12A/N: The final chapter/ a very, very late contribution to Barricade Day 2014 is here! (I was away all this week- up until Saturday on a cooking course- can you forgive me?) Thank you to everyone who has decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much it means to me and I love and thank you with all my heart!
Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic masterpiece into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
The Barricades
The pressure of the newest bandage secured around the wound in his arm feels like a dead weight as Combeferre shrugs on his jacket and reaches for the cane resting beside the bed. Outside the window, the city is bathed in a bath of soft, hazy, midmorning light; shards of sunlight spilling onto the freshly changed coverlet that now covers the bed and dancing off the walls of the room which has been his home for so long now.
'Are you sure about this Mon Ami?' Enjolras' voice is quiet with concern as he hands over the cane that Joly insists Combeferre uses until he is fully confident with being in the vertical again and his chief's eyes are sparkling with silent anxiety; concern pooling through each finely worked strand of azure brilliance as Combeferre nods for what feels like the umpteenth time.
Deep down he knows why Enjolras is worried as out of the corner of his eye he watches the chief fiddle with his pocket watch; the dexterous digits worrying the clasp of the lid before thinking better of it and shoving the instrument back into his pocket. Feeling like he should do something to reassure his friend, Combeferre silently reaches up to grip Enjolras' hand in his; relishing in the warm weight of the marble skin beneath his own, in the bony rises of the chief's knuckles resting just beneath his own, trying to squeeze some sort of semblance into the marble skin.
'Of course', he says at last, the words quiet in the dusky mid morning light. 'I am quite up to a short meeting and it would be good to see our friends again now that…' He pauses, the words catching suddenly in his throat and Enjolras nods in silent, sympathetic understanding but remains quiet and for that Combeferre is grateful. He knows how much Enjolras has worried over him of late, has seen the furtive glances the chief has thrown in his direction ever since the worst of the fever broke less than a week ago.
'Joly will fuss worse than I do when he sees you,' Enjolras concedes, eyes still filled with concern juxtaposing the small smile quirking at the corners of his lips. The sight of that smile makes the corners of Combeferre's heart lift slightly in his chest and he can do nothing else but return it, grateful that despite everything that has happened over the past few days, Enjolras can still find something to be cheerful about. The medic had reluctantly gone home when Bossuet and a disgruntled Grantaire had turned up at the door of the apartment with a message from Muschietta that he was in dire need of a hot bath, good food and a decent sleep that was not punctuated by the desire to check on his patient. Combeferre nods, remembering with a pang of pain, the look of exhausted anxiety that had carved itself through the younger medic's fine, dark features as Joly's face swam in and out of focus at the height of the fever.
'Let him fuss', Combeferre replies as the sudden silence between them is shattered by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the slam of the front door as Courfeyrac enters; hatless, breathless and bright eyed with what Combeferre supposes, is news of the steadily unravelling situation in Paris. For days now a steady current of unrest has been sweeping its' silent fingers through the city, pulling every citizen; man, woman and child both Bourgeious and gamin alike into its' clutching embrace. Enjolras' eyes grow suddenly cold with concern as he waits for Courfeyrac to catch his breath.
'General Lamarque … Enjolras… 'Ferre… He… He's… The centre breathes as he pulls himself upright and Combeferre feels a chill cut through him that has nothing to do with the remnants of the fever. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras' whole body stiffen with anticipation, the age-old muscle tightening in his jaw as he fights not to interrupt the centre.
'The cholera's returned. There's talk he may not last the week', he pauses; the hazel eyes flecked with sparks of gold wide with worry as they hold Enjolras' gaze; a stream of silent, desperate questions that need to be answered before it is too late pooling from every crevice of the centre's body. Combeferre feels his heart sink like a stone falling faster and faster through the rush and pull of a river; the small bubble of euphoria that had entered his chest popping faster than a needle pricking skin to draw blood as he dares to steal a glance at Enjolras. The chief's mouth is a tight, hard line; his face an impeccable mask of icy composure, even though Combeferre knows as well as Courfeyrac does that the composure is merely a façade, that beneath the ice, Enjolras' brain will be running riot, calculations, facts and figures, mental maps of Paris and the designated points for their upcoming insurrection which they have planned for and dreamed of for so long finally flying in perfect formation into place.
