Hello again everyone. I'm so very sorry about the obscene delay in updates to this story, and I hope you all haven't just given up on it. The fact that so many people have added it to their alert lists in the long time I've been MIA on it has been so encouraging. My computer broke down on me causing me to lose a lengthy section of what I'd written and it was very difficult to find the motivation to rewrite it. This chapter is very long because it contains major plot advancement, and as I think you'll see when you read it, it wasn't always easy to write. I hope I did well and will thoroughly appreciate any reviews.

I promise to try to do better on getting the next chapter up. I already have a decent amount of it written, because as you'll see, this one ends on a bit of a cliffhanger and I didn't want to publish this then have it be ages before you got to see what happens next. Thanks again for your continued support for this story, and enjoy the chapter!

Back in his cell, Enjolras felt a strange sort of impatience. He was immensely glad that he'd been able to talk to Grantaire safely, but now that he'd completed his business with Bellanger, all that was left to him was a few lonely hours.

As much as he hated himself for the idea of it, he caught himself feeling desperately afraid. On the barricade, he knew death was not only a possibility, but a near certainty, but it didn't haunt him; he faced it boldly with a sustaining sense of peace and strength. Here in prison, it was hard to hold onto that feeling for very long. Here at the very end, he felt the weight of his powerlessness.

The corridor was quiet as usual. It wasn't like Enjolras to be so indifferent, but he hardly could spare a thought for the other wretched prisoners. They were like ghosts to him; in another month, every occupant of those cells, himself included, would be dead and replaced with new discardable souls. Instead, he found himself thinking intently about people who were already gone. The memory of his parting with Combeferre weighed heavily on his mind, then he thought of seeing him there, on his knees with Joly, Feuilly and a clearly wounded Courfeyrac. And from that memory necessarily came the memory he dreaded most: the echoes of four gunshots. How fitting that this noise played over and over in his mind now, when soon, it would be the last real sound he ever heard.

"I'm so sorry my friends," he whispered to the empty space. He knew they couldn't hear him; he knew he wouldn't be reunited with them upon his own death. But he felt overwhelmingly compelled to say it anyway.

His only reply was the unnerving sound and sight of an indifferent rat scurrying across the opposite wall of his cell.


Cosette felt so much lighter the next day as she walked with her father toward the Gillenormand house. Being entrusted with her father's secret, she felt closer to him than she ever had. It was as if, whether she had perceived it or not, a wall between them that had finally relented. She still had more questions, mostly pertaining to her own origins. She had meant it when she said that she would not pry or ask more about his past than he willingly offered, but she would continue to wonder about her early life and her mother. Knowing this piece of the puzzle gave her a few ideas. Of course, without knowing the specific nature of his criminal offense, and sensing she was unlikely ever to, Cosette immediately assumed the imprisonment was somehow unjust. She pictured a man, if not innocent, at worst driven to crime by extremis, arrested and leaving an impoverished and humiliated wife and daughter behind. Cosette's memories of her mother were extremely fleeting, but the ones she occasionally could summon up did not include him. Perhaps his sentence began when she was just a baby. It didn't quite occur to her that he might not be her biological father, unless perhaps he was her grandfather. But today, she felt very close to him, and trusted that in due time, he would share the rest of their story.

Valjean, on the other hand was highly on edge. True, the conversation the previous day with Cosette had been an enormous burden off his shoulders. But he almost couldn't think of that now. The boys' plan, that he had helped construct, was already failing, because he hadn't gotten through to Enjolras. They were going to attempt the escape tonight, and it just seemed too incredibly dangerous. He felt he could never live with himself if harm came to them. And after seeing what he'd seen the previous day, he felt more invested in the grim fate of Enjolras himself than ever before. If the execution proceeded, his failure would haunt him.

At the house, they were, as usual greeted by the butler, but almost right away, they could tell something was wrong. Gillenormand came to greet them, with the worn face of a man who hadn't slept.

"Oh my dear," he began anxiously.

