A/N Sorry for the wait but it's exam season. This is a dark and messy chapter so some warnings are going in here. Warnings for: blood, violence, descriptions of death and injury, language and mild threat of rape.
Sorry and…enjoy?
Chapter Forty-two
He flew back to consciousness, gasping for air, adrenaline hammering wildly through his body. His ears were ringing and his vision teetered crazily, sliding in and out of focus. Coughing grit-filled spit from his lungs, he rolled onto his side, ribs aching.
The blast had devastated the square, tearing through the packed bodies like a rabid beast, sparing none that stood in its path. He sat up, the action prompting a flood of nausea that he could not supress in time, twisting to the side and vomiting onto the cobbles. The bile burnt his throat and his nose, his stomach cramping painfully; he repeated the action immediately upon catching sight of the little gamin who had brought him Grantaire's message. The boy was spread out on one side, eyes open. More accurately, one eye was open; the other eye was missing, along with that side of his head. A bloody lump of stone lay not far away, torn from the pavement by the explosion and flung with lethal, random accuracy to cut down the boy.
Enjolras was still gagging and retching when a firm hand gripped him by the collar and tugged him sharply to his feet.
Still partially deaf he staggered drunkenly, relief flooding him as he saw Rene standing beside him, mouth moving but no sound coming out.
Obviously seeing the disorientated sheen to his younger compatriot's eyes Le Faucon slapped Enjolras smartly on one side of the head, then the other. Though brutal the action had the desired effect as he blinked dazedly, his eyes focussing properly for the first time.
"Rene!" Enjolras barely retrained himself from hugging the older revolutionary. "Thank heavens you're all right!"
"Heaven has got nothing to do with it," Rene answered, grim-mouthed, raking his avian eyes across the carnage littering the square.
Enjolras felt his stomach lurch again as he did the same. "Who did this?" he murmured, his thoughts being verbalized almost without his prior knowledge.
"The National Guard, I imagine," Rene replied, stepping away briefly to pull a remarkably undamaged musket from the rag-doll corpse of a soldier. It was the same soldier who had only minutes previously been pushing Rene to the gallows, beating off the crowd with that same weapon.
Enjolras glanced at him sharply; something in the other man's voice caught his attention even over the pitiful cries of the wounded. Actually, it was the lack of something. He was unexpectedly reminded of the time when he and Aimee had taken a trip to Madame Tussauds.
Rene, in that moment, reminded him of one of those waxworks: too perfect, too smooth, a perfect example of art imitating life. As he watched Rene move away into the carnage, ignoring the dead and wounded, only intent on finding functional weapons, a terrible thought came to him…what exactly had Giles and his men been doing? This wasswiftly followed by an even more horrendous thought…where were the Amis?
"Enjolras!"
The cry came from behind him and he spun, almost falling straight into the arms of Combeferre. For a brief moment their differences were set aside and they hugged fiercely, too glad to see the other alive to think of anything else.
"Did you see what happened?" Enjolras asked after they pulled apart. "I only remember heading for the gallows and then…nothing."
Combeferre shook his head, the horror of their surroundings affecting the young doctor deeply. He saw the gamin's body and made the sign of the cross, a deep sadness on his face. "I saw nothing," he said eventually. "Only the direction the explosion came from," he pointed to the rear corner of the square, "but then there was a panicked stampede and I was trapped in the alley until only a few moments ago." He shook his head again, and Enjolras felt guilty for the pain in those eyes, strangely feeling like the cause. "We must help these people, Enjolras. No matter how this catastrophe happened, these people have been hurt because of events engineered by us and our actions. They deserve our aid now."
"The people who deserve your aid are the revolutionaries fighting for their lives." Rene appeared at their side once more, several muskets slung over both shoulders, one of the white slings stained scarlet with fresh blood. "I met Giles during my search and he told me we have brothers engaged in fighting all over the city. The rest of your group have already been dispatched to appropriate locations. Mercifully, none of them were injured in the attack."
"But what of these people here?" Combeferre asked, barely concealing the borderline loathing in his voice.
Rene glanced around briefly. "They will be attended to in due course," he dismissed.
"Dozens will die before any aid is brought to them!" Combeferre returned hotly. "I will catch you up; I must honour my Hippocratic Oath and help these people."
He started to walk away but was halted by Rene's hand clamping down on his shoulder. "You will do no such thing," he growled. "There is a cohort of nearly a dozen soldiers entering the square now. If we do not leave immediately we will be captured and all of this planning and sacrifice for my escape will have been for nought."
