67A/N: It's here. The final chapter of 'Fallen Angels' is here. See the final Author's Note for my long, emotional thank you…
Wow. Just wow. I don't think I'll be able to thank any of the wonderful people who have stuck by this story and decided to read, review, follow and favourite it enough for your constant support. You are all absolutely incredible and it means the world to me to think that my work is appreciated by so many.
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 narrative into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
Chapter 18
'For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found' – Luke 15: 24 (The Parable of the Prodigal Son- Holy Bible New International Version)
They find him curled up on an empty bench in the dark corners of the now abandoned Tullieries metro station; a name that makes Bahorel let out a dry, barking laugh that drips with irony. There is a half-empty bottle of black market vodka clutched within the cynic's shivering grip and a steady stream of salty tears frozen forever in place upon his icy cheeks. It is only the ragged, painfully uneven rhythms of his chest that give him any sign of life and as at a silent nod from Bahorel, Feuilly drops down to feel for a pulse as a faint, pained moan is forced through Grantaire's quivering, salt stained lips. The ghosts of the old battered trams seem to rush and roar along the platform as the four passionate, desperate souls leap down from the mound of rubble that blocks the metro entrance. At the ticket booth the departure's board for the inner run still flickers feebly with a sickly, luminescent glare; the time that the trams stopped running when Paris was overtaken by the Regime now little more than a frozen relic bleeping forever for the benefit of the ghosts of citizens that continued to wait for the next tram.
'R? Grantaire…?' With a slow, deft touch, the survivor reaches up to sweep back an ebony curl out of Grantaire's glassy eyes and presses down harder for even a flicker of a pulse. 'R, it's me. It's Feuilly. We've come to get you out of here Mon Ami.' No response. In desperation, Feuilly's wide, dark eyes flick themselves up to Bahorel who in two strides has crossed the ghostly platform and is crouched beside the seemingly unconscious cynic, gently easing the bottle out of his grip and rolling him out of the small pool of vomit all the while carding a trembling finger through the thicket of greasy ebony curls.
'Come on R', he murmurs; his voice sounding softer than any of the others have ever heard it; slowly easing the younger man's body into his lap, hands reaching in desperation for a pulse; for even a flicker of life that would tell them that there is some light in this tunnel of never ending darkness which they have found themselves thrown into.
'Come on R. It's us. It's only us. We're going to get you out of here. Please Mon Ami?' Another faint moan as an icy claw reaches up to fist itself within the fabric of Bahorel's jacket.
From somewhere behind him, Feuilly feels a small hand reach up to squeeze at his own and he glances back in surprise to see Gavroche; his wide, grey-blue eyes that are usually ablaze with cheerful mischief shrouded in a sense of painful seriousness for a child so young. Feuilly squeezes the young boy's hand harder; forcing himself to remember that the despite his outward appearance, the child is only twelve and has been witness to horrors that no child should have to see or even think about as he returns his gaze back to Bahorel and Grantaire.
Shouldn't we phone an ambulance?' He asks, his voice sounding oppressively loud, the question painfully simple in the silence as it reverberates off the high, cold walls, echoing eerily back to them; as if this station, like the Arena is full of ghosts who are not best pleased at being woken. The only response he gets from Bahorel is a short, hard laugh.
'And do what Mon Aigle?! They won't treat him, he hasn't got his papers or his tag and…' The fighter's sudden tirade is cut short by a sudden, whispered moan from the cynic as Grantaire reaches up to clutch at his jacket in a sudden, almost convulsive motion; his next words barely audible through the drink slurred undertones.
'P…Pocket… 'Ponine gave… Didn't… Didn't understand… S… Sorry…' the mumbling is caught by suppressed sobs as he continues to cling desperately to consciousness and Bahorel twists himself around to find the identity papers and the small identity tag that was mandatory for all citizens to wear at all times. A soft string of profanities echo through the silent station as he flicks through them, expression growing darker all the while.
After what could be a millennia of tortured silence he looks up, shifting his grip around Grantaire, his eyes ablaze with furious, righteous anger.
'We need to get him home. We all need to go home. If those bastards find us again then… Then…' His voice tails away into a definite, contemptuous spit, but they all are painfully aware of what could happen if the Officials catch them again. What the others, their brothers will think if they don't hear word back from them soon, what Enjolras will think… Bahorel squeezes his eyes shut at the thought of Enjolras; at the image of their broken, golden God staggering across him on the way to the bathroom, the knobs and bends of his spine pressing painfully against his hold as he held him close and tightens his grip around Grantaire and makes to stand, pulling the cynic up with him and slinging one of Grantaire's arms over his shoulder.
Bahorel doesn't want to think about it and yet can't stop himself from thinking about it, can't stop himself from remembering every last detail of every event that has happened in the last seventy two hours as the images which he has tried for so long to suppress continue to flash before his eyes in sharp and agonizingly painful clarity.