A sudden silence laps between them. A silence so thick it could be cut as Courfeyrac's gaze flicks from face to face, desperate for answers, desperate for action, his whole body ready and waiting to at last ignite these embers of discontent into something larger, something grander, something on the scale of a raging inferno of blazingly passionate change that they have dreamt of for so long.
'We… We need to alert the others. Tell them to meet at the Musain in ten minutes. We don't have much time,' Enjolras says at last, his voice cracking slightly with an emotion that is soon overcome by the steely bite of determination, his blazing blue orbs never leaving the centre's face. Courfeyrac nods and makes to leave; relief flooding through his veins at the thought of some form of action, lingering for a moment to grasp both of their hands in a silent moment of solidarity. Combeferre returns the touch, gently pressing Courfeyrac's knuckles and trying to give the centre what he hopes is a reassuring smile before he darts away; leaving them, once again, alone. 'Godspeed Mon Ami.'
After they hear the door that lead onto the street slam shut, Enjolras seems to sag under the weight of the sudden silence; the passionate inferno which had blazed into life behind his eyes dampening for just a moment as he stares at the door. 'It's really happening…' Combeferre hears him murmur after a moment's hush. His exhale is a sharp whistle as the guide shifts slightly to lean on the table for support; forcefully trying to shove back the sudden sense of vertigo induced nausea that is threatening to overwhelm him. Dimly he thinks he can hear Joly's voice ringing distantly through his brain, each word calm, measured and in absolutely perfect control as he tries to breathe. 'In through your nose and out through your mouth. That's it. Hold your inhalations for ten and then your exhalations for ten. That's it.'
'Combeferre? 'Ferre, are you all right?' The weight of a hand suddenly clutching at his shoulder takes him by surprise as he feels himself blinking into Enjolras' gaze, each finely worked strand of azure coloured brilliance suddenly dark with concern.
'I… I'm fine', he manages to say after a moment, trying desperately to dispel the sudden, tightening knot of dread that is slowly forming in the pit of his stomach. Enjolras, however, is not convinced as with a forceful push he manages to get Combeferre back into a sitting position on the bed and slowly takes the guide's hands in his; the warm pressure of known skin flooding thankfully through every crevice of the older man's body.
'Oh Mon Ami', Enjolras murmurs after a while, gently rubbing the too taut skin beneath his own as Combeferre feels his eyes slip shut and tries to focus on breathing, on thinking, on banishing the sensation of sudden, desperate panic that is threatening to overpower him completely.
'It'll be all right', Enjolras continues gently after a moments' quiet; one hand reaching up to cup the guide's cheek, gently tracing the lines and bends of the high, fine cheekbone he finds there. 'Truly my friend. This is not '30. We have grown up since our escapades then, I hope. We have each other now.' But even as he says it, even as Combeferre feels the passion building up behind each word, he still can't quite believe it. He wants to, really wants to, but the thought that this might all end in disaster, in bloodshed and in the slaughter of so many who were capable of leading their beloved Patria towards freedom is too much for him to cope with. Without warning, he feels sudden, unwanted pricks of salty silver stabbing at the corners of his eyes and reaches up to swipe them away; cursing the remnants of the fever for allowing his emotions to become so volatile.
Seeing this, Enjolras simply pulls him closer allowing their combined weight to sink into the sofa; giving his shoulder for Combeferre to bury his face in and silently weep; his shoulders heaving with unspoken sobs as fine, dexterous digits reach up to card themselves gently through his hair and a mess of whispered kisses land across the back of his neck.
'It'll be all right Mon Ami, I promise you', the chief murmurs after a moment that could be an hour, could be an eternity for all Combeferre knows or cares. 'And… And even if it isn't,' he pauses here and reaches over to cup Combeferre's face in his palm; forcing the guide to blink salt splashed eyes on glacial blue baths ablaze with fire; ''we will always have each other. And our friends. We must never forget that, we will never forget that.' Combeferre finds himself nodding shakily in assent, glad beyond words that his fears, however small and insignificant are understood.
'I will be with you always my friend', he murmurs brokenly, reaching up to blow his nose and Enjolras forces a smile.