"We need to leave, Ferre." Enjolras eyed the soldiers uneasily. His pistol still lay unfired in his pocket and for the first time he wondered if he could ever in fact use it on another living being. His gut churned at his cowardice and he pushed it away with anger. Anger was good. Anger was constructive. "We need to leave now."
Combeferre stared at him for a moment, so much despair in his eyes that Enjolras almost crumbled. Almost.
When the other young man spoke again his voice was filled with biting fury. "You would force me to abandon the very people we are attempting to liberate? When did you become so callous? When did you become him?" He jerked a thumb at Le Faucon and the older revolutionary lunged forwards angrily.
Enjolras stepped between them. "We do not have time for this now," he said curtly, trying to hide the pain Combeferre's words had caused. "If you wish to abandon our friends and our cause, Combeferre, then by all means feel free. I'm sure that the National Guard will be incredibly understanding as they drag you away, or more likely, as they push you up against a wall and shoot you."
"We must away," Rene hissed, backing into the mouth of the alley behind them. "We are beginning to draw attention to ourselves with this mindless squabbling."
With a final, pained glace behind him Combeferre moved away from the square, refusing to look at Enjolras as he passed.
Without another word they hurried along the alley, slipping and sliding on the rubbish and filth underfoot. As they passed other sections of the impenetrable tangle of Paris' alleyways, Enjolras heard the sounds of gunfire and battle cries, smashing glass and angered shouts; more viable proof that this was really happening.
After some time they stopped, panting quietly, backs pressed to the slimy wall as Rene peered cautiously around the corner.
"We are nearly at the Musain," he muttered. "Most of the other Amis have been stationed there; Bahorel and Feuilly were sent out with others to try and organize the growing mobs."
He began to unsling the muskets hung across his body, meaning to pass them to his two companions, but then a voice rang out – it was young and taut with fear.
"Halt! Put your hands up!" The young Guardsman had approached from another alley opening behind them. His musket was raised, ready to fire at the mere twitch of his finger.
Although, logically, Enjolras knew that there were three of them and only one soldier, a fact the boy seemed to have forgotten, he was also painfully aware of the damage even one bullet could do in such a confined space. This was not how he imagined dying: killed by a boy in a back alley before the fighting had barely begun.
Still tangled in the musket slings Rene had very little option but do as he was told, slowly raising his arms above his head, palms open, an action Enjolras and Combeferre quickly followed.
"Our hands are up, boy," Rene growled, seemingly unfazed by the muzzle barely two feet from his chest. "So what are you going to do now?"
Confusion turned to fear on the boy's face and he glanced nervously behind him, obviously hoping for the miraculous appearance of some of his unit.
"You have one bullet," Rene continued, unrelenting, "and there are three of us. Chances are you might get one of us, but before you can reload I can have unslung one of these muskets and put a ball between your eyes."
"Please," Combeferre butted in, "just listen to us…"
"No!" the boy cut him off. "You rebel whoresons! I shan't listen to any of the lies you have to say, I shan't…" He indignant yells were quickly cut off as Rene sprung forwards, sliding the muskets free of his shoulders as he did so. Grasping the musket by its barrel he wrenched it away, twisting sharply to pull the trigger away from the boy's finger. The crack of the boy's wrist breaking was loud and made Enjolras and Combeferre wince. With his opponent disabled by his pain, Rene popped his elbow sharply into the young soldier's nose for good measure, pulling the musket from his hands, uncocking it and tossing it aside.
With a swift kick to the back of his legs Rene knocked the boy to his knees, his arm wrenched up behind his back in a crippling chokehold. The gag hanging around his own throat was unknotted impatiently and given a new home in their captive's mouth. Rene looked quickly down the alley, checking that no one had heard the confrontation and that they were not going to be ambushed again. The whole situation had taken place in a little under three minutes, the disabling of the guard less than one.
"Now what?" Enjolras asked, closing his ears to the low moan of pain that the boy let out. He knew without looking that Combeferre was standing close behind, fists clenched, desperate to alleviate the suffering. The tension his friend was exuding was almost palpable.
Still scanning their surroundings and holding the boy with one arm, Le Faucon shrugged off his jacket and handed it to Enjolras. "Wrap that around the pistol."
Doing as he was bidden Enjolras couldn't help the question that came next. "Why?"
"We need to get rid him." A small tug on the boy's hair indicated who he was talking about.
Enjolras wasn't sure whether to be pleased or ashamed that it took him some seconds to put together what was being said. Judging from Combeferre's sharp intake of breath he had not had the same problem. "You want me to…shoot him?"
Panic flared in their captive's eyes, the starling greenness of them flashing Enjolras back to another set of eyes torn wide with fright, eyes that had come to glow with what he thought was love, love for him…once. For the boy, though, this was no nightmare that could be eased by soothing words and the dawn of a new day.
