last week and half his life became something completely different from what he knew, from what he expected.

"Bless them, Lord," Valjean says softly. "And keep them warm in your embrace."

Valjean then takes his place beside Cosette and looks at Enjolras wistfully, empathy brimming in his eyes. Enjolras feels everyone's eyes on him, and he searches for words, searches for comfort to give to them, to give to himself, drawing inspiration from his friends' words in his dream, because he cannot forget them.

"Our friends," Enjolras begins, willing his voice to stay under control, steadying when he feels Courfeyrac's hand on his arm. "Were some of the bravest, passionate, selfless, and dedicated men I ever had the privilege of knowing. Our group of friends formed a family, still forms a family, and…" he stops, his grief tripping him and sending his words crashing down for a moment. "That will never change, even if they are gone from us. They will always, always be a part of who we are, and I firmly believe that their sacrifice will lead to the realization of the free France we all dreamt of together. We will fight on, always in their memory."

He halts again and Courfeyrac's grip tightens encouragingly on his arm. "But that does not do everything to ease the pain of losing them, of missing them, and now, I'd like to remember them."

He nods at Combeferre, who presses his hand before rising and walking slowly to the first unlit candle and lighting it with the utmost reverence.

"Jehan," he whispers, voice reverberating with grief.

He sits down and Courfeyrac rises, lighting the second candle.

"Bahorel," he says, the tiniest of smiles breaking through his melancholy and illuminating the darkness.

Feuilly follows him, and Enjolras sees tears swelling in his eyes, because he's already so well-acquainted with death that experiencing it again, experiencing it so violently, can only bring back memories.

"Joly," he says, tapping the candle lightly before lighting it.

Grantaire gets up, and Enjolras notices that his hands are shaking as he lights the candle, but still he manages it.

"Bossuet." His voice is low, almost gravely when he speaks, and his eyes are trained to the floor as he walks back.

Gavroche pats Grantaire's shoulder when he sits back down, then rises and joins Marius to light the last candle, both taking their matches and reaching into the center to light the wick.

"Eponine," they say together, and Marius reaches down to embrace Gavroche before returning to his seat.

Enjolras notices something flit across Cosette's face at the mention of Eponine; there's certainly sorrow there, but Enjolras also notices an emotion that he cannot quite place a finger on, something that tells him Cosette somehow knew Marius' friend. Valjean wished to let Cosette tell them the details of her own childhood if and when she was ready, but Enjolras senses now, that suffering was once the close companion of this generous-hearted girl that Marius loves.

Silence reigns for a few moments, and Enjolras lets it settle, lets it saturate them, memories no doubt flitting around their minds, memories of these friends who can never be replaced, of these nearly holy bonds that cannot ever be severed, even in death.

"To our friends," Enjolras finally says, and everyone retrieves their glasses. "To everything they stood for, to everything they were…and to everyone they loved."

Everyone raises their glasses.

Let the wine of friendship never run dry…

The boys all go to bed early, exhausted from the emotional outpouring of the day; they'd shared stories for an hour before both Enjolras and Marius faltered and Combeferre ordered them back to their beds, but Valjean finds he cannot sleep, so he sits in his favorite chair by the parlor window that faces the street.

He doesn't tell the boys, doesn't tell Cosette, but he still doesn't feel safe here at the Rue Plumet, doesn't feel safe in Paris, won't feel safe until they are all tucked away outside Avignon at M. Gillenormand's expansive, unused home. The elderly man, so immensely grateful to for Valjean saving Marius' life, has been unceasingly helpful; his monarchist alliances are seemingly forgotten in the hope of protecting his grandson and his friends. Gillenormand's quite taken with Cosette, and Valjean's heard him teasing Marius about when he'll get around to proposing to the "sweetest, loveliest young woman he's ever met" though Valjean suspects Marius is waiting until he's fully recovered to come to him for permission, waiting until this precarious situation becomes even the tiniest bit more stable.

He hears three sets of footsteps approaching him and turns, seeing Cosette, Flora, and Adrienne taking chairs next to him.

"All is well?" he asks Cosette, taking her hand briefly in his. He's informed her that he told the boys the truth, and she's proud of him for that.

"They're all sleeping," she replies, squeezing his hand in return. "Peacefully, I hope."

"They aren't particularly adept at letting other people take care of them," Adrienne says with a tired chuckle. "Stubborn, the lot of them, my brother especially."

"I found Gavroche curled up next to Rene," Flora says with a small smile. "But I couldn't bear to move him. That little boy is capable of sleeping in the strangest places."

Valjean opens his mouth to respond when he spies two police officers from his gaze out the window, walking toward the home next door. He's up from the chair in an instant, and bidding the ladies to remain utterly silent, gestures for them to follow him. He opens the front door and moves silently into the garden, where all four of them hear the voices catching and floating on the air toward them.

"We were told you had a complaint Madame?" one officer says.

"Yes," the woman says, looking unsure but plowing ahead nevertheless. "I know there are wanted posters up for one of the rebel leaders, and just a few nights ago I saw my neighbor, Monsieur Fauchelevent, arrive with two carriages full of young men, two of whom looked they'd been shot. I…I thought I should report it."

The two officers share a glance, and Valjean thinks they've probably had other reports flowing in that were false alarms, but they can't help but take every report seriously. As far as Valjean can tell, the city's populace is torn in half by the recent rebellions; so many supported it and yet other still were firmly against it, yet none of the supporters had the courage to stir and join the students and workers who set up barricades all across the city. Valjean's breath nearly leaves him as Cosette takes his hand at the officers' next words.

"Thank you Madame," the second officer responds. "The hour is late now and we do not have the power of the suspended warrants in order to search the house, but our superior Inspector Javert, who is in charge of this case does, and we will get word to him in the morning."

The rest of conversation dies, Valjean's ears ringing so loudly he can hardly think.

We will get word to him in the morning…

"We must get out and start our journey to Avignon," he whispers urgently, turning to the three horror-struck women behind him. "We must get out tonight."

A/N: I apologize for the cliffhanger, please don't kill me. Be on the lookout for the next chapter!