"What's happened?" Cosette demanded. Valjean put a hand gently on her shoulder. Before the old man could descend into hysterics, Joly appeared in the hallway. He had slept lightly in a chair in Marius' room after the surgery and woke up to the shocking sight of Courfeyrac holding an intense vigil beside their ailing friend. He had now come down to speak with the grandfather, but now arrived just in time to more effectively explain the situation.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent," he began, then turned to Cosette, whom he had not yet met. "Mademoiselle, I wish we might have met under happier circumstances," he said with a sad smile and made a deferential bow. She drew a deep breath, steeling herself for terrible news.

"What's happened?" she asked again, less sharply this time.

"Marius became gravely ill," Joly began. "His wound is badly infected and he needed a dangerous procedure that could not wait until morning. I operated in the night and he's resting now, but it will be a perilous road ahead, Mademoiselle."

"Will he live?" she asked, hoping desperately to be able to put her faith completely in his answer.

"I don't know," Joly replied grimly. "He's very ill and his decline was frighteningly steep. Courfeyrac was wise to come."

"Courfeyrac is here?" Valjean asked, with a start. "How?"

"He told me the Baudins' daughter-in-law helped him get a fiacre," Joly explained.

"She's here in the drawing room," said Gillenormand.

Cosette listened anxiously, but she couldn't help feeling like hardly cared about how this Courfeyrac got here or who was with him; all she wanted was to know about Marius. After patiently nodding along for what seemed to her like a long time, she once again abandoned her convent-instilled manners and chimed in.

"Can I go in and see him?" she asked, gaining complete silence from all of them.

Joly smiled sadly. "It warms my heart to see that you love him as much as he loves you," he said. "Why don't we go now. Your father can join us so that there is no impropriety."

"Actually," began Valjean, much to everyone's surprise. "I do wish to see him, and I don't wish to keep you, but I need to speak with Joly and the others, about my conversation with their friend yesterday. I feel it mustn't wait. Perhaps Monsieur Gillenormand might take accompany you."

"Of course!" exclaimed the grandfather. He was kept thoroughly in the dark about the jail escape plots, but he did know that Fauchelevent had intended to visit Enjolras yesterday to tell him that his friends were alive. Even as set in his ways and disapproving of the whole thing as he was, the grandfather thought it was a commendable act of kindness to let the dying man know he wasn't quite so alone.

Joly's face grew tense with the news of Enjolras. He wanted to hear right away what Valjean had to say. "Let me get them and we'll speak in private.


Grantaire was miserable. There were tears in his eyes when he left the prison. Bellanger, despite his initial annoyance with the boy, was touched.

"I'm so sorry," he said as they walked away from the horrid place towards his office. He put an arm gently on Grantaire's shoulder.

"I thank you," Grantaire replied. "For taking me to see him, and for all you've tried to do for him."

"It's nothing," said Bellanger.

"It's not nothing," Grantaire persisted. "It's far from nothing."

"You have my word of honor that I will continue to fight this as long as there is any time," Bellanger repeated. "I will be hard at work, sending appeals and trying to petition for stays, anything. I don't have high hopes though. I have talked extensively with him, and he understands this, but for his sake, I need you to promise me that you won't do anything foolish if it doesn't go our way."

Grantaire stopped in his tracks. "He made me promise the same thing. The first night after the barricade."

"And you promptly disregarded it by showing up at the trial," said Bellanger. "I need to know that won't happen again."

"I have no wish to go there and watch him die," said Grantaire defensively.

"That's not necessarily what I'm afraid of," Bellanger pressed on.

"Ah, you wish now to implore me that I won't attempt some foolhardy rescue mission," Grantaire began, almost laughing cynically. "Well, I assure you, daring acts of heroism are far beyond me, as I've repeatedly proven. I can all but guarantee that when Enjolras is facing the guns, I'll be passed out drunk in my apartment. You needn't worry."

