Chapter Eighteen: The Verdict

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Enjolras slept the better part of the next three days and for that fact, Combeferre was glad. By the end of those three days that the blond revolutionary had given to the people to make their choices, it had been just over two weeks since the barricade and the wounds that each of the young men had suffered.

Combeferre felt as if he had not slept once in those two weeks. As it was, he'd slept very little; only catching a nap here and there when he could, and always in between dealing with one patient or another. After the people had risen and they had officially taken over the government he had had more doctors that were put under his charge and he'd put them to work on various other patients and had taken the 'extra' time to devote to Enjolras and Grantaire.

The drunkard, surprisingly enough, had turned out to be a decent patient. He rested enough when he wasn't watching over the his blond idol and he took care to make sure he wasn't ripping his stitches every other day, but at least he hadn't been put up to be guillotined not once, but twice within the past two weeks. He was healing rapidly and any extra energy he had seemed to go to helping keep Enjolras under control and help him on his way to healing as best as he could.

Enjolras, on the other hand, always had been and more than likely would be until the day he died, a horrible patient. Combeferre sighed at the thought. The man never rested unless he had passed out, and even when he did that it tended to be in the worst position possible with not a friendly face in sight to help. It had not helped his condition that he'd been traipsing off after Marius less than forty-eight hours after he'd been so badly wounded. Combeferre was sure that there would be long term effects from the lack of care that the revolutionary leader had given to his badly wounded body, but that would be in times to come. Now they had to focus on merely keeping him alive and moving day by day as he had been battling a consistant fever for days now. Perhaps the sleep would help.

"Combeferre?"

The young doctor looked up to see Grantaire standing over him. "Hmm?"

"You can sleep, you know. It can't do anything but help."

Combeferre smiled. "I'm just… worried, Grantaire," he said softly. "He's been so hard on himself. I can't help but wonder…"

"We'll deal with that later. For now he's been resting well and he doesn't need to be awake for a few hours yet. It wouldn't hurt you to use those hours. He'll need both of us in the days to come."

"What's happened to you, Grantaire?" the young doctor asked with a laugh.

The drunkard grinned, dark eyes sparkling with mirth. "I found my reason for living outside of the bottle," he answered easily, turned, and returned to his place of watching over his wounded leader. His Apollo.

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"This is impossible," Enjolras murmured, shifting through page after page of votes that were lined with unsteady marks next to where it was clear that someone written a name in after the printing was done.

Grantaire peered over the blond's shoulder. "Nope, looks about how it happened."

Enjolras swatted at him, causing the other to laugh. He turned back to the papers with a sigh. "They don't understand the concept of voting," he grumbled. "The one elected should at least have wanted his name on the ballot."

Bouvet chuckled from his place on the opposite side of the room. "I told you that the people wouldn't stand for it," he said with a smile plastered on his face. "They wanted you and they did what they could to get you to that position."

"But I'm not at all suited for this position!" Enjolras argued.

"You were the one that said that you bowed to the people's command, that you were their servant," Bouvet reminded him. "Live by it, Enjolras. Don't make yourself a liar this early in the game or you'll be no better than those that have deprived them of justice for so long."

"But-"

"Enjolras, it is your vision," Combeferre said quietly, peering over his glasses. "No one else can see it as clearly as the one that dreams it up. Help the people."

"And if I become the next power-hungry tyrant?" Enjolras demanded.

"That is why we're here," Grantaire responded, a lazy smirk on his face. "To keep you under control. It's your job to lead the people, so lead."

"And their first and second tests of faith have come in back to back," Courfeyrac said as he entered the room, papers in hand. "Along with Les Amis, Anton D'Aubigne and several of his cronies were elected to the Counsel."

A groan seemed to wash through the room. "What's the second test?" Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac frowned. "By verdict of the people of France, Nicolas Enjolras has been sentenced to the guillotine no later than the eve of Friday, June 21."

"That's today!" Enjolras gasped.

"They don't lose any time," Bouvet noted. "Surely there has to be time for an appeal or something. They cannot simply demand by mob rule, can they?"

"It would never pass the Counsel," Combeferre said forcibly.

"The Counsel is not yet put together in full," Enjolras answered, his voice quiet and hollow sounding. "The people's bidding is law until the government is set up firmly. Laws will have to be passed by the people about the leadership position and the counsel, delegating how much authority they – we – may have or, as Bouvet said, we are no better than those who have deprived the people of justice for so long."

