67A/N: In all honesty, I have no idea whatsoever where this idea came from; but I'm hazarding a guess that it's from Stagepageandscreen's wonderful dystopian AU fic titled '(Un)natural Selection'- hopefully she will forgive me! This is my first attempt at writing anything like a Les Miserables Modern AU Dystopia- so please bear with me!
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 Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive! *By putting them all through indescribable pain you mean? Right...*
Fallen Angels
'Enjolras was a charming young man who was capable of being terrible' Les Miserables (Book IV Chapter 1 – A Group That Barely Missed Becoming Historic)
He does not look so charming now. With his head bowed he wears a sodden halo of blood and shit that is crusted to his angelic locks with a sweetly perverse sheen of sweat that plasters the mess of golden curls to his high, pale forehead like a sodden, sun soaked halo. His whole body trembles with the effort of remaining upright; his legs which were broken long ago by an officials' blow that he hadn't seen coming now shudder uncontrollably against the cold, wet surface against which he is chained; the limbs fighting fruitlessly through the icy bite of metal that binds them in a thick, perverted embrace and refuses to let them go; the muscles silently screaming for a freedom that he prays will come; but in reality knows it won't.
Shuddering bursts of unimaginable pain judder through his body at random intervals; bursting in front of his shattered vision in blurred rainbows of fiery colour as he struggles to remain conscious; to remain anchored in a reality that is begging him to let go. To release his exhausted, useless body from this dark, unknown Hell that he has somehow found himself thrown into and allow his broken psyche to at last be free in the sweet oblivion of nothingness.
But he can't. He won't. He knows that much as he clings to the thought bubble as it struggles through the darkness of his pain filled brain; a weak, white beacon of hope as his wrists spasm against the manacles that are on the verge of pulling his arms out of their sockets; his shoulders screaming silent cries of desperate agony as the shattered tendons are slowly pulled apart inch by agonizing inch. Unconsciously he feels himself balling his hands into fists against the pain; relishing in the single fact that his fingers are; as yet; not broken and yet feeling himself suck back an involuntary gasp that flutters through bitten, bleeding lips as a flash of agony rips through the clenched digits as they spasm without warning against something coldly plastic; the skin barely shivering against the round, symmetrical weight of a button that rises without warning through the darkness into his palm and out into the cold, dank darkness of this unknown holding chamber.
Pain. It rips through his already broken body like an express train carrying 230 volts of unbearable, inconceivable agony speeding through his shattered self- blinding flashes exploding in a firework display of colour through his shattered vision, making any sense of rational momentarily impossible as he desperately tries not to scream it all away. Desperately he tries not to give in to the ghosts, the memories that are crowding round the shattered remains of his once proud fortress; circling the broken remnants of his fragile psyche like vultures over a carcass, biding their time, waiting until he is once again at his most vulnerable before they strike.
They won't have long to wait, he thinks bitterly as he desperately tries to block out the distorted rainbow of colours dancing through his broken mind and focus on the immediacy of his situation. But any sense of rational is proving impossible as the electricity continues to surge its way through his shattered soul and the screams that he refuses to release continue to bubble up through a mouth that stinks of salt soaked iron; only to be bitten back into oblivion because he knows inexplicably that that is what They want. They want to know how much they can throw at him before he breaks completely; how far they can push the once gloriously golden Icarus before the passionate, rebellious spirit that has hounded Them for so long is finally and completely extinguished. Not just extinguished though. Broken.
He will not give Them what they want; he knows that much as he continues to struggle; numbing bursts of agony coursing through the taught tendons of his neck as he finally allows his chin to fall back onto his chest; a single thought throbbing through his dying brain. They can break his body as much as they want, but they will not break his pride.
Blood red. Burning amber. Blinding white. Crushing, oblivious black. Forest green blinded by a lake of silver tears. Fiery hazel flecked with gold like the colours of a dying sunset. Cerulean blue. Liqueur brown. Shocking, salt soaked scarlet seeping itself over dusty cobblestones in a final, weeping sacrifice to his beloved Patria. Blood that had been slashed through with darkness as he feels himself once again being dragged away from his friends, away from the fight for a freedom that seemed as distant as stars; desperately trying to fight the unwelcome hands, the icy metallic bite of the rusted manacles snapping themselves like a vice over wrists crusted with unknown blood that wasn't his own, closing over fingers that still tremble for the cold safety of his hand gun that had been wrestled out of his grip in a struggle with the Official. That had been the turning point and yet he had been close, so close... If he had just...
