by Sam Bowers and Rabbit Quinn

Part 1

Enjolras

Tomorrow is the day.

Enjolras walked slowly along the Rue des Gres, musing over his plans for General Lamarque's funeral. Everyone was primed, and he knew that more than les Amis des ABC were making plans. So many people were talking, preparing, and dreaming of the future. Only a spark was needed, and the city would erupt and toss Louis Phillipe out on his fat, royal ass.

For the first time in a long while, Enjolras was slightly drunk, although more on excitement than wine. After visiting representatives of several other groups, he'd returned late to the Café Musain to find Bossuet and Joly still in residence with a nearly full bottle of the finest quality Bourdeax they could afford. In celebration of the coming events, he bought a second and the three of them closed the Café. At the end, the other two had wandered off towards Joly's apartment supporting each other, Joly complaining all the while about his sore throat.

Enjolras now walked home alone. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't see the small clot of men standing in the alley beside his building, nor notice when they turned to follow him to the door. He was searching through his pockets for his door key when he felt several hands grip him from behind. With his arms wrenched back, he was spun and slammed against the locked door.

A tall, hawk-nosed man with heavy sideburns stood a short distance away. "You're under arrest for plotting treason against his Majesty, the King of the French."

For several minutes, Enjolras struggled against his captors until they managed to subdue him enough for them to drag him to a fiacré that had pulled up on the street. In the fiacré, he wished desperately to get a message to his friends, or to escape. Not now, not when the event is so near. Yet if he could not be an asset to the revolt, then he vowed that he'd not be a detriment. Not a word, not a name save his own, would he give them.

He was not taken, as he'd expected, to the prison where political prisoners were usually held. He found himself taken to the common holding cell of the nearest station. He could only imagine that someone wanted him easily accessible for questioning. He picked himself up off the floor of the cell, and stood as steadily as he could with the Bourdeaux still coursing through his veins.

He did not like what he saw. Nearly a dozen other men were crowded into the cell with him. Large men, dirty men. The dirt would have hardly bothered him if they hadn't seemed collectively so menacing. One man as squat and round as a cannonball. Another was exceedingly tall with a lantern jaw and a long, greasy beard. They all seem to regard the newcomer with a gleam of interest.

"What's this?" the tall man asked. He reached forward to pinch a section of Enjolras' shirt between his thumb and forefinger. "A fancy boy."

The cannonball-shaped man chuckled, and crowded close enough to look into Enjolras' face. "And a pretty one, too." He grinned. "What are you in for, lad?"

Enjolras considered not answering, but realized the gesture would be pointless in this crowd. "Plotting treason," he answered with as much strength in his voice as he dared display. Showing weakness in front of this wolf pack was death surely, but he had no desire to seem as if he was making a challenge either. He didn't expect his answer to be laughed at, either. The general merriment that thundered against his ears from all sides of the cell depressed and frightened him. He wondered how long he would be kept here before someone came for him.

"What's your name, then?" Cannonball asked.

This time a lie came to his lips easily. "Eugene."

"That's a fancy name for such a slip of a boy," Lantern Jaw said.

"I'm no boy," Enjolras retorted hotly.

"What then? Are you a girl? How lucky for us."

"He's certainly pretty enough to be a girl."

"And as slender and pale as the prettiest grisette I've had the privilege to tumble."

Enjolras held himself very still, wishing he could cringe deeper into his own skin. He didn't like the turn this conversation was taking, but he didn't know the best way to diffuse it either. He looked at the floor of the cell.

Perhaps Cannonball mistook it for coyness, for he sidled even closer to Enjolras and reached one pudgy hand out to touch Enjolras' cheek. Enjolras flinched away, stumbling backward against two men behind him.

Cannonball whistled. "My, that's a smooth cheek." His finger determinedly followed the cheek to the line of Enjolras' jaw, then down his neck to his collarbone and finally back into the golden waves that had escaped their neat queue at the nape of his neck.

"Don't touch me," Enjolras said.

"Friends," Cannonball said, ignoring Enjolras' plea. "I think our prayers are answered. This one's a pretty-boy political. Not one of our brotherhood, and I know our hosts won't care what we do to him as long as he lives to see his trial."

"Leave me alone!" Enjolras demanded, more forcefully.

Cannonball laughed as the two men behind Enjolras gripped his arms from behind.

They gagged him with the shreds of his own shirt and bound his hands with his cravat. He screamed and pleaded into the gag until he had no voice left. After a seemingly endless period of mind-numbing agony, he huddled in a stinking corner of the cell and cried.

The cycle repeated itself for many days. No one ever came to ask him questions.

A guard stood in the door to the cell holding out a ragged blanket and called his name. With only minimal help from his cellmates, Enjolras crawled to the door.