"I didn't mean to let them rule like this," the national guard grunted.

"I will do my best to have the guillotine outlawed," Enjolras swore. "This will be the last."

"Then you will go through with in?" Grantaire asked.

"I have no other choice. Combeferre, I'm putting you in charge of getting the Counsel together. Go to each man and bring them together in this room by noon. We have much to discuss in very little time."

"Of course."

"Bouvet, you'll need to gather who you believe to be trustworthy of the National Guard. We'll need order this evening. I will not have a mob on our hands. Can you handle it?"

"They'll be at your command, Enjolras."

"Courfeyrac, I'll need you to alert the people that what they wish is to be done."

A grin spread across the young man's features. "I'll do my best not to rile them too much."

"Good. Grantaire, if you don't mind, I'll have you with me."

"Where to, Fearless Leader?" Grantaire asked as the others left the room.

"I have to make preparations for the execution. I… I can't ask anyone else to oversee it."

"You don't agree with it."

"No, I don't. Not the guillotine, but I have little choice in the matter. Before I go to do that, there's something else I need to do. I can't have you with me, but might I ask…"

Grantaire placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "I'll be there for you when you come back out."

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He hadn't told Combeferre about his intentions because he knew that the doctor would have advised him strongly (forbidden) against it. The dungeons were no better off than when Les Amis had been thrown down into them less than two weeks before and Enjolras was still, though never admitted by him, very badly wounded and risking far too much by voluntarily traipsing through the jail.

Halfway down a long corridor a grey head rested against the bars, fair hands working steadily on a note that he was writing, clothes in shambles and eyes closed. Enjolras cleared his throat as he stood over him, causing his father to start and look up. "Come to say goodbye, have we?" he asked, folding the paper in his hands and stuffing it in his pocket.

"What makes you think it is goodbye?"

"I hear the murmurs even from in here, Alexis. The people wanted me dead from the day that I tried to kill you. You were their savior I was ready to have your head as my prize."

"I do not do this out of revenge, Father," Enjolras told him steadily. "I do this because it is what the people want."

"Can you not say that you want it too?"

Enjolras paused, eyes avoiding his father's. Finally he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and waved the guard away, taking a seat on the dingy floor and putting his back to the bars. "You've never give me a reason not to hate you, you realize that, don't you? I do think that the only reason that you didn't turn me out upon my birth was that you thought I might be of some use to you."

"Little good that did me."

Enjolras turned towards his father, blue eyes wary and saddened. "Tell me something, please? On the day of your death, when all else becomes meaningless nothing truly matters anymore, allow me one thing. Why did you hate me so?"

Nicolas glared at the boy for a moment, eyes boring into him and he got nothing for it. Finally he let out a frustrated sound. "You are your mother's son," he murmured softly.

"Then for the sake of her memory, please… I must know."

"You were five when your mother told me of her infidelity. I suppose you never knew until she told you. I hated you because you were not mine."

"But I look so like you," Enjolras whispered.

"You look like your mother, though she and I were of relation, albeit distant."

"So that's it? You hated me – hate me – because I am someone else's son?"

"And because you are a fool," Nicolas hissed. "You could have had it all."

"Instead I became a stepping stone like everyone else," Enjolras said as he stood. "There is the difference between you and I, Father. I care about those that you consider lesser than our noble blood because I understand there is no difference between them and me. Is there anything that you would have done before you die this evening? Changes to your will you've not done? I'm sure Anton is already in my place. I'll see that he gets the money that you both so love."

"Everything's been dealt with," Nicolas responded, voice suddenly very tired sounding. He pulled himself up and reached deep in his pocket. "The last bit, though, will be dealt with after my death. Take this and don't open it until my head rolls, do I have your word?" He held a small package in his hand out to his son. "My last request as the man that raised you."

Enjolras took the parcel. "My last duty, as your son."

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Enjolras had pushed past Grantaire on his way to the room he had chosen for his office. He did not want to speak of the words passed between his father and himself, he did not want to dwell on it. He refused to shed tears over the man that hated him so much.

"It's almost noon," Grantaire reminded him as he disappeared into his office.

