Wow, sorry for the delay! Work grounded me a bit, I hadn't realized it's been so long since I added to the story. I honestly thought I'd posted everything I'd written thus far...guess not! Thanks for sticking with. - Kam

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Combeferre found Enjolras at Saint Merri.

He walked in slowly, his eyes drifting to the vaulted ceiling, studying the curved crossbeams before looking back to the figure kneeling before the altar. Enjolras was a surprisingly religious man. Or perhaps it was not so surprising. Combeferre had always suspected an inner strength which was almost otherworldly coursing through his friend. There were times when he felt as though Enjolras instinctively knew things that others did not, as though he were privy to some secret knowledge. Somehow, seeing him kneel there, his body powerful yet supple, his face at peace, just confirmed Combeferre's suspicion that Enjolras was indeed an angel sent from heaven to see them through their trials. He crossed himself, even though he was not religious himself, and knelt beside his friend.

Enjolras was moving his lips almost imperceptibly, the silent prayer lifting into silent rafters. Combeferre wondered if anyone was listening. He allowed his friend to complete his inner thoughts, cross himself, then sit back on his heels to regard Combeferre.

"There's a clarity to your eyes," Combeferre remarked. "Did you get the answer you sought?"

Enjolras smiled slightly and looked down at his hands. "Perhaps."

"Then I hope it was a good one."

"We will see." He rose, and stretched out his hand to help Combeferre to his feet.

Both men stood and marveled at the shiny crucifix hanging high over them. Sunlight poured through the windows, coloring the floor. The air was quiet, and heavy.

"I wanted to know if what I am about to do is indeed the right thing," Enjolras said. "I feel uncertain in my soul."

"There is a lot of uncertainty in the air. Every person in Paris is feeling the weight. But there is optimism as well. I have never seen the city so alive." Combeferre frowned. "What is wrong, Enjolras? It isn't like you to doubt."

"I do not doubt our cause," he responded quickly. "But I feel a dread which I can not explain." He looked around him, taking in the grandeur of the church. "However, I do feel strangely rested. My fear is not for myself."

"For your friends, then."

"We must succeed, Combeferre." His voice was firm. "If this is my duty, then we must succeed."

"Your duty? From God?"

"Not as such. From here," he placed his hand on his chest, "I was merely asking for strength to do what must be done."

Combeferre smiled. "And you felt that strength."

"Combeferre," Enjolras looked beatific, "it was such a warmth as I have never experienced! There is no certainty in it, no promises. Only warmth. Light. I wish I could explain."

"Do not try. You will ruin the effect of it. It sounds as though you have His favor."

Another smile. "Perhaps."

"So…why the uncertainty?"

"Habit, I believe. I am a worrier by nature."

"That I know all too well, my friend." Combeferre slung his arm over Enjolras' shoulders and pulled him into a friendly embrace before steering him through the large doors and out to the street.

"Just the same. We must take to the streets. Today. Now! We have many handouts for the people, and there are many discussions to be had!" He spun from Combeferre, his arms outstretched. "The new revolution is at hand!" He laughed, turned, and stopped immediately. His arms slowly lowered.

Combeferre joined him quickly. "What is it?"

Enjolras was rooted to the spot. "My father," he said in a wry voice.

Combeferre had never seen the father of Enjolras, but had he to guess he would have picked him out in a crowd all too easily. The taller man was watching them both, as motionless as Enjolras now was. His hair was of a similar style, perhaps more kempt. His eyes were just as vivid and sharp, not dull with age. His stance was bold. It was looking at the older brother, not the father, yet when the man approached them there was no mistaking his authority. Combeferre actually took a step back. Enjolras was raised underneath this imposing presence? His own bearing had not changed as he met his father.

They did not shake hands, but looked at each other. Again, Combeferre was stuck by the similarity. They were the same man in different times. And this was the man who had tried to frighten his son into obedience? Maybe not the same man, after all.

Enjolras was visibly controlling his anger, and his father was allowing it. It seemed more was said in their private, non-verbal exchange than could be said with words. Combeferre took another step back, feeling the energy between the two and uncertain of its path.

The older man finally looked Enjolras up and down, and took his leave.

Enjolras released his breath, his back falling to a faint slump. He smiled over his shoulder. "Come, Combeferre. There is much to be done."

