Enjolras winced and pushed to his elbows, his breath catching then releasing in pain. He lowered his head and gently reached to feel the knot on the back of his skull. Damn it to hell! With another wince he lowered his hand, bracing himself against the floor. What was all of this? He knew as a rebel he could expect to receive some kicks, but honestly he had not been expecting any sort of retaliation, other than the usual verbal sparring. His circumstances was bringing the reality of his purpose into sharp focus.
He coughed once and forced himself to an upright position, his eyes closed, sitting on his heels, his hands on his thighs, his chin lifting as he tried to stretch the cramp from his body. He slumped forward, then doubled over and cough again. His stomach pained him.
"You are awake, then?" a voice asked him.
He looked up quickly. The room came into view, not his cell, but no lighter than it had been. At least it was dry. A man was sitting in a chair opposite him. The man casually leaned back, his eyes not leaving the stony gaze which faced him.
"Who are you?" Enjolras asked sternly.
The man gestured with his hand. "A friend. IF you permit."
Enjolras winced at the throbbing in his head which was making itself known as he grew more aware. "Do you treat all of your friends as such?" he growled.
The man smiled and signaled. A young boy hurried over with a tin cup of water. His face was expressionless. He stretched his arm out, offering the cup to Enjolras.
Enjolras studied him from where he was kneeling, and slowly accepted the cup. He put his nose to it. Water. "Considering the state of affairs and the health of the city…"
"It is safe, I assure you." The man smiled.
Enjolras considered, then brought the cup to his lips, his eyes not leaving the man as he drank, not until he allowed them to close in bliss. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was.
"There." The man's face seemed set in a permanent grin.
Enjolras sighed in relief after draining the last drops, and passed the cup back to the boy, who hurried off into the shadow and through a side door. His keen eyes took in the dim room, noting there were two ways in and out, and that both were guarded. He wasn't bound, but he wasn't certain he was fit enough to try for an escape. "Why am I here?"
"I haven't answered your first question, and you hazard to ask another?"
"I'm not certain you will answer any of my questions," Enjolras replied with a wry tone.
"Then why waste your breath?"
Enjolras raised one eyebrow. "I'm told I am a stubborn man."
The man across from him laughed loudly, slapping his knee. Enjolras maintained his composure, though the sound made him tense inwardly.
"I expected as much," the man said. "You may call me Francois."
"That is not your true name."
"Of course not."
Enjolras pressed his lips into a thin line. "I do not appreciate being played, monsieur. Tell me why I am here."
The man's face hardened, and he leaned forward. "You have friends in high places."
Enjolras merely gestured impatiently.
It wasn't the best move to make. Enjolras found a very large man looming over him, from where he had appeared there was no way to know, and a crushing sting to his left cheekbone propelled him backwards. He landed hard and his breath flew from him. He made to sit up, but stopped as the barrel of a carbine was pressed to his chest.
"I can see this is not the time for conversation," Francois said evenly, and made to stand.
He couldn't let this man leave without pulling information from him. Enjolras set his teeth. "I apologize, monsieur," he forced out. His eyes locked with the man's who held his life at the end of the gun. The eyes regarded him evenly, without emotion. He's prepared himself for whatever might happen, Enjolras realized. He would pull the trigger without a second thought. He raised his head, and stared the man down.
"Corbert." Francois waved his hand, and the gunman pulled back.
Enjolras straightened slowly, his eyes fixed to Francois, feeling every ache in his body and trying not to show it.
"Your little resistance, while noble, is doomed to failure. You know this."
Enjolras did not move.
"Once Lemarque breathes his last, and it will happen any day now, this idea of yours will die with him. It is well enough. The city can hardly support what it has, never mind entertaining the," he chuckled, "free will of the people."
"It is not my idea alone. The people deserve a chance to…"
"Oh, the people deserve a chance," Francois scoffed. "With what resources, monsieur? You wish to clothe, to educate the population. Very ambitious. And the work force? These people do work, monsieur. They fulfill a very important part in society."
"The lowest part, you mean?"
