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It had been 2 weeks since the insurgency. Mouton, in a familiar state that overcame him each time anything related to the rebellion was mentioned, was in a turbulent rage.
“DAMMNIT!” He slammed his fist down on the table, eying once again the faint bloodstains that remained from the day he was taken hostage and that stupid poet tried to shoot him. It wasn’t his blood but he still could not remove the last vestiges of that memory, it would seem.
Having just received news of another failed attempt at overtaking a barricade to access the part of the city that had been stolen from them, he knew something drastic had to be done. They were losing the city, and it seemed all but impossible. The situation did indeed call for drastic measures. He pressed his finger into the Com button on his phone and called in his right-hand man for a brainstorming session.
“We cannot let them take more of the city, Gregory.” The brute pleaded to his superior. “I thought we had them with the interrogation. I really thought I did…” he shook his head, still wary of Mouton’s reaction each time that failure was brought up in conversation.
“Don’t you think I know that, you stupid bastard? Of course we can’t. But even if we take back the physical portion of the city, how can we reclaim the people those rebels have claimed? It’s like they’ve practically brainwashed them. How else would those citizens believe the stupid shit Enjolras spews in his rambling tirades he calls speeches?
“…Well, what if we make them afraid to agree with him? I mean, it’s worked in the past.” And Mouton was the one who knew exactly how well that method had worked. Fear was his medium, and he was an artist. He started haltingly, a devious idea forming in his mind. “What if…they’ve lost 2 of them already. There have been more losses, yes, but 2 of the main group have been killed. And that nearly killed the rest of them. They do not handle death well. What if we cut off the head of the snake? Kill Enjolras. But not just shooting him on the street. We need to publicly execute him. Make them all watch while their leader is massacred. Then the whole thing would be over. The people would have no one to follow, right?”
Mouton paused for a heavy moment and thought about the implications of such a public display. It could be done, certainly, but how could they guarantee the rest of the students wouldn’t be stirred to rise up again, stronger? Much like when a public figure is assassinated, the cause is rarely dropped; if anything that type of action might only spur a stronger attack. And that, they would not survive. Failure was not an option.
The deranged PR office looked up with a devious grin. He relayed his plan quickly, not wishing to waste any precious time that could be spent destroying revolutionaries. “I know exactly what we have to do. Do you remember the boy we had in our care for a while?” He continued with even more frenzied excitement after receiving confirmation. “We need take back what is ours.” As his grin grew wider, he explained his plan, down to the last gory detail.
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Enjolras and his companions were sitting in the abandoned railway station, waiting and planning for the next resistance effort. The losses suffered were still weighing heavily in the air, the tunnel dedicated to memorials still seeing heavy traffic. Despite never knowing them, most of the people flocked towards the sections of the wall dedicated to Bahorel and Bossuet. Marius even gained a following of adoring fans after his wound and subsequent paralysis. Adjusting to their newfound fame among the people, Les Amis de l’ABC maintained the idea of living as normal as possible. They knew it was difficult, but there was a still a revolution to plan.
Half of the city was still under the control of the corrupt government and barricade breaches were attempted almost daily. As Enjolras delegated responsibilities and battle orders, only the presence of his moral guide, Combeferre, kept him sane. Sane was a relative term, of course, but between his antidepressants and his best friend’s solid guiding words, Enjolras was coping.
At least, he was until Courfeyrac ran loudly into what was passing for his office, breathing haggard and face flushed. “Enjolras. Shit. I messed up.”
“Courfeyrac, what? Calm down and tell me what you did. Did something happen at one of the barricades?” The revolutionary leader hastily closed his book of battle strategies with a soft thump.
“I dunno. I don’t think so. God, I hope not. I just…” He paused to control his breathing. He ran a sweaty hand through his mop of dark brown curls, eyes equally dark, wild and on the verge of tears.
“Courfeyrac, you need calm down. What happened?”
“Gabrielle. I don’t know where she is. No one does, man. I…I was….walking with her. We just went down the street to get some pain au chocolat and we were, man I don’t know…shit.” Courfeyrac sat down and just shook with rattling breath. He felt like he was going to vomit.
Enjolras stepped up to him and placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder. The move seemed to the settle young man. It was so uncharacteristic of Courfeyrac, the center of all the friendships among the group, to be so shaken. Enjolras’ heart was racing from fear, almost not wanting to hear the news he was about to face, but he had to settle his friend down. And he had to protect Grantaire’s sister. He had to know what happened. His voice came out shaper than he intended. “Calm yourself and tell me what happened. Now.”