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"There are one hundred-fifty left," Marius said quickly, waving one sheet of paper in the air. "We've distributed as many as we could possibly hold. This damn wind took some and the urchins gave chase. But the people who accepted these held them tightly so that is something anyway."

"Did they respond otherwise?" Enjolras asked.

Marius beamed. "They did. The people speak, Enjolras. You'll find them much changed should you address them once more."

"I will address them several times more if the situation calls for it," Enjolras said. "Weapons?" He glanced at the door.

"Being stored. We're not as able on this end, it seems the workers were able to procure more on their end of the city. But it is enough."

"We must have reserves, but there is no time," Enjolras muttered. "The best I would be able to do would be to send someone to the other barricade for more should we need it. Do we have a location?" He looked to the door again.

"We do, we were thinking…Enjolras, is something troubling you?"

"Pardon?"

"You are never this unfocused."

True enough. Enjolras pursed his lips, rested his hands on his hips, then sighed. "I have neither seen nor heard from Grantaire in quite some time."

"I'm sure he's fallen off the wagon and has once engaged the green lady."

"No," Enjolras said, surprised by his own irritation at Marius' off-handed comment. "Something is wrong."

"I do not follow."

"Have you seen Combeferre at least? Or Courfeyrac?"

"Courfeyrac is on his way here, he had a stop to make. Combeferre I have not seen."

Enjolras cursed beneath his breath and braced his hands on the table before him.

He felt Marius at his shoulder, and was pressed to look up at him. The concern in his companion's eyes surprised him. "Do you really think something is wrong?"

"He had a job to do. We should have had a result by now." Enjolras pushed away and regarded his newer friend. "Would you do something for me?"

"Of course."

"Look for him. Leave these papers here, and find Grantaire. If he can come, bring him here, if he can not, have him send word through you of his whereabouts."

"Sounds like you've set him on a secret mission," Marius laughed. "Oh. Oh, god. You didn't send him on a secret mission, did you? Enjolras, what were you thinking? No wonder you are so worried!"

"I am NOT worried," Enjolras retorted. "I merely wish to know what has happened. Now is not the time for his foolhardiness."

"You ARE worried, and you've a right to be." Marius slapped the papers into Enjolras' hand. "I can not take all day, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank you." He watched Marius retreat, and glanced at the papers before flinging them in the air. "One thing, I asked for one thing!" he said out loud to no one. "And you could not see fit to do that one thing!"

"This is a bad habit, Enjolras. If you wish to ingratiate yourself to the people it would do you well to speak to them directly."

Enjolras spun. His father stood in the doorway.

He blinked, stunned from his tirade. His father had never stepped foot in the café. His father avoided this part of town, sending funds through a courier rather than seeing his son, never mind inviting him to his home. Enjolras knew he was to blame for that.

His father held up an envelope. "This was returned to me. Have you a job I know nothing about?"

"I have, Father, and you well know what it is." Enjolras kept his tone low. Please, no argument now, he hoped to himself.

"You have a brilliant mind, and like your mother it focuses on one task at a time. What do you plan to do after this small uprising of yours? I'm told you have no desire to return to classes."

"Who has said this?"

"Little birds flying through this tepid air," the man said with a sigh.

Enjolras studied his father. He looked well, with laugh lines shining around his eyes. But the eyes were tired.

"It is time to come home, Enjolras."

Enjolras felt his eyes widen. "Home?"

"Yes. You have responsibilities. If you'll not see to them here, you will see to them elsewhere."

He took a step forward. "I am not a child to be ordered."

"You are my son with a family name. You are my only heir." The tired eyes glistened, but not with sadness.

"You can not order me to come with you," Enjolras said.

"I'll not have you throw your life away!"

"You do realize this has nothing to do with my personal well-being? The people are angry, father! They take to the streets with whatever they have to hand. They feel as we do, that change is in the air. Especially now!"

"And at this rate you'll not be here to see it," his father said, reaching out and grabbing Enjolras firmly by his arm. "You are coming back with me. Today. Right now. Leave your things."

"You're mad," Enjolras hissed. "Do you think I am not aware of what you've done? You had those thugs take me because you were too cowardly to make the point yourself. And now you're here? Why? Was I not beaten enough for you?"