'And I you. And Courfeyrac. All of us. You will never be alone in this my friend.'
Later, much later, when the nights' inky carpet has swept over the streets of Paris bringing with it thick, indigo clouds heavy with rain and barricades towering towards the silver sickle of a moon; Combeferre remembers those words.
He remembers them as he watches Enjolras; proud, beautiful, deadly, defiant Enjolras, his best friend, his comrade at arms, his brother in all but blood now transformed into the very vision of Themis, bringer of justice with a tangled halo of golden curls and blood smeared across his face stand over the prone corpse of Le Cabuc shaking with silent anguish as the cold, hard weight of the still smoking carbine slipped and slid beneath his fingers. Remembers them as his reply cuts itself across the silent city; the air heavy with the anticipated dawn that he half yearns for, half dreads in equal measure.
'We will share thy fate!'
The dawn comes and with it a massacre. Halfway through the fighting Combeferre loses sight of Enjolras fighting for all he is worth as he tries to help those wounded in this desperate attempt for freedom.
'Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy.' He only wishes he could share Enjolras' blazing, burning enthusiasm for their new dawn wholeheartedly.
He barely feels the steel of the first bayonet; the sudden shock of pain piercing his windpipe so his knees buckle as he struggles for air; a sudden, desperate scream ripping itself through lips cold and wet with rain. The soldier in his arms, the man barely older than himself who could be saved, if he could be taken to their infirmary in time and treated by Joly for minor grapeshot damage to chest and shoulders, slumps against his chest; falls forward, face down in the blood splattered dirt of Rue St Michel. If he could just…
In desperation he tries to yell for help, but all that comes out is a broken gurgle that is thick with blood; salty, sticky wetness blooming through his mouth, dribbling over his chin. He stumbles back; trying to reach his hands up in a gesture of surrender, trying to make the guardsman see that he meant no harm, that was trying to help, that… The bandage he had forgotten about flutters from his clenched fist at the impact of the second thrust. He staggers again; the man with his plumed helmet pulled down over his eyes so that all he can make out are slits, slipping in and out of focus; his lips struggling to form a single, desperate word that dimly he knows will be ignored.
'Please.'
Blood red.
Blinding amber.
Blinding white.
He sees Enjolras standing proud atop a huge mound reaching almost to the sky; a sun arching itself over the shadow shrouded buildings of their beloved, broken Paris. He sees Courfeyrac, sees Jehan, Feuilly, all of them, all of his friends, his sisters shrieking with infectious laughter amongst the rubble, scrambling up towards the top, scraping their knees, their plaits tumbling out of shape as his Mother; his best beloved Mother whom he loves with all his heart watches on; a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
'Forgive them. Forgive me. Please.'
Dimly he hears a screaming roar of pain filled, desperate rage as the third bayonet rams itself through his chest and he knows with all the precision of a junior doctor, that his life will soon be over.
Enjolras.
A flutter of golden curls. Wide, cerulean blue eyes swimming with tears as he gripped his hand even as it shook with the fevers' unquenchable heat.
Ink stained fingers passing him over rough drafts of prospective pamphlets; notes crammed in miniscule handwriting in the margins for him to read before a neat copy was written up.
Two heads, one as dark as the autumn leaves, the other a tangled mop of spun sunlight bent over a book in the sun splashed haven that was the library in Enjolras' parents house back in Amiens; propped up on cushions aged ten and eight, drinking up every word of Robespierre, Desmoulins, Danton and Rousseau that blazed with the very fire of liberty.
The fires of hope. The fires of progress. The fires of change that burn still deeper within their friends; fires that were nurtured, kindled, fed until they grew steadily greater; reaching higher and higher towards a sun splashed sky of brightest blue reaching up beyond the darkness crowding round his cracked spectacle lenses…
The darkness that comes with death is almost a relief. Death sweeps over him quickly, quietly; whisking away all sense of life until there is nothing left. Nothing left but the corpse of a thin, bespectacled, dark haired medical student staring at the sky as the sun slowly climbs towards its' zenith; bringing with it new light, new life and new hope for new possibilities.
We will share thy fate.
Fin
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x