Archive of Our Own

Long ago, possibly. Maybe.

What do I know? Don't trust me.

Anyway.

Long ago, I guess, there lived a beautiful young man, who was very brave and very foolish.

What? Beautiful? Yes, he was. And I mean that in every sense of the word. Beauty just shined right out of him. He was stunning and symmetrical and righteous and it didn't hurt that he was fair with golden hair, which was very en vogue at the time in that area. Just beautiful. Beautiful and brave and foolish.

He, as it happens, was also very much in love, as brave, foolish, beautiful people often are.

There was a farmhand. This was in the land of Florin, mind you, and there were plenty of farmhands to be had. It was sort of a farming place.

But this farmhand in particular, he was special.

See, I know what you're thinking. This farmhand, he must have been beautiful and kind and brave, just like his inamorato, and he probably had a dark, swarthy complexion to make a nice contrast in the oil paintings.

Well, you're right about the darker complexion. But everything else is right out.

The farmhand was an ugly guy, if spoken truly. Perhaps there was something in the way his face moved when he spoke or the crookedness of his smile that could inspire, and even in the daresay shockingly bright blue of his eyes that we might even call lovely. And obviously, something about him was striking, whether or not looks matter much to you, because he was much liked by all who met him. For a farmhand, he had quite a little social life for himself, but that is probably not the point of this story. Call it a hunch.

Suffice it to say, he was not beautiful. He also couldn't possibly be labeled brave, and definitely not righteous. He was the kind of boy to question whether righteousness was a good thing, but he was one of those who could do it with a wink and a nod and you couldn't help yourself.

Cowardly, ugly, and cynical. Ah, you thought this would be a different kind of story.

Well, we can't choose our heroes.

Grantaire was a notorious mouthpiece of man, and Enjolras knew it well. But all he ever said to him was, “As you wish.”

As romantic as this is, it's also pretty fitting, as most of what Enjolras did was order him around.

Who's to say who started their quiet, antagonistic, teasing love affair from a distance. My money's on Grantaire. But indeed, every time Grantaire refused to rise to the bait of responding, Enjolras upped the stakes on wacky commands.

Fetch a pitcher. Scrub the trough. Repair the rake. Clean the rake. Shine the rake. Sing to the goats. Name the eggs. And so on.

One day, Enjolras was stunned to discover that when Grantaire said, “As you wish,” he was really saying, “I love you.” He was stunned about this because he was too young to figure out the basics of human infatuation, but we can forgive him that, because it's adorable.  Even more stunning (and just as unsurprising) is that Enjolras realized he loved him back.

The first time they kissed, there were no fireworks or marching bands or even anyone around, except for Enjolras' horse, who was waiting very patiently for the feed Enjolras had ordered Grantaire to grab one-handed and one-legged. When Grantaire whispered, “As you wish,” Enjolras surged up to press a kiss against his lips. After a beat, Grantaire dropped the oats and wrapped his arms around him, too gently to be called passionate. Sighing in relief, they pressed quiet, chaste kisses against each other, to the sounds of a farm and smells of a stable.

Grantaire had no money for marriage, as you might imagine of a poor farmhand. He barely had money for wine, and the boy loved his wine. So he packed his few belongings and left the farm to seek his fortune across the sea.

It was a very emotional time for Enjolras. (Bear with me.)

“Don’t go. I might never see you again.”

Grantaire scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Of course you will.”

“Do you know what could happen to you? Anything could happen to you.”

“I’ll always come back for you.”

“And this, from the most pessimistic man I’ve ever met! Beware the unexpected, Grantaire. How can you be so certain?”

“Have faith, Enjolras. Isn't that what you do? This is True Love. You think this happens every day?”

Enjolras’s beautiful face pulled down into a sulk, and Grantaire kissed it away.

“By all the power I have in me, I’ll find a way back to you, Enjolras. I swear it.”
With that, Grantaire kissed him again, picked up his bag, and walked away.

Grantaire never reached his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate R, who never left captives alive, though everyone knew about him somehow anyway. When Enjolras got the news that Grantaire was murdered in the coolest possible narrative fashion, he was beyond crushed.

I know what you're thinking. It's easy, in times of anguish, to claim things we don't mean. But when Enjolras stood on his hill and announced, “I will never love again,” he meant it.

But as I said, he was foolish.

Five years passed, like they do. The main square of Florin City was packed to the brim with suddenly ardent citizens giddy to hear the announcement of the great Prince Montparnasse's prospective Prince Consort.

Trumpets sounded as the Queen and King took the balcony.

Montparnasse entered. Now there was a good-looking guy. But… well, have you ever heard the literary term “foil”?

“My people,” Montparnasse intoned, addressing the crowd, “a month from now, I shall marry a gentleman who was once a commoner like yourselves.” He smiled benignly, and the world smiled with him. “But perhaps you will not find him common now.  Would you like to meet him?”

The crowd chanted a vehement yes, which was narrative of them.

“My people,”Montparnasse said with a gesture, “the Prince Consort Enjolras.”

Enjolras strolled into the square among the crowd with those same trumpets blasting. Everyone bowed, and smiled, and looked so genuinely happy for him that it was actually a little unhealthy.

But Enjolras' emptiness consumed him. Although the law of the land gave Montparnasse the right to choose who to marry, Enjolras did not love him.

Dramatic, perhaps, but as the story unwinds, you should start to see how wise this ended up being.

Despite Montparnasse's reassurance that he would grow to love him, the only joy Enjolras found was in his daily ride. He often went out among the people, learning of their troubles and their arguments, helping and mediating where he could, cataloging lacks and injustices he would invariably bring to Montparnasse, who would listen with a smile on his face that was practiced enough to not seem condescending.

But just as often, Enjolras would venture far from the castle, through unknown fields, meadows, and forests, and trust his horse and his vague innate sense of direction to lead him back home.

On just such a ride, he came upon three men in the field. The first he noticed was huge. Not a giant, per se, but large and well-muscled enough to be frankly astounding. A slender man (by comparison) stood next to him, the very bearing of him graceful even in stillness. The third man shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking put out and a little lost. Enjolras slowed his horse, as kind people do.

“A word, good sir,” this last one said, stepping forward and gesturing broadly. “We are lost indeed.”

“I can see that,” Enjolras replied with the directness he was so famous for among the people. “How can I help?”

“You might direct us to the nearest village.”

“It is quite a ways from here,” Enjolras replied, glancing about them. “Without horses, it will take you some time to reach anything.”

“And some time for anyone to reach you,” the man observed silkily.

Before Enjolras could rise to the sudden venom in the man's voice or the sinister look on his face, the largest man had a hand on his throat, and with a pinch, the Prince Consort lost consciousness just as he tried to scream.

Later, the third man, oily and put out and inexplicably somehow the leader, was fussing with Enjolras’s things on the shore.

“What is that you're ripping?” the graceful man inquired, struggling to help his compatriot lug the unconscious Prince Consort onto their boat.

“It's fabric from the uniform of an army officer of Guilder, you nonce.”

“My name is Combeferre.”

“Your name is 15% of my take, as far as I'm concerned.”

“What's Guilder got the do with anything?” the large man interrupted while he arranged the unconscious Enjolras’s head on a sack. He was a considerate one.

Thenardier, for that was his name, rolled his eyes in a spectacularly nauseating way and pinned the fabric to Enjolras's horse, giving it a swift kick. “Go on, you flea-infested pony.”

He turned and crossed the gangplank.  “Now Prince Montparnasse will think the Guilderians have abducted his love. When he finds this boy's body dead on the Guilder frontier, his suspicions will be totally confirmed.”

“Jesus! You never said anything about killing anyone.”

“What did you think would happen when I hired you to start a war? It’s nice work if you can get it.”

“Just seems wrong, though, killing an innocent guy.”

“Thinking is not part of your job description, moron.”

“I agree with Bahorel,” Combeferre interjected as Bahorel muttered something to the effect of, “That was uncalled for.”

“Oh, this is just what we need. The hero sot flies to the rescue. Don’t worry: I’ll kill him myself. We wouldn’t want you to end up pickling in another barrel of brandy, would we?” He whirled on Bahorel. “And as for you, you can keep your mouth shut, or you can go back. You want that? To be unemployed, on the streets of Damascus?”

Unperturbed, the other two men tuned out his outburst. They’d long since gotten used to his mannerisms, so they turned away and made ready the ship for their voyage.

Combeferre glanced at Bahorel conspiratorially.

“Thenardier, he can... fuss,” he whispered.

“Fuss, fuss,” Bahorel muttered. “I think he likes to scream… at us!”

“Probably he means no harm .”

“He's really very short… on charm!”

Combeferre smiled at him. “You have a great gift for rhyme.”

“Yes, yes,” Bahorel winked, “some of the time.”

“Oh, flirt on your own time ,” Thenardier griped, clutching his map.

They didn’t stop, though, and Thenardier's curses carried across the water.

Later that night, on the open water, Combeferre’s eyes kept casting off past the stern. Thenardier, in the middle of joyfully boasting to Bahorel, glanced up at him.

“What’s up with you?” He called up to where Combeferre’s tension was becoming palpable.

“Someone is tracking us.”

“Pfft,” Thenardier laughed. “That would be totally--”

“Despite what you think,” a clear voice suddenly rang out, “you will be caught.”

The three men stared at Enjolras, slightly stunned, incredulous at the way his beautiful harmony of face had twisted with rage. He spoke, we should point out, with all the fervor and all the certainty of a god, and in the manner of a young man who has always been listened to. Enjolras was remarkably imperious for a man squatting on the slippery deck of a criminal’s boat. “And Prince Montparnasse has a noose for every betrayal, mark my words.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Thenardier replied ambiguously. Enjolras’ beautiful brow furrowed, lost. “But boy, are your priorities out of order, kid. Worry your pretty little head over...well, your pretty little head.”

Enjolras looked away in a way that can only be described as haughty.

Combeferre cleared his throat.

“As I was saying,” he said with a baleful glare, “someone is following us.”

Sure enough, they saw a boat once they’d joined Combeferre at his post to check.

“That’s just… a coincidence!” Thenardier declared. “A… really, really weird coincidence.”

Suddenly, rudely interrupting his bluff, they heard a loud splash. When they turned, they saw that our intrepid Prince Consort had thrown himself overboard, no doubt to swim to safety or die trying.

“You have to be kidding,” Bahorel murmured in a way that could only be described as impressed.