Enjolras standing proudly defiant on the podium as his dreams for a free France, for a world without poverty, hunger or oppression leapt high within a palpable inferno of glacial fire that blazed through the intense cerulean blue orbs as he enthralled the crowd with his dreams; their dreams; their combined passion bursting in waves of heat through the marble casing. The gloriously furious revolutionary archangel bathed in a halo of light as a slow, red dawn slowly bled itself over the coldly symmetrical buildings of the capital; the cold glowing light seeming to catch him, caress him, ignite him until his whole being burst with the leaping, licking flames of freedom… A shout… A gunshot cracking the sudden stillness like a sledgehammer cleaving its' way through ice… A furious, panicked shout of disbelieving horror as two bodies launched themselves towards the podium but too late…
Their angel was falling, struggling, fighting through the crushing, bearlike grip of the Official who had him in a headlock as the stench of chloroform threatened to overwhelm him as he hears the sickening crunch of knucklebones on alabaster brilliance; sees the shockingly scarlet blood blooming through the broken nose as a sudden haze of tears which he cannot blink back threatens to cloud his vision…
And suddenly he's running, sobbing, screaming, desperately trying to reach him as the name bursts from his lips in a blur of panicked pain combined with a desperate sobbing roar he thinks comes from Grantaire although he can't be sure as from somewhere he feels his arms reaching out to grab at the man before him; holding him, desperately trying to restrain him as he fought through the bearlike grip; frantically trying to reach the police truck where in a flash of drenched golden curls; he sees Enjolras' limp body being thrown. Dimly, he remembers throwing his arms around Combeferre's struggling body at some point during the chaos, pressing the furiously fighting guide into a fierce hold, arms shaking, whole body wanting nothing more than to swallow up all the pain, all the rage, all the desperate, heartbreaking screams that continued to rip themselves over and over again from the guide's salt stained lips as they continued to cling to one another, Combeferre's face buried in desperate anguish amid the smoke stained, gunpowder branded fabric of his jacket; hoarse words which he supposed spoke of comfort and that he knew neither of them truly believed falling choked and broken into the guide's hair.
He pauses, desperately trying to shake the memories back, feeling the weight of the stricken gazes on him, feeling the pressure of Grantaire's body pulling down on his every muscle as the seconds continue to tick on, their chance of a clean escape draining with every wasted beat of used time. For the first time since they entered the Tullieries, the fighter is immensely glad that Joly elected to stay behind with Sébastien, that the medic's already frazzled nerves didn't have to be subjected to this; even though they need him, they need someone with a clear head who understands the dangers of alcohol overdose and yet Joly is not here. Joly is back at the Safe House and Bahorel knows, despite all of his misgivings as Grantaire's weight continues to press down on him that they have to act accordingly and get out while they still can.
It's at that moment, however, that they hear a crash from somewhere behind the rubble barring the entrance to the station and the unmistakable sound of Bossuet's cheerful, colourful swearing. Bahorel's heart plummets about a foot into his chest and he barely has time to supress a groan of exasperation as the sound of Courfeyrac's voice which is choked with smoke and thick with badly supressed urgency breaks through the darkness.
'Bahorel? Feuilly? R? Ow, Bossuet, that was my foot! Gods…' The sound of a few moments of confused scrabbling passes in which the fighter feels the unstoppable flow of desperate ice that has been threatening to overwhelm his heart for so long begin to creep ever closer as Courfeyrac's unruly crown of ebony curls and Bossuet's wide, onyx coloured eyes ablaze with worry become visible over the mound of rubble.
'Did you find him?' Courfeyrac all but falls over the last mound of piled up chairs and straightens up with a flicker of his usual grace, the laughter behind his voice marred with urgency.
Bahorel nods in a silent reply as Grantaire shifts his weight into a more comfortable position; a faint, low whimper tugging through his lips, trying not to show his surprise at how changed, how emotionally haggard their usually bouncing, bubbling centre looks in the flickering, half lit gloom of the station. Courfeyrac's hair is caked with dust and debris from the struggle over the barricade of rubble that has built up in front of the station entrance; his wide, hazel eyes pooling with a silent, steady stream of sorrow as he takes in Grantaire huddled within the fighter's embrace.
'Did anyone see you?' Feuilly's voice is low and caught with trepidation as it echoes from the paint peeled shadows to Bahorel's right and Courfeyrac shakes his head, eyes still fixed on Grantaire. Gavroche lets out a low whistle of relief as the words sink in; even though they all know that it is only because the Capital is so absolutely certain that the repercussions of their spectacle of glaring, blazing, tolitarian power will quell the rumours and hush the dissenting voices that the streets are, for the moment, safe.
'We took the back routes,' Bossuet explained, running a hand around the back of his neck and the ice that has been threatening to overwhelm Bahorel's heart for far too long eases for just a moment as his grip around Grantaire. 'Nobody's about.'