“I turned my back to say something to Jean. He saw a cat or something stupid, and we just turned away from her for one second. I swear it.
“Then…Enjolras. She screamed. Then she was gone. I have no fucking idea what happened. I just…I can’t. Enjolras.” His head fell into his hands, fingers twisting harshly into brunette curls as the boy’s body was overcome with dry sobbing.
Enjolras’ stomach felt like it had been punched again. Muscle tremors and a racing heart left him nearly immobile. Still, to help his friend he needed to take action. Taking his now shaking hand away from Courfeyrac’s shoulder, he straightened himself and strode back towards his desk. He brushed away his own blond hair from his eyes. He needed to get it cut, badly. That would have to wait. Again. Then he forced himself to sit down and think of ways to tell his friends. How to tell Grantaire that his 7 year old sister had been kidnapped.
“Courfeyrac, I need you be okay. It’s not your fault. Nor is it Jean’s. But I need you to be calm. Can you do that?” He gave the command without looking at his friend, still sobbing on the floor. Even a suggestion from Enjolras was heard as a command, and Courfeyrac’s breathing stilled.
“Yeah…yeah.” He sniffed and rubbed his nose with his sleeve. His eyes were red, though no tears seemed to have escaped. “What are we going to do? I mean…what happened?”
“Don’t be stupid. You know what happened. But we are going to get her back. I swear to you.”
“Grantaire, can I talk to you for a second?” Enjolras’ voice was shaking but resolute. The very fact that the fearless leader was addressing him would have been enough to shake the cynic out of his stupor, but this sounded different. Something was wrong.
Grantaire rose to his feet, closing his sketchbook carefully and setting it aside with his charcoals on top where they wouldn’t be broken by wayward feet. His hands, stained with graphite and paint now that he finally had time away from the police to do as he pleased, instead grasped the brown bottle sitting next to him. Enjolras approached him before the artist could walk near his end of the tunnel. “What’s up?” He took a gulp of beer, frankly not in the mood to deal with his fearless Apollo at that moment.
Enjolras sighed heavily, but it was without admonition. “Grantaire, I…”
“Spit it out. I don’t have all day.” Another drink of beer.
“Grantaire, be serious. This is serious. I’m…I’m so sorry but -
“Sorry for what?”
“Dammit, stop interrupting me. It’s Gabrielle. She’s gone.”
His green eyes narrowed “What the hell do you mean, ‘she’s gone?’” The hand on the beer bottle tightening as his blood rushed loudly in his ears.
“Gabrielle, she…she went out with Courfeyrac and Jean. And she has been kidnapped. We don’t know where she is. I am so sorry, Grantaire.” In an effort to comfort the other man, Enjolras took a step forward before gauging is full reaction. He immediately retreated as the brother received the news. His baby sister was in the hands of the government. The very same government who shot him and tortured their friends. It was too much.
“Get. Away.” He all but yelled through clenched teeth.
“Grantaire, it’s okay. Please. We’ll get through this. Combeferre and I are making a plan to get her back, and once we know more we ca-“
“GO AWAY!” The roar from Grantaire was heartwrenching and echoed in the tunnel. Enjolras turned and retreated quickly. As his red silhouette faded into the darkness, Grantaire screamed and threw his half-empty bottle of beer at the curved brick wall. Not caring about the shards, he walked over them and beat his fist in the same spot until his hand bled. Not a single sound escaped his lips, and he then sat down and returned to drawing.
The other Amis didn’t take the news well, either. For 3 days, they heard nothing. Search parties were sent out to no avail and half of Enjolras’ efforts were placed on simply keeping the peace among his men. As always, Combeferre was willing to pick up the slack on the revolution front while Enjolras tried to boost morale. It was an uncommon role for the leader, but one he wanted to get better at. Jean was taking it hard as well, blaming himself for not keeping watch on her. Enjolras reassured him, saying many times, “They would have taken her with or without your supervision. You know them. This is just their way of telling us that they are afraid. They have to resort to kidnapping children to retaliate against us, because they have no options left. So rest, friend. Know that we are winning. And we will get her back. I promise you.”
On the 4th day, as he was patrolling the barricades on the eastern portion of their claimed territory, his phone buzzed lightly in his pocket and he quickly fished it out. It was an unknown number.
How do you feel about giving small children root beer?
