A/N: WOW! The response to this was fantastic! Im glad you all are enjoying this story. Before we start chapter three, I'd like to thank PhoenixFlames12, R. M. Jones, percyjacksonfangirl11, and Jenna (guest) for their awesome reviews. Thanks so much! And now, onto the story...some familiar faces, hopefully! Onward!
~Marseillaise
A young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve in age, collapsed, panting, into the café Musain. His face had a red splotch that would grow to a bruise, but otherwise he looked no worse than the other street urchins that littered the city.
"De Courfeyrac," he gasped out. "I need to see de Courfeyrac."
A handsome young man strode over, his face unreadable. "It is simply Courfeyrac," he said in a warm, rich voice. "The particle is abhorrent. What do you want?"
"I need to speak with you. Alone."
The young man had a carefully guarded look, and he took the boy aside to a litle room off thr main café.
"It's about Apollo. And before you deny it all, I know you help lead les Maquis des Manises. I know a lot of things. Anyway, this big guy, he comes up to me, he tells me 'boy, you know things?' And I says 'yes, your Nazi-ship,' because he was- he had their symbol." The boy wrinkled his nose. "Anyways, he goes, 'find the resistance and tell them we have Apollo, and we're going to find out all he knows and kill 'im,' and I went 'but what resistance? We French are all real happy to have you in our country.' That's how I got this," he said, smiling crookedly and pointing to the purpling bruise across his face. Sobering, he gave Courfeyrac a piercing glare. "It's important, ain't it? I ain't old enough to do much, but I will be. That's what I came to tell you."
The boy began to dash off again, but Courfeyrac grabbed hold of his tattered jacket. "Young man," he said in a shaken voice, "breathe a word of this to no one."
"I'm a kid, not an idiot," the boy said, and Courfeyrac's heart clenched. Clearly, the boy had seen too much of the world already.
"I don't doubt that," Courfeyrac responded. As the boy darted away, he added, "be careful," but he didn't know if the boy had heard him. It was only after that he realized he didn't even know the boy's name.
-:-
"Apollo has been taken, alive. He will be interrogated and killed if we do nothing," murmured Courfeyrac later to another young man. This one was tall, and willowy, with light brown hair that swept into his eyes and glasses that gave him the air of a scholar.
"I know him. He will not give in easily. Still, he does carry secrets, and more information that even I," the second man responded.
"We have to get him out, Combeferre. It's our only option. If he spills..." Courfeyrac warned, his voice dropping off.
"I know. But it won't be easy, and we cannot risk the lives of many maquisards for the sake of one man. You know that En-Apollo, that is- wouldn't be able to live with that. The man's a fortress, but he isn't unbreachable."
The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, Courfeyrac downing drinks at an alarming rate.
"Combeferre, buy me another Scotch."
"The alcohol rationing..."
Courfeyrac's face purpled, and he stood up. "To Hell with the alcohol rationing! I want a Scotch, and I'll be damned if I don't..." his voice trailed off as an officer, a Vichy, strode into the bar. Sitting back down, he breathed heavily. To Combeferre, he whispered, "and damn those Vichys, too, to the deepest pit of Hell. Imagine- turning on your own country like that? I am going to be sick. I'm drunk, and I'm pissed off, and everyone that isn't me or you can go to Hell for all I care. Goodbye." And with that, he strode off out of the bar.
Well, he tried to. The first attempt ended in running into the doorframe, drawing a few laughs from the crowd. Courfeyrac cursed and exited, this time making it all the way out without bumping into anything.
The Vichy strolled over and took Courfeyrac's abandoned spot on the bar, next to Combeferre. "Quite an excitable friend you have there, eh?"
Combeferre swallowed, his throat suddenly a bit dry. "He...has some issues with the alcohol rationing. That's not to say he's a drunkard, of course," he added hastily. "He's had a hard day- found out his girlfriend was cheating," Combeferre embellished wildly. "I gave him my rations as well, and as you can see...well, he's become a bit of a lightweight."
Seemingly satisfied, the man leaned back. "My name's Javert, by the way. I don't think you mentioned yours?"
"Combeferre. Julien Combeferre."
"What do you do, Combeferre?" the man pried.
"I help my mother and two younger sisters on our farm. I went to college, but my father died and I am needed at home."
"Shame, you come across as a very smart young man. What college did you attend?"