Thenardier found out quick that none of them could swim. You see, back in the day, there was this whole pile of nonsense about witches and swimming and it was better to stay on the safe side and never associate with the whole act if you could avoid it.

To sum up, none of them could jump into the water after him.

Now, it’s well you remember that I told you something earlier: Enjolras. He was brave, but he was also foolish. He wasn’t a strong swimmer, which is to say, he could barely swim. So in due time, Thenardier and his goons, turning the boat and giving chase, weren’t that far behind him.

Enjolras managed to swim away a few lengths before a terrible, high, keening warble stopped him cold in the water.

Thenardier grinned.

“Hear that?” he called breezily over the water, almost conversationally, were it not for the darkness in his tone. “The Shrieking Eels.” Enjolras glared daggers back at him, but he was treading water now, and he began to see disturbances in the waves all around him.

“Massive, stinking, horrid, blind creatures they are, but also possessed of a singular resolve - to consume what thrashes before them.”

Spooky stuff.

“Swim back now, before it’s too late. I don’t give a lot of second chances, but hey. I’m pretty sure that the eels aren’t going to offer.”

Enjolras would have loved to ignore these words. He was a man of great bravado as well as bravery, you see. But he couldn’t deny that the long, sinuous shapes in the water began to circle closer, closer, with the high, horrifying noise growing louder and more piercing with every pass, until finally, finally he saw the razor sharp teeth and the eels were nearly upon him, charging forward, and-

And…

Well. He doesn’t die . The story just started. We already lost the other main character, we could hardly do without Enjolras, could we?

He was lifted suddenly out of the water, strong arms under each of his armpits. It was the massive man, Bahorel, reaching down from the edge of the boat. In his panic, Enjolras had failed to notice how close the crew had crept to him.

He collapsed to the deck. Thenardier pushed him upright, brusquely checking for serious injuries on his arms and legs before tying them, securely, tightly, with a quick hand that could only have been born of malevolent practice.

“He's getting closer,” Combeferre murmured suddenly. Thenardier glanced at him, perched on the back of the boat.

“He’s no concern of ours!” He snapped. “Sail on!”

By morning, they had reached the Cliffs of Insanity. It was the quickest path to the Guilder frontier, to be sure, but boy, was it perilous. The cliffs were a sheer, rocky wall, standing well over the height of a hundred men. And they went up.

Straight up.

By hand.

Bahorel’s hand, to be precise.

He pulled himself, with three other people clinging to him, literally hand over fist to the top. But before they were even halfway up, they watched as a mysterious masked man, dressed all in black, scrambled from the very boat that had pursued them across the water.

And he climbed the rope quickly.

To be fair, he was only one guy, whereas poor Bahorel had three people in tow, but climbing ropes fast is still impressive. Can you climb a rope? If so, we’re all very impressed. Let’s move on.

Thenardier held the frayed ends of the rope as he stared over the edge of the cliff.

“He's climbing!” Combeferre gasped at Thenardier’s side, and sure enough, he was. The man in black had not fallen to his death when they cut his rope, and in what some might call the exact opposite, he was scaling the sheer mountainside, albeit very slowly.

“Inconceivable!” Thenardier muttered. Combeferre glanced at him.

“You keep using that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

Bahorel peered over the ledge. “Damn. He's got nice arms.”

“He’s incredible,” Combeferre admitted.

“He’s a dead man, is what he is.” Thenardier tightened Enjolras’s bonds and shoved him at Bahorel. “Carry him. We're headed for Guilder.” He jabbed one stubby finger at Combeferre. “You, deal with this. Catch up when he's dead. If he falls, fine. If not, the sword.”

Combeferre nodded. “It’s fine. But I'm going to do him left-handed.”

“You know we’re in a hurry!”

“It isn’t a challenge otherwise; I won’t be satisfied.”

“ I won’t be satisfied ,” Thenardier mocked. “Ugh. Fine. Just see that it’s done.”

Bahorel clapped Combeferre manfully on the shoulder. “Take care, ‘Ferre. I don’t trust a man who can climb things.”

“What about you?”

“Pfft. Do you think I trust myself ?” Bahorel grinned, and he and Thenardier set off with a blindfolded and cursing Enjolras.

This left Combeferre, bright Combeferre, constantly thinking and planning and clever-ing Combeferre, alone on a cliff top with only his thoughts and the ruins of… something. A castle, or a fort, maybe. Lots of large blocks of stone; you get it.

Things began to devolve quickly after that.

Combeferre peered over the cliff’s edge. The masked man was still there, but not much higher than before.

He stepped away.

He came back.

“Hello there!” He called. “That looks like a real… uphill battle.”

The man in black looked up at him. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but you could shut the fuck up for a minute.”

“No puns. Got it.”

Combeferre tried to distract himself, he really did. It didn’t take.

“I don’t suppose you could go faster?” he asked over the edge.

“I don’t suppose I could,” the man replied snidely. “You know, you could lower a rope or a tree branch or fuck off for a spell or something.”

“I could.”

“Sure.”

“There’s still rope up here, but I don’t think you would accept my help.”

“Since you seem to be waiting around to kill me,” he grunted, “I think you’re right.”

“I could promise to not kill you. I would mean it.”

“A lovely sentiment,” the man answered, “but I’m going to have to pass.”

Combeferre was good at a great many things - math, situational observations, people’s names, sword fighting, checkers - but he was not good at waiting.

“Is there no way you could trust me? Nothing I can say?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” he answered sardonically.

Combeferre paused. “I swear, on the departed soul of my father, you will reach the top alive.”

The man in black stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the conviction there.

“Throw me the rope.”

Combeferre was good to his word, and before long, they wrangled the man to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said, staggering and out of breath. He began to draw his sword.

“No, no, no,” Combeferre insisted, all aghast, hands out. “We'll wait until you are ready.”

Bemused, the masked man slid the sword home and sat. “Again, thank you.”

“I do not mean to pry,” Combeferre asked after what he probably considered a long pause, “but you don't by any chance happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

The man stared at him. “Do you always begin conversations this way?”

“I do. My father’s murderer had six fingers.”

The man stared at him, eyes inscrutable behind his mask, before holding up his right hand for examination. Combeferre shrugged ruefully and looked away.

“The six-fingered man came to my father and requested he make him a special sword. When it was finished, he returned and tried to take it for a pittance. When my father refused, this man murdered him without a word. I tried to avenge him on the spot, but I failed.”

“How old were you?”

“Eleven. I have never forgotten. And so I have dedicated my life to the study of fencing, so that he can die by the sword he killed my father over. Someday, I will face the six-fingered man and say, ‘Hello. My name is Combeferre. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’”

“So. You've... done nothing but study swordplay?”

Combeferre came to rest near him, nearly friendly. “Well. More a pursuit than a study, lately. I cannot find the man. It has been twenty years now, and I am starting to lose confidence. I know I could not recognize him on sight.” He sighed. “And I am forced to work for an idiot to get by.”

The man in black slowly stood, dusting himself off. “Well, I certainly hope you find him someday.”

“You are ready, then?” Combeferre asked, rising to his feet with barely concealed energy.

“Either way, you've been more than fair.”

“Fairness is important to me.” Combeferre smiled. “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you.”

“You seem a decent fellow,” the man in black returned. “I hate to die.”

There was a long, tense pause as both men slowly raised their weapons.

One or two hesitant, testing, teasing blows.

And then they began in earnest.

Swords clashed, lightning quick; graceful step followed quick graceful step.

A part of Combeferre he didn’t know was sleeping woke up at last. He pushed his advantage right away.

"You are using Bonetti's defense against me, eh?" Combeferre asked, and if he’s showing off a bit, well. There’s no shame in taking pride in your work, especially in front of someone who can actually appreciate it.

"I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain," the man responded casually.

"Naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro."

"Naturally, but I find that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro, don't you?" He demonstrated this geometric theory by suddenly dropping off the back of a boulder, forcing Combeferre into action.

Combeferre grinned.

"Unless the enemy has studied his Agrippa,” he announced, and vaulted over him, only to close the distance between them, “which I have!”

They traded more blows, and Combeferre had forced the masked man to show his hand; he was an excellent fencer, a master. He knew his steps, his defenses, his feints, and as he pushed forward, gaining the upper hand, it became clear he was a genius of the offense.

"You are wonderful!"

"Thank you. I've worked hard to become so."

"I admit it, you are better than I am," Combeferre conceded gleefully, losing ground with each step.

"Then why are you smiling?"

"Because I know something you don't know."

"And what is that?"

"I am not left-handed."

In less than a blink, Combeferre had switched hands, and the tide of the battle switched just as quickly. He forced the masked man back across the mountainous terrain, blow after blow, chasing, striking, feeling more alive than he could ever remember.

"You're amazing!" The masked man smiled as Combeferre backed him against the crumbling, rocky wall that seperated the man in the black from a free fall off the cliffs.

"I ought to be after twenty years." Combeferre parried two blows with viper precision and caught the man in a clinch.

"There is something I ought to tell you," the man confessed breathlessly.

"Tell me."

His blue eyes twinkled behind his mask. "I'm not left-handed either."

Before Combeferre could really process it, he was thrown back off his balance, and back, deflecting, back, parrying, losing ground, stumbling over rocks, suddenly disarmed and scrambling. He dove for his sword and came up on his knees, weapon raised. The man in black waited calmly, sportsman like, for him to struggle to his feet.

“Who are you?” Combeferre breathed.

“No one of consequence.”

“I must know.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

“Fair enough,” Combeferre said, lifting his sword again.

They rejoined blades, Combeferre advancing, and then the man was, and then Combeferre was retreating, reatreating. He couldn’t find an opening, couldn’t stop for breath, found himself turning and leaving opens and only raising his blade at the last minute to deflect and parry time and again, until he couldn’t do it in time anymore. The man stripped him of his weapon one last time, and then the sword was at his throat.

Combeferre got to his knees

"Kill me quickly."

“Kill you?” the man murmured, sounding stricken, circling around behind him. “Destroy artistry unparalleled by the greats in oil and stone? I could never.” He paused. “But you can’t follow me. So.”

He smacked him with the pommel of his sword, hard, and Combeferre went down.

"I have never respected a man more,” he told the back of Combeferre’s head before running off.

Halfway up a hill,  perched on a boulder, Thenardier could just see the black figure moving toward them.

He gripped Enjolras by the ropes around his wrists. “Give me the prince, and catch up when he’s dead!”

“The prince?”

“ The other guy !”