His stomach sank. Looking around quickly for any sign of a government official or police officer, he typed back with shaking fingers.
Who the hell is this? How did you get my number?
And the response was lightening quick.
(UNKOWN NUMBER) You didn’t answer my question.
(ENJOLRAS) Don’t play games with me. What the hell is this about?
(UNKOWN NUMBER) We need to know if root beer is safe for a little girl. She is crying and asking for some. We don’t know how to shut her up and if we don’t get her to stop soon we might have to take more drastic measures.
(ENJOLRAS) You leave her alone. She is not a part of this. What do you want?
(UNKOWN NUMBER) Oh, you know what we want :)
(ENJOLRAS) Stop fucking around and tell me.
(UNKOWN NUMBER) We already told you – are we allowed to give Gabrielle root beer, or would your doctor friend protest??
(ENJOLRAS) If you touch her, I will kill you.
(UNKOWN NUMBER) Too late. Meet us tomorrow. We will be outside the barricade by Eiffel Tower at dusk. Don’t be late :)
The exchange happened over only 2 or 3 minutes. To Enjolras, it was as if time had stopped. Contacting Feuilly to resume the check of the barricades where he left off, he all but ran back to the station.
“Enjolras, let’s think this through. It’s got to be a trap, right?”
“I know, Combeferre, but what do they want?” Enjolras had been turning the situation over and over in his head for the better part of an hour, to no avail. They had discussed, he and Combeferre, at length what the plan was should a member of their insurgency become a prisoner. Combeferre, while more than a bit biased, was able to agree with the majority of letting the person stay a prisoner. Enjolras and his group were an unspoken exception, though no one would ever let Enjolras know. Everyone fighting knew the stance; it was far too dangerous to mount a rescue mission and risk more deaths. It was simply a risk they all had to take. But this was different. This was Gabrielle, a young girl whose only fault was having a brother in the cause and bonding with his friends. How could they leave her? They hoped even a corrupt government would keep a little girl safe, but there were no guarantees.
After multiple times attempting to re-contact the unknown number, they gave up. They were not going to answer again. So the next action had to be made without any more knowledge.
Courfeyrac paced nervously up and down the tunnel. He was never one to sit still, but this kind of nervous energy was new. “Guys, c’mon. As if we’re going to leave her? Get your asses in gear and head to that barricade.” He grabbed a gun off the table and made a move towards the door before Combeferre stopped him with a heavy hand.
“Courf, stop and think. What do you think they actually want?”
He looked sheepishly at the ground. “They want someone to show up so they can get more prisoners.”
“Exactly. And if one of us goes, they’ll have someone who can actually give them information. Gabrielle doesn’t know anything, and they know that. She’s just bait. And it’s not fair. But we can’t fall for it. Not right now.”
Coufeyrac shook his head and set the gun back down. The planning resumed.
Sleep was difficult on the best of nights since June, but Enjolras at least tried to lay down now and again. He was drifting off when the light on his phone screen lit up the small corner of the station he claimed for his bedroom.
(COMBEFERRE) You’re going to hate me for this, but I need to be honest with you. Are you awake?
(ENJOLRAS) Yes, I’m awake. You know I still don’t sleep well. What is going on?
(COMBEFERRE) Enjolras, I left the station.
(ENJOLRAS If you left to get Gabrielle…
(COMBEFERRE) I know. It was stupid, but aren’t I allowed a bad decision for once? I can’t trust them to not hurt her. If I didn’t do something, Courfeyrac would be out here instead. And we know how dangerous he can be when he acts impulsively. If he went, he would be killed. And don’t even think about R being out here.
(ENJOLRAS) … You’re right. I hate it when you do that.
(ENJOLRAS) But it’s still a bad idea. You realize this is a trap? We need to actually plan a rescue attempt.
(COMBEFERRE) Of course I know it’s a trap. But I had to do something. I can figure out where she is, at least. I’m just going past our barricade at Rue Linois. I will be back before dawn.
(ENJOLRAS) You’d better be. We need to talk when you get back. About the plan.
(COMBEFRERRE) I know. I will be fine. I promise to not do anything stupid if you promise to n
(ENJOLRAS) Promise to what?
(COMBEFERRE) Tell Gabrielle I lov
(ENJOLRAS) Combeferre? What happened?
(ENJOLRAS) Please respond right now.
(ENJOLRAS) Damnit, Combeferre. What have you done?