Bellanger felt uneasy at this declaration. "I think I will worry," he said cautiously. He hardly knew this boy, but he somehow felt responsible for him now, if nothing else, partly out of loyalty to Enjolras. "How might I contact you?"

"Why ever would you need to?"

"To let you know how it goes," said Bellanger. "If we make progress with an appeal, or even get him a stay, I imagine you'll want to see him again. But if not, at the very least I intend to ensure that he has the dignity of a decent funeral. I'm sure you'd want to be there.

"I would have no place at Enjolras's funeral," said Grantaire bitterly. "I'll follow the news. If your appeal succeeds, that will be the papers. If he's executed tomorrow, that will be in the papers. I'll call on you if I have reason to believe he's still alive after tomorrow. If not, you really needn't worry about me."

"I will though,' said Bellanger. "But I'll respect your privacy. Good luck to you sir," he said somberly, and shook his hand.

"Please save my friend, Monsieur Bellanger," Grantaire pleaded, almost pathetically, then walked quickly away towards his apartment.


Combeferre felt that his heart might break hearing Valjean's account of the previous day. This was bad. Not only was Enjolras unaware of the plan, but he'd been savagely beaten by the guards. Combeferre was sure that he'd been mistreated all along but there was something very unsettling about having it confirmed. They were gathered, Courfeyrac included, in an empty room down the hall from Marius's.

"We have no choice," said Combeferre. "We have to move forward anyway!"

"I agree," said Feuilly. "It may be more dangerous but it's all we've got. There won't be another opportunity. He'll die if we don't get him out tonight."

Valjean nodded grimly. "If you're sure," he began. "I'm so terribly sorry."

"It was nothing you did," Courfeyrac insisted. "We should have considered that he would remember your face and assume the same thing we did."

"He sincerely believes you're all dead," Valjean reiterated. "It may be very distressing for one of you just appear. I tell you this as someone whose mind has felt the effects of prison; his first assumption may be that he's gone mad."

Combeferre clenched his fist in horror. Joly put a hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

"Enjolras is an exceedingly calm person," Feuilly insisted. "I don't think a shock will unhinge him too badly. And he's far too rational to think he's seeing a ghost."

"You know him better than I do," began Valjean. "But I saw him yesterday, and I saw a man with nothing to lose. He has been in a cage for weeks facing death and thinking everyone he cares about has been killed. No matter what he's normally like, that will not leave a man's mind untouched. I'm telling you that if the night before he's to be killed, a person he believes is dead, just appears in front of him, his first thought will not be a happy one. Please, I am not trying to slander him or say he's mad, but I implore you to take me seriously when I warn that his reaction may harm the endeavor!"

"So what do you intend for me to do?" Feuilly demanded, a bit frustrated. "Gag him? Put a bag over his head? Knock him out and drag him?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Feuilly," Courfeyrac snapped. "Be prepared to throw a hand over his mouth in case he screams, then very quickly and calmly explain yourself. That's not an unreasonable precaution."

"You all talk like it's so simple!" Feuilly snapped. "I'm the one going into the place, remember?"

"Well, would you rather I did?" Courfeyrac chided indignantly.

"Stop this at once, boys," snapped Valjean. Almost immediately he was obeyed. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were suddenly rather embarrassed that they'd allowed themselves to get so tense so quickly.

"When I reach his cell, I will try my best to cover his mouth before showing my face," said Feuilly. "I'm a lot bigger than he is; it won't be difficult."

"So, we proceed," Combeferre began nervously. "We go to the prison in the night, you slip inside at the guard shift change just after midnight, we meet you one hour later with Enjolras in Monsieur Valjean's cart, deposit you two safely back at the apartment, while he and I make for the road?"

"Should we not return here instead?" Joly asked. "Courfeyrac is already here and I wonder if Marius should not be left alone."

"Feuilly most certainly can't return here," said Courfeyrac. "If his face is seen, the police will follow him here. I don't want trouble for the Baudins either; God knows I don't, but they at least know who we are and what they've agreed to by sheltering us. Monsieur Gillenormand has not consented to harbor fugitives or risk his own arrest or even Marius's. Think of Marius. If the police come here, they'll arrest him and he'll die."