Bahorel stared at the frantic man, perplexed. “What am I supposed to do?”

“ Do ?” Thenardier was verging on hysterical. “Finish him off y our way!” He started up the mountain, all but dragging a half-blindfolded Enjolras by his wrist restraints.

“And my way is...?” Bahorel called.

Thenardier stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned around.

“Hit him with a giant rock !”

Bahorel watched their retreating backs for a moment. “My way seems kind of wrong,” he observed to no one in particular. Then, apparently unconcerned, he shrugged and set to choosing a rock.

A while later, the man in black slowed down just in time to watch a rock slam against the boulder in front of him, the force shattering it.

“I did that on purpose,” Bahorel announced brightly, stepping into view. “ I didn't have to miss.”

“I believe you.” The mysterious man sounded shaken, and a little confused.

“Didn’t seem fair, you know?”

The man in black pursed his lips, reminded suddenly of the man he had just faced. “You didn’t kill me just then. So what happens now?”

“We can face each other man to man, arm to arm!”

“Ah. So I'll drop the sword, you drop the rock, and we drop our fists into each other's faces?” The truth was, now that the man in black was faced with the crippling mountain of a man in front of him, he understood why people like you and me might have called him a giant. He laid his sword on the ground anyway, never taking his eyes of his opponent. “Frankly, I think the odds are slightly in your favor at hand to hand combat.”

“More fair than a surprise rock to the head,” Bahorel shrugged with a smile. “You have to give me that.”

They circled each other for a few moments before the masked man charged Bahorel. It was a lot like charging a brick wall, if brick walls smiled at you encouragingly and seemed enragingly smug about it. The man fell back, charged again, even tried to pummel him for good measure, all to no effect.

“Look” the man asked, circling again but more annoyed and breathless this time, “are you just screwing with me?”

“No!” Bahorel answered with instant sincerity. “I just want you to feel like you gave it a fair shot.  No one wants to die embarrassed.”

Finally, Bahorel lunged after him, great haymaker blows that looked all too easy and natural, but the man in black dodged every one.

“You're quick!” Bahorel observed, delighted.

“Lucky me.”

Bahorel approached him again, but was unable to hit or grab him. He frowned.

“Why are you wearing a mask anyway?” he asked. “Burned by acid? Jealous ex? Part time firefighting? Weird birth defect that gives you a secret superpower?”

“Oh no, it's just delightful to wear.” The man dodged several powerful swings with a calculating eye. Bahorel didn’t like it. “I’m trying to start a fashion trend.”

Suddenly, he rushed the boulder behind Bahorel, rebounded off the surface like a ricochet, and landed on his back, struggling into a headlock around the larger man’s neck. Bahorel’s powerful, muscled arms gave him imposing strength, but not the flexibility to reach behind him.

“Definitely quick,” Bahorel wheezed as Grantaire’s arm tightened around his windpipe. “Not embarrassing at all.”

Grantaire laughed a little, breathless. “Would you say I gave you a fair shot, then?”

But he didn’t get an answer.

Bahorel was unconscious at that point.

The mysterious man checked his pulse, and then clapped him manfully on the shoulder.

Bahorel would have appreciated the gesture, were he conscious.

And with that, he swept up his sword and charged off in the direction of Thenardier and the beautiful boy he had stolen.

Back at the ruins, Prince Montparnasse studied footprints on the ground, even stepping lightly into the tracks. Mounted soldiers and his right hand man, Count Claquesous, looked on in silent vigil.

“There was a mighty duel,” Montparnasse announced. “It ranged all over. They were both masters.”

“Who won?” Claquesous leaned forward, eyes intent. “How did it end?”

“The loser,” Montparnasse replied, jumping down from a boulder and trailing the steps we read about earlier, “ran off alone.” He stopped, and looked around thoughtfully. “But the winner followed another set of footprints. Those, over there.”

“Toward Guilder.” Claquesous noted. “Shall we track them both?”

“The loser is nothing,” Montparnasse answered, a hair too quickly. “Only the prince matters.”

He moved to address all the soldiers, and by extension, the horses as well. “Clearly this was all planned by warriors of Guilder! We must all be ready for whatever lies ahead.”

Enjolras’s body was rigid, nearly shaking, Thenardier’s dagger pressed to his neck. He was totally blindfolded once more. Seated beside him, Thenardier looked the picture of ease, a boulder in front of him dressed out like a table.

“If you wish him dead, by all means, keep moving forward,” Thenardier droned at the man in black.

The man paused a moment before smiling, hands splayed carelessly in front of him as he crept closer. “Let me explain-”

“Explain? Hello, Thenardier? It’s me, the mysterious masked man. I’m here to kidnap the person you kidnapped. Did I miss something?”

“Perhaps an arrangement can be reached?”

“There will be no arrangement,” Thenardier growled, “and you're killing him.”

Enjolras gave out a low hiss, and a little blood seeped out around the knife.

The masked man froze. “So we’re at an impasse.”

“Indeed,” Thenardier agreed. “I can’t match you physically, and you can’t match my mind.”

He crossed his arms and appeared to consider that for a moment. “Well. In that case, would you consent to a battle of wits?”

“I rarely consent to battle the unarmed.”

The man in black chuckled. “Is that a no?”

“It’s for the prince? To the death?”

The man nodded, a mere incline of his head.

“Acceptable.” Thenardier tucked away his blade with a deftness that gave the masked man pause.

“Good. Then pour the wine.” He seated himself across from Thenardier and Enjolras, keeping a careful eye on Thenardier’s hands all the while.

A small vial appeared from the lining of his boot.

“This is called Iocane powder. Odorless, tasteless, instantly dissolving. And very, very deadly.”

Grabbing the two wine goblets, he turned away and finagled with them out of sight. He gestured expansively as he placed the goblets back onto the table.

“We have come to the quick! Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun.” He nodded at Thenardier, who had not stopped smirking since the bet was issued. “You decide, we drink, and the corpse loses.”

Thenardier’s smirk lingered, but his eyes shifted restlessly. “So all I have to do is figure out what kind of man you are: the type to sprinkle it in his own glass or his enemy's. You might put the poison in your cup, knowing a normal man would switch. So I can’t choose the wine in front of you. But you would know I’m not that simple, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me.”

“So you’re ready?”

“For what? We’ve only begun. You’re clearly a criminal, and criminals are used to not being trusted, so I obviously I wouldn’t choose the wine in front of you.”

“A remarkable string of conclusions.”

“I know!” Thenardier crowed.  “You've beaten Bahorel, which means you're powerful. You could've put the poison in your own goblet, trusting your strength to save you.”

“Sure. That’s how poison works.”

“Or,” he screeched, face reddening, “since you’ve bested Combeferre, you must be learned, and focused on your own mortality, so you would put the poison as far from yourself as possible.”

“Oh, come now, that last one doesn’t even make sense. You’re so obviously trying to goad the answer out of me, it’s embarrassing,” the man stated, cool as anything. “It won't work.”

“Fool!” Thenardier laughed, edgily. “You’ve given everything away! I know where the poison is! ”

“If you know, then make your decision.”

Thenardier looked at the masked man for a long, long while, dark eyes unfathomable. And then, suddenly, he looked over the man’s shoulder, eyes wide.“What the hell is that ?!”

The man spun about. A moment later, he turned to face Thenardier again. “I don't see anything.”

“No? Oh, my. I could have sworn I saw something! For now, let’s drink! From the glasses in front of us!”

Intently watching one another, both raised their glasses, slowly, and drank.

The masked man smiled, almost ruefully, as he set his goblet down. “You guessed wrong.”

“You only think I’m wrong!” Thenardier howled with relief. “I switched glasses when your back was turned! Oh, you really are a fool!”

And he cackled, and cackled, and cackled, and fell over dead.

The masked man stood at once, removing the blindfold from Enjolras’s face. They shared a fleeting moment of eye contact.

“Who are you?” Enjolras demanded.

He set to cutting the bonds at the prince’s ankles and wrists. “I'm no one to be trifled with, Apollo. Let’s leave it at that.”

Enjolras felt dazed, lost, head still swirling to make sense of all that he had seen and heard as blood rushed and stung into the skin finally freed from the restraints.

“So you poisoned your own cup.”

“Well, yes. But I poisoned both. I spent the last few years building up an immunity to iocane powder.” And with that, he set off, dragging the stumbling, disoriented, and clumsy-footed Enjolras away from the scene.

Combeferre, Bahorel, Thenardier. Pride bested all three of them. It’s an interesting lesson.

Not one we have time to unpack, though.

“Someone has beaten a giant of a man,” Prince Montparnasse announced, ear literally pressed to a boulder. He rose slowly and turned to his men. “If Enjolras dies, the suffering of Guilder will be unparalleled.”

He climbed onto his horse, and the group raced on.

“Stop! Stop. Let go of me! ”

Enjolras thrashed around in the masked man’s grip pretty much the second his hands and wrists stopped stinging. The man, seething, pushed him off-balance, and he fell onto his rear in an ungraceful slump. Enjolras glared furiously at him, and a lot more hesitantly at his weapons.

“Catch your breath, highness,” he snapped. “Or save it, rather.”

Enjolras looked up at him, considering. The man in black had dispatched all three of the men who had abducted him. The reportedly masterful fencer, the brute who scaled a cliff with three people, and the deadly mastermind. He was dangerous, to be sure.

Enjolras was not a subtle man, but he thought he could give it a try.

“If you'll release me, whatever you ask for ransom, you'll get it, I promise you.”

“You promise me?” He laughed, high and disdainful, without any real humor. “And here I should trust the bourgeois pig with his eyes on the crown? What a wit you are.”

The pretense slid off of Enjolras’ face in an instant. “I was giving you a chance. It does not matter where you take me. There is no greater hunter than Prince Montparnasse. He will find you.”

“You think your dearest love will save you?”

“I never said he was my dearest love,” Enjolras snapped, bristling, “and yes, he will save me. That is an incontestable fact.”

The masked man stepped toward Enjolras, in a way that suggested perhaps he wasn’t so sure he was doing the thing at all. “Fair Apollo admits to me that he does not love his fiance,” he said, intrigued.

“Not your... type?”

“He knows I do not love him.”

“Aren’t capable of love, you mean.”

Enjolras flinched back like he’d been slapped, jaw going slack before tightening beyond measure. “I have loved more deeply,” he said, voice low in rage, “than a killer like yourself could ever dream! ”

Without thinking, he stepped menacingly toward the man, who stood his ground as his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Enjolras stopped, but the other man did not. In fact, he crowded right into his face, uncaring if he could reach his sword or not. Enjolras’ breath came short, his pulse too loud in his ears.