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Combeferre woke up in an all-too-familiar position: his hands zip-tied behind his back, just tight enough to hurt, held him in place on the cold metal chair. This was the only piece of furniture in the room. He blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the harsh fluorescent lighting as the blindfold was removed. He’d been blind and immobilized since they accosted him on the streets. He climbed the barricade, informing Enjolras of his actions but feeling safe, hours previous. As the guard who removed his blindfold retreated quickly out of the room’s only door, the heavy metal slab closing with an echoing finality. Combeferre gathered himself mentally and tried to remember as much as possible, trying nearly in vain to think around the throbbing pain at his head. Were he able to move his hands, he would not have been surprised to find his hair matted with blood.
He decided around midnight that he had to do something. Having been in the hands of the government and barely escaping with his life, he couldn’t live with himself if he let another person endure that same fate, Enjolras’ idyllic plan be damned. And this was Gabrielle, for God’s sake! All he had to do was a bit of reconnaissance work so they had a bit more information. What they had wasn’t enough.
So he climbed the barricade as carefully and as silently as possible, shifting his on weight to match the settling of the furniture and wood. Luckily, Feuilly was damn good at his job as architect and it held his weight easily without needing much reactionary adjustments.
His feet touched the ground with a light thump and he pulled out his phone to text Enjolras. The leader would be furious, but that wasn’t exactly a new development. He would deal with the backlash in the morning. This was more important. Then, without warning, a frenzied yell echoed from the end of the street. Combeferre whipped around to see 6 policemen run towards him, leveling guns and reaching for other weaponry. In his surprise, he sent the text back too early. Then the gunshot rang in the streets. Stumbling back, he reached down to grab at his right side, hand coming away red. On pure instinct, he turned and ran a few blocks before the pain became too overwhelming. Bloodstained hands leaving red streaks across his screen, he needed to leave one last message before they inevitably found him again.
Tell Gabrielle I lov
The baton of the police officer slammed down on his right temple, and he collapsed in a heap. Putting his baton away, the police officer grabbed the phone and chuckled to himself. He pressed send, not wanting his friend to go without knowing what had happened. The phone was pocketed. Combeferre was bound and blindfolded, and thrown into an approaching van. They drove off.
The memories came flooding back, as did the pain between the bottom 2 ribs on his right side. He winced in pain as he shifted his battered torso to get a view of the injury. Blood soaked through his white shirt, now more brown than red, but it was still most likely bleeding. He could still breath with relative ease, implying his lung wasn’t punctured. It was a small comfort, but it was all he had. Combeferre could only hope they’d be in soon to treat the wound before it became infected. Before he could finish his full inspection, the lights turned off with a small click. Knowing what would come next, he closed his eyes as his stomach grew heavy with anticipation and waited.
As the lights clicked on again sometime later, the pain had grown considerably worse and Combeferre prayed for some attention. His old friend, the torturer, walked in with 3 guards. All 5 of them barely fit in the room. Without speaking, 1 guard walked behind Combeferre and cut his bonds. He was instructed to stand; he did, barely suppressing a grimace of pain and needing to steady himself on the chair to combat the dizzying sensation of the movement. His shirt was removed and his wound was dressed. Then, at a hand signal, the 3 guards left the room.
The man who had brutally tortured Combeferre only a few months prior, in what was presumably this very same room, sat him down in the chair again and grinned. “We meet again, friend.”
He he been able to, had his mouth not been dry from a lack of water and sudden fear, Combeferre would have spit in his face. Barring that action, he merely closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. “I’m not your friend. Where is Gabrielle?”
“Oh, you mean the little girl? That’s her name?” He stepped back, pausing and thinking in an almost pantomime fashion. “Let’s see, let’s see…I don’t know, anymore. We dropped her off yesterday somewhere in the city after we got you.” Combeferre finally breathed a sigh of relief. It was cut off midway by a punch to his left ribcage. “Oh, don’t think that means it’s the end of your troubles, friend.” He retrieved handcuffs from a place on his belt and fastened them to Combeferre wrists behind the chair again. His feet were affixed to the legs of the chair as well, leaving him more immobile that he had been since his capture. Then the man retreated, leaving him in the dark room alone. Again. It was all he could do to hold back tears.
The treatment lasted for what Combeferre could only guess was 3 or 4 days. It quickly became clear that they weren’t trying to get information from him. Enjolras, for once, had been wrong. But what were they planning, then? He was only fed sporadically, released from his bindings only periodically to relieve himself, and there were beatings. But he was never questioned. It was if he was simply being punished. Where that might lead frightened him more than anything.
