Chapter XXV

Luc was hugging Enjolras tighter than he ever had before. The child was afraid. Enjolras did not let anyone see it, above all Luc, but he was afraid, also. He knew that what they were about to do was risking everything that he had, including his life. But he promised himself that he would not let anything happen to Luc. He would stand in front of the child to take a bullet in his place. Anything that was in his power, he would do to protect this little boy. But would it be enough?

"Enjolras?" Luc whispered.

Enjolras looked down at the child and forced a smile to appear on his lips. "Yes?"

"I have to tell you something…"

"What is that?" Enjolras asked, speaking in a soft, gentle voice.

"I—" Luc suddenly looked away and shook his head. "Nothing."

Enjolras let out a quiet laugh. "Alright. Are you sure?"

Luc looked up at him and nodded, but the look on his face did not look sure. Enjolras could see that this child wanted to tell him something, but was not yet willing to say it. Enjolras did not pressure him. "Alright, then. But if you ever want to tell me something, you know that you can."

"I know that," Luc said quietly, and he left his head drop to rest against Enjolras's shoulder, and Enjolras held the child tightly against him. Then for a long moment, they both said nothing. Luc's eyes dropped his gaze fell upon the dark stain of blood that covered Enjolras's left leg, from his thigh to below his knee, and the gash in the fabric of his pants where the blade had stabbed him.

"You are still bleeding," Luc said quietly. He glanced up at Enjolras, who had turned his eyes to look down at his wound.

"Hm…" Enjolras muttered, as if he had forgotten all about his wound until this moment, when in reality, the pain throbbing through his leg had him constantly wondering if he would be able to make it out of the prison, while still protecting Luc. For nearly two days, Enjolras could barely put any weight on his leg, but on the third day, he found that he was able to walk, so long as he was careful. But today, on the fourth day, he would have to be able to do anything that was necessary to protecting Luc and what ever that included: walking, running, climbing, swimming… Enjolras was not sure if he would be able to do it or not. But he would have to do it, either way.

"I can still walk on it, and that is all that matters," Enjolras said indifferently.

"What are you talking about?!" Luc cried out, pulling away from Enjolras so that he was sitting at an angle that allowed him to look straight into the man's eyes. "What matters is that you will be alright…" The child's voice suddenly became soft and afraid, and he hesitantly asked, "You will be aright, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," Enjolras assured him. "And so will you." He leaned in closer to the child, and, with a sincere smile on his lips, he whispered, "Luc, tonight, we will be free."

"We may be," Luc corrected him.

Enjolras nodded. "Yes. We may be…"

Luc smiled and returned to his former position, his head resting against Enjolras's body. Enjolras put his arm around the child's shoulders, and held him close to him.

"As soon as we get free," Luc said quietly, "you need to go to a doctor."

"I will," Enjolras agreed. "And you need to clean your face," he said teasingly.

Luc laughed. "And you need to shave your face."

Enjolras chuckled softly. "Very well, monsieur, we have a deal."

Luc laughed again, smiling the way a child should always smile. Seeing him happy made Enjolras's heart flood with joy. But with this joy, came a terrible pang of cold fear. Enjolras was afraid of what was going to happen. Because he knew that there was a chance that none of these things would ever come to pass. That they would not be free tonight. That they would both be back in this prison. That they would both be dead. Or worst yet, one of them would be in this cell and the other would not. At this thought, Enjolras wrapped both of his arms around the child and held him closely, and he began to pray.

For the rest of the day, neither of them spoke. They remained in this same position, holding each other tightly, both of them afraid to let go. Enjolras could feel his heart begin to beat faster as the hour grew nearer. All too soon, the time was at hand. "It's time," Enjolras whispered. But for a moment, Luc only hugged him tighter, and Enjolras hugged him back. But only for a moment. Then, Enjolras broke away from the child and got to his feet.

Enjolras went slowly across the cell, at first walking very carefully, putting very little weight on his wounded leg, then, starting to test his luck and put more and more pressure on it. At first, Enjolras thought that he would do well, that he would be able to do what he must, but then he risked putting the full weight of a step on his leg, and he almost fell over. Enjolras through out his hands and seized the prison wall to keep himself from falling. Leaning against the wall to support him, he quickly raised his eyes and looked around the prison, to see who had seen. None of the other prisoners seemed to be watching him, and he felt a deep wave of relief pass through him. He did not know if these men would be so willing to follow him if they knew the truth. It was true that his voice was strong. His will was strong. His courage was strong and his passion was strong. But his physical body was weak and broken. And dying. Then, just when he thought he was safe, Enjolras saw a man in the corner of the cell watching him.