"Be silent," his father hissed in a voice equally low. "I'll have you known I meant to frighten you, not have you hurt in any way. They have been dealt with."

"Dealt with?" He tugged but his father's grip was strong.

"The army will not hesitate to open fire on you and shoot you down. And there are others who support them who will do the same. Your life is in danger."

"Do you speak out of concern for your son, or for your only heir?" Enjolras muttered, finally managing to jerk away from his father's grip.

For a moment he thought his father would strike him down. He wouldn't have blamed him.

"Go home, Father. See to mother. I will be fine. I have people here who will not let harm come to me. Unlike my family."

His father glared at him, and for a moment Enjolras was five years old, cringing under his father's stare as he held the broken shard of a vase in his small hand. He'd been running through the mansion, knowing he wasn't supposed to but he'd felt so wonderful, so full of energy, and the hallways were so long. He remembered the slick floors going on forever, the teetering of the large blue and white vase as it fell from its high pedestal toward his head, his father unable to catch it and instead pushing it away. The noise was deafening, and Enjolras had stooped down to pick up one piece which held half a drawing of a face. He'd looked up, and his father loomed over him, blocking the light from the windows.

Now his father blocked the light from the doorway as he stood there. Enjolras forced himself to breath steadily, though he felt like vomiting.

"I am disappointed," his father responded, and he left.

Enjolras reached out unseeing for a nearby chair and collapsed into it.

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Marius returned to find Enjolras slumped over the table with his head lying on his folded arms. His body shifted minutely, his breathing deep and slow.

The sight took him aback. He expected to see the leader pouring over paperwork, engaged in rapid conversations, or at least contemplating, rubbing at his chin and pulling at his lip, which was his habit. Not this. Not looking so…normal.

He approached quietly, rounding the table, peering down at the calm face. The dark lashes didn't flutter against his cheeks, so there was no dreaming. His lips were just parted, his face completely slack and relaxed. He'd been asleep for some time.

"I'll be damned," Marius said to himself, wondering why he'd allowed himself to feel intimidated. The more he saw of Enjolras, the more he realized the image he'd built up in his own head didn't match this very personable, private man. Grantaire loved to compare him to marble, to rock.

Apparently Grantaire had never seen the man sleep. Now he looked - gentle. Marius did not wish to wake him, but nor did he see fit to leave him. He took a seat, and pulled a small volume from inside his jacket.

The front of the café was filling with patrons. It would be a small matter of time before the back room was crowded as well. He could hear the voices, the slowly growing clatter as time pressed on. The light had shifted across the room before Enjolras stirred, his brow furrowing. He licked his lips and slowly winced, opening his eyes, his head still down and facing Marius. He blinked several times and raised his head, visibly stunned by his nap.

It was interesting to Marius, and he closed his volume and watched. The eyes had been lazy, soft, then were suddenly bright and alert. After a quick glance Enjolras turned to Marius, and they became vivid, powerful. That was how he did it. That was the look which intimidated Marius, and many others, if it were the only look they'd seen. No one wanted to be confronted by it, especially if it were fueled by anger. "How long have you been here?"

He didn't like the thought of waking to see someone watching him. Marius could hardly blame the man. "A while."

"You let me sleep?"

"I've no doubt you needed it."

"You should've woken me." He seemed almost embarrassed.

Marius felt the corner of his mouth raise. "Contrary to popular belief, even you need sleep."

Enjolras didn't look too pleased to have unarmed Marius. He grimaced and glanced at the door, then remembered Marius' errand. "What news?"

"Nothing. No one has seen nor heard from him."

"Damn." He let out a sigh which seemed to come from his toes.

"Enjolras, what is going on?"

"Combeferre? You've seen him?"

"No, but I'm told he's in his apartment."

"I'm heading that way. Should anyone show up tonight…engage them." Enjolras rose and pulled on his jacket.

Marius was instantly on his feet. "Me? What am I to say to them?" Was he being serious?

Enjolras nodded toward the volume in Marius' hand. "You're a smart man. You'll figure it out." He clapped Marius on the arm. "Just do no damage. We've a rebellion to organize out there, we do not need one in here. So watch your tongue." He gave a cheeky smile and walked out, leaving a stunned Marius in his wake.

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He needed to walk.