The guard draped the blanket over him and helped him to stand. In the main room, an embarrassed gendarme explained, "We can't find the evidence file to support the charges against you, and the officer who arrested you is now dead. I don't suppose there's anything you'd like to confess."

Enjolras shook his head. He didn't understand, but he wasn't going to disdain what small crumbs Fortune judged fit to throw his way.

"Go ahead and keep the blanket," the guard mumbled. As Enjolras left, he heard the same voice say softly to someone else in the room, "He's in for a nasty shock."

His legs shook so badly he could hardly walk; he hurt in places he didn't even like to think about. Some instinct warned him to the lingering stench of gunpowder in the air. Ignoring their apparent disgust, he accosted the nearest passerby and inquired about the date. It was June 9th.

Five days, he thought. I was only in there five days. It had seemed like an eternity. He had to know what happened, but he didn't know if he had the strength to walk that far.

Once he found out where he was, he walked toward the Café Musain. It was closest. He couldn't stop the trembling of his legs, and he grew to realize, from the reactions of people passing close to him, that he stank. Well, what did they expect after what he'd been through. The door to the Café seemed a comfortable presence, and he pushed it open.

Many eyes turned to him. Ignoring the horrific spectacle he knew he presented, he walked through the center of the room to the door in the far wall. The stairs were more of a challenge, but he didn't allow himself a break until he'd pushed into the back room. No one was there. He determined to wait. If nothing else, he could regain some of his strength.

A young man with a nervous, harried look came into the room. "Monsieur?" he asked cautiously.

Enjolras stared at him and realized he was one of the waiters from downstairs, the owner's nephew in fact.

"Don't 'Monsieur,' me, Stefan. It's Enjolras."

Stefan paused and stared. "It is you. I didn't recognize you. I thought you were dead. The others all are, you know."

"No, I didn't" Enjolras was too exhausted and hurting already to let the news any deeper than the surface of his thoughts. "I've been in jail."

Shrinking back with horror, Stefan spoke quickly, "That explains your condition, then. Perhaps you shouldn't be here, M. Enjolras."

"I haven't anywhere else to go," Enjolras said.

"Haven't you got a home?" Stefan asked.

"Maybe. Please, Stefan, I have to know. What happened to my friends?"

Stefan wrung his hands anxiously, then slumped his shoulders in defeat. He groped for and pulled up a chair. Eye to eye with Enjolras, Stefan began explaining. "We didn't see anyone on the day of the funeral. We assumed you were all attending. Then the day before yesterday, Musichetta, you know Musichetta, don't you?"

Enjolras nodded wearily. He'd heard Joly mention the girl a few times, with her laughing eyes and exquisite feet.

"Musichetta came by covered with blood and dirt. She said you were all dead, and she'd just been to collect the corpses of Messieurs Joly and L'aigle. By all accounts the carnage was terrible."

"Where were they? Did she -- did Musichetta say?"

"In an alley near that wine-shop some of you used to talk about - The Corinth?"

Painfully he stood. Enjolras could barely stifle his urge to groan with the effort. "Then I'll leave your fine establishment and go to the Corinth for further news."

Stefan reached for his elbow. Enjolras flinched away, not wishing to allow any man to touch or restrain him. "You shouldn't go like that. Let me see if I can find something more proper for you to wear."

While Stefan was gone, Enjolras considered leaving anyway, but his knowledge that he was nearly naked under the blanket stayed him. He waited. Stefan returned with a workman's smock and trousers. He also carried a waste bin.

"It's not much, but this is a restaurant, not a men's clothier. These are things that got left behind." Enjolras did not want to know how someone had managed to leave their trousers behind. "At least you can be decent as you get across town."

He set the waste bin down and held the clothes out to Enjolras. As soon as both his hands were free, he fished into his pocket for a coin. He handed it to Enjolras. "You don't look fit to walk across town. Perhaps this will help."

The coin was a five-franc piece. Enjolras stared at it. "Thank you," he said quietly, "for everything."

"Take care of yourself," Stefan mumbled, and then he fled.

Enjolras changed into the smock and trousers. Despite the heat of the day, he still felt cold, so he retained the blanket, but left the rags of his other clothes in the waste bin Stefan had left.

He then tried the street door, and finding it unlocked, he stepped out onto the landing. By holding tightly to the railing, he successfully negotiated the stairs onto the street.

Five francs bought him a fiacré to the Corinth with change. By this date, the streets had been cleared and nearly normal life resumed. However, the Corinth remained closed due to the heavy damage incurred during the insurrection.

Enjolras stared up into the gape-toothed face of the first floor. "Where are you all?" he asked as tears began on his cheeks. He didn't want to cry, but didn't have the strength to stop himself. As his grief continued, the meager stability of his legs gradually gave way, and he sank to his knees on the paving stones.

Oh no, don't leave him there...