A/N: Wow! The response to this story has been great! I'm glad you like the idea of a WWII-based AU! This chapter has more angsty Grantaire, more hurt Enjolras, and a new plot development. But before that, I'd like to thank Percyjacksonfangirl11, Jenna (guest), TheIbis2010, and butterfly52 for their awesome reviews. You guys rock!

Enjolras' lips were cracked, his eyes dull. After three days in the cell without food or water, he was weaker than ever before. His hunger was a gnawing pain in his stomach. It wasn't as sharp anymore, just constant. A soft noise escaped his mouth before he could check it.

He was cuffed against a pole, hands and feet. All his nails were torn and bloody, and he had bruises and blood all over his face. His shirt was a ripped wreck, and covered in dried blood. The golden hair that covered his head, usually pulled back into a small ponytail at the base of his neck, was loose and greasy. In short, he looked like hell.

The door opened. Enjolras opened his eyes, raising his head slightly.

"Apollo." It was a statement, not a question.

Enjolras showed no sign of acknowledgement.

"That's who we've caught. We've caught the elusive Apollo. Go on, own up. It won't change your fate."

Enjolras remained silent, his blood-caked hands clenching. A part of him wanted to give in, but a bigger, more cracked part begged him to keep hold of this shred of pride.

"No. You are mistaken," he said at last.

The guard smiled. "Am I, then." Turning to the door, he called, "bring in the other."

Another guard pushed open the door, dragging another prisoner behind him. The prisoner was lankly brown-haired. He might have been handsome, but his face was covered in scrapes, cuts, and welts. When he saw Enjolras inside the cell, his eyes dropped.

Enjolras looked closely at the man. Suddenly, realization dawned on him. He didn't remember the man's name, but he recognized him. They had presumed him dead, but…clearly, he wasn't. Although judging from his face, he wished he was.

Softly, so that it was barely a breath, he spoke. "I'm sorry, Apollo. I never meant to incriminate you."

Enjolras struggled with the new information. At last, he responded. "It's fine."

The other man nodded. A guard turned to Enjolras.

"You know this man?"

Enjolras cautiously nodded. It wasn't any use lying now, the guard already knew the truth.

"Good."

The door was slammed shut again.

-:-

To be truthful, Enjolras didn't know how long he was in the dark. The dark was the one thing that was constant, like an oppressive cloud that wouldn't abate even if you closed your eyes. The filthy cell stank of piss, vomit, and a thousand other undesirable smells. Faintly, sometimes, he could hear the screams of others in the hell-hole of a prison, and anger flared within him. Because didn't even the Nazis have children, people that they would die for out of love? Enjolras figured they didn't. They weren't people, not in the sense of the term.

The metal cuffs scraped against his wrists, drawing welts. And he had to piss. But the guard on duty either didn't hear his shouts or didn't want to, and so he sat and pissed himself, feeling humiliated. Humiliation was a terrible form of punishment—it stripped away your pride and your dignity, leaving the bare flesh for the evils to feast on. So Enjolras disregarded any pride that he had—for himself. For France, he would never give up, should it cost him his pride, his dignity—or his death.

-:-

Grantaire hadn't cried that hard since he was fifteen and his mother died. He remembered Enjolras then, already fiery with passion and burning bright for his country, shouting at the world for its unfairness. Enjolras had always been so bright, burning up with his passion and ideals. Grantaire's father had turned to drink after Marie passed, and he remembered bringing home a bad grade in mathematics only to be hit, cursed, and thrown out the door.

That was when he really and truly lost faith in humanity.

His father had once been a good—even a great man. He had been the perfect father, always there to ease your fears, always encouraging, never hurting or chastising too roughly. That all changed after Marie, and Grantaire's idol had become what he despised—a lowly, drunken wreck.

By enlisting, Grantaire had hoped to escape his father, and hopefully stay with Enjolras. He knew that the other man had grown to despise him. Enjolras was a beautiful flame, unable to comprehend the smoke and wretchedness that Grantaire had become. To lose such a flame would be unbearable. Not only to the cause, but to Grantaire himself. Really, it should be him rotting away in a cell—probably being tortured for information and deprived of basic necessities—and Enjolras remaining here, not the other way around.

But there wasn't anything he could do about it but continue to be a wireless operator, so that was what he did.