"Surely you are not having second thoughts about your path?" Le Faucon asked, eyes hard and assessing. "You wanted a revolution? Well, this is what a revolution looks like. It's not pretty speeches and banners in the streets. It's fighting in the blood and mud of back alleys and sometimes that means you have to do things you are not proud of. Now shoot him, Enjolras, before his friends come looking and we are outnumbered."
"You cannot be serious," Combeferre whispered harshly, turning to glare at Enjolras. "Don't you even think about it, Julien. This is not war; this is murder and if you are even a fraction of the man I thought you were you would never countenance this. Ever."
"You will keep your silence," Rene snarled. "Just because you are content to grovel under a tyrant's hand does not mean you can steer him from his righteous course."
"Righteous!" Combeferre snorted. "There is nothing righteous about this, or about you. A righteous man shows mercy." He turned to Enjolras who was stood frozen with indecision, the gun clasped in a white knuckle grip.
"Do it, Enjolras; we are running out of time." Another sharp pull made the boy cease his hopeless struggles, breath ripping in and out of nostrils flared with pain and fear.
Licking his dry lips and quelling the shake in his hands Enjolras raised the gun. The ice in his skin was only noticeable when Combeferre fastened his wrist in a bruising grip.
"Don't do this, Julien," he whispered, his eyes bright with anguish. "I beg of you. You will never forgive yourself; never forget the taint it leaves on your soul. This is not the way; I will not follow you down the road this is leading you to, brother. I cannot do it, not even for you."
The gun wavered. The pain in his heart was almost too much to bear but he knew that if he did not do this he would have lost the only thing he had left, the only thing he had not broken beyond repair. The revolution was the only thing that mattered now…
"Oh, for the love of…" Rene growled and his arm jerked again, but the noise this time was different. The boy choked and gurgled, the blood spraying in a fine mist as he helplessly tried to draw air past his severed windpipe. It pattered bright and hot onto his clothes and stained the dirt around him a deep red. The smell was sickening and Enjolras nearly retched again.
Without another glance at the body, Le Faucon wiped off the knife he had pulled from the boy's belt and stepped away from the pool of blood. "You disappoint me," he sneered at the two friends. "I thought you cared for this cause…it seems I was wrong."
Gathering up the weapons he had dropped at the beginning of the horror Le Faucon paused. "This is your final chance," he warned. "You can still be a part of this if you choose to come with me." He held a hand out and Enjolras noted the drops of blood staining the skin. "Walk the path you were destined to walk, Enjolras. It is the destiny of men such as us."
Combeferre looked back and forth between the two men, his face shuttered and cold. "This is a path I will not follow you on, Enjolras," he said, stepping back to retrace his steps.
Enjolras saw his last tie to his previous life, a life that had promised love and friendship and hope, fray, unravel, and snap. "I cannot turn back now," he murmured, refusing to meet his – former – friend's eyes. "I'm sorry."
For a moment Combeferre's face held the same look of the dying boy's a moment before and Enjolras knew with sickening certainty that he had killed something in the other man as surely as if he had pulled a trigger.
A tear leaked unchecked from the corner of Combeferre's eye. "Be careful," he rasped, unable to retract his care even now. Without another word he turned and walked away, pulling the tricolour rosette from his lapel as he did and dropping it behind him. By twisted chance it landed by the still bleeding body, the cruel juxtaposition not escaping Enjolras.
He stared at the ribbon for a long moment, watching as the edges were stained with blood, as something once pure and honest was soaked in the brutal proof of reality.
A musket was pushed into his hands and he took it without thinking. His face as he followed Le Faucon was truly terrifying to see: hard, unfeeling, and empty. It was the face of a man with nothing left to use, a man who was chasing the elusive shadow of his own death.
Thunder grumbled above and the shadow drew closer.
For some reason Aimee had expected The Patron to pull her back to her own room, perhaps to restrain her until the last moment and then take her directly to the carriage. At the thought of the small enclosed space and airless future that apparently awaited her she felt her desperation double. For a moment she allowed the hate she felt for this man to show on her face, needing to lessen the pressure of emotion within her. As if sensing the burning gaze on his back he turned to look back and she schooled her face back into an emotionless mask. His only reaction was to tighten his already bruising grip on her arm and increase his pace, forcing her to nearly run to keep up.
Contrary to her previous assumptions they continued past her room and down the hall, eventually stopping before a far more ornate door. From what she could tell they were on the opposite side of the house, this room backing onto the neat but emotionless garden she had spied from the parlour as she had sat, lost in a laudanum induced haze, waiting to go out the previous evening.
