Chapter Text
Enjolras wasn’t the young and optimistic soldier he was when he first got his uniform before the war started. He witnessed the full atrocities of war in the last ten years, leaving him looking perpetually tired and angry. He was a commander now of his own force within the Free Army, and far less naive than he was ten years before. Though he couldn’t let go of his ideals nor his conviction. He was as spirited as ever, but less hopeful in situations like the current one.
He and his men were starving and half dead on their feet already. He had sent scouts ahead to secure the perimeter of the supply warehouse, and grew anxious when they hadn’t returned after twenty minutes. It was easy for his anxiety to eat away at him these days, especially when he hadn’t slept nor eaten in two days and felt just about ready to collapse as it was. All that kept him up was the enchanted necklace Courfeyrac had given him before they set out from the encampment in northern Atrivais. Combeferre had a similar necklace. Both were silver, set with simple onyx gems and glowing with the magic of their mage friend. While Enjolras could harness magic to improve his fighting, he was awful at enchantments and non combat magic whereas Courfeyrac was brilliant in all forms of magic. Their mage friend was currently somewhere across the world trying to appeal to the Council of Magi for aide against Tiryrium.
“You’ve got that look on your face again, Enjolras.” Combeferre mused beside him, chuckling and patting his shoulder. Combeferre, his lieutenant and best friend for years, was never apart from his side. The two were of a deadly combination in battle and were even deadlier when their minds were combined. They’d known each other since they were boys and now, almost twenty five years into their friendship, they were inseparable.
“What look?” Enjolras furrowed his brow and glanced at his friend with eyes ringed in dark bags, crossing his arms and pacing even more angrilly than before, on edge from exhaustion and hunger.
“The sour look you get when you’re anxious.” Combeferre sighed and leaned back against the old cobble foundation wall of the abandoned mill. “The scouts will return any moment and the plan will move forward as it should.”
“Right-sure.”
“Told you- Look, there they are now.” Combeferre gave Enjolras a kind, reassuring smile as the scouts returned to the camp. They approached their commander with a report, but were stopped short as two arrows raced into view, striking the scouts in the chest. Their lithe bodied landed at the feet of their commander and his lieutenant, lifeless. Blood soaked Enjolras’ boots and he immediately felt his stomach drop.
Enjolras’ eyes widened and there was hardly any time to react. “Ambush! Everyone, to arms, it was a trap!” His voice rung over the entire camp as he drew his blade. His sword was enchanted dragonbone, inscribed with runes that ran along the center of the blade. His other hand reached for the pistol at his belt, also inscribed with runes. The ragtag group of Atrivais soldiers were battle ready in seconds, though many tired and pained already.
The green regalia of Tiryrium forces came into view, a flash of colour in the darkness, illuminated by torch light. They swarmed the camp, surrounding the area around the abandoned mill in a tight formation, forcing a conflict and trapping any exits.
The battle that followed was a mix of disciplined green and battered, war-torn red. Atrivais’ banner stood at the middle of the camp, flying in the wind that night.
Enjolras aimed steady for the first wave of soldiers, a ball from his pistol catching in the chest armour of one of the soldiers as he rushed another, sword drawn up and soon engaging enemy steel.
He was vaguely aware of Combeferre beside him as they faced what seemed like an endless tide of Tiryrium soldiers. Combeferre’s flail stuck an enemy soldier who had nearly sunk his axe into the leader’s head, smashing into the platemail with ease. He kicked the body away with his vigor suddenly restored, muttering a small prayer to the Atrivais war deity as he propelled himself into the fray.
It became apparent when the battle was hardly past the ten minute mark that the Atrivaisans would not win. Their enemy far exceeded them in numbers, and had proper gear. Their soldiers were well fed and well rested meanwhile Enjolras’ force was hardly living before the battle started. Enjolras was at a loss as to what to do. They had little soldiers left.
Combeferre grabbed Enjolras by the shoulder “We need to get out of here. They won’t kill us, they’re going to want information, why else send a competent force to fight of a raiding party? They know an officer that they can siphon information from is here.” Torture was the fate of any officers who were captured by the Tiryrians. They used any method necessary to extract what information they needed. It was generally considered a worse fate than death.