That had been the fight that had resulted in a broken nose and the beginnings of a rainbow mask of brutal bruising caressing the high, fine lines of porcelain brilliance. Had resulted in him being forced to his knees and the icy metallic beauty of a revolver being slotted against his temple as his arms were forced behind his back and the cold, hard sole of a hobnailed boot had stamping on the fragile ligaments of his wrists so that he heard the tendons snap; felt a sobbing, scream of rage bubble through his throat as thick, unwelcome fingers had pinched his nose until he was forced to open his mouth to breath and a rough, cold something that stank of chloroform had been shoved down his protesting throat.
Dimly he remembers hearing shouting at this point as he had felt his body being dragged away; his legs suddenly too weak to support his weight as he was thrust into an oppressively small space that at the time he perceived to be an Official Police truck. A space where thick hands had bound his too stupefied body to a post and slammed the doors shut; allowing their prisoner to be once more swallowed up by the drugged darkness of his own mind. A darkness which they thought would, in time, absorb him like it had sucked in so many of the other bright, passionate souls who had dared to speak out against the Regime into the crushing, oblivious darkness of the Capital. Their passionate prisoner whom they hoped would be spat out into the grey blankness of the City's work force, dull eyed, dull thinking, compliant machines programed only to do the bidden of the Capital's officials. He squeezes his eyes shut at the thought; welcoming the blast of pain that erupts through the broken rainbow of brutal bruising; willing himself not to think like that.
He cannot let them do that him; he must not; he must not allow himself become one of the pitiful nonentities who he had so desperately wanted to save and yet… And yet they are so close to completely extinguishing the passionate flames of hope and life that he has managed to conserve for so long within himself, within his friends; those bright, hopeful, passionate souls that he knows he will never see again... Oh dear God… Their faces seem to rear before his shattered vision before he can stop them; battered, broken shells of warriors struggling on through the darkness; flickering, guttering, fading and he can hear himself calling their names over and over again; knowing that the taste of the those achingly familiar syllables that dance on his bloody, barren tongue is the only thing that is going to be able to keep him sane…
Bahorel; his brave, passionate, courageous fighter. Bahorel with his receding mop of gingery brown hair stumbling into the haze of feverish anticipation that had gripped their underground safe house mere days before the Rally When It All Went Wrong; his dark eyes flickering concernedly over his friends as he stood framed in the doorway; silently checking, reassuring himself that they were all still there; still safe and whole in the knowledge of their friendship as he had swung Gavroche onto his shoulders and piggybacked the laughing gamin over to his table with news from the streets.
Bossuet; his survivor. Bossuet whose charming smile and dark eyed laugh masked a life where Lady Luck continuously turned her hand against him as he beat a furious Courfeyrac at dominoes and threw Jehan who had been sitting huddled in a corner with Feuilly drafting a new pamphlet a suggestion on the 'equality of women's rights and the oppression of the female sex'.
Courfeyrac; his centre. Laughing, living, loving Courfeyrac whose passionate energy lit up even his darkest hours as his laughing smile radiates through the tense, thick silence. Courfeyrac the jester, the centre of Les Amis de l'ABC for that is what his fragile band of revolutionary freedom fighters call themselves- a pun dreamt up by the wicked humour of the dark haired centre on Abaisse- the lost, the debased- the wretched poor that he is so desperately trying to save so that one day all men; Bourgeois and gamin alike will be able to walk as one out of the tyranny of the Capital and into the bright, white land of peaceful Freedom.
Combeferre; his guide. His oldest and closest friend, his first and best lieutenant, his comrade in arms, his brother in all but blood… A sudden, choking sob rises painfully through his throat as he remembers the dark eyed agony branding itself like fire in every finely worked strand of liqueur coloured brilliance as he was dragged away; fighting with all his might against the brutal, unknown hands of the Official as a silent, desperate plea fluttering through the blood soaked chaos before the darkness finally overcame him and the yells of his friends were swallowed up by the thickly oppressive darkness of the truck.
'Promise me 'Ferre, if anything should happen; you and Courfeyrac will get the others out alive. Get out of the city… Go… Go to the safe house… Use the back routes… Just get out my friend… Keep the others safe! Please… Don't worry about me… Just go! Please Mon Ami... We'll soon each other soon Mon Cher… Promise….'