He pulled them inside and, pushing her behind him, turned and locked the door, dropping the key into his pocket. Her burning rage was drowned out by icy as she took in the surroundings, not needing to see the large four-poster bed in the centre of the room to know where they were. Instinctively she backed away, pressing her back flush against the wall, one hand reaching out to grip the frame of the ornate mirror beside her. If he made any advances on her perhaps she could pull it from its hangings and down onto him…?
"I can hear you thinking from here." His voice held a note of amusement that rattled and infuriated her. "There is no need to fear for your honour," he drawled, crossing to the bureau on the opposite side of the room. "When the time comes for…that, and it will come, mark my words, I would rather not be in the process of fleeing the country." He pulled open a drawer, rifling through stacks of paper that were proof of actions Aimee could only wonder at. "When I take something apart I like to do it properly."
A roar from somewhere in the city burst in through the open window, the sound of hundreds of voices clamouring together and Aimee marked the tensing of his shoulders and the way he searched through the papers more frantically, occasionally pulling a sheet or two out and placing them in a rapidly filling leather file. He was afraid of the revolution and that knowledge made her bold.
Her hand tightened into a fist. Who was he to decide her fate? What right did he have to take away her free will, her life? There was only One had that right and an opportunity for escape had been laid open to her. His back was turned, the key was in his pocket, and she was armed. What became of her after fleeing the room was of little importance – she would not have everything she held dear torn from her, not without fighting to the death for it first.
The knife dropped down into her palm, a little blood marking the blade from where she had nicked herself slipping it up her sleeve. She gave thanks for the miracle of The Patron grabbing her by the opposing arm or else her one advantage would have been taken from her. Heart hammering she tried to remember every tactic Bahorel and Eponine had taught her about attack and defence. Hopefully she would only need to use the former, but his other attacks had been fast and held the confidence of a man who knew how to use his body as a weapon. Keeping her steps light she crept forwards, carefully to keep herself in his blind spot. She rushed the final steps, seeing his body tense in instinctive awareness of her presence. She struck like a snake, wrapping one arm around his throat and pressing the knife firmly into the region of his kidneys, slipping her hand up under the material of his morning coat. She doubted the knife was sharp enough to pierce the thick material of the coat but his think cotton shirt was another matter.
"Well this is a surprise," he said carefully, raising his hands away from the drawers, palms open in submission.
The fact that he didn't sound surprised in the slightest should have made her more cautious but the knife was in her hand, her nerves frayed to near-breaking point. Any indecision she may have had was washed away by the memory of her father bleeding and dying in her arms. There were still flakes of his blood under her fingernails, a taint she couldn't seem to remove. She tightened her grip on the knife and pushed a little harder, rewarded by a small flinch of pain.
"Now you listen to me carefully and you don't get a knife in your back, understood?" There was no need to hide her hatred now and her voice burned with it. "You are going to unlock this door and give me the key. I am then going to lock you back up in here and leave. Let's see how you like being the prisoner for once."
"Quite the plan you have there," he assented. "And to your credit you have escaped by grasp before now. But," he paused as if in thought, "you have overlooked one small thing."
His elbow being driven back into her face as hard as he could sent her reeling. She heard the cartilage crunch, felt the bone fracture, the pain a white-hot brand in the middle of her face. As he had no doubt expected she was driven onto her back by the force of the blow, the knife falling from her limp hand as blood ran thickly down the back of her throat. What she was not expecting was the kick that landed on her side, the toe of his shoe stabbing into her ribcage to knock any breath she had left in her out in an agonized scream. Another kick landed, this time on her hip, and she screamed again hoping against hopeless hope that someone would hear her.
It took Grantaire a moment to register the first scream, another to locate the source. There! The upstairs window directly in his view expelled another cry that had him cringing in anger and pain. From his vantage point on a tree crossing the top of the wrought iron railing surrounding the rest of the garden he could just see a figure through the blurred glass; tall, dark, and ruthless. The last scream is choked off far too suddenly for his liking, punctuated by a loud smashing sound, and his mind is made up. To Hell with the two guards he had seen prowling around earlier; he had taken on greater odds in bar fights before now and come out, if not in one piece, most certainly not dead. Adrenaline outweighing his hangover he scrambled down into the garden, dropping the last few feet as the first thug came around the corner. Grantaire took him low in a full body tackle, the two of them crashing down into a flowerbed filled with blood red roses. As he drew back a fist to punch his adversary one tore through the sleeve of his jacket, the sharp thorns drawing blood.
'Hold on, girl," he thought silently, taking a solid punch on the jaw. 'Just hold on.'