"How will you get back?" Combeferre asked of Courfeyrac. "You can't come with us to the prison."

"I'll return with Madame Baudin this afternoon," he replied reluctantly, realizing that meant that his involvement with the plan would be over; he would have no knowledge of its progress until it was completed or failed. But he knew it was wisest. "I will eagerly await your report in the night."

"And what of Marius?" Valjean asked. "It was my understanding Gillenormand's physician wouldn't be back for a while; can he wait that long?"

"No, he really shouldn't," said Combeferre. "Joly, perhaps you need to say here."

"Like hell I'll stay here!" Joly snapped.

"But he may need you," said Combeferre. "You've been very courageous my friend, but it may be the case that you can do more good by staying away this time."

Joly was silent. He hated the idea of not being there for the effort to save Enjolras, but he didn't feel he could make any principled objection to staying for Marius's sake.

"So just the two of you?" he said eventually.

"Yes," said Combeferre taking charge. "You stay with Marius and be ready to fill in Gillenormand's doctor when he arrives. He won't be pleased, but you'll need to convince him that what we did was necessary."

"I think I can do that," Joly replied.

"So we seem to be ready?" said Valjean apprehensively.

"As we'll ever be," Feuilly replied. "You'll have the cart for us at eleven, then?"

Valjean nodded.

"This is goodbye then?" said Courfeyrac very suddenly and very anxiously. He turned specifically to Combeferre.

"For now," Combeferre replied sadly. "If we succeed, I promise Enjolras and I will return when it's safe; we'll write and tell you where we are."

"There won't be a day that I won't worry about you," said Courfeyrac. "And pray for your welfare."

"I know, my friend," replied Combeferre. "And I thank you." Then without words, the two embraced.


A few blocks away from the prison, Combeferre and Feuilly set off in the cart procured by Valjean. The sky was opaque with cloud cover threatening a great summer storm. This was good, they agreed; if the rain and thunder and lightning came when it was time for them to make their getaway, it would be much easier to disappear in the great sea of Paris.

As they approached the gates, an uneasy silence fell upon them. Neither wanted to express his true thoughts and fears about the plan. Combeferre looked at his pocket watch; it was nearly midnight, meaning the time had come for them to separate. He gave a nervous look to Feuilly.

"If I'm not back in one hour, you run," Feuilly said staunchly. "Get the cart and the nag as far away from here as you can and don't let your face be seen."

Combeferre drew a deep breath and nodded. "Please be alright, Feuilly. Get out of there safely, with Enjolras so we can begin to put this nightmare behind us."

Feuilly gave a sad smile and grasped his hand warmly. Then in an instant, he climbed down from the cart and vanished into the darkness in the direction of the prison gate.

Inside the prison, Feuilly's mentality reverted back to his youth on the streets. It was amazing how readily the instincts to blend in and move quietly came back to him. He had managed his first task easily enough: to find an office, pick the lock and steal an off duty officer's uniform jacket so that simply being seen wouldn't be suicide.

His next objective would be much more difficult, however. He had to not only gain access to the high security ward of condemned prisoners, but inconspicuously get ahold of keys to the cells. He knew very little about the interior geography of the place, so he would have to move quickly in case he had to cover a lot of ground in a short time.

He soon found himself in a relatively crowded corridor where several guards were moving in the same direction. He guessed that they were the next shift about to begin, so he slipped into the crowd with them and kept his ears open for any clues about where he needed to be heading and how to get ahold of keys.

By a stroke of luck, he almost immediately heard heard something useful.

"Glad that'll be over with tomorrow," said a gruff voice. "My wife keeps carrying on like they're going to storm in here after him. There's too much of an atmosphere here because of it. I wish they'd have dealt with him at the military barracks."