Francois gestured. "Every city has its scourge." He stood, clasping his hands behind his back, and regarded Enjolras. "What you suggest requires funding. Where do you propose these funds come from?"
There was no hesitation in talking with this man. His purpose was clear. "From people like yourself, for a start. Your class."
"I see. People like your father?"
"Yes." Enjolras was grinding his teeth, and made himself stop.
"So, we spend our hard earned resources to help those who are not willing to try and make a living for themselves?"
"I am not asking you to hand them your purse, but to provide opportunities!" Enjolras held out his hand, upturned. "When you walk the streets of Paris, what do you truly see?"
"I see lazy vagrants," Francois said in a low, angry tone. "I see people not worth my time of day, nor my funds. And why? Ask yourself what they would do, Monsieur Enjolras. Your friend, the drunk. What does he with the money he acquires?"
He knew of Grantiare? Enjolras let his hand drop, and found he could say nothing. It was obvious this man had been watching them for some time, and the thought unnerved him. Were eyes settled on his friend at that moment? Were all of his friends in danger?
"You see, it is all well and good to speak for the equality of the people, but only if the people wish equality! If you give these vagrants the means to support themselves, they will fling it to the wind. They have no sense of responsibility. That is why they are among the decrepit!"
"I disagree."
"You would." Francois shook his head. "Your father told me you would be a hard case."
Enjolras stared, his face pinched. "My - father? What do you know of my father?"
"I know enough."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who agrees with him." Francois shook his head, and his voice softened. "Enjolras. Forget this silly game of yours. What we have shown you is nothing compared to what you will face if you continue with this farce."
At first the comment made no sense, then he stilled as the meaning came clear. "What - you have shown me?" Enjolras raged.
Francois walked to him, standing nose to nose. "We were told to scare you, but not harm you. Not beyond reason. You are lucky, Enjolras, that you have a father who cares enough to do this for you. Should you fall into the hands of the wrong people, you would not be so fortunate. End this. Go back to class. Leave these people."
"You - my father did this?" He couldn't fathom it. It wasn't possible. This, this wasn't possible.
"We are finished here, Enjolras," Francois said. "Your friends are on their way with fire and brimstone in their hearts. I have no wish to be murdered." He gave a slight smirk, then sobered. "Consider what I've said, and be gone. And know this. There are people who truly want your head. We are not those people. But they are watching you, and should they take you we can not stop them. Be wary. End this, or you may end up poisoned as Lamarque."
'I …" Enjolras felt as though the world was tilting from underneath him. "Lamarque, poisoned? It isn't the plague?" There had been plenty of rumors, but all signs had pointed to the plague. He himself had remained suspicious.
"It is easy to poison a man where then is much sickness in the water," Francois said. "And no, we are not responsible."
Enjolras closed his eyes. He had to take in this information. He had to give himself time to think, to process. His father… "I will ask you one more time, and I expect an answer. Who ARE you?"
"I sympathize. This must be a truly difficult position for you. I will have you escorted out. I've no desire to be torched in my bed by your loyalists." He waved his hand at the large man.
"No, wait! Monsieur!" Enjolras found himself being escorted none too gently from the dim room, down a corridor, and up many stairs.
He was flung through the front door of the warehouse where he tripped down the stairs and fell hard onto his abused knees. He looked up, but the man had already closed the door behind him as his name was distantly called by his friends.
He fell onto his side, and rested on the brick street.
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Everything hurt. He wanted to lay there, but his friends were coming.
No weakness! he ordered himself. The voices were distant but coming fast, and he knew he had mere seconds to regain his composure. He winced upward as shadowy figures manifested into familiar shapes.
Then hands were all around him, grabbing at him. "Enjolras!"
He tried to ignore the chorus of, "my God!" and "are you well?" while allowing himself to be pulled to his feet and steadied. His friends looked concerned, angry, confused. Everything he felt within his chest, he saw reflected in their eyes. They took in his cuts and bruises, his torn shirt, the dried blood on the side of his head, and as one man all made a decision right there in front of him.