The river was churning from recent rains. The pleasant day had turned, and now clouds hung low overhead. He felt a fat drop of rain soak into his scalp, then another.

Enjolras paused on the bridge, watching the water tumble below him. His father's words came back. Grantaire's words. Even Combeferre's word played back in his mind, and he pressed his hands to his face. He knew he was doing right. He had no doubt in his mind that their cause was just. But it was true that he hadn't laid the risk our before the amis. His friends. He hadn't laid it out before them because he hadn't wanted to think on it himself. Everything hinged on the support of the people. They had to rise, or the small groups of insurgents would be lost. Enjolras looked to the heavens, and the sun peeked through for a fleeting moment, cheering him. He had that approval, at least.

With a slight smile, he let his gaze fall to the bank, and to a still body. A body in a familiar faded green shirt, which he was loathe to part with.

Enjolras knew his heart had stopped. He gripped the rail, leaning over to see more clearly, then ran as he'd never run before to the end of the bridge.

He slid and stumbled through the muck down the bank to Grantaire, nearly sliding past him into the water, grabbing onto still shoulders to stop himself. He looped his arms underneath Grantaire's and fell backwards to pull the man's legs from the water. It was a wonder he hadn't been sucked in by the current, but all Enjolras could do was pray he hadn't been too late.

He braced his knees in the mud and turned the body over, wiping the muck from Grantaire's face as best he could, holding his head between his hands, patting his cheeks, listening to his chest. "You bastard," Enjolras muttered. "What did you do? My god, what did I do? Open your eyes, you drunken…" he leaned in and sniffed, but smelled no liquor. "Dammit!" He listened again to his friend's chest, then pulled at Grantaire's arm as the rain started to pour.

Tugging the limp body up the slope was no easy feat, and he nearly lacked the strength to fling him over his shoulder. Trying his hardest not to fall, for Grantaire was a fairly stout man, he slipped through the soaked streets, ignoring the looks cast his way, all the time cursing underneath his breath. His back felt permanently bent in two by the time he reached Combeferre's building, and could do nothing but lean against the brick and yell his name until his friend showed his face at the window.

The door opened beside him. He nearly spilled inside. Combeferre exclaimed at their muddy state and injuries in the same breath as he herded them in, reaching up to take Grantaire from his friend's shoulders. Together they carried him up the flights of stairs to the small apartment, where he was quickly deposited on the floor.

"Get a cloth," Combeferre ordered and Enjolras did so instantly. Combeferre was unbuttoning his shirt, and cursed loudly at the forming bruises on his chest.

"Mon Dieu," Enjolras muttered, passing one cloth over while using another to wipe at the dried blood on Grantaire's face. "My friend, what den have I sent you to?"

Combeferre was pressing at his ribs. "Where was he?"

"He was half-drenched in the Siene."

"You found him?"

"I pulled him out. Combeferre…"

"I don't know, let me work. You keep pressing here." He placed Enjolras' hand on a wound on Grantaire's chest. "And keep that cloth on his head."

Enjolras did as he was told, pressing against Grantaire's skin, feeling the breath quicken. He leaned in as Combeferre started to speak, "Grantaire! It's Combeferre. Open your eyes. All is well, open your eyes."

Grantaire's head moved slightly, and his lids fluttered.

"Here." Combeferre took Enjolras by the shoulders and positioned him by Grantaire's head, switching to apply pressure to his chest wound. "You can rouse him."

Enjolras stared at the blood on his hand. He held the hand in the air, away from Grantaire's face. "Grantaire? Grantaire! Listen to me!" Enjolras' lips were right at Grantaire's ear as he spoke in what he hoped was soothing tones. "You're safe. You're in Combeferre's apartment. Please wake. Tell me what happened. I'm sorry, I had no idea…wake and tell me what happened."

Grantaire's eyelids wrinkled as he winced. His head turned quickly. Enjolras jerked back, startled. When the green eyes opened, he sighed with a smile and soothed the wavy hair back from his forehead with his clean hand.

"Enj…" a fit of pained coughing interrupted him. Both men braced him until the fit subsided, and he was moaning in pain.

"Good. Let me tend to him for a moment," Combeferre said. "You get out of those muddy clothes and wash. Take something from my wardrobe. And see to something for him. My nightshirt would be sufficient for now, he should not move too much until I can see to his injuries."

