2/4/13
Fanfiction of this chapter: Awakening by Eleix Moone. Read it is great E/R action and caring!Enjolras
Also this is the point where Without My Apollo's Love will split with this. For the next two chapters, they will have the same events but each section will be told from different character's points of view.
Thanks for the support I have gained and this makes me want to continue writing for you!
ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo – It was slightly different but this chapter is completely changed. Same plot but you get to see the situation from different people
Magpie of Silver – Thanks so much, Grantaire is my favourite character ever so I glad I do him justice
Juliet116 – Thanks, I love writing flashbacks. I believe they are a great way to get to know a character
Chapter 5
The steel door thumped open, jolting Enjolras out of his uneasy sleep. He hadn't had a proper night's sleep in the past two weeks. Well, that was their intention anyway. His head pounded and his stomach felt as if it was eating itself from the inside out. But Ricard Enjolras would not be weak in front of these savages. He would stand tall and proud like he was there of his free will. They would not win. The cell that had been his home for the past two weeks surely had to be the worst one they could find for their 'favourite' prisoner. The walls were damp and water dripped rhythmically down into an ever growing puddle in the corner. The bed would be lucky to be classified as a bed; it was more a bag of springs on a bar. He had never slept on it so he didn't really have any faults against the bed. This bumbling idiot who just opened the door … now that was another matter entirely. He took great pleasure in knowing that whether he lived or died, that man would pay for these injustices. He had no right to use such interrogation techniques and no right to execute him on conspiracy alone.
He knew that his friends would have some rescue plan ready … and he had to admit that he wanted them to succeed. He was scared, Ricard Enjolras was scared. He'd be damned if he would admit it but in his heart he was terrified. No one wanted to die. He could talk as much as he wanted about how he was 'not afraid to die for the cause' or 'the blood of the martyrs' but the fear still lingers. It is the niggling pain in the base of your heart. It is those poisonous doubts that never leave your mind. Subconscious fear, it plagues every single man. Every great leader has suffered from it; the only difference is how well you hid it. Napoleon had his doubts but he was so charismatic no one noticed. That was what Enjolras was aiming for. He did not mean to be marble … but no one could see him scared.
"It's your big day, pretty boy," his enemy chuckled, kicking him in the gut. He winced but did not give the demon satisfaction of showing the tearing agony on his face. Every moment felt like the lick of flames on his skin but his resolve never faltered. Within seconds he had been hauled to his feet and was trying to convince his battered legs that they needed to carry his weight for just a few moments longer. They both protested but reluctantly conceded. Thank you both, he thought; then frowned at himself. What just happened? Did he just … ? He brushed the thoughts out of his mind. This was not the time to be questioning his sanity. His rebellious legs cooperated in walking through the corridors until he was pushed cruelly into an awaiting carriage. A childhood story flashed into his mind as the doors shut. The Phantom Carriage; a story of a dark carriage that carried the souls to the realm of the dead. Was he already dead? No, Enjolras would have noticed if he was dead … surely? What is happening to you Ricard? He asked himself. Are you not as mentally strong as everyone assumes? Why in God's name am I asking myself questions in the second person?
The carriage rolled and rattled through the cobbled streets. Every jerk made his bones jar and the world blur around him. He didn't know how much more of this his broken body would be able to take. He didn't know how much more of this his broken mind could take. The only thing take kept him sane were the image of the amis. The memories of Combeferre scolding him for not sleeping again. The memories of Courfeyrac trying to force a drink down his throat before being distracted by some woman. The memories of Joly exclaiming he had pneumonia and forcing Combeferre to treat him. Grantaire's cynical smile whenever he had gotten himself into an argument. He had to be strong, even if it was just for them. The fight had to continue even if he was not there to see it happen. The new day would dawn … whether he was leading it or not was of no consequence. But he knew that if he was seen defeated then people would fear. Fear was the bane of any revolution.
The carriage drew to a halt with a large bump that struck pain in waves throughout his body. Every move was agony and needless to say, the police did not care. He had been arrested before; it was an unavoidable part of being a revolutionary. They had just never been this brutal. He was hauled to his feet and his hands cuffed behind his back, causing his spine to click and burn. Stay strong, must stay strong; two phrases running like a mantra through his mind as the pain roared. Stay strong, must stay strong. Stay strong, must stay strong. He repeated it over and over as he was walked up to the looming platform. The drum pounded in his ears, causing his fluttering heart to pound even harder. The silence of the attended masses made the situation even worse. How many of those people were here to laugh as he died? He stepped up onto the stage and tried not to look at anyone in the crowd. He stared straight forwards at the horizon but one figure stood out.
Combeferre was stood at the side of the stage. His brother (well close enough) was looking increasingly nervous and was wringing his hands. Enjolras sighed; he thought he had convinced Combeferre to stop that years ago. He avoided looking at Combeferre, afraid that the familiar figure would break his resolve. Stay strong, must stay strong. His mind blanked out as the man read out his fictional charges. He didn't even respond as they pushed him to the guillotine. The shot snapped him out of the pain-filled day dream. A mysterious figure stood in the middle of the crowd with a pistol raised. Enjolras peered at the figure, subconsciously he recognised him but he could not place it. As the figure lifted his head, Enjolras could not conceal his gasp of shock. It was Grantaire. What was Grantaire doing? Nicolas you idiot! He thought to himself. A small circle appeared around him and Enjolras was absolutely sure it was his drunken friend. He shot into the sky again and everyone fell silent once again. "You have the wrong man … I am Ricard Enjolras!" he cried out and Enjolras's jaw dropped. Despite all the shock coursing through his mind; one thought shone through … That's my waistcoat!