"Or at least raised our stipends for the extra trouble," chimed in a second voice. "It's probably not very Christian to say it, but I'm right there with you; I'll be glad when tonight's over."

"Leave that to the priests," said the first voice heartily. "We weren't the ones rioting and killing in the street; we can be as glad as we want to be."

Feuilly was sure they were talking about Enjolras now, and furthermore, it seemed like these two were guards of that area of the prison. He was incredibly relieved as he sized them up. His first thought was that only the most competent guards would be entrusted with prisoners like Enjolras, but these two seemed like oafs as they sauntered down the hallway complaining about their job. For the first time, he almost began to relax a little and feel hopeful that the mission could be a success.

Now it was time to rely on the skills he hated that he had. Feuilly often thought that he would never outlive the shame of having stolen to survive. But if the ability to pick a pocket now paid off toward the goal of saving Enjolras, he knew it would forever be worth it.

He focused keenly on his two targets, trying to establish which one had the keys. He focused on their belts, looking for any sign that something might jingle, and his sharp eye spotted it quickly on the belt of the older looking of the two guards. They were nearing the end of the corridor, so he had to act quickly. Feuilly shuffled up in the crowd towards them.

When he was almost right on top of them, he deliberately stumbled, then grabbed at the older guard's shoulder to steady himself.

"Watch it!" snapped the guard!

"I'm so sorry," Feuilly said frantically, running his hands all over the other man's jacket appearing to straighten it. "My mind was elsewhere," he added, giving the guard a pat on the shoulder. Meanwhile, he had slipped the ring of keys into his own pocket without either of the other men noticing. "I'll make it up to you mate; buy you a drink tomorrow, eh?"

The older man grinned at the magic word. "I'll hold you to it," he said. Feuilly suspected he was trying not to let on that he didn't recognize him, but he was cautious to not give him too much of an opportunity to form an impression of his face.

"Catch you later then, boys," said Feuilly with a charming smile, and soon he cut into the crowd and then fell back in the crowd. He had to follow them long enough to get an idea where he was going. He watched them anxiously as they turned a corner and then another down a long hallway. Soon they were the only ones around, so Feuilly needed to hang back in the shadows as he watched the scene unfold.

"Goddamnit!" shouted the older guard, frantically digging through his coat and belt.

"What is it?" asked his partner.

"I dropped my keys," he replied. "I'll be sacked for sure if I don't find them right now! It was probably when that damned fool knocked into me. He's knew and doesn't know what he's doing I reckon; I've never seen his face before. But he's really screwed me now!"

"Come on," said the partner nervously. "We'll go back quickly. Everyone will be clear of the corridor now; it'll be easy to find them and no one need ever know. It won't kill them to wait a few extra minutes to be relieved."

Feuilly strode forward confidently. This was going better than he could have anticipated. He had the keys and these guards were out of the picture. He had gathered a decent idea of where they were headed, so he boldly but discretely traversed through the dark and quiet corridors of the prison until he came to the first barred gate leading towards the cells.


Enjolras was wide awake on the cot in his cell. He was staring hopelessly out the tiny barred window into the blackness of the night. He could see no stars tonight. The world outside the prison was almost as dark as the hell within it. He had little hope of falling asleep, but staring out the window like this, even though he was seeing nothing, had a strange hypnotic quality, that he soon found for himself soothing relief of a thoughtless trance. It was as peaceful a state as he ever could have hoped for in those lonely hours awaiting his execution.

His mind was quiet, and that was a blessing. The intermittent wailing of the other prisoners that often persisted through the night had quieted down by now. He was beyond wondering about the time. He simply hoped that this strange tranquility could sustain him through the coming hours so that he might conduct himself courageously when they came for him.

A long time seemed to pass like this, before a sound roused him from his trance. It was footsteps.