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The day after Combeferre disappeared, Joly found Gabrielle crying on a street corner. While the relief of having her back – unharmed, Joly decreed happily after giving her a quick once-over – the implications of Combeferre’s situation became apparent. What was exchanged in quick, sad glances need not be spoken. All of the Amis were present alongside a select few members of the people of Paris. They knew where their Guide was. And they were afraid they wouldn’t get him back this time. Having all faith that he would not break again did not dissuade their fears.
Feuilly couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “So, guys, are we going to go get him?” The emotion in the room snapped like a taut piano string. Everyone tried to speak at once. Questions arose of the plan, of the stance regarding prisoners, Courfeyrac yelling “It’s ‘Ferre, we can’t leave him. Not again.” The air rang with cries of “This is the last straw. Enjolras, we need to fight!” Someone who rose began to yell angrily about double standards. “What about us? If it was one of us would you still break the rules? Are we worth the effort, or is it just you special leaders?” Joly exacerbated the point with more yelling. It was hard to concentrate over the cacophony. The blond revolutionary, overwhelmed sank to the floor and rested his head on the cool brick wall. He wished he could feel numb. But his best friend was taken for a second time, under his watch, and he felt sick. As the din rose, he felt his phone go off, and he checked it again. He was beginning to hate texting all over again.
(COMBEFERRE) If I were you, I’d get a television set before 1 September…
(ENJOLRAS) Combeferre! Where are you? What do you mean?
(COMBEFERRE) You won’t be talking to Combeferre ever again.
(ENJOLRAS) Just tell us what you want.
(COMBEFERRE) We have what we want.
(ENJOLRAS) Damnit, don’t do this.
(COMBEFERRE) Enjoy the show
He stumbled backward, physically affected by what he just read. He bumped into a corner and stood completely still. Slowly, as the mob sought guidance from their stoic leader, they noticed him hyperventilating in the corner. Silence fell as quickly as the roar had begun. Joly hurried over the Enjolras.
“What’s wrong? What’s happening?” He gestured to the phone hanging limp in Enjolras’ hand. The leader simply handed it over, not trusting his voice. Joly read the conversation aloud, shakily. “Oh God in Heaven above…” he let out in a whisper after it sank in. Joly looked appealingly at Enjolras, searching for some sort of answer. What do we do now?
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Combeferre’s room opened up after the lights came on, and for the first time since the first day, 3 guards returned with his abuser. He was simply told, “It’s time,” before being blindfolded again, released from the chair, and shuffled out of the room. He mentally thanked the guards holding his arms, as he had grown considerably weak after what could have been weeks with little food and constant beatings. They brought Combeferre to the armored van one final time, and drove to their destination.
His questionings of the guards was in vain. He had no idea where they were going, but what was happening seemed clear. He was going to die.
The van drove for over an hour, and as it slowed down to make a stop, Combeferre could hear the faint sounds of a gathered crowd grow louder and louder. His fears were confirmed. It was going to be a public spectacle. One guard loudly announced, “Here we are! The Bastille! Oh, you’re going like this!” He emphasized his last few words with a violent punch to Combeferre’s stomach, narrowly missing the gunshot wound. The van then rolled to a stop, his blindfold was removed, and the doors were opened.
Squinting as he is moved with assistance from the van into the bright morning sun, the roar was deafening. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, having seen nothing but brief spurts of light for the better part of a week, the first thing he could make out was a very familiar and imposing silhouette. They lead him, haltingly, to the guillotine. He stood as proudly as he was able, forcing the crowd to look at his face. He wished he was able to see the crowd, but his glasses had not been around since his capture. Most importantly, he wanted to be sure his friends were not present. He was sure they knew about the show, for it was nothing more than that. They were going to use his death as a circus farce for what people like him were worth. It meant nothing beyond that. He hoped Enjolras was able to see that as well, and not interfere.
Grinning wildly, Mouton stepped out on stage to the podium that stood to the left of the guillotine. Winking at Combeferre, he began addressing the bloodthirsty crowd with talk about insurgency and the failure it brings. He talked at length about how the people are the only thing the government cares about, and if this group wants change through violence and death, they must not want help for the people.