“A warning, Your Grace.” He purred. “There are penalties for lying.” He grabbed Enjolras by the arm, and then suddenly released him with a shove. “Let’s go.”

Enjolras, no doubt still thinking about that sword, began to run, the man’s eyes on the back of his neck heating his skin.

Back at the boulder where the battle of wits took place, Montparnasse had discovered the vial of powder.

And also the body, of course.

"Iocane," he decided. "I'd bet my life on it. Enjolras’ footprints are here, too; I would know them anywhere. He's alive, or was an hour ago.” He stood and addressed Count Claquesous. “If he is otherwise when I find him,” he said grimly, “I will be most displeased.”

“Rest, Apollo,” the masked man commanded, pushing him down once again. Enjolras didn’t quite fall this time, but he did sit down, gingerly and petulantly, on a rock.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“I once loved a man as fiercely as one loves the sun. You look a little like him. Seems fitting.”

“My name is Enjolras.”

The masked man only laughed. “Your parents must have hated you.”

“Your cruelty reveals you,” Enjolras spat. “You're the Dread Pirate R, admit it!”

R bowed to him gracefully. “With pride. What can I do for you?”

Enjolras’ chin, raised, caught the light and held it. He was most breathtaking in his rage. “You can die. Slowly.”

R tutted. “Hardly complimentary, your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?”

“Other than your mass murders and pillaging the poor? The man I love is dead, and you killed him.”

“I mean,” R responded casually, without so much as a blink, “I kill a lot of people.”

Enjolras jaw creaked as it clenched.

“Who was this love of yours?” R mused. “Another prince like this one, rich, condescending, and vain?” He lounged against a boulder, the very picture of indolence.

Enjolras turned to glare at him. “No. A farm boy,” he accused. “Poor. Poor and bright and… and engaging.” He spoke as if from far away, until all at once he was back to reality. “You and your… your gang attacked his ship. Everyone knows the Corinthe never takes prisoners.”

“Least of all farm boys . What would we do with one?”

Enjolras’s face burned. “So. Die slowly.”

R squinted speculatively at him. “Was this, oh, I don’t know, about five years ago?”

Enjolras turned away from him.

“I think I remember this farm boy of yours. He died well,” he continued. Once he got going, he was verbose, near elegant in his speech, were it not for the cynical, sarcastic edge that made every word a barb. “You would have been proud , I’m sure.  No bribe attempts or begging or blubbering. He simply said, ‘Please... please, I need to live.’ I asked him what was so important for him here. Would you believe me if I told you he said it was True Love? “ He scoffed. “And then this idiot goes on about a young man of surpassing beauty and righteousness and faithfulness.” He glanced at Enjolras, askance, derisive. “I can only assume he meant you.”

“I don’t care what you think of me, monster.  You're incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of -”

“You should bless me,” the pirate interrupted, standing, “for destroying him before he found out what you really are.”

“And what am I?”

“Faithfulness he talked of, Apollo, your enduring faithfulness. Speak truth; when you found out he was gone, did you climb into your prince’s bed that same hour, or did you wait a whole week out of respect for the dead?”

Enjolras rose now, like the dawn, like vengeance. “You know nothing. I died that day!” Enjolras glared into his eyes, and for a brief moment, something strange, something bizarre and unknowable raced through him, before rage overtook him again. “And you can die as well!”

And Enjolras pushed him backwards over the mountainside.

The Dread Pirate fell down, rolling down the steep incline head over feet.

And called out, “As… you… wish…!”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathed. His perfect face crumbled into a rictus of contrition. “You idiot. Of course it’s you.”

And he ran down the hill, made it two steps, and tripped and tumbled down in much the same way as Grantaire.

“My mask,” Grantaire muttered from the bottom of the gully. “Drat.”

He glanced over to watch Enjolras roll to a stop beside him.

“Well now,” he murmured, crawling beside him, “I’d heard that angels fell from the sky, but-”

“You idiot,” Enjolras repeated, groaning. “You’re alive. You’re alive !”

Grantaire pulled back, but only as far as he needed to glare into Enjolras’ eyes. “I told you I would always come. Why didn't you wait?”

“Grantaire,” he answered flatly. “You were dead.”

“Apparently not. ” Grantaire absently tucked Enjolras’ hair behind his ears. “Apollo, I promised you.”

Enjolras stared at him for a long while. “Alright,” Enjolras swore, decisively. “I believe you.”

If Grantaire hadn’t been inches from his face, Enjolras might have missed the faint groan as he closed the distance between them. “ There he is,” Grantaire whispered.

Enjolras’ breath stuttered as their lips finally met once more.

Isn't that nice? Our main characters are reunited, and we're not even at the halfway point. You're welcome.

Anyway. Moving on.

Grantaire and Enjolras raced along the ravine floor towards the looming dark of the forest ahead. At the sound of hoofbeats, they both froze and turned, but their pursuers were still on top of the ridge. Grantaire crowed.

“Your beastly fiance is too late. A few more steps and we'll be safe.”

“Safe? In the Fire Swamp? We'll never survive.”

“Now who's a cynic?” Grantaire answered, towing Enjolras behind him as he set off once more.

Inside the Fire Swamp, Grantaire and Enjolras crept through the trees and looked about them with a great deal of tension. It was dark, it was damp, it was spooky, and there were vines just everywhere, if that sort of thing scares you. An animal made a faint moaning noise somewhere in the trees, and neither of them was sure what it was. Something rustled nearby.

“Not a terrible way to die.”

“ Grantaire .”

“Sorry, sorry . I’m only kidding.” Grantaire chucked Enjolras under the chin, just to watch him fume. “No one would want to build a summer home here, but hey. The trees are quite lovely.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and started creeping forward again. He didn’t exactly want to, you see, but they were being chased, and the dark abyss of the fire swamp was the way forward, and Enjolras believed in progress.

Thump.

Thump thump. Pop.

Enjolras and Grantaire looked at each other, baffled.

Thump pop pop thump pop pop pop--

Flames! Flames shot up in a spout from the earth at Enjolras’ feet. He yelled and stumbled back as his clothes caught fire.

Grantaire quickly threw himself at Enjolras’ feet and calmly smothered the flames. He rose and held his hands out to Enjolras, who took them, red-faced and humiliated.

“I guess that’s why they call it a Fire Swamp,” Grantaire grinned. He winked at him. “The marble statue got singed a bit, did it?”

Enjolras shook his head, embarrassed. “No. You?”

Grantaire laughed. “Not at all.”

They continued on, and then--

Thump.

Thump thump. Pop.

Enjolras and Grantaire both jumped clear before another spout of flames erupted.

Grantaire stood and dusted himself off, laughing brightly. “It certainly does keep you on your toes, doesn’t it?”

“Soon, this will all be a happy memory,” Enjolras said later, watching Grantaire hacking through some vines in their way.

“Define happy ,” Grantaire quipped. “No, but you’re right. R's ship, the Corinthe, is near the other side of the Fire Swamp.”

“Yes, but how are you him ?” Enjolras demanded, whirling on him. “He's been marauding twenty years. You’ve only been gone for five!”

“A rousing tale, if I do say so myself,” Grantaire cried, ramping up for another of his famous orations.

Enjolras smiled a bit despite himself.

“And one that caught me most unawares myself, I must confess. See, what I told you before about saying "please" was true. It intrigued R, as did my descriptions of the golden man with the silver tongue.”

Grantaire glanced over at Enjolras and winked at his blush.

“Finally, R decided something. He said, ‘All right, Grantaire. I've never had a page; you can try if you'd like. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.’ Three years he said that! "Good night, Grantaire. Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning.’”

“Was he mad?”

“Truly? I think not. At the time I was convinced.”

“It must have been awful.”

Grantaire hummed. “Was it? I’m not sure. Well, I was pining to be sure, but I was learning to fence, fight, anything anyone would teach me. And R and I eventually became friends. And then it happened.”

Thump thump. They both breezily sprang clear of a fireball together.

“What happened, Grantaire? Go on.”

“Well, R had grown so rich, he wanted to retire. So he told me his secret. ‘I am not the Dread Pirate R,’ he told me. ‘My name is Bossuet.’”

“Bossuet?”

“Bossuet. ‘I inherited the ship from the previous dread pirate R, just as you will inherit it from me. The man I inherited it from was named Joly. The real R has been retired fifteen years and living like a king in Martinique.’”

“ No. ”

“I know! The name is what inspires fear. We sailed ashore, took on an entirely new crew. Once the new crew believed, he left the ship, and I have been R ever since.”

Enjolras paused. “And now?”

“Now?” Grantaire laughed drily. “Now I have you. What else could I need? I’ll pass the name on to someone else.”

Enjolras smiled. Then he stepped forward and promptly disappeared into the ground, a puff of sand in his wake.

Grantaire shouted once, froze, and flew into action, cutting a vine and diving into the ground after him.

Silence.

Minutes crept by. More silence.

I’m not sure our boys will make it out of this one.

A hand emerged, grasping firmly to the vine! Another soon followed, and then a head, a neck with arms around it, a second head, and so on. They gasped in grateful, heaving lungfuls of air, and together drew themselves, shaking and coughing, back onto the forest floor.

“This is a nightmare,” Enjolras coughed.

Grantaire laughed and lurched upright, still out of breath. “You’re so right. But hey. We’re still alive, right?”

“Are we?” Enjolras fumed, rising to his feet. “We’ve encountered two of the Terrors of the FIre Swamp already.”

“Yes, but we’ve figured them out. The flame spurt? We recognize those popping sounds already.” Grantaire led them around a thick knot of vines. “The lightning sand? Hey, you just discovered what that looks like.”

Enjolras froze in place. “That’s only two. Grantaire, what about the Rodents of Unusual Size?”

Grantaire smirked and gestured broadly. “I don't believe in fairy tales.”

And that is when a rat the size of a collie pounced on Grantaire.

Stumbling, bloody, scratched up, exhausted, a little burnt, still coughing, and much more afraid of giant rodents than they had ever been before, the two men emerged into a more open and bright wooded area.

“We did it.” Enjolras grinned, a terrible beauty.

“Now, was that so awful?” Grantaire asked.

“I mean, the giant rodents,” Enjolras answered, grimacing. Grantaire laughed. Enjolras watched the way Grantaire's mouth moved. Grantaire noticed Enjolras watching. They both leaned in.