A tight knot formed in his stomach. Could it really be time already? The night was still so black, but he couldn't imagine why else he would hear footsteps. He drew a deep breath and listened quietly. The footsteps were coming closer, but they strangely seemed to belong only to one person. In any case, he told himself, it would be terribly shameful to meet them lying down when they came for him, so he hoisted himself into a sitting position. In this act, he realized how weak he had become in the weeks since he arrived in this place. His wrist had still not quite healed from its break, his swollen jaw still ached, his head throbbed from the clubs of the officers and all his muscles felt completely used up. He was tired, so terribly tired.

When the shadow of a man came into view from the bars outside his cell, he took a deep breath and stood. On his feet he felt almost dizzy, but he forced himself to stand as tall and as proudly as he had when facing the guns in the smoky ruins of the Cafe Musain back in June. He strode up to the bars and waited to greet the men who would take him to the block.

Nothing on earth could have prepared him for what he saw.


It was very late at night and Bellanger was still in his office. His staff had long since left for the night, but he couldn't bring himself to go home, even though there was finally nothing more he could do. He had sent one last appeal to the highest court a few hours ago; if it failed, Enjolras would be dead before they had time to read another try. He just sat at his desk in silence for a while, occasionally working on a brief in response to the challenge he anticipated to Enjolras' will. But he could hardly stand to work on that for very long. Eventually, he gave into his melancholy and poured himself a drink.

After a while, the exhaustion began to overwhelm him and he started to nod off at his desk. It was a welcome warm sensation, those first moments of sleep, which had eluded him so fiercely for so long. He almost felt guilty, but he found himself hardly able to resist.

But no sooner had he closed his eyes, that he heard the sound of someone charging through the door. He snapped awake immediately and stood up, at first frightened.

It was Jarnot, he was brandishing an envelop.

"A reply from the Palace," he said, almost breathlessly. "A copy is being sent to the prison now."

Bellanger seized it at once and ripped it open. He read it silently three times before lowering it an exhaling the biggest sigh of unimaginable relief in his life. "Thank God!" he exclaimed. "Thank God, he's been reprieved, Claude."

Jarnot nodded patiently. He wasn't exactly delighted with the news, but he was exceedingly loyal to the King, and completely supported any such order from the palace.

"His sentence is commuted to life in prison," Bellanger elaborated. That may not have been good news per se, but he didn't care. Enjolras was going to live. "I expect they will transfer him to another prison. I need to go there and see him. They ought to let me."

"From my conversations with the boy," Jarnot began solemnly. "I'm not sure that he will consider this welcome news."

"I don't care," said Bellanger. "He's going to live and that's the most welcome news I've heard in weeks. Thank you my friend. I know it wasn't easy for you to get involved in this, but you may have helped save his life and whether it makes sense to you or not, I am so grateful." He quickly started gathering up his overcoat and the letter. Jarnot smiled slightly. At least he was glad that his old friend was pleased with the outcome. Soon this unpleasant business would be long behind him.


Feuilly's heart sank at the sight of Enjolras in his cell. He stood there defiantly, clearly having stood up to boldly meet the executioner, but he looked almost nothing like himself. Seeing him this up close made it clear how much weight he'd lost, how filthy and injured he was. And the idea to hold off revealing his own face to him until he'd had a chance to explain was completely shot. At the sight of him, what little color there was fled from Enjolras's face. Feuilly was quick to action though, immediately trying keys in the lock until he found the one that opened the cell.

"Enjolras," he said quietly but urgently. "I wish so desperately I had time to explain, but I don't. We survived, the four of us. I'm getting you out of here, but you have to be silent and do everything I tell you, do you understand?" he whispered urgently as he swung the door open.

Enjolras was speechless, he backed up nervously as Feuilly came into the cell and grabbed his face gently. Suddenly, he started breathing frantically quickly.

"I've truly gone mad now!" he muttered to himself, trying to back away from Feuilly's touch. Feuilly hated doing it, but he threw one of his big hands over Enjolras's mouth, which made his friend panic and try to get away. But Feuilly was stronger so he held him still and forced him into a sitting position on the cot.