"Institute d'Etudes de Politiques de Paris. I was studying to be a lawyer."
The man harrumphed, clearly impressed. "Shame, isn't it, the war? We French are lucky we still have our own control."
Combeferre nearly snorted into the glass he was bringing to his mouth, but be swallowed and choked on the water to cover it up. "Yes, it is," he agreed, secretly loathing the man. To think that the French still had control! The notion would have been laughable, had it not been deadly serious.
"Well, I should check on my friend. It was nice meeting you, Mssr. Javert."
"Inspector. Inspector Javert," the man corrected. "I am with the police."
Of course you are, you Vichy scum, Combeferre thought. Aloud, he said courteously, "my apologies, Inspector. Good day."
"Good day."
-:-
"Nicolas Grantaire!"
The wireless operator flailed slightly pulling his headset off, and hurried over. "Yes?"
"You knew the agent codenamed Apollo personally?"
Grantaire felt his hands grow clammy. Knew. Knew. Past tense. Guarding his emotions from displaying on his face, he replied affirmatively.
"He has been captured, and will be interrogated. We believe he is being held at la Chateaux Bordeaux. We need someone to go in. Do you understand?"
Grantiaire understood perfectly. He was expendable, and he had a connection to Enjolras strong enough to ensure the mission would be done to the best of his ability. He nodded, hardly caring. Enjolras was alive, and Grantaire was going to find him, be his knight in shining armor. Or something like that.
"Good. You may call me Georg if you must. I am in charge. Your mission is to find a way into the facility, and if possible, smuggle Apollo out." Georg took a deep breath, rubbing his temples. "If it is impossible to smuggle out Apollo..." he looked at Grantaire as if begging him to understand. "The Nazis cannot learn the information his head contains, Grantaire. Use any means possible to ensure they cannot get their hands on it. If- and only if- it comes to the worst, you may have to kill him."
"It won't come to that," Grantaire replied immediately.
Georg sighed, a wisp of grey hair fighting free from under his cap. "I hope it doesn't. Too many have already died fighting for what's right. I would not have you snuff out another flame were it not absolutely necessary."
-:-
"Please," Enjolras whispered, the word cracking on his lips. "Please. He is barely a boy, seventeen at most-"
"His life can be spared, if you just tell us the meeting place of les Maquis des Manises."
Enjolras looked at the boy with tired, dull eyes that barely flickered with the flame they once held. The boy was slight, with thin, strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a knotted braid. He was covered in bruises, but, unlike the last three people Enjolras had been forced to watch die, he still had a fire burning in his eyes.
With swift hand movements, he began tapping out Morse code. "Never speak. Never sp-" his hand was stepped on by the guard holding him, and the young man-he really was only a boy- let out a muffled groan of pain. From the blood on his mouth and the way that he made muted noises and never spoke, Enjolras could tell his tongue was cut out.
"I-"
"He is fifteen, and he has all his life in front of him. He can no longer speak, but we have no use for him. It is your choice, Apollo."
Enjolras bowed his head, waiting for the guard to shove it back up. He was not dissapointed.
"The basement of Madame Tellier's old shop."
The guard hoisting the struggling young man to the guillotine suddenly dropped his victim. Enjolras' guard nodded, smiling.
"Okay. We'll send out men, and if you're right, the boy lives. If not...he'll wish he was dead long before he was, and you'll watch. Take him back to his cell."
As Enjolras passed the young boy, he felt a scrap of paper shoved down his shirt. His guard noticed, halting and retrieving it.
"Séjour fort. N'oublie pas Patrie. (Stay strong. Don't forget Patria.)"
With a bark, the guard shoved Enjolras forward, crushing the paper in his palm. "Patria?" he asked Enjolras later. "Apollo, you have no Patria. She died, don't you remember?"
"A martyr, then," Enjolras had rasped back in response.
The guard tutted, smiling as if he knew something Enjolras didn't. "Fool. You cannot fight in the name of the dead, for they cannot aid you. Patria is dead. I should know. We killed her."
Uh...please don't kill me? Any ideas as to the identity of the young boy in the beginning? And what do you think- is Enjolras telling the truth? What is going to happen to the boy with his tongue cut out? Will Grantaire have to kill Enjolras? Please tell me what you think will happen! Constructive criticism and praise are both welcome as well. Please be kind and leave a review if you enjoyed this! I'll try and update again on Sunday, but no promises.
~Marseillaise