“Halt!” a voice shouted, punctuated by the rhythm of galloping hooves. Mounted warriors charged into view ahead of them, Prince Montparnasse at the lead. He pulled up his reins before them.

“Surrender,” he commanded.

“You mean you wish to surrender to me?” Grantaire smiled. “Very well, I accept.”

“I admit you are brave. Don’t prove yourself foolish, criminal” Montparnasse snapped.

“He is no criminal,” Enjolras snarled. “He is a good man, and--”

“Enjolras, he’s a pirate, and he abducted you,” Montparnasse interrupted in the tones of someone who’d talked Enjolras down out of a tirade more than once.

“He did no such thing!’ Enjolras railed.

Grantaire stepped in front of his love. “Don’t bother trying to reason with him , he doesn’t have the--”

“ Surrender, now!”

“Death first !” Grantaire growled.

Montparnasse fell silent. He looked at Grantaire’s unflinching face. He looked at Enjolras’s unyielding one. He looked at Enjolras’s hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

His face took on the qualities of a handsome mask.

“Enjolras,” he said calmly. “If you will return with me, this man will not be harmed.”

Enjolras fixed his fierce eyes to Montparnasse’s face. “You will promise this?”

“May I live a thousand years and never hunt again,” he vowed.

“He is a sailor on the pirate ship, the Corinthe. Give me your word that you’ll return him to his ship.”

“I swear it will be done!” He indicated for his men to approach them, and turned to Claquesous. In an undertone, he added, “Once we're out of sight, grab the fool and throw him in the Pit of Despair.”

Claquesous arched one eyebrow. “I swear it will be done.”

Enjolras clasped Grantaire’s hands. “We survive this to fight again,” he whispered. “I wasn’t lying before. I believe you . You’ll come for me.”

Montparnasse approached, and Enjolras put out his hand and leg, gracefully stepping up and onto the saddle behind the prince without taking his eyes off of Grantaire. As they rode away, Count Claquesous slid into view.

“Come, sir,” he said in a voice so devoid of emotion that the very air seemed cold, “we must get you to your ship.”

Grantaire finally looked away from Enjolras’ retreating back, smiling ironically. “Your audience is gone, sir .”

Claquesous’s mouth twisted into a pale echo of humor. “Indeed.”

As the soldiers moved forward to bind his hands, Grantaire noticed something, and smiled.

“What is it?” Claquesous asked.

“You have six fingers on your right hand,” Grantaire observed, saucily. “Someone was looking for you.”

For the first time, something like emotion flicked across Claquesous’ face. He drew his sword and brought the pommel down on Grantaire’s head.

And then Grantaire knew nothing.

Grantaire awoke to a man tending his forest wounds. He tried to move, but he was strapped to a table. He craned his neck in either direction, as far as he could. He was in a dungeon of some kind, dimly lit, with a large machine that consisted of a water wheel, levers, pumps, and so forth. He turned his attention to the man who was now bandaging him. He was tall, thin, and so pale that daylight might have shown through his skin.

“Who are you?”

The man looked surprised, though not overly so, at being addressed. “Me? Babet.”

“Where am I?”

“The Pit of Despair.”

Grantaire waited, but no more information was forthcoming. He struggled a bit against his restraints. “Don't bother trying to escape. These chains are thick.”

Grantaire settled, thinking.

Babet rolled his eyes. “I know that look. Don’t go dreaming of rescue, either. No one knows where you are. No one knows how to get in here. No one knows where this is. And frankly, probably no one even knows you’re gone.”

“Then I'm here till I die?”

“Well, ‘til they kill you, yeah.”

He turned away, fussing around somewhere out of sight and returning with ointments. Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Then why bother curing me?”

Babet sighed and rolled his eyes. “The prince and the count always insist on everyone being healthy before they're broken,” he said in the tone of someone much put upon.

“So it's to be torture then?”

Babet nodded.

Grantaire settled down, bracing himself. “I can cope with torture.”

Babet chuckled, shaking his head a bit.

“You don’t believe me?”

“You survived the fire swamp; you must be very brave,” Babet answered clinically, gathering up his instruments and heading away, “but nobody withstands The Gueulemer.”

Enjolras did the math, and checked it, and checked it again.

After that, he paced and waited and paced.

Then, when he was sure enough time had passed for Grantaire to reach his ship, he strode to Montparnasse’s office.

“It comes to this!” he barked out, causing both Montparnasse and Claquesous to startle in their seats. “I love Grantaire. I always have and always will. I have endeavored to approach the situation as you suggested, but I cannot enter into this arrangement in good faith.” His voice, clear as a bell, held his unwitting audience captive. “If you tell me I must marry you in ten days, please believe I will be dead by morning.”

Montparnasse blinked several times in quick succession. “I could never cause you grief,” he hazarded eventually. “Consider our wedding off.” He turned to Claquesous. “You returned this Grantaire to his ship?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will simply alert him.” Montparnasse’s eyes, handsome and dark, glittered. “If he still wants you. After all, you did leave him in the fire swamp, with me . Not to mention he’s a, shall we say, scalawag . Pirates are not known to be men of their words.”

“I believe in Grantaire.”

Montparnasse stared at him for a moment. “How about this? You write four copies of a letter. I'll send my four fastest ships, one in each direction. He can’t have gotten far. We'll run up the white flag and deliver your message. If Grantaire wants you, bless you both.” He dropped his gaze at last, before stepping close and taking Enjolras’s hands. “If not,” he ventured, looking up at him through his eyelashes, “I will not use my power to compel you. But if you’re not to be with him , there is still so much good you could help me do for this country.” Enjolras gazed at him in mute shock. “”I beg you to consider leading them as an alternative to suicide.”

Enjolras gazed into his eyes for a long while before nodding. “I’ll consider it,” he answered, leaving the room.

Once in the hallway, though, he smiled.

His faith in Grantaire was unshaken.

The next day, Prince Montparnasse and Count Claquesous walked through a forest of very large, aged trees.

“Your prince is really quite a winning creature,” Claquesous observed in a voice of winter. “A trifle outspoken, perhaps, but his appeal is undeniable.”

“Yes. The people are obsessed with him,” Montparnasse hummed. “I thought my original kidnapping plot was clever. But when I kill him on our wedding night? The nation will demand we go to war in their grief and rage.”

They shared a brief, vicious smile before Claquesous turned to examine a tree trunk, pressing various protrusions and knots. He made a noise of triumph as one knot finally gave way and a door appeared in the side of the tree. “Are you coming down into the Pit?” he asked. “Grantaire’s got his strength back.”

“No, I’m far too busy and important. Just be sure to start him on the Gueulemer tonight.”

Down in the Pit of Despair, Babet wheeled the strapped-down Grantaire into place in front of the machine he had noticed before. Claquesous stepped into his line of sight.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him, the picture of sarcasm, and said nothing.  Babet, ignoring both of them, began attaching strange conical mechanisms to Grantaire and strapping them in place.

“Took me half a lifetime to invent it. I'm sure you've discovered my deep and abiding interest in pain,” he continued dreamily. “At present, I'm writing the definitive work on the subject, so I want you to be totally honest with me on how The Gueuelemer makes you feel. This being our first try, I'll use the lowest setting.”

Without any more of a warning than that, Claquesous reached out and moved a lever from zero to one. Water started flowing, wheels began turning, and the machine began to emit a low, horrifying noise.

And then, quietly, so did Grantaire.

Claquesous and Babet took a moment just to watch Grantaire writhe.

After about a minute, Claquesous calmly turned the lever back to zero.

“As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old,” he intoned, walking over to his desk and picking up his pen. “Instead of sucking water, I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five” he added blandly, “but I really don't know what that would do to you, so.” He looked over at where Grantaire was still twitching intermittently. “What did this do to you? And remember, this is for posterity, so be honest.” He leaned in. “How do you feel?”

Grantaire whimpered.

“Interesting,” he mused, and jotted something down.

The day of the wedding arrived. Montparnasse had ordered Claquesous to form a brute squad, to clear out the King’s Forest before the wedding. The soldiers moved in and about various huts, chasing, arresting, generally being a big nuisance to thieves. One soldier approached a hut, where a very familiar figure was sprawled, surrounded by bottles.

“I am waiting for you, Thenardier,” Combeferre slurred. “You told me, if, if we were separated, go back to the beginning. So. This is where I am, and this is where I will stay. The beginning.”

“The prince gave orders,” the soldier snarled.

Out of nowhere, Combeferre lunged at the man, blade flying recklessly. “So did Thenardier,” he garbled, after the man had backed off. “Well, this is where we got the job, so it's the beginning. And I am staying till Thenardier comes.”

The man eyed Combeferre’s sword warily, and then called out for another soldier to come assist him.

“I am waiting,” Combeferre muttered listlessly, “for Thenardier.”

“I worry he is far away ,” someone answered.

Combeferre looked up.

“Hello, ‘Ferre,” Bahorel said, grabbing him by his lapels and pulling him upright. The first soldier tried to take Combeferre from his grasp and got knocked unconscious for his efforts.

“It's you!”

“Who?” Bahorel rhymed. He frowned. “You look terrible.”

Combeferre scoffed, and Bahorel nearly dropped him. “Jesus, you smell worse!”

“Hmm? Perhaps. But I feel well,” he announced.

Bahorel set him on his feet, and he promptly collapsed.

Bahorel and Combeferre were reunited. Bahorel nursed his inebriated friend back to health at an inn. He told Combeferre of Thenardier's death, as well as the fact that his new boss seemed to be the six-fingered man. Considering Combeferre's lifelong search, he handled the news surprisingly well.

By which I mean that he fainted outright.

Bahorel took great care in reviving Combeferre. He fed him, gave him coffee, slapped him, and when all else failed, dunked his head in hot and cold water buckets intermittently.

Eventually Combeferre struggled out of his grasp. “That's enough!” he coughed, swiping water from his eyes. “Where is this Claquesous now?”

“I got to assume he's with the prince, in the castle. He always is. But that castle gate is guarded by about thirty men.”

“How many could you handle?”

Bahorel thought for a long moment, drumming his fingers.

“I don't think more than ten.”

“Leaving twenty for me,” Combeferre griped. “At my best, I could never defeat that many. This is why Thenardier was useful:  I have no patience for the long game. My strategy only extends to a one on one basis.”

“But Thenardier's dead,” Bahorel reminded him. “And I’m a brawler, not a planner.”