Combeferre tried in vain to tune it out. It made him sick, hearing the assent from the group. Thet were eating up every word he said. He ended the rambling speech with this statement: “So you see, people of Paris, that just as it has in the past, revolution has and always will fail. We cannot allow it to happen. And those who rebel will be justly punished. In 1792, people who believed in a better Paris killed our loyal and loving king using a barbaric device such as the one you see standing before you today. They thought they loved Paris, but brought upon her only destruction and blood. We have thought it fitting to show the rebellion what their cause truly means. As it is, the only fitting way is to end their cause. If they are watching, know this. Your fate will be the same as your comrade, here. You will not escape us. You cannot win. Now, again, to you, the people of Paris, let this be not only a warning but also a message of hope. Stay loyal to your devoted government, and we will reward you justly. We do not need heroes; we need citizens. We do not need kings; we need a community of togetherness. Fortunately for us, the king is here. May heaven judge you justly, king, and give you your place in hell. That is a much better place for you.”
As the crowd’s roar reached a crescendo, Combeferre’s biceps were grabbed and he was lead blindly guillotine, fighting and yelling “Vive la République. Vive la revolution. Vive la résistance.” The guards shoved him down roughly against the wood and restrained him with leather straps over the shoulders and legs.
The torturer, who seemed to moonlight as official executioner, approached him with a mockingly sorrowful look. He wore a microphone that was amplified over the entire crowed. “Well, scum, it’s time. Any last words? Maybe a confession or repentance?”
He removed the microphone from his lapel and lowered to Comberferre’s level. When the young man was silent, the elbow of a guard came down in the small of his back. “Speak now, or forever hold your peace. And I recommend the first option,” the executioner whispered to him. “It’s what the crowd wants. And what the people want, the people always get.”
Combeferre gathered his breath. “Enjolras, I know you are watching. Don’t give up. Never give up. Make history. Vive la République,” he managed to spit out.
The executioner slapped his face. “Shut up, you dirty rebel.” Combeferre’s head was shoved down into the open stocks and the upper portion was quickly lowered, locking him in place. He fell still and closed his eyes, exhaling one final time.
Throwing aside final spoken words, his true last words were what mattered. He and Enjolras had always been able to almost speak without words. He hoped that it would work this one last time. Enjolras, I know you’ll make history. Keep Gabrielle safe. I don’t regret a single moment of what we’ve done and wouldn’t change a thing, even now. I love you. I love you all. Thank you for giving me purpose. Thank you.
The blade fell.
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The scene back in the station was oddly familiar. A few differences dominated, however. The last time a death of a friend was announced on the news the physical death wasn’t televised. It wasn’t true, either. When Grantaire was shot in the chest, it wasn’t captured on camera. Grantaire wasn’t publicly executed.
Silence overwhelmed the room, everyone who was able surrounded the small television Grantaire had stolen for the occasion. They weren’t going to watch, but Enjolras felt that his friend earned their support, in his last moments. So they got a television and prepared for the worst. The moment the news broke of a public execution, they accepted his fate. There had been crying. It was hard to explain to Gabrielle why ‘Ferre wasn’t coming back. But she was safe now, and not present for the televised event. She was the only one to cry in public.
Combeferre’s last words hung heavy as the television set was clicked off. All eyes turned to Enjolras. The intrepid leader swayed in his place. He was sitting down but stood up the moment he saw Combeferre exit the van, flashing back to when he last saw his best friend exit the same vehicle. That exit meant survival and hope. This one signaled only death.
Courfeyrac cautiously approached his friend, tears nearly obscuring his vision for what seemed like the 20th time that day. But his friend needed him. He lowered Enjolras into the seat again. Enjolras all but collapsed, his golden mop falling forward and obscuring his face as his head fell into his hands. Racking sobs broke the silence, echoing in the brick tunnel. Screw feeling brave; fuck the idea of being strong for everyone else. Enjolras couldn’t care, not now. Crying was all he could do.
His best friend, Guillaume Combeferre, was dead.
Minutes passed that felt like hours. There was not a single dry eye in the room, but the rest of the group was silent. They let their leader mourn.
A shuddered sigh escaped his lips and the sobs ceased. Heavy breathing calmed him and transformed the sadness into rage. Enjolras lifted his head, eyes as red as his jacket. A voice, the likes of which they have never heard before, began as a murmur and steadily grew as its speaker found his passion again. “This is the last straw. We were kind, before. They have made peaceful revolution impossible in the past. Now, nothing but destruction is possible. This is on their heads. Make them bleed. Make them pay for every man.” He ended in a near shout.
“Make. Them. Pay.”