“And what? Abandon my men? I’d rather let them have me than be known a coward-”
“You’ll have no men left either way, Enjolras. Let’s go. If we’re captured we aren’t being rescued. No one ever comes out of those dungeons in the capital unless it’s in a body bag, you know
That.” The two of them were already both gravely injured, and running out of steam. Enjolras couldn’t conjure any more magic let alone lift his blade.
Enjolras nodded solemnly. He knew that if they didn’t make it out of there, the fate left to them would be one so awful that no man should ever have to experience it. He needed to make it back to the encampment, let them know there was a traitor in their numbers. That was the only way the Tiryrians would know to have a force this large waiting for them. It wasn’t like this was an important spot to the empire. Just another village they kept supplies in. A full combat force was never left with a simple supply warehouse.
The next ten minutes were a blur to Enjolras as the two attempted escape rather than brace capture and a living hell. It ended up with Enjolras pushed down a slope, tumbling down with all the grace of a newborn foal, and landing in the water head first. He could make out the sound of fighting as he lost consciousness. The last thing he heard was Combeferre scream as frigid waters enveloped him.
Grantaire’s evening was one filled with laughter, signing, and music from his lute. He had managed a gig at the local tavern of some unimportant village and spent the last five hours enjoying free drinks, playing songs and spinning tales. He was thoroughly plastered when he stumbled out of the tavern in the small hours of the night, feathered cap falling off of his head indignantly as he stumbled down the dirt path that led through the town. He was singing loudly, rather off key now that his drunkenness passed the point of allowing him to perform well. His lute was strapped to his back with his pack, newly filled with rations and coin he’d earned.
For a half-elf, there wasn’t much work Grantaire could do or many places he could go. As if the attitude towards elves wasn’t bad enough in human cities, half breeds were hated on both sides. So, Grantaire kept travelling and earning his keep while lying low and keeping out of trouble. His ears were pointed just enough to give away his half elven heritage but when covered with the black curls of his hair, he passed well enough as human which was better for his remaining alive.
He chose not to stay inside the towns he visited, it was unsafe, so he made his way to the nearby river to set up his camp. He started with a fire, to warm himself and then laid out his bedroll. He stripped out of the outer layer of his clothes, turning towards the river to relieve himself in some bushes. When he approached he could have sworn he saw red in the water. Upon further inspection it was revealed the red was in fact the red tunic of a Atrivais soldier, mixed with the red of the bloodied water around him. Not good.
Now Grantaire wasn’t an unsympathetic man. He approached the bank to inspect the soldier, seeing if he was still alive. To his shock, he was, and thus dragged the man out of the river, laying him beside the fire, checking for a pulse. He was shivering, lips blue from the cold and pulse weak. His wounds were deep and many, that he could tell even with the soldier’s armour. This didn’t look good.
Grantaire systematically stripped the soldier of his armour, noting that when he removed his helmet beautiful golden curls draped his face, which was pale and perfectly chiseled. His right cheek held an old scar created by a blade, probably a knife. Grantaire had to tell himself to stop gawking and get to work.
He probably shouldn’t be doing this, he thought. If any of the Tiryrian guardsmen saw him aiding an enemy soldier, he’d be shot with this blond beauty. However Grantaire was a masochist, and couldn’t refuse a pretty face no matter how hard he tried. His drunkenness would make the task at hand difficult but he would manage.
Grantaire sat the tattered tunic next to the soldier’s armor, now out of commission on account of the dents and serious damage likely created by Tiryrian blades. The design of the armor set and tunic told him this man was an officer, and he guessed the only one alive of his group.
Drawing from his brief knowledge of healing magics, the bard pressed his hands above the man’s wounds and began to chant quietly. His hands began to glow with magic, and seal the wounds, stopping any further bloodloss. Unfortunately he could only do so much to meld the broken bone of the soldier’s arm and the deeper cuts, especially as drunk as he was, so he had to just apply a poultice and wrap the wounds then hope for the best.
Patching up the wounded soldier left Grantaire covered in blood himelf, and needing to clean off. He returned to the camp a few minutes later and sat with his back against a tree, glancing over at the soldier every so often.
Morning came hours later and Grantaire wished his soberness didn’t come with the hangover that plagued him now, placing him in a sour mood. He had managed just a few hours of sleep before the light awoke him, feeling like it was nearly splitting open his head. With a groan, the man lifted himself to his feet and sifted through his pack for his water.