“We don’t necessarily need Thenardier,” Combeferre said suddenly. “We need the man in black.”

“The masked guy?”

“Look, he bested you in a brawl. He fenced me into submission. He must have out-thought Thenardier. And a man who can do all that can plan. Let's go.”

“Go?” Bahorel laughed. “Go where?”

“To find the man in black, obviously.”

“But we don't know where he is!”

Combeferre laughed, and Bahorel wondered if he was really all that sober yet. “After twenty years, at last my father's soul will be avenged. We will find him.”

Pride had laid Combeferre and Bahorel low in their encounters with the man in black, but their desire for fairness had saved them.

Another intriguing lesson we are going to sail right by.

Montparnasse greeted Enjolras outside his rooms. “Tonight, we marry! Tomorrow morning, we’re off to Florin Channel, where every ship in my armada waits to accompany us on our honeymoon!”

“Except your four fastest,” Enjolras corrected.

Montparnasse stared at him blankly.

“Every ship but the four you sent,” he reiterated, frowning.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Montparnasse answered, too quickly and too late. “Naturally not those four.”

“You never sent the ships. Don't bother lying.” Enjolras drew himself up, wrapped his poise around himself. “Doesn't matter. I know Grantaire will come for me anyway.”

“You're a fool,” Montparnasse answered dismissively, his face a mask. He strode to his desk and trifled with his papers.

“Yes, I am a fool,” Enjolras replied, indignant to be ignored, “for not having realized that you are a coward and a weakling.”

Montparnasse paused in his movements, undercutting the implacable mask of his face. “I would not say such things if I were you.”

“Why not?” Enjolras demanded, imperious. “You can't hurt me. Grantaire and I are joined by the bonds of love. And you cannot track that, not with a thousand bloodhounds. And you cannot break it, not with a thousand swords. And when I say you are a coward, that is only because you are a slimy, repulsive, slithering maggot, writhing beneath your crown.”

“I would not say such things if I were you,” Montparnasse repeated, and there was real fury in his voice and his face. And for the first time, Enjolras feared him.

Montparnasse merely grabbed him by the arm and propelled him into his guards, ordering them to “attend” him and take him to his rooms. Enjolras swept furiously from there to his own chambers, his armed escort trailing behind.

And thus he did not see Montparnasse leave.

Prince Montparnasse barreled into the Pit of Despair, scattering Babet and Claquesous in his wake and looming over Grantaire.

“You truly love each other,” he ground out, all but spitting into Grantaire’s dazed expression, “and so you might have been truly happy. Not one couple in a century has that chance, no matter what the storybooks say.” His eyes glittered with manic fury. “So I think it is only fitting that no man this century will suffer as greatly as you.”

Montparnasse reached up to the controls of The Gueulemer and slammed the lever to the highest setting.

"NOT TO 50!" Claquesous screamed, in a bit of despair himself.

Later on, people would say a great deal about that afternoon. What was it they had heard? Fifty warhorns, blasting in cacophony? The wail of a banshee? The call of some inhuman beast, thirsting for blood? The End of Days?

While uncertain of its origin, the horrifying, grinding sound pierced through the kingdom, stopping all who heard it.

No one knew what it was.

Except one man.

“Bahorel!” Combeferre shouted, stopping him short in the village center. “Listen! Do you hear?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Bahorel replied.

“That is the sound of ultimate suffering. My heart made that sound when Claquesous slaughtered my father.” His eyes sharpened. “The man in black makes it now.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

“His true love is marrying another tonight, so who else has the cause for ultimate suffering?” he responded, setting off in the direction of the trees.

“You’re such a romantic,” Bahorel said with a laugh.

They were traveling through the forest when they discovered Babet, pushing a wheelbarrow.

“Where is the man in black?” Combeferre demanded.

Babet said nothing.

“We heard his sound, and now you are in the middle of nowhere with a cart. Answer us.”

Babet said nothing, once again.

“Bahorel, jog his memory.”

Bahorel struck Babet on the head, but he did it a little bit too hard.

“I'm sorry, Combeferre,” Bahorel muttered, stooping over Babet. “I think I knocked him out.”

Combeferre didn’t answer. Drawing his sword, he knelt on the forest floor and raised it high.

“Father,” he whispered, “I have failed you for twenty years. Now there is hope. Somewhere, somewhere close by is a man who can help us. But I need you to show me where he is. I need you to guide my sword. Please, guide my sword.”

As though in a trance, Combeferre rose, stood, and then stepped right, left, right, forward, led by his sword, until--

It lodged in the trunk of a tree.

Combeferre sighed. “Well, it was worth a shot,” he muttered, bracing his hand on a knot to pull the sword out.

The knot gave way, and the door opened.

Bahorel pressed his fingers to Grantaire’s wrist, his neck, even his thigh. He went as far as putting his ear against his chest before announcing, “He's dead.”

“It’s not fair.” Combeferre breathed, dejected.

This is really depressing, right?

“Well, I have never taken defeat easily.”

“No kidding,” Bahorel replied. “Seems you take it with a lot of brandy.”

“Can you carry the body?”

Bahorel stared at him. “The hell?”

“Do you have any money?”

“Are you having a fit? Are these questions connected in any way?”

“ Bahorel. ”

“I have a little coin, from the Brute Squad thing.”

Combeferre nodded. “I just hope it's enough to buy a miracle.”

Outside a thatched hut, our hero stand-ins were reading a plaque. On it, someone had scrawled, “Kindly piss off,” in friendly letters. Bahorel laughed and adjusted his hold on Grantaire’s body while Combeferre knocked on the door.

A small opening in the door appeared, and within that window, they saw a face. An interesting face, too-- an elfin, youthful-looking man, with pale hair and paler skin, and asymmetrical tattoos, detailed inscrutable markings beneath his right eye, down the left side of his face, in deep blues and purples.

“Greetings,” he said, in a sweet voice like a flute, “and kindly piss off.”

“Oh,” Combeferre answered, startled. “No, we read the sign.”

The opening in the door slammed shut.

Combeferre knocked again.

“Please go away,” he sighed, popping back into view.

“Are you the king’s Miracle Man, Jehan?”

“I was,” he continued, in a strained yet still lyrical way, “until the king's abhorrent wretch of a son fired me. Much obliged for bringing up such a painful subject. While you're at it, why don't you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it? Shall I tell you a childhood trauma, so that you might mock it?”

He slammed the door.

Combeferre pounded on the door.

Jehan’s face appeared again with a huff. “We are closed. Permanently. Vacate immediately, or I'll call the brute squad!”

“I'm on the brute squad!” Bahorel interjected brightly.

Jehan eyed him. “Hmm.”

“Sir,” Combeferre pleaded, “we need a miracle. It's very important.”

“I no longer work for hire. Besides, why would you want someone the king's horrid son fired?” he sniffed. “I might kill whoever you wanted me to miracle.”

Bahorel lifted the body in a shrug. “I mean, he's already dead.”

“He is?” Jehan peeked at the corpse. “Oh. Very well, I'll take a look. Please bring him in.”

Jehan unlocked the door and gestured them inside.

Inside they found a staggering sight. It was the strangest room ever conceived. Every inch-- and I mean every inch-- was covered in some spectacular, bizarre, or striking doodad. Glittering gems arranged in impossible towers; notes in strange alphabets tacked to the wall with dull, dirty knives; baskets of herbs, baskets of geodes, baskets of simple crystals arranged by color; maps of worlds they didn’t recognize; eyeglasses in different hues and strange shapes, hanging off of various corners of the room. Vegetables with nearly human forms hung from the rafters with black string, their hands and feet dipped in ink. Eyes seemed to twinkle from every direction-- eyes on talismans, on necklaces, on paintings, on the furniture itself. Even the pens were feathered with strange, exotic plumes the likes of which cannot be imagined. Things were continually moving, whirring, and clicking in different parts at different times. It was cluttered, and richly colored, and almost frightening, and beautiful.

Standing in a doorway in the back was another man, handsome, who shone nearly as bright as the room, all dark hair and mischievous smiles. He didn’t speak.

Jehan cleared off a long, rough-cut wooden table, and Bahorel laid Grantaire’s body upon it.

Jehan pulled out a bizarre, brass device with an aperture of glass, held it up to his eye, and examined the body. He poked once at his ribs, then picked up his arm. He let it fall back to the table with a dull thud.

Jehan glanced at Combeferre and Bahorel, eyebrows raised. “I've seen worse.”

He pulled another brass device from somewhere in the room, and for all intents and purposes, he began poking at the body, here and there, noncommittally.

At one point, he chuckled.

This went on for some time.

“Sir?” Combeferre asked.

Jehan peeked up from where he was studying the man’s knee with a pair of blue glasses, shaped like half moons. “Hmm?”

“We're in a terrible rush.”

“Don't rush a miracle man,” Jehan replied, sweetly with a touch of poison, “or you'll get rotten miracles.”

“I like him!” Bahorel announced. The man from the back of the room moved closer to Jehan uneasily.

“Down, Courfeyrac, all is well,” the slender miracle worker teased him. “Now let's see. Can you pay?”

“Sixty five.”

Both Jehan and, apparently, Courfeyrac froze in place. “Only that? Whoever heard of working for so little?” Jehan shook his head slowly.. “I never did. Except once, and that was a very noble cause.”

“This is noble!” Bahorel interjected. “His wife is... crippled. The children are on the brink of starvation.”

Jehan laughed, a high bell twinkling. “You, sir, are a terrible liar.”

“I need him,” Combeferre said darkly, “to help avenge my father, murdered these twenty years.”

“A likely story,” Jehan tutted. The silent man elbowed him, hard. “Ow. Well. I guess we disagree. But I can settle that.” He handed seven various trinkets to Courfeyrac, who blinked at him. “Can you fetch the bellows, my love?”

“The bellows?” Bahorel asked. “Will a fire help him?”

Jehan tittered. “I’m going to talk to him .”

“The body?” Combeferre replied, with a very admirable lack of disdain. “He's dead. He can't talk.”

Courfeyrac handed the bellows to Jehan, who rolled his eyes feelingly. Courfeyrac nodded in obvious agreement. “You ‘normals’. Come to a Miracle Man, but think you know so much about miracling. Well, it just so happens that your friend here is only mostly dead . Please, open his mouth.”

Combeferre did so, and Jehan lifted the huge fireplace bellows up and put the spout into the mouth of the man in black. “Now, mostly dead,” he said, beginning to work the bellows open and shut, “is slightly alive. All dead? With all dead, there's usually only one recourse available to you.”