-:-

When the door to his cell was thrust open, Enjolras expected torture. At the very least, grilling for information. What he received instead was conflicting—food and water. He didn't want to rely on his captors for anything, wanted to spit in their faces and declare that he would starve rather than eat something they had touched, but the reality was that he just couldn't do that. There was some partially stale bread, dried strips of an unidentifiable meat, and a bruised apple.

Taking a bite out of the bread, he moaned. Actually moaned in delight. It was the best food he had ever tasted.

In five minutes, he was finished. The scant meal barely satisfied his stomach, but any more and he knew all too well that he would just vomit it back up, so he didn't wish vainly for more food.

After eating, he languished in his cell for almost an hour before the next guard showed. It was a new one, that Enjolras had never seen before. He looked up from his position in the corner.

"So, you are the famous Apollo of the maquisards," the guard said, sounding genuinely curious. He spoke in French, in a bad accent. "It is curious, is it not, to see one's enemy in the flesh? See, you have become something of a legend, but in the end you are no more than a man like me." He squatted down on the floor, and Enjolras unconsciously shrank backwards.

"Go to Hell, the lot of you," he rasped.

The guard merely smiled. "I don't think so. You are the one in the wrong here, or why would you be tied to a pole? Come with me."

Enjolras struggled to his feet, bracing himself on his pole. The guard walked over and sliced through the ropes binding him to it, and pulled him up. "Come, I want to show you something."

The guard pushed Enjolras ahead of him down a hallway and out into a courtyard. He took the young insurgent and tied his wrists to yet another pole, so that Enjolras was facing the prominent feature of the courtyard—a small, dirty guillotine.

Enjolras tensed. Was this it? The end? He really hadn't given them any incriminating information, and a part of him was relieved. His death wouldn't be anything special, and he didn't want to die, of course, but he would know that he had died without giving away any of the secrets of the Maquis des Manises.

Then another man was shoved in. The same from before, who had identified Enjolras. He was in worse shape, if possible, and as soon as he saw the guillotine his eyes shone.

"See this man?" Enjolras' guard said calmly. "He gave us all the information he had, and now he will die. Unless you decide to help us. Many lives can be saved if more people would just accept that they are wrong, you see. Apollo, it isn't my wish for this Earth to be consumed by fighting, but people must know that they are wrong. And if they are not for us, they are wrong."

He conversed with another guard who had entered with the young man quickly. The other guard nodded, dragging the maquisard over to the guillotine. Enjolras stiffened.

"Now. You give us information, he lives. You don't, he dies. Do you see?" Enjolras' guard said in clipped French.

Enjolras spewed out a string of profanities in response. He wasn't a cold-hearted bastard like the guards, but he knew that the resistance was more important than the life of one man. If it had been himself up by the guillotine, he would have wanted to die rather than let secrets be told.

Still, he hated himself more with every passing second of silence. The guard's hand slapped him in the face, jarring his broken nose painfully, and Enjolras moaned slightly.

"Are you a fool? He will die! Tell me, you idiotic scum!"

"I'll tell you…when Hell freezes over…" Enjolras coughed.

"Kill him."

Enjolras tried to look away, but his guard held his face, forcing him to relieve the sight before his eyes.

The young man- Luc, that had been his name. Luc Verrais. The cocky pilot that had been convinced of a victory within a year. Enjolras remembered that on the first of April, Luc had pinned fish on everyone's backs in his bunker, gleefully exclaiming "Poisson d'avril!"

Nevertheless, even for the happy-go-lucky young maquisard, Enjolras wouldn't speak. So he watched as the young man was led up to the mound. As he was forced into the horrible machine, he struggled, shouting out.

"Séjour fort, Apollo ! Ne laissez jamais des salauds savent quoi que ce soit. Vive la France (Stay strong, Apollo! Never let any of the bastards know anything. Long live France)!"

Enjolras watched as he was killed. It was swift, brutal, and efficient, as the instrument was built to be. Numbly, he was yanked back up.

"Every hour, on the hour, we will execute another person. Do you understand, Apollo? Many lives can be spared if you will just tell us information."

Enjolras spat on the guards boots, earning another cuff on the face. He bit his lip almost to the point of bleeding, but he didn't make a sound this time. Just stared at the guards shoes and raged silently. He wouldn't break. They couldn't. Right?

Wow, poor Enjolras! Please leave a review, and please don't hurt me for what I've put our favorite insurgent through!

-Marseillaise