"NO! Wait, stop." He grabbed Courfeyrac by the arm, preventing him from taking the stairs. "Leave it!" The momentum from stopping his friend made him stumble. Courfeyrac caught him, his concern now burning holes in Enjolras' gut. Courfeyrac looked puzzled and angry but Enjolras stared him down, his lips pressed tight.
"Enjolras! What's happened?" Combeferre appeared at his elbow, his presence a sudden balm to his soul. Enjolras never understood how his friend managed to do it, but he felt calmer just knowing his friend was beside him.
A movement in the window of the building caught his attention. "Go. I'll explain later, just go!" His grip on Combeferre's arm tightened. He didn't want to admit it, but his head was spinning. Combeferre, ever attentive, sensed Enjolras' need and gripped his arm in return.
Grantaire pushed forward, stubborn as usual, torch in hand. "Are they in there? I thought I saw someone, by god, let me through!"
"Grantaire!" Enjolras warned, "calm yourself!" Combeferre clasped the leader's shoulder. Enjolras could feel the grip tremble, and he cupped his hand over his friend's. " Go! Move! All of you, go!"
He hated the way Grantaire's face fell. His friend was obviously ready to put himself at harm's way for Enjolras. It was quite the revelation, and not one he wanted to consider at the moment. His friends looked confused but obeyed without question, quickly picking up their stride to run back along the street, understanding that if they needed to flee, there was good reason.
Enjolras hung back. He still needed to get his bearings. His eyes closed then opened once more. Shock, he told himself. I need…
He was sharply turned to face Combeferre.
"You never answered me. Are you well?" Combeferre asked urgently his grip tightening to an almost unbearable degree. In the distance Courfeyrac paused with Grantaire, both waiting.
"Not here," Enjolras said in a low voice. "Please." It was all he could do not to become violently ill. His father….
He could see alarm in his friend's expression, but the subject was dropped. The young men hurried back through the streets, their every movement being watched.
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Combeferre knew Enjolras wanted privacy. Back at the café he suffered through the looks and pats on the back and relieved faces, and managed to give a short, even pitiful speech thanking his friends for coming after him while reassuring them that this turn of events had not changed his heart, and should not change theirs. It was as hard to hear as it was for Enjolras to give, and the friends found themselves smiling in sympathy to hear him strain out the words, "thank you." He would thank every citizen on the street for their patronage and dedication with a bold eye, yet to give sincere thanks from his heart -Enjolras seemed truly flabbergasted.
Combeferre did not leave his friend's side. Marius stood in the corner, looking more grim than usual. Grantaire had his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders caved forwards, his expression for once unreadable. Joly kept shuffling his feet, looking from one face to another. Jehan was still, attentive, and morose. Feuilly had his arms folded. Courfeyrac practically stood at attention.
It occurred to Combeferre that he might have to make sure the amis did not take to the streets in pursuit of those who had taken their leader. Each man wore two faces, the one which showed relief that their leader was safe, and the one which revealed the fear in the realization that their leader was, in fact, a man who could be taken.
Enjolras was leaving. Combeferre pulled Courfeyrac aside, "Watch them tonight. Make sure they do nothing stupid," and walked out after Enjolras.
Combeferre followed him up the stairs to his small apartment, which annoyed his friend, but he was not turned away when Enjolras opened the door.
His room was clean and neat but for the books scattered on the single table beside the window, on the floor, on his bed. His friend merely scooped them aside and lay back on the thin mattress, draping one arm over his eyes. A shaky breath escaped him.
Combeferre sighed inwardly. "I asked before if you were injured and never received an answer."
"You've bandaged my hands already." A lone hand twitched at him.
"And until now your hands were the only thing available to me. I've not seen you since you were in that cell." He scraped a chair across the floor and sat beside the bed. The bandages were ragged. "Those hands should be re-dressed and I need to see to your head injury. And it is obvious you have others…"
"Oh for Heaven's Sake!" Enjolras practically growled. He sat up and whipped off the remains of his shirt, then threw his legs over the side of the bed and regarded Combferre evenly. "If I do this will you leave me be?"
