This was written for "We Die Like Fen," a very silly flash exchange where people can request optional prompts. Someone nominated "Dragging a king to the altar, making him kneel, and slapping him so he cries" as a tag. So basically, that's the entire fic, no more and no less.
"Louis XVI-Citizen Capet-was executed by the Convention," Enjolras had said, before. "For what crime? For common misdeeds that any man might commit, and therefore be deserving of discipline? No: for having been a king, that the Republic might slay Monarchy itself and triumph thereby."
He had paused, gulped in breath as if needing sustenance to deliver not only a verdict, but an opening and closing statement all in one. "The Convention was a summit of glory; I cannot think less of the deputies in their zeal for justice. Yet I would not see blood shed without cause." He had smiled at Combeferre, as if to say, you have taught me something, friend. "Should we triumph, we must not put our foes to the sword for the sake of vengeance. It is enough to show the world that they are only people like us. Not beasts nor gods-merely our brothers."
Combeferre had nodded, more at the rhythms of Enjolras' voice than at his argument. One of two things would happen, he believed. Either the people of Paris would rise to join them when the hour came, and they would need no convincing that the divine right was neither. Or they would not, and there would be no need to plan for victory. Enjolras would resist to the last, and so would he, and then they would be beyond plans and pistols.
What had transpired was neither. The barricades had held, but not through the will of the people so much as the pangs of civil war. Many of the National Guard units had turned on each other, brash idealists striking down their comrades-in-arms. The provocateurs like Le Cabuc had failed to undermine the revolution. And so, more through riot and rage than pattern or principle, Louis-Phillipe had been brought down.
If the man had been ordered to long hours folding fans or tending cholera victims, Combeferre supposed, it might have done some good for him and his compatriots both. Instead, he was set apart as surely as if he had remained on his throne. "There is no altar more sacred than the streets," Enjolras proclaimed, "no man more lofty than a gamin. But what are words to these people, who still fear their own liberation? Let them come and look upon their fellow, that they may see him no greater than they."
And seizing the unfortunate Louis-Phillipe, who he had roughly transported through the cathedral, he demanded, "On your knees, citizen!"
Louis-Phillipe could only whimper in response.
"Do you fear to expose yourself to these gargoyles?" Enjolras taunted him. "Is the stained glass more shamed by your appearance than by centuries of wretchedness and poverty? Are your tears more to be lamented than hollow words of mercy spoken by hypocrites?"
"No, sir," stammered Louis-Phillipe.
"Do not 'sir' me. We are equals, now-there is to be no more vousing. Can you remain still, or will I need to put you in bondage? A chain is a disgraceful thing, but a coward who flees from justice is far more to be pitied."
"I will-endeavor to obey, sir."
"That is well. One does not whip a wild stallion for not knowing the haute ecole jumps. Not at first."
With a grim nod, Enjolras hustled back between the empty pews. Only as he turned to leave-to throw open the doors and display Louis-Phillipe to the city-did he notice Combeferre, leaning against a pillar like a bored acolyte. "My friend," he said. "I wish you had not come here."
"Did I not promise I would share your fate?" Combeferre asked. "A weak soul might pledge his word in victory but falter in defeat. But it would be strange indeed to do the reverse."
"I suppose," said Enjolras. "We each make sacrifices, in our own way."
He had been ready to pay any price for liberty. He still was, and surely Enjolras was too. Yet with the revolution accomplished, Enjolras no longer needed his completion. And he dared not think that Enjolras was in need of correction; if Enjolras had gone astray, then the republic itself was misguided.
As Combeferre departed into the summer heat, he wondered what Louis-Phillipe would have done if their positions had been reversed.