“What's that?” Combeferre asked dubiously.

“Ransacking his possessions and notifying his next of kin,” Jehan finished smartly, pulling the bellows out and setting them aside. He leaned down over Grantaire’s chest.

“Excuse me! Hello in there! Listen!” Jehan called, surprisingly loudly in the small space. “What's so important? What remains here on Earth that's worth living for?” Jehan pushed down on Grantaire’s chest.

The air expelled through Grantaire’s mouth, with a whisper that was very clear.

"True Love," Combeferre repeated, astounded and gleeful, “you heard him!  There is no more noble cause than that.”

Jehan stepped back from the corpse, stricken. “True Love,” he stammered, “is the greatest thing in the world, it’s true, except maybe for the smell of fresh laundry--

but that's not what he said--- I didn’t hear anything distinct in there, he probably isn’t actually hanging on at all, so I don’t see how I could be any help at--”

“Liar,” Courfeyrac interrupted. Everyone in the room, except the corpse, jumped.

“I thought you were mute!” Bahorel accused.

“True Love! He said, ‘True Love,’ Jehan!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, like a dam bursting forth.

“Please, Courfeyrac,” Jehan said in a warning tone. Courfeyrac ignored him, eyes shining.

“Jehan is nervous,” Courfeyrac explained, and Jehan squeaked and ran for a basket of crystals. He picked up three and started humming. “He's afraid. Ever since Prince Montparnasse fired him,” Courfeyrac continued, speaking louder over the crystals, which began to hum loudly in harmony with Jehan, “his confidence is shattered. Jehan, stop that !”

“Ignore him!” Jehan wailed. “He’s hysterical!”

Courfeyrac made some sort of sigil in the air, and Jehan dropped his crystals. He gasped and gaped at him.

“How dare you?”

“How dare I ?” Courfeyrac returned, blushing. “You would leave this poor man to die--”

“He is dead, Courf! This is necromancy stuff, and I’m not--”

“You once described yourself as King of the Necromancers, and--”

“I was drunk , that doesn’t--”

“This is Enjolras’s True Love!” Combeferre interjected loudly. “If you heal him, he will stop Montparnasse's wedding.”

Jehan whipped around to face him. “If I make this guy better, Montparnasse suffers?”

Bahorel laughed. “Humiliations galore.”

Jehan burst into giddy laughter, and Courfeyrac did, too. “Gentlemen, there is your noble cause.” He held out his hand imperiously. “Sixty five, you said? I’ll take the job.”

Later, Courfeyrac was coating a pill, slightly larger than an almond.

“This is a miracle pill?” Bahorel asked dubiously.

“Well, the chocolate is optional,” Jehan answered, looking at Courfeyrac fondly, “but the coating makes it go down easier. Now, you have to wait fifteen minutes for full potency, and he shouldn't go swimming after for at least--”

“An hour,” Courfeyrac fills in.

“Yeah, an hour.”

“At least an hour.”

Courfeyrac wrapped it up for them, Combeferre took the pill, Bahorel took the body, and they headed for the door.

“Thank you for everything,” Combeferre said with a bow.

“Bye bye, boys!” Courfeyrac called.

“Have fun overthrowing the monarchy!” Jehan added.

“Think it'll work?” Courfeyrac muttered in an undertone.

“It would take a miracle,” Jehan mused.

Courfeyrac hit him.

“Combeferre, there's more than thirty!” Bahorel growled, staring out at the gate through a crenel in the battlement.

Combeferre settled Grantaire upright against the parapet and shrugged. “We've got him.” He unwrapped the pill. “We'll have to force-feed him.”

“It hasn’t been fifteen minutes. It won’t be at full potency.”

“We can't wait; the wedding's in half an hour. We must strike beforehand.” Combeferre nodded at Grantaire, and Bahorel tilted his head back and opened his mouth.

“How long do we have to wait, before we know if the miracle works?” Bahorel asked, stroking his throat so the pill went down.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The man’s eyes flew open. “Come at me! I'll take you both together !”

Bahorel covered his mouth with a broad hand. “Not long.”

When it was clear that they meant him no harm, Bahorel released his mouth.

“Why won't my arms move?”

“You've been mostly dead all day!” Bahorel cooed. Grantaire squinted at him from the corner of his eye.

“We had a Miracle Man, Jehan, make a pill to bring you back,” Combeferre elaborated.

“Who are you? Are we enemies? Why am I on this wall? Where's Enjolras?”

“Let me explain,” Combeferre started.

“Not enough time, Ferre,” Bahorel interrupted. “Give him a summary.”

“True. Enjolras is set to marry Montparnasse in little less than half an hour. We have to get in, break up the wedding, steal the prince consort, and make our escape. After I kill Count Claquesous.”

“Well, that’s just great .”

“I’m Combeferre, by the way.

“Bahorel!”

“Grantaire. Charmed.”

“You just wiggled your finger!” Bahorel gushed. “That's wonderful!”

“I’m a quick healer,” Grantaire deadpanned. “What are our liabilities?”

Combeferre and Bahorel lifted Grantaire up a bit so he could see. “Only one gate, guarded by...” Combeferre released him and counted, “sixty men.”

“Our assets?”

“Your brains, Bahorel's strength, my steel.”

“Lucky us.” Grantaire’s voice was scornful. “This is ridiculous. It can’t be done. If I had a month to plan, maybe I could come up with something, but this…,” He shook his head, sadly and stiffly.

Bahorel grinned. “You just shook your head!”

Grantaire, with great effort, flopped his head over so he could look at Bahorel properly. “My brains, your strength, and his steel against sixty men. Can you demonstrate any sense of perspective here?” Grantaire laughed sardonically. “I mean, if we only had a cart, or a wheelbarrow, that would be something.”

Combeferre blinked. “Hey, Bahorel. Where did we put that wheelbarrow the pale guy in the forest had?”

“Over his body, I think.”

Grantaire squinted. “Why didn't you list that among our assets in the first place?” He sighed again, thinking. “You’re not hiding a cloak somewhere, are you?”

Bahorel pulled out a cloak.

“Where did you get that?” Combeferre demanded. “I’ve been with you all day!”

“At Jehan's. It fit so nice, he said I could keep it,” he added defensively. “It’s hard to find clothes big enough for me.”

“All right, all right,” Grantaire griped. “Come on, help me up. Now, I'll need a sword eventually.”

They struggled to their feet, propping Grantaire between them. His head rolled disturbingly forward, so Bahorel propped it up.

“Why? You can't even lift one,” Combeferre pointed out.

“True, but not everyone knows that. Thank you. Now, there may be problems once we're inside.”

“May be?” Combeferre laughed darkly. “Namely, how do I find the Count? Once I do, how do I find you again? Once I find you again, how do we escape?”

“Whoa now,” Grantaire said. “Cynicism is my thing, buddy.”

The three crept away, a weird, six-legged creature of determination.

“You don't seem excited, my Angel.” Montparnasse observed, fastening his cufflinks for him.

“Should I be?” Enjolras replied coldly.

“People often are, I'm told, on the day they get married.”

Enjolras looked derisively at the two guards that flanked him, hands on the handles of their weapons. He drew himself to him full height, lifting his chin. “I do not marry tonight. Grantaire will come.” He smiled the smile of a man who is certain of his future.

Montparnasse watched him walk away and smiled the smile of a man who is certain he killed a guy.

Outside, the sun set, and Combeferre, Bahorel and Grantaire shook hands-- Grantaire with some difficulty.

Within the chapel, the prospective grooms knelt before the clergyman. He approached the couple and indicated that they should rise.

A dark figure loomed before the battlements, seeming to float across the ground.

“Stand your ground, men, stand your ground!” one voice shouted, shaking.

The impossibly tall figure floated towards the castle gate.

“Stand your ground!” another man cried.

“I am the Dread Pirate R!” A voice quite similar to Bahorel’s boomed. “There will be no survivors !”

“Now?” Combeferre asked from behind the figure, struggling to push Bahorel’s wheelbarrow with Grantaire on his back and quite honestly doing a bang-up job of it.

“Not yet,” Grantaire said.

“Many are here, and now I am here,” Bahorel’s deep baritone ground out from beneath the cloak. The men at the castle gate backed away from him. “But soon, you will not be here.”

“Now?” Combeferre practically begged, straining.

“Light him.” Grantaire answered. Combeferre took his candle and lit the back of the cloak, which went up in flames instantly. The guards began to shout, and pray, and possibly wet themselves.

“The Dread Pirate R takes no survivors!” Bahorel screamed. “All your worst nightmares are about to come true!”

Men began to flee.

The clergyman was droning on and on about the importance of love, but Montparnasse still faintly heard the commotion. He nodded to Count Claquesous, who grabbed some guards and exited the chapel.

“THE DREAD PIRATE R IS HERE FOR YOUR SOULS!”

Men were scattering, and soon the gatekeeper was alone. He turned to face the blazing spectre.

He backed himself against the gate.

The sounds from outside grew louder.

“Skip to the end,” Montparnasse snapped, interrupting the clergyman.

“Do you have the ring?” He asked, startled.

Montparnasse took Enjolras’ finger and jammed it on. Enjolras chuckled.

“Here comes my Grantaire now.”

Bahorel cast off the cloak as Combeferre slung Grantaire over his shoulder.

“Bahorel, the portcullis!” Grantaire shouted, as it came down. Bahorel ran and caught it, using his mighty force, and slammed it back upright.

“Your Grantaire is dead. I killed him myself.”

“Then why is there fear behind your eyes?” Enjolras answered archly.

The three men set upon the gatekeeper, surrounding him.

“Give us the gate key,” Grantaire ordered.

“I have no gate key.”

“Bahorel, cave his head in,” Combeferre ordered.

“Oh, you mean this gate key,” he corrected himself, producing it.

“And do you, Prince Enjolras--”

“ Declare us married! ” Montparnasse snarled.

“You-- you’re married?” the clergyman said, perplexed.

Enjolras gaped.

“Please escort my husband to his rooms,” Montparnasse bowed to his parents. “I'll be there shortly.” And he took off in the direction of the commotion outside.

“He didn't come in time?” Enjolras breathed. He allowed himself to be lead away by the king in a daze, but in less than a minute, steely resolve had overtaken his lovely features.

Count Claquesous and his men charged around a corner to discover Combeferre, sword drawn, standing before Bahorel, who had his arm around a partially limp Grantaire. The three had been standing indecisively at an intersection of hallways.