It was the old man. His lined eyes fixed on Enjolras, watching him with a steady gaze. There was no sense in trying to hide, so Enjolras looked back into the man's eyes. For a moment, the man just looked at him, his face unchanged. Then, he beckon for Enjolras to come over with a slight wave of his hand, which was old and lined, but still held the look of strength from his youth. Enjolras steadied himself, still clutching the wall for support. After a moment, he slowly released the wall and carefully started across the cell to approach the old man.

Enjolras came to the man. He did not react, but reamed seated where he was, leaning against the stone wall. For several seconds, in fact, the man continued to stare absentmindedly across the cell, staring at the stone wall, behaving as if he had completely forgotten Enjolras's presence. This made Enjolras begin to feel uncomfortable and out of place.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "Monsieur…?"

At last, the old man turned his eyes to meet Enjolras's gaze. He just looked at him for a long moment, seemed to be studying him, trying to figure something out. He opened his mouth and his old voice came forth, thin and dry, yet somehow still strong, like the wind, which is usually calm and peaceful, but has the capability of being strong and violent when angered. "How old are you, boy?" the man asked Enjolras. Enjolras was indeed a boy compared to this ancient soul.

"Twenty-two," Enjolras answered indifferently. The old man nodded and looked away, as if he expected this answer. "Why do you ask?" Enjolras questioned him, but the man did not reply. Instead, he turned back to Enjolras and asked his own question.

"What have you done, boy?"

Enjolras frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," the man repeated, "what have you done? What have you done earn yourself such torture as they have put you through?" When Enjolras did not answer, the old man went on, "I've seen many things, boy. I've seen many of prisoners be tortured in the past, but never like you. And you are young. You are only a boy." The old man raised his bush white brows. "So, tell me, son, what have you done to be condemned to a sentence worse than death?"

Enjolras did not answer for a moment. He was thinking. Then, he decided to tell the truth, "I led an uprising against the crown."

The man did not look surprised. In fact, it almost seemed that he already knew this much. "Yes," he agreed. "But that is not why they are torturing you. If that was all you have done, then they would have executed you. But here you are, alive still. So I ask again, what have you done?"

Enjolras looked at the old man for a moment longer. Then he shook his head and sighed. "The only reason that I am alive is because the police think that they can use me for something else."

"They want you to turn in all of your family, you friends, and their families, betray everyone that you knew and loved, they think that you will somehow be able to help them accomplish something that you will not help them accomplish. You refuse to speak to them. So, first, they beat you; then, they threaten to kill you, but they do not. So, they leave you here to rot and suffer until you finally die," the old man said so calmly, so boldly, so certainly, so simply that for several long moments Enjolras stared at him in disbelief. He looked with great intensity and awe into this old man's eyes, trying to figure out how he knew all of this. But the man's face revealed nothing, save for a vague look of understanding. Knowing.

"Yes…" Enjolras finally said, and his voice came out as a thin whisper.

The old man nodded. "You are a very strong man, I see," he went on. "Brave, passionate, clever, young, handsome, and you have the power to move the people with your words… All of the qualities that is required of a leader if the people are to follow him." The man leaned in a little closer to Enjolras and lowered his voice. "But that is not why I decided that I could follow you. Do you know what made me make my decision?"

"What?"

"The way that you have been taking care of that little boy," he answered. Seeing the look on Enjolras's face, he proceeded to explain. "Oh, yes. I have seen you. It has not escaped my notice the way you saved him that day those three brutes, Jarreau, Bardon, and Goy, where beating him, the way you have protected him ever since, the way you give him your food, how you guard him when he sleeps, comfort him when he is afraid." He nodded knowingly. "I can see that you love this child, and I can see that you put him above yourself. I can see that you are leading us for his sake and not your own. And that is why I chose to follow you. A true leader thinks not of himself, but of the people he loves." Then, as if speaking to himself, he murmured, "Love is very difficult to come by in this godforsaken place."

Enjolras stared at the man, for a moment, unable to form words on his lips. As he gazed at this old man, a deep respect for him found its way into his heart, and he stood speechless, gazing at this man with great wonder, awe, and admiration, the way one would behold one of the mighty kings of old.

"But—" Enjolras finally managed to say. "But how do you know all of this?"

The old man raised his eyes to meet Enjolras, and for the first time, Enjolras saw a dim, but warm, light in this man's cold eyes, and what might have been the ghost of a smile appeared on the lips beneath the long white beard. "There was once a time, many years ago, when I loved people, as well, lad."