Injuries. Enjolras backed away from the men until he bumped into the window. He had seen Grantaire after a fight. It wasn't that uncommon for the man to appear in the café with a split lip, or blackened eye. Enjolras would turn away, chalk it up to Grantaire merely speaking out of turn once more. But this was a beating. There was a difference.

He turned, resting his head against the glass pane, closing his eyes and listening to the drops splash against the sill. He rallied his thoughts, taking deep breaths until he felt strong enough to turn and visibly examine the wardrobe. He washed his hands then undressed quickly, piling his filthy clothes underneath the small washbin. There was no place to set his wet boots to dry so he left them in the corner. He dressed in a white shirt and simple pants, then selected a nightshirt which looked large enough to suit Grantaire's stout frame. His friend's clothes had been discarded. These were gathered and deposited with his own, and the nightshirt passed over. He cringed at the bruises.

"Help me. Grantaire, we're going to put you in my bed. Can you help us by sitting up?"

The injured man nodded. Not a word came from him.

Once he was still on the bed, Combeferre pointed to his bag, and Enjolras obliged. "One minute he is sick, the next he is beaten. I should put a cot in here just for him." He prepared a sleep drought much like the poor man had drank before.

Grantaire tried to shake his head, but Combeferre insisted. He downed the liquid.

Combeferre sighed, returning the bottle to the bag. "He will be fine. The injuries are not life threatening, to be truthful they are not as bad as I'd initially feared. The mud made things look worse."

"And those injuries are?"

"He managed to escape broken ribs, though they are severely bruised. I believe he refrained from fighting back. He absorbed the impact, which saved him further pain. Head contusion. Obviously punched around the face, the swelling makes further examination difficult."

Enjolras nodded and turned away. "I suppose we have our answer, then."

"Not the one you wanted."

"Not this way, no." He folded his arms across his chest.

"I have slippers."

Enjolras glanced down at his feet uncomfortably, then at the window. "I am fine."

"Combeferre," Grantaire said, once again opening his eyes. He instantly had the attention of both men.

"How are you?" Enjolras asked, clasping tightly the hand which was extended to him.

"Enjolras. They are dangerous. You can not…they will" Grantaire squeezed his hand. "This was a warning to you."

Enjolras gritted his teeth, and gripped his friend's hand.

"He said to send you a message. I am that message."

"They beat my friends in the hopes that we will back down," Enjolras said angrily.

But Grantaire shook his head. "No. They beat me to show that you are beaten. You are next. They think that without you, this - this will not stand."

"They overestimate my role."

"Perhaps. But not your influence. What the deuce did you give me? The room spins."

"The same as before, Grantaire," Combeferre said. "You will sleep. Nothing is broken, and your head seems in one piece. You'll regret waking I dare say, but the aches will mend."

Grantaire released Enjolras' hand and grabbed Combeferre's. He pulled the man down to him. "Keep Enjolras to you. They are serious. Do not let this man out of your sight." Turning to Enjolras, "Don't be stupid. You owe me that. You owe me!"

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's face in his hands, steadying him. His expression wavered for a moment, then he planted a quick kiss on the distraught man's head. "I owe you more than that, my friend. Mend."

"No time for that," Grantaire said, his eyelids fluttering. "I dream. You called me friend."

Enjolras smiled wryly, and released him. He walked back to the window.

"You may as well stay," Combeferre said. "I'll have food brought up."

"I have work to do." He flung his hands at his friends clothes which draped his body. "I can return these."

"Enjolras."

He couldn't stay in that room. Forgoing his stockings, he made way to his boots and sloppily pulled them on. "I am going back to my room for a proper bath and clothing." He picked up his soggy shirt. "I am going to have a drink, and I am going to sit and think what is to be done. I can not do that here." Not with Grantaire lying there.

"Enjolras!" Combeferre was there beside him.

"What am I sending these men into? I am not a fool. Even if we do succeed, and I believe we can, I am not naive enough to believe there will not be a price!"

"This is not your doing."

"It is." He pointed to the man in the bed. "That is completely my doing. And I will tell you what makes me ache, Combeferre. I would do it again."

He would do it again. He hated himself for it.

He snatched up the rest of the clothing, and stormed out.

TBC