Combeferre merely raised his eyebrows.
"My head pains me. My hands are stiff. I've been kicked in the back and kidneys. My stomach aches. My knees are no doubt bruised from that pipe which was wielded at them. I haven't looked, but they are stiff and sore. I feel I should be seventy! As it is I could hardly tote supplies for a barricade let alone climb one!" He scrubbed his hands through his hair, then looked up. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"It is a start." Combeferre said. "As stubborn as you are I will take what I can get. Now let me see." He was one of only a few men who could counter Enjolras' powerful glare, and he did so.
He endured Combeferre's poking and prodding, wincing slightly, flinching only once when a sore spot was thumbed. Combeferre nodded and motioned for Enjolras to pull up the legs to his pants. His knees were indeed bruised, swollen but intact. "So far as I can tell, nothing is broken. But you'll be good and sore. I have something which will help you sleep."
"No."
"Enjolras…"
"I need my head to remain steady, Combeferre!"
"You need rest! One night will not kill you!" he snapped, then pressed his lips together, wishing he had worded his desire differently. "Please. It will help. If you feel better having company after taking this drought I can stay."
Stay in case he had a reaction to the medication? Stay in case they were to come back for him? Either excuse was valid to Combeferre. He knew even if Enjolras told him no, he was not leaving. And he knew that Enjolras would not send him away. Something had shaken him deeply. He was not himself. Both men understood this.
Enjolras glanced around the sparse room. "I have nothing to offer. I'm not sure I even have food."
"I do. And I can make a pallet on the floor. Now be still and let me clean that head would properly."
"It is fine, it no longer bleeds."
"Enjolras!"
He didn't look pleased, but he nodded.
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Combeferre was back with food and his own blankets. He found Enjolras sitting at his desk, a book held in one bandaged hand, reading by candlelight. He had changed into clean clothes. A small patch of white glowed on the side of his head, the gauze showing no signs of further bleeding.
Combeferre set bread on the table, then pulled the chair which had remained beside the bed back to the table and across from Enjolras. He smiled as the book was set down, and the food eyed with interest.
"Stale bread and water for two days, and nothing to come home to! Enjolras, you need to find yourself a woman."
"So Grantaire tells me," Enjolras said. "But you have none and yet you still manage to procure," Enjolras opened the bundle Combeferre set before him, "cheeses, fresh bread which thankfully is not fit to build houses, and apples." He grunted his approval at the latter and picked up an apple.
Combeferre tore off a hunk of bread. "Enjolras, has your stipend run out?"
"I am no longer accepting funds from my father." He crunched into the fruit.
Combeferre could only blink. "Are you mad?"
"Probably." Chewed.
"What are you living on?"
Enjolras gestured, and said nothing.
"Why?"
"Because people live like this, Combeferre! And I need to know."
"You - you mean to tell me you are choosing to starve so you can see what the lower class is going through?"
Enjolras gave him an annoyed look. "Nothing so dramatic. But it is difficult to relate to their plight if I continue to go home to plates of roast beef."
"Enjolras," Combeferre breathed in amazement. "That's very noble. But very insane."
"Combeferre, I have to tell you this, but you can not let it leave this room. Do you understand?"
"Yes?"
His eyes grew dark, and Enjolras looked down. His fingers were nervous, tossing the apple from one hand to the other. Combeferre waited patiently.
"It is no secret that my father does not approve of my actions. He has made that abundantly clear, yet he still sees fit to fund my schooling and provide me with a place to stay." His eyes roamed the room. "He even wanted to bring my old things over, but I would not allow it. I wanted a fresh start.
"For three years I have studied political sciences and law. But what good is it to sit in a room away from what is really going on? There," he jabbed a finger at the window, "is where things happen. A court room is merely a place to discuss matters, heatedly of course, much like our own ABC, but it is still a discussion, and then a decision is made, and they discuss another situation."
"It sounds…"
"Boring, Combeferre! It is the most insanely boring, monotonous thing you can ever picture in your head!"