"Yes." Enjolras nodded. He understood that, but there was more that he did not understand. "But what I mean to say… how did you know all of that about… about why they keep me alive? Did someone tell you?"

The old man shook his head. "No. No one has told me anything of you. I do not even know your name. But I know a strong leader when I see one."

"Then, how do you know all of this, which you have spoken?" Enjolras questioned. "Everything that you have said is true, but… But how did you know this? I have told no one."

The old man did not reply. Little to nothing could be seen in those old, mystifying eyes, from which the light of life had faded and a deathly grey emptiness, like that of the forlorn sky after the rain, drained of sunlight and of hope, had remained, but Enjolras could see that the man was thinking. Finally, the man turned these old grey eyes, faded and dying, to look into Enjolras's young blue eyes, which burned with the strength and passion of his will. "If you will," he said quietly, "I ask you to sit with me for a few minutes, child, and I will tell you."

Enjolras first felt the urge to refuse for the sake of the rebellion, which he was about to lead. He glanced over at the gate of the cell and tried to decide how long it would be before the guards came to feed them and it all begun. There was no way to know for certain, but instinct told Enjolras that he had close to another hour. He only left Luc this early so that he would be prepared despite how wrong his judgment proved to be. Enjolras considered things for a moment, and then decided that he had could chance the risk. He turned back to the old man, and obeyed, sitting down across from him so that they could speak face to face.

The man looked into Enjolras's young, handsome face. The young man's body was wounded and broken, but he was still beautiful. But was even more beautiful, this old man saw, was his spirit, which had not yet been destroyed by the darkness of this prison. Despite the physical pain and torture that what was called justice had inflicted upon him, he refused to give in. He kept fighting with will, passion, courage, and strength, and power. The power that fueled Enjolras's soul was love. Another thing that this old man saw in Enjolras and admired was that the suffering, the torture, the cruelty that Enjolras had seen had not yet managed to drain the love out of him, to make him incapable of feeling, to turn him into an animal. And the old man admired him for that.

"My name is Agee," the old man said softly to Enjolras.

"Enjolras."

The old man, Agee, nodded. "To tell you the truth, Enjolras," he said in a low voice, "I knew these things, or, at least, I guessed these things, not long after I fist saw you brought in."

Enjolras frowned in confusion. "How is that?"

"Because…" Agee's voice trailed off, and his eyes dropped away, as if he were having difficulty speaking these next words. He turned his eyes back to meet Enjolras's, and in a low gruff voice, he said, "Because I was once a revolutionary, as well."

At once, Enjolras's entire face changed, turning from slightly skeptical and confused to utterly awed and astonished. The effect these words brought upon Enjolras was like that of which would come upon a man if he were talking to a person of whom he thought to be a slave and suddenly realized to be his own king. "You— You were?!" Enjolras cried out in awe.

Agee gave a small nod. "Yes… Many years ago…"

Enjolras stared at the man with new respect and wonder. He suddenly wanted to know every detail of this old man's experience of the revolution. "What battles were you in?" Enjolras asked anxiously.

"None that you would have heard of," Agee answered. "It was only my fellow friends and I that staged the uprising. There were some other citizens that were willing to join us, but it made little difference. We were out numbered, and we did not stand a chance…" Glazing across the cell, as if he could look into the past and seen visions of his youth, he thought for a moment, and then added, muttering to himself, "Though, deep in our hearts, we knew that before we even begun. Yet, for some reason… that did not stop us…"

As Enjolras listen to this old man speak, it seemed almost as if this man had somehow gotten into his own body and reported the feelings within the depths of his heart. Everything that this man said was a reflection of the things Enjolras would have spoken of the rebellion of the ABC. Deep in his their hearts, they knew that they had no chance of winning. That they would all die. But, for some reason, that did not seem to matter…

"That sounds just like us…" Enjolras found himself whispering.

Agee turned his eyes to look at him. He did not seem surprised at all. It seemed, in fact, that he had been expecting this much. "I was young then," he told Enjolras. "Twenty-five. About your age. We were all young." Then, gazing out at the prison he muttered, "It is sad to see how backward this world has become. The old, worn and ruined by life, ready to move on, linger in this world, as the young, fresh and fruitful in spirit, with their entire lives before them, perish and die."

"What happened?" Enjolras asked the man quietly. "In your rebellion?" Needless to say, Agee and his young ban of revolutionaries failed. Needless to say that most of them died. But what Enjolras was asking was, how did Agee survive?