Grantaire; his cynic. Grantaire whose drink slurred heckling whilst he sat slumped in the shadows of the Musain was there to protect him; he knows that now. Grantaire with his silent, passionate adoration leaping high within emerald coloured eyes as his hands flew over the creamy surface of stolen parchment; a luxury ferreted from the crooked hands of the black market that slowly swept the citizens up in a many threaded web throughout the slums in a city where art was banned; the line of the charcoal stub blurred until it was little more than a black swallow as the sketch took shape… The lines rushed and faded, the positions of the figures crudely blocked but still recognizable through the guttering light of the table lamp as a self portrait of his friends, the men who had welcomed him into their pack with open arms standing proudly framed on the bare stone wall above the blocked up fireplace…
Jehan; his poet. Jehan, the youngest of his friends; a child of sixteen who had run away from the compulsory, tyrannical boarding school that all male citizens had to attend from the ages of thirteen to eighteen. Jehan, the bravely passionate Romantic poet with the voice of an angel and the heart of a lion who had been thrown into the Juvenile Detention Centre for Moral Correction more times than he cared to admit for scrawling passionate defences of freedom of speech and the right for students to be able to speak of the old battle slogan that had once, long ago when the city was young and free rung across its' walls and burst on every citizens' lips at least once a day over the school property: Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité ou la Mort !
Joly; his medic. Joly with his wide, dark eyes full of compassionate concern as he tenderly bandaged the many and frequent injuries acquired by his friends in their desperate dream for freedom. Joly with his web of connections to the world outside the tyrannical hand of the Capital- forged through the love of his life; the dark eyed gypsy girl Muschietta who had become something of a sister to the fragile band of revolutionary dreamers and who he hopes has managed to meet up with them and keep them safe.
Feuilly; his artisan. Feuilly; with his love of history and Literature and freedom for all people; no matter of class or gender or ethical background. Feuilly; who worked in the shadows, slowly crumbling the Capital with the speed and wit of his pen as drafts of new pamphlets flowed from the nib by the light of a guttering candle. Feuilly who had become part of their fledgling resistance group through the influence of Jehan whom he had met and befriended during one of their many stints together in the JDMC; Jehan there for writing illicit, illegal poetry; Feuilly for daring to having the audacity of reading it and speaking out until the masters had no choice but to throw him out entirely.
Gavroche; his scout. Gavroche, the honouree member of Les Amis de l'ABC with his twinkling, blue grey eyes and mop of dirty blonde curls; always slipping through the hands of the officials like a fish through a net with a twinkling smile and a lightening fast hand; dancing through the snow soaked city like a ballet boy with the news from the streets as Bahorel swung him up onto his shoulders and piggybacked him over to his table…
He hopes Combeferre and Courfeyrac have followed his silent, desperate orders; prays with what little strength he has left that his friends are safe; that they have managed to reach the safe house; have managed to regroup despite the confusion and relay the news to the other resistance groups who were scattered in small, secret hideouts tucked deep within the countryside out of reach of the officials and the city's never sleeping eyes of wardens and gossipers. Citizens too terrified to stand up to the Capital and instead were always on the watch for any whiff of dissent among their supposedly broken, willingly compliant fellow subjects; always ready to take a watching guard aside and whisper their findings into an always listening ear. Whispers that would soon become murmurings to the lesser officials, murmurings that would soon be passed in thick wads of creamy parchment to the council that would become an arrest warrant spiralling across the flattened wood pulp in long, black spiels of charcoal coloured ink, that would soon become the splintering crash of rifle butts on wooden doors…
Persistent, unwanted pricks of fiery emotion erupt in the corners of his shattered eyelids, which he doesn't bother trying to restrain. Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me what your sacrifice was for! He lets the tears fall; relishing the salty, fiery pain slicing through his cheeks as he desperately tries to continue the list. The names of his comrades that feel as soft and as reassuring as dreams as they rise to his bitten, bleeding lips as he continues to hang there in the darkness; allowing the names of his friends, his brothers to wash over his exhausted self; desperately trying to allow the thought of their dark eyed laughing smiles to banish the agonizing ache that is slowly creeping over his shattered, broken body and yet finding it impossible as the crushing darkness of senseless oblivion finally overpowers him and he is lost; tumbling through the thick, perverted nothingness of his broken mind; never to be seen or thought of again.
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! I don't know whether I'll continue this or leave it as a one-shot; we shall see! Questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x