"It's really me, Enjolras," he said. "I swear it. We escaped. Courfeyrac was injured but Joly and Combeferre saved him. We've been operating quietly out of the apartment and trying to concoct a plan to free you. I'm here to take you away from this place; Combeferre is outside waiting for us and we have to leave now. I promise I will tell you everything, but you need to trust me."

Enjolras suddenly started crying, which at first terrified Feuilly, but then he nodded, and Feuilly could see the recognition in his eyes. He cautiously lowered his hand. Enjolras, tears flowing down his face, drew a deep breath.

"You're alive?" he said quietly. "Thank God! Thank God!"

"So are Combeferre, Joly, Courfeyrac and Pontmercy," said Feuilly. Enjolras felt his heart swell. Nothing could be better.

"Grantaire too," he said, suddenly wondering if they knew.

"Grantaire?!" It was Feuilly's turn for a surprise.

"He's been here," said Enjolras. "He visited, posing as my cousin. He'll want to know you've survived. It means the world to me."

"You can tell him when we get out of here," said Feuilly, anxiously. He pulled Enjolras up. "Come on, we don't have much time." Enjolras abandoned all his nerves and hesitation and followed his friend as they left the cell and made their way quickly down the hallway. Luckily the other prisoners mostly seemed asleep.

They moved silently as Feuilly tried to intuit the most efficient way to the outside, but without encountering another guard. Enjolras could offer no insight because he had only ever seen the most secure parts of the prison under heavy guard. But Feuilly had a real talent for finding his way in a place.

Soon they were back in that first main corridor. From here it was a simple matter of getting out of the building then back through the main gate. Feuilly still had the keys with him, and he prayed to God that he wouldn't encounter any lock that required a different key.

"We have to move quickly," he said to Enjolras, who was having a difficult time keeping up with Feuilly's long, fit stride.

Suddenly, they heard a terrible sound; footsteps of a guard. Feuilly knew right away that the time for caution had past. "Run!" he snapped at Enjolras and took off like a deer, dragging his friend by the hand.

"Hey!" shouted a voice. Neither of them turned back; they just kept running down the long corridor, even as they heard the man blow a loud whistle. Soon, bells were ringing and they heard even more footsteps.

"Come on!" Feuilly shouted, hoping Enjolras could keep up. Enjolras was doing his very best; the thought of endangering Feuilly with his slowness was unbearable. So he tried to summon all his strength to keep up as now they were being actively pursued. When they reached a door, Feuilly made very quick work of the keys then took care to lock it again behind them in the slightest hope of slowing down their pursuers.

But on this side, another pair of guards was waiting for them. Instinct seized Feuilly and he started throwing punches. His first priority was disarming his opponent; with a heavy kick to the hand, he managed to fling the first man's gun far across the room. Enjolras knew he would be useless to fight but he tried anyway, focusing on the smaller of the two, who had been too slow to draw his gun. Enjolras, in his weakened state was badly outmatched, but fought with furious intensity. The other man had him practically pinned to the ground before Feuilly intervened. This gave Enjolras an important opportunity.

He reached up and grabbed the gun off the distracted man's belt. Scrambling to his feet, he pointed the gun at both guards.

"We don't want to hurt either of you," he said calmly, getting their attention easily. "But I've killed before and I'll do it again if I have to. Feuilly, pick up that other gun." Feuilly immediately complied. It was like seeing the old Enjolras, a fearsome leader giving commands with the authority of a general. "You're going to go that way as if you saw us run that way and are giving chase. Tell everyone you encounter that we went that way," said Enjolras, pointing in one direction. "Is that clear?"

The guards said nothing. Enjolras aimed the gun at the head of the younger guard. He had no intention of doing this, but he was extremely convincing as he cocked the gun and placed his sickly white finger on the trigger.

"Alright!" snapped the older one. Feuilly and Enjolras watched to ensure that they ran in the correct direction before taking off in the opposite direction. Their ruse seemed to be working. When they came to a corner, they glanced around to see an army of uniformed guards down a distant hallway dashing in the direction they had indicated. Their path of the outside was all but clear.