"I imagine, that my story was the same as yours, lad," Agee said quietly. "Our uprising was a slaughter. Nearly all of us were killed. There were six who survived, I being one of them. By some cruel fait we were the left when the rest of our friends were dead, and they took us. They believed that some members of the conspiracy had escaped and they thought that we knew where they were. We did not, but even if we did, we would not have told them. They questioned us, starved us, beat us…"

His voice faded and he fell silent. He stared at the wall, but it was clear that he did not see the stone of the prison, but the visions of this grim past that unfolded before his eyes. After several long moments, never looking away from the stone, he opened his mouth and spoke again in a low voice that crackled like the blackened remains of the logs breaking as the fire burns out, and nothing is left but dim, fading embers.

"After a year, they finally executed my five friends. But they left me alive because I was the one that started the uprising. They thought I knew. And even when they realized that I did not, they would not kill me. So, here I am still. After all of these years…"

Enjolras hesitated for a moment, but he could not help but ask, "How old are you?"

"I do not know," Agee answered. "None of us do. Why are we to calculate years, or months, or days, or hours, or day and night, where it makes no difference to us, who are no longer living?" He sighed, and said, "But I do know that I am very old. I've been here for ages, son. I've seen young men come in here, watched their hair turn grey, and watched them die. I've seen young boys, such as yourself, come in here and watched them die years before their time. Watched them be beaten to the point of death by other prisoners. I have seem them catch sickness from this horrid cell, become ill and perish. I have seen them die of starvation. I have seen them be taken away, one at a time, and led out for their executions… For years on end I have been forced to sit here and watch the generations pass away, one by one. But by some cruel trick of Providence, I am still here."

As Enjolras gazed at this old man, and he wondered if he was looking at an image of his own fait. Was this is destiny? Was this the future that he was doomed to suffer? Doomed to spend the rest of his life rotting in this cell, with nothing to live for. His soul already dead as his body waited to die. But death, sly and cruel in nature, never taking him.

"Monsieur Agee…" Enjolras said quietly. The old man raised his eye to meet Enjolras's. "I am very sorry for what has happened to you," he said sincerely.

Agee waved a hand at Enjolras. "You need not pity me, lad" he said. "I am old, now, and I feel that my life is finally coming to an end. I will soon be gone, and it will all be over." When the old man spoke these words, a small smile appeared on his lips, as he looked forward to death. There was a time when Enjolras would have seen this old man, who wanted to die, and thought him to be mad. But now, Enjolras understood him completely. Dying was not such a terrible thing. In many of times, it was a fait far kinder than living.

"It is you that I pity," Agee said after a moment, the smile gone from his lips and replaced by a cold, hard expression. "You are still young, and you still have a life ahead of you… For better or for worse."

Enjolras nodded. He understood. He knew that his one chance to save his life and his fait was coming, approaching by every second. If he should fail, his fait would be that of this old man's… or worse. Worse. The worst thing that could happen to him, Enjolras thought, was being separated from Luc. In life or in death, if they were separated then they would both be broken.

"Thank you, for telling me everything that you have," Enjolras said to the man. "I am very glad and very grateful."

Without a word, Agee nodded.

"I will forever honor you all for your courage, your friends for their sacrifice, and you for yours," Enjolras told him.

"Nay!" Agee cried at once. "It is I who honor you, boy. You have paid a heavy burden and a high price for your strength… Higher than I have ever had to suffer." Then, for the last time, Enjolras saw this old man smile. "But in truth, boy, you do remind me much of myself when I was young."

Enjolras found himself returning the smile. Then, he glanced over his shoulder at the gate. "It is almost time," he said quietly. Turing back to Agee, he asked, "You are coming with us?"

Agee only nodded in reply. Enjolras gave a quick nod in return and got to his feet, careful to lift himself up with only his hands and his right leg, so that his left foot always hovered a few inches off the ground. When he was standing, he gently placed his foot on the stone, and turned to leave.

"Enjolras," Agee said quietly.

Enjolras looked back at the man. "Yes?"

"Be careful when you are wounded," Agee said. In his voice was the wisdom of a sage that warns the young man to beware for his fait. "So you can be fierce when you are strong."

Enjolras knew that what the man said was true. If a man strikes when he is injured, he is all the more likely to fall. But Enjolras could not wait until he was healed. He let out a heavy sigh and looked into the man's eyes.

"I am not strong now, but if we do not strike now, we will not strike at all. This is our only chance. So, we have no choice but to take it. No matter whatever consequences lie before us."