The soldier stirred nearby, thankfully not dead. Grantaire praised his handiwork silently and waited for the soldier to wake.
Enjolras woke with the frist thing he noticed being immense pain, and that he wasn’t captured. He pryed open his blue eyes slowly, blinking away the sleep in his eyes and seeing the sky before him. He wasn’t sure where he was. It was a slow and painful process to sit up, but he managed to do so while holding his tongue to prevent himself from crying out in pain.
“Mornin’, sleeping beauty, found you in the river last night. You’re welcome.” A black haired man tossed a waterskin and bundle his way. “You were in rough shape, probably shoudln’t try to move much.”
“Who are you?” Enjolras asked, picking up the waterskin and gratefully taking a long drink. It felt more refreshing than anything should have, and he took solace in this small thing. His throat was dry still and he took another long drink.
“I go by Grantaire, I’m just a wandering bard.” The man, Grantaire gave a small nod as he intoduced himself.
“Ser Julien Enjolras, officer of the Free Army of Atrivais.” Enjolras straightened his psoture and tried to appear as unbattered as he could, thoughts of the previous night’s battle on the edge of his mind and threatening him with the thought of his failure.
“What’s a rebel doing here? You get tired of trying to fight a losing battle and come to retire? It’s a nice village over the bend. Sure some lass would settle down with a pretty face like you.”
Enjolras scowled immediately and he gritted his teeth painfully. “We were in the process of procuring supplies when we were ambushed.”
“Right, anyway, Enjolras, as soon as you can travel then run off to your rebel friends all right? I don’t need trouble.”
“I don’t intend to stay here long as it is, I need to return to northern Atrivais.”
“Good, then help yourself to the food there, I’ll be back later.”
Grantaire headed into town to acquire two horses. He didn’t like the talk of an ambush. That meant the area would be crawling with soldiers of Tiryrium, and that was bad for business. He would bring the rebel soldier with him, and then send him on his way once he regained his strength. Simple enough.
The bard stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a patrol of soldiers ahead and looped around them, taking a wide birth of where they were interrogating some villagers. They had a mage with them, dressed in the green of Tiryrium. If they had a mage then they likely knew Enjolras was live. This mage was one of their specially trained trackers.
Grantaire hurried his pace.
“I need two good horses.”
“All I’ve got is two, ser.”
“Then take two hundred silver and buy yourself two others, I’m in a hurry.” Grantaire shoved the coin into the hands of the stable hand and took the two horses by the reigns, once again taking a wide birth to avoid the tracker mage and his soldier companions. This was bad. He didn’t like the idea of leaving an injured man to his death, so a suicide mission was the onlhy option Grantaire would be taking. He returned to the little camp as fast as he could without drawing suspicion.
Enjolras knew that the chances he’d see Combeferre again were slim. If he had died last night, then well..that was that. If he was alive then he would be tortured for weeks and then killed. He could attempt a rescue but as it was he was injured, unarmed, and malnourished. Things just never were on his side, were they? Enjolras didn’t like to simply accept things as they were however. If he managed to find out where they were taking Combeferre(If he was alive), and intercept the prisoner transport then he could save him. If he didn’t do that then well he was talking about the greatest jailbreak in history. And King Archambault wouldn’t waste resources on rescuing a lieutenant. He’d need his own team.
Courfeyrac would help, but he would need to contact him first. His hand absentmindedly went to the amulet around his neck, fidling with the onyx charm. Courfeyrac first, then he could go fro, there.
He noticed the bard Grantaire return about twenty minutes later looking panicked and leading two horses.
“The village is crawling with Tiryrian soldiers and I am not waiting for them to find us and behead me for aiding a fuckign rebel.” Grantaire began attaching his packs to the first horse and then walked over to the Enjolras, helping him up. “You’re lucky I’m a decent person, I’ve half a mind to leave your ass here.”
Once Enjolras was on the second horse, and Grantaire had mounted the first, he led them away from the camp and in the opposite direction of the village. Oh this was a stupid idea. Why did he have to be a good person? Why did this soldier have to be so beautiful and entrancing?
Enjolras just stared at the other, with confusion clear on his face. “You put yourself at risk to help a rebel whose motives you criticize?”
“Why not? I’ve done much more idiotic shit in my life. Just shut up. I have a hangover. We’re going to see a friend of mine. She can help.”