Getting outside was not difficult with the keys Feuilly had stolen. But they were not free yet. The storm had begun; rain was falling in sheets and thunder boomed through the night, like gunshots. They had to get across the entire prison yard to the massive gate before they were back on the free streets of Paris, before they could meet Combeferre and hope to vanish into the safety of the night. Their ruse had bought them some time, but here on the outside of the building they were most vulnerable. No matter what direction they could convince the guards they were taking, all ways out of the prison were through this yard. It was only a matter of time before it was secured. They had to run and run faster than they'd ever run before. Feuilly's plan was for them to climb over the fence. He knew Enjolras would need a great deal of help, but he was sure he could manage it as long as they got to one particular spot where he knew there was a tree on the other side that would make getting down easier, because he knew Enjolras was unlikely to survive a bad fall and broken bones in his condition.

Soon they became aware that they were being chased again. They heard the ominous whistles and footsteps.

"Stop right now or we'll shoot!" called an authoritative voice behind them, but they pressed on. Feuilly had tunnel vision for his spot. Enjolras however, hesitated.

"Go on without me," he said suddenly, slowing down.

"Absolutely not!" snapped Feuilly yanking him along. They heard one of the officers fire his gun into the air as a warning; the sound nearly completely blended in with the thunder. They were now just yards away from where they would begin to climb. Enjolras struggled to keep up, but they finally reached the wall. They had to act fast. Feuilly crouched down to spot Enjolras up first, but once again, he hesitated.

"Feuilly, please just get out of here!" said Enjolras desperately. He knew he had no strength to climb the wall; Feuilly could get over it and escape to safety but only if he did it right now. The guards were getting closer. Enjolras now heard dogs barking ferociously. But Feuilly wouldn't hear of it. He grabbed Enjolras and started to shove him up the wall. Enjolras knew he had to try now. So, with Feuilly's help, he reached toward the top of the wall. Suddenly. He almost felt that his rebellious spirit felt reignited. He could almost taste freedom as he reached.

With his dominant left hand, he grasped the top of the wall with Feuilly hoisting him upward. He gripped with all his strength and pulled himself up.

Feuilly knew before Enjolras did what had happened. As soon as he tried to take any of his own weight with his injured hand, Enjolras lost his grip and fell back down the wall, knocking Feuilly down with him. They both lay on the soaking ground as the guards approached.

"Get onto your knees, and put your hands on top of your heads, now!" called a voice that was getting much closer.

Enjolras's heart was broken again. His weakness, his failure had cost Feuilly everything. He would now be arrested and possibly executed too. In that moment, he wished he could die right then and there. With his head hanging low, he got to his knees and complied with their orders. He couldn't bare to look at Feuilly next to him. He just wanted it to end. They would be there in seconds, shackling him and dragging him back to his cell. His only desperate hope was that they wouldn't delay his appointment with the firing squad because of this.

"Get up!" Feuilly screamed, tears running down his face. He had immediately scrambled to his feet and was prepared to try again. He was not willing to give up, but seeing Enjolras on his knees like this, broken, was the most horrifying sight he'd ever seen. He roughly grabbed his friend by the arms and tried to drag him back to attempt to scale the wall again. "God damn you Enjolras, you stand up right now you son of a bitch!"

Enjolras weakly looked up at him and saw that he was sobbing. He found that as hopeless as it was, he couldn't not fight with him. So, with Feuilly's help, he tried to stand again. It was so incredibly hard, but Feuilly wouldn't give up, and eventually Enjolras was on his feet again, in more pain than he'd had before, but he was now fully committed to keep trying as long as Feuilly was.

Feuilly smiled and turned toward the wall, with Enjolras trying to take a step. Somehow, even now, as the guards closed in, as the thunder and gunshots and dogs barking filled the night, there was a bit of hope.

A second later, that hope was dashed when a bullet found its way passed Enjolras's ear and into Feuilly's spine.