Combeferre, however, had ceased to look indecisive at all.

“Kill the armed one and the giant,” Claquesous directed, “but leave the third for questioning.”

The men charged at Combeferre, who dispatched all four in less than eight seconds. It had to be some kind of record.

Count Claquesous’ eyes widened.

Combeferre locked eyes with him. "Hello. My name is Combeferre. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Claquesous eyed him carefully. He adjusted his stance. He raised his sword in challenge.

And without any kind of warning, he simply pivoted on the spot and ran away.

Stunned, Combeferre watched him go for a beat, before he took off after him.

Claquesous disappeared behind a locked door, which Combeferre threw himself against repeatedly. It would not budge.

“BAHOREL!” he roared, looking the least composed we have ever seen him. “ I need you!”

“I can't leave Grantaire alone,” Bahorel called.

“He's getting away from me, Bahorel Please! ”

Bahorel sighed and set Grantaire down. “Can’t smash anything while I’m holding you . I'll be right back.” He raced around two corners until he found Combeferre, still throwing himself at the door. He stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

With that same gentle hand, he smashed the door in.

“ Thank you ,” Combeferre breathed, and he took off through the doorway.

Bahorel went back for Grantaire, but he couldn’t find him.

In a different corridor, Enjolras walked with his in-laws.

“Strange wedding,” the doddering old king observed, slowing his pace.

“Yes. A very strange wedding,” the queen agreed. “Come along.”

Enjolras stopped the king entirely and gave him a kiss on the cheek, as the queen continued on.

The King blinked, delighted. “What was that for?”

“Because you've always been so kind to me,” Enjolras said sadly, “and I won't be seeing you again, since I plan to kill your son tonight, and then I’ll probably escape or die.”

“Won't that be nice?” the ailing old man laughed. “He smooched me!” he called giddily to his wife.

Count Claquesous ran, through hallways, down staircases, even through a courtyard.

Combeferre pursued.

But he was unprepared for the knife.

As soon he was through the doorway of the cellar dining room, he staggered, over against a wall. He looked down and clutched at his stomach. The hilt of a dagger stuck out, shockingly there, where a dagger had no right to be.

"Sorry, father," he whispered, slouching against the pain. "I tried. I tried."

Count Claquesous approached him. Had he been more capable of emotion, you might have called it swaggering. “You must be that little Spanish brat I taught a lesson to all those years ago,” he mused with dawning comprehension. “Simply incredible. Have you been chasing me your whole life, only to fail now? I think that's the worst thing I've ever heard.” He smiled a smile of horrifying humor. “How marvelous.”

Enjolras gently closed the door of the suite. With barely contained energy, he stepped to the writing desk and picked up the letter opener and tested the edge against his thumb. A red droplet welled up beneath the blade, and Enjolras smiled red with it.

He stood and crossed to the polished silver mirror and held the blade up, measuring his appearance, dagger in hand. Perhaps he thought he didn’t look all too threatening. He held it nearer to his throat, considering.

“There's a shortage of perfect bodies in the world. It would be a pity to damage yours.”

Enjolras spun around with a gasp. Lounging on the bed, the picture of ease, was his true love.

“I wouldn't – I never-” Enjolras cried, falling into Grantaire's lap. “The knife was for the prince!”

“I'm glad to hear that,” he replied in between kisses.

“Grantaire, hold me,” Enjolras demanded.

“Wait, Apollo--”

“I’m done waiting” he laughed, pulling Grantaire’s face to his, “not when I have you here, in my own bed-- ”

“Enjolras, seriously, don’t-- ” Enjolras released his hold, and Grantaire’s head thunked loudly against the headboard. “--let go. Christ. ”

“Good heavens,” Claquesous said as Combeferre yanked the dagger from his stomach. “Are you still trying to win? You've got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance.” Combeferre struggled to his feet, only to collapse back against the wall. “It's going to get you into trouble someday.” Claquesous drew his sword and, with a bored sigh, lunged for Combeferre’s heart.

Combeferre’s blade got in the way. He parried the blow, which glanced off his shoulder, bleeding red onto his shirts. Claquesous growled and lunged again, but in a flash, Combeferre’s sword blocked it. The blow landed in his arm on the other side, painful, but not deadly.

Claquesous, enraged, tried to bring the blade down upon his head, but Combeferre was already stepping forward into the blow, arm raised, deflecting the blow and countering.

“Hello,” he muttered. Claquesous stepped back, alarmed. “My name is Combeferre. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

He stumbled, and Claquesous pressed his advantage, snarling. Once again, Combeferre had anticipated him, and was up again, eyes feverish and wild.

“Hello. My name is Combeferre. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

Still retreating, Claquesous hacked wildly, deadly forceful blows without any nuance but with a lot of power. Combeferre, ever the master, met his every blow, unfazed.

“Hello!” He declared. He seemed to gain energy with every repeat. “My name is Combeferre. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

“Stop saying that!” Claquesous growled.

They traded blows again, but now it was Claquesous who bled, exacting strikes that matched the ones he had received exactly. The Count cried out in dismay.

“ Hello! My name is Combeferre! You killed my father! Prepare to die! ”

With a final show of skill, Claquesous was disarmed.

“What will you offer me?” Combeferre asked, triumphant. “Money?”

“Yes!”

“Power?”

“You can have anything you want.”

“I want my father back, you son of a bitch.”

And Combeferre slashed him through the heart, just as Claquesous had done to his father.

“Grantaire, can you ever forgive me?” Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire sighed. “Well, what have you done now, Apollo?”

“I got married. I didn't want to; it all happened so fast.”

“You’re not married.”

“What?”

“It never happened.”

Enjolras sat up and raised an eyebrow. “It did, I assure you. I was there. This old man said we were married.”

“Did you say, ‘I do’?”

“I…” Enjolras stopped and thought. “Well, no. We skipped that part.”

“Then you're not married. If you didn't say it, you didn't consent to it, so you’re not married. Wouldn't you agree, Your Highness?” This last he said much louder, as though to address the whole, and Enjolras spun. There in the doorway was Montparnasse himself, seething.

“A technicality that will shortly be remedied,” Montparnasse intoned blandly, in contrast to his expression. “But first things first,” he continued, drawing his sword. “To the death!”

“No!” Grantaire interrupted. “To the pain !”

Montparnasse blinked. “I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.”

“Then I'll explain,” Grantaire extolled grandly. “And I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon.”

“How dare you insult me in such a way?” Montparnasse demanded, face whitening with rage.

“You should get used to it.” Grantaire’s face was implacable. “To the pain means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists, next your nose.”

“And then my tongue, I suppose,” Montparnasse sneered, rolling his eyes. “I killed you too quickly the last time.”

“Excuse you, but I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye, followed by your right.

“And then my ears, I get it--”

“Don’t interrupt him,” Enjolras snapped. Shocked, Montparnasse obeyed.

“I’ll tell you why you can keep your ears. Every child’s shriek, every babe that weeps, every woman who cries out in horror at your mutilated face will echo in your perfect ears.”

So that’s what “to the pain” means.

Enjolras smiled grimly. “We’ll leave you in anguish, wallowing in misery.”

Montparnasse took one quick step back, then stopped. “You're bluffing.”

“Possible,” Grantaire agreed, calm as anything. “I might be bluffing. It's conceivable, you miserable vomitous mass, that I'm only lying here because I lack the strength to stand. Then again, perhaps I have the strength after all.”

And Grantaire rose up, stood, and raised his sword to eye level. “Drop. Your. Sword,” he commanded.

Montparnasse dropped it instantly. Enjolras seized it at once.

“Enjolras, would you mind tying him up for me?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, rope already in hand. “You say the sweetest things.”

As Enjolras finished the last knot binding Montparnasse to his chair, Combeferre, bloody and elated, came thundering into the room. He looked around at the scene before him, and then nodded once in acceptance.

“Where's Bahorel?” he asked.

“I thought he was with you,” Grantaire replied.

“No.”

“In that case, I-- Gah!” Grantaire staggered and fell backwards onto the bed.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at Enjolras. “Aren’t you going to help him?”

Enjolras startled and rushed to his beloved’s side. “Why does Grantaire need helping?”

“Because he has no strength.”

“I knew it!” Montparnasse wailed. “I knew he was bluffing!” He stopped short at the sight of Combeferre’s sword raising towards him.

“Shall I dispatch him for you?” Combeferre asked, shrugging at the prince.

“Thank you, but no.” Grantaire answered, propped against Enjolras’ side. “So long as Enjolras agrees, I mean. Whatever happens to us, I would prefer him to live a long life, alone with his cowardice.”

Enjolras huffed out an impatient breath, but nodded.

“ Combeferre! ”

Combeferre, Enjolras, and the stumbling Grantaire raced to the window. “Combeferre! Where are you?” They threw open the window to find Bahorel on the ground belong, trailing four horses in his wake. “Oh, there you are. Combeferre, I saw the prince's stable, and there they were, four white horses. And I thought, there are four of us, if we ever find the pretty guy.” He waved to Enjolras. “Hello, boss!”

Enjolras waved back dubiously.

“So I took them with me.”

Combeferre rubbed a hand to his forehead. “You stole his horses?”

“Only four. Just in case!”

“You did well, Bahorel,” Grantaire called.

“Yeah, well,” he blushed, “got to get something right.”

“We’re going to have to jump,” Combeferre pointed out.

“Oh, is that all?” Enjolras laughed. “Bahorel, can you catch?”

“I choose to understand the most innocent interpretation of that sentence,” Bahorel leered, holding out his arms. Enjolras leapt.

“You know what’s strange,” Combeferre told Grantaire. “I’ve been in the revenge business so long, now that it's over, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life. I just worked for Thenardier to pay the bills,” he admitted. “There's not a lot of money in revenge.”

“Piracy, on the other hand!” Grantaire replied, looking more like himself than ever. “You'd make a great Dread Pirate R.” He tumbled out the window into Bahorel’s arms.

Combeferre made a considering face before he, too, leapt into his new life.

So, they rode to freedom.

And as dawn arose, Enjolras drew his horse up to Grantaire and reached out, grabbing him by the wrist, tugging until they fit their lips together. His hand tightened on Grantaire’s wrist, the strength of it underscoring the gentleness of their kiss, passionate and pure in equal measure.

And Grantaire and Enjolras knew they were safe.

“Hey, Bahorel.”

“Hmm?”

“You know, I never asked. Why were you in Damascus?”

“Good question. I have no idea.”

THE END