"I'll be out by then," Enjolras promised, shutting the door behind him. He turned into the room and his eyes widened as they came to rest on a figure that it took his brain a moment to process the identity of. Jean Valjean sat very easily in one of the chairs next to the desk, hands folded in his lap and eyes thoughtful. "Hello," the young leader said slowly, unsure of the nature of the visit.

"I hear that the people have called for blood," Valjean said slowly.

"I cannot go against them," Enjolras answered.

"I know. I'm not here to ask you to."

"Then, if you don't mind my asking, what are you here for, Monsieur?"

Valjean watched the younger man as he crossed the room, eyes never leaving him. "I'm afraid I've never really had a moment to sit down and speak with you, Monsieur Enjolras."

"Enjolras will do."

Valjean nodded. "I met you on the barricades, then again when you demanded Marius from me."

"I've been busy."

"Understandably so. As have I."

"I… never thanked you for funding the funerals," Enjolras stammered awkwardly. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure," the former convict said easily. "I was pleased when I heard that you'd meant to show your respects for those that died fighting against you. Those men that had shot and killed your friends. I even saw a tombstone for the boy that had injured you and your friend Grantaire so badly."

Enjolras' hand moved to his bandaged midsection without his meaning to, eyes still locked on Valjean.

"I came here for a purpose," the larger man said as he stood. "I came to ask you, if you are willing to tell, where you see this Republic of yours going."

"It's… It's not my Republic, Monsieur. It's the people's."

"Be that as it may, where do you see it going?"

"I… I see it going where they lead it. To peace. To prosperity. I want to do anything I can to further that. I will see it succeed. You do not need to warn me of the dangers that I face in becoming a dictator, Monsieur Valjean. I know them all to well."

Valjean smiled at this, the edges of his mouth perking ever so slightly. "It is good to here. Well then, I fear I've taken much of your valuable time as it is, Enjolras. I'll take my leave." He stopped abruptly at the door. "Oh. Yes. There was one more thing."

"That being?"

"Know that your father's blood is not to be on your hands this evening." That said, he left Enjolras alone to await the Counsel's gathering.

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A/N: My deepest apologies for having such a large gap in time. I really don't know why this chapter wasn't posted ages ago… I had forgotten that I'd written it, honestly. I sat myself down this evening and watched the movie Marie Antoinette. I almost felt sorry for her at times, I'm not going to lie, but at the end the fan of St. Just in me (or perhaps his ghost yelling over my shoulder) halfway wanted to see her head roll. The part of me that felt sorry for her did so because she was such a dolt, but anyway, onto my deep bows and sincere thanks for reviews!

Tsunami Wave: I'm rather partial to St Just so I don't mind Enjolras being based somewhat off of him, though I've always thought of Alexis as taking from the past mistakes of others and learning from them, but that's just me. And yes, hopefully everyone will have a good, solid feeling of loathing towards dear cousin Anton by the end of this story.

Caligirl-HPLVR: Yeah… I honestly don't know if the human body can endure quite what I put these poor characters through. If I had the brains and the money I'd go through medical school just to see what all the human body could endure so that I could put it into my writings, but we'll just say that Enjolras is awesome and pat him on the back :)

Melissa Brandybuck: Haha! I made you wonder, but no, alas, they want him dead. That seems the natural course of things, doesn't it? Man kills your king, tries to kill your savior by blaming the king's death on him… I don't know, I think he's getting out of it all rather easy…

Ponine-cosette: Thank you for the advice, and most of that is one: being such a long fic, and two: being spread out such a long period of time I forget which lines I've used. :( But still, it's good advice! Thank you.

Nicollaney: Sorry it wasn't updated any sooner… I think it's been nearly a year. :( but I haven't forgotten I promise!!

Crispy Hobit: Wow… that name frightens me a little. Just a little though. Thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Random Les Mis Fan: Wow… I'm sitting in shock right now at all the many, lovely compliments. Thank you very much.

Reader: I'm glad your doubts seemed to have disappeared. Hopefully I haven't disappointed you this round.

Ilaria-Uttara: That's impressive to read it all in one sitting. It's getting rather long. Thank you for the review though and I hope you enjoyed the chapter.

Lily K. Black: Thank you so much! Hopefully this followed the same pattern of interestingness.

JennyplusY: History is always poked and prodded, I just did so and admitted it lol. Thank you for reading and hope it met expectations.