His pleading tone caught Combeferre by surprised, and he laughed.
"I thought about it while in jail, Combeferre. It truly frightened me. The magistrates coming in and out. All pompous, all…" he shook his head. "I should make it a point to bring back the wig."
Combeferre laughed loudly, but it was a sobering thought. The only way he could picture Enjolras was full of fire out in the open, with the whole world at his feet.
Enjolras had been accused of single-mindedness many times. Of being incapable of caring for his fellow man, that his higher purpose was all about the "cause". The reason was this: even through Enjolras was a very impassioned speaker, he was also a bit of a recluse. He could talk to the crowds, but he did not like them. Even at the café filled to the brim with those he considered his closest friends, he would stand in the corner when the situation became overwhelming. But his inner drive, his inner flame which everyone saw within him, would consume him and pull him from the dark corners he would probably languish in otherwise. Combeferre had often wondered dedication to the cause kept his friend sane. The morose moods in which Enjolras would occasionally find himself was frightening to Combeferre.
Enjolras picked up a book and studied the spine. "Out here I can use my hands. I'm not shouted down by those who do not agree with me, I'm not made to sit down and let others make the decision. Out here, I make my own decisions. I am master of my own fate." He tossed the book onto the table with a thump and slowly crossed his arms, his face turning down into a scowl. He sat silent.
Combeferre noticed the change, and it was more than Enjolras sinking into a brown study. He knew better than to press his friend. "Did you hear from the Society while in jail?"
"Once."
"Has anything changed?"
"What is there to change? We wait." His voice had deepened. He was no longer in a mood to talk.
Combeferre nodded once. "These people who took you…"
"Are of no consequence. I am tired, Combeferre. And I must speak tomorrow."
"That concerns me."
His eyebrows raised, challenging.
"Perhaps if someone else were to speak?"
"They would become a target," he responded smoothly. "I'll not have it. I've brought this upon myself. I ask enough of these men, I'll not put them in harm's way any more than I must. I do what I do for the people. I ask no one to lay down their lives for this."
"But you are, Enjolras! And they will do it. They will do it for you."
Enjolras fell silent. "You have little faith in our plans."
"You said yourself we will be outflanked and outgunned."
"If the people do not rise, then yes. That is the outcome exact."
"We seem to be leaving a lot to chance," Combeferre said slowly.
Enjolras looked to his small window. "I understand, Combeferre. I honestly do," he said in a soft voice. "Indeed, the thought plagues me day and night. But I am committed. I do not know anything else. It is a thought that tears at me when I see the people on the street. It is a banner I have taken that I may not set aside. It is gnawing at my soul! What can I do but take a stand?"
"You mentioned a barricade before. What will happen if you build that barricade, and fall at it?" Combeferre leaned forward urgently. "Grantaire is correct in his fear. So much more may be done, if only you are here to do it!"
"Dammit, the people must rise! Immediate action!" Enjolras leaned forward and grabbed Combeferre's hand. "If we waste this opportunity I may as well resign myself to a life of useless servitude in the courtroom. I will be no better than those men whose only concern about the affairs of the people is the number of cases they must listen to before their next tea break. I'll not do it!" He rose in frustration, his back turned. "Combeferre, you are my closest and dearest friend. You know this. But you will either fight with me, or take your leave. I'll not fault you if you rise right now, because I'll not see harm come to you. I'll not see harm come to anyone of the amis should they choose not to take it upon themselves. This is voluntary, and every volunteer will know precisely what it involved, and what the risk will be. And what is the ultimate risk? Death. If we build this barricade we may very well die at the barricade. I am prepared."
Combeferre had no doubt of it. He only wondered why Enjolras was so adamant. He swallowed hard, and rose. Enjolras heard the scrape of the chair and turned to find his arm instantly clasped in a firm grip. "How many have you heard?"
"Twenty-five thousand strong throughout the streets of Paris."
"Then we better pray we can defeat an army," Combeferre said, "and God help us all."
TBC... :)