Of course they aren't, Bahorel thinks bitterly as he desperately tries to work out where to go from here. Tries to keep his mind clear and not think about Enjolras, Combeferre, Joly and Sébastien, Eponine, Muschietta and Azelma and how they will react if the worst does come to the worst and they do get arrested again. What will lie in store for them when the Officials are able to put two and two together and trace their names and tags back to the their desperate, passionate actions back at the Selection…
They can't get arrested now. Not now, not when all of them have been through far too much and still survived, not when…
He is so lost within his head that he doesn't feel the slight, persistent tugging pressure on his hoodie at first. It's only when he hears the whispered plea of his name being pulled through the silence does he look down at Grantaire's haunted expression. 'Bahorel…'
'Hush now', he murmurs gruffly, casting a desperate look up to Courfeyrac and then back down at the broken cynic in his arms; at the green glass eyes which now resemble little more than shards of shattered emerald rock glinting painfully through a mask of sorrow in the darkness. 'Hush R, it's all right, it's going to be all right, I promise', he whispers, trying to sound as comforting as possible as Grantaire's grip tightens desperately in the fabric of his hoodie. Grantaire snuffles out a barely audible apology and the silent tidal wave of sobs refuse to be supressed.
'We need to get him out of here', Feuilly says quietly; the statement so painfully simple that it makes the fighters' heart ache as Grantaire simply clings harder like a sailors' frozen fingers clamped desperately around a piece of driftwood amid a storm tossed sea of painful, guilt ridden grief. There's a sense of disbelief catching at the artisan's words, a sense of disbelief mingled with panicked urgency but, if he notices it at all, Bahorel shows no sign of any outward comment. Instead, he rests his chin amid the tangled thicket of Grantaire's greasy curls as the choking, desperate sobs for repentance, for acceptance, for forgiveness even slowly begin to subside into caught hiccoughs echoing eerily off the bare stone walls that once blazed with the bustle of the pre-War Monday morning commute into the throbbing heartland of the city.
'He… He just needs time,' he finally manages to choke out; surprised at first, at the sudden choked up quaver his voice holds. 'Someone take a look out and text Combeferre or Eponine and for the love of God get R's papers out of sight. The last thing we need is for Them to be able to track us down that easily. We'll be with you in a moment. Promise.' In the safety of his embrace, Grantaire's body continues to shudder with silent sobs; his grip wavering as the nerves fought against the alcohol still gushing through his bloodstream and Bahorel can only hope that when they reach the security of the Safe House once again that the presence of Enjolras and the rest of their ragtag band of brothers will be able to draw the crumbling cynic up and out of the darkness he has found himself thrown into.
The weight of Sébastien's hand feels oddly cold to Enjolras' touch as he watches the boy tumble through the last remnants of Morpheus' enticing darkness. On the other side of the bed Joly sits as close as he dares; dark eyes smudged with exhaustion, as his inky pupils dart every so often up to the IV screen and back again. The intersection of thing, angry scars caressing the sleeping profile seem to have a life of their own as the skin beneath them contracts and relaxes with every breath that Sébastien takes, every sudden pain filled moan that flutters through the silence which makes Enjolras simply cling harder to the trembling grip and vow that when the sanctions on the Capital are lifted, he is going to track down the bastards that did this to the young man before him and give Them the justice they deserve.
'Has… Has he talked…?' Enjolras' voice tails away, the words falling from his tongue sounding strange and harsh to his brain after being gagged for so long in solitary confinement. Joly shakes his head and looks down at his hands for a brief moment before offering his chief a tight smile of sympathy, reaching across the bed to quickly clasp their hands together.
'Not yet', Joly murmurs and reaches over to press Enjolras' hand into a gentle squeeze, his dexterous digits roving for a moment over the bruised and broken skin he finds there. On his other side, Jehan lies a careful, comforting hand on the chief's shoulder, the ink stained skin skimming lightly over the dressings as Enjolras nods in silent understanding. The touch is light and brief, the quick squeeze saying a thousand things that neither of them can put into coherent words just yet as Joly's hand reaches up to trace the mottled bruising, the warm pressure of known skin plunging down into the scars left by the knife that mar his leaders' cheekbones.
Enjolras flinches slightly at the touch, remembering all too well the flickering, metallic flash of the knife, remembering the stench of nicotine staining the damp, dank air of of the torture chamber, the sickly tang of intermingled, blood soaked sweat, the agonising pressure on his wrists as his broken, bloodied, burnt body was thrown forward onto its chains and once again he was swallowed up by darkness…
From outside the slashed window, he can just make out the sun slipping out from behind a cloud, the warm, white glow softening the scars that caress Sébastien's high, fine features as the younger boy's grip on their joined hands tightens momentarily. He returns the touch, and yet hating himself as he has to inhale a sudden, unwanted breath of pain as he watches the body before him slowly pull itself out of sleep; the aquamarine blue baths that are still awash with pain and grief cracking blearily into focus.
'Wh… Where…? How…? ' In sudden terror, his gaze tears itself over to Joly who nods silently; wide, dark eyes brimming over with silent compassion for this young, scared teenager left alone in a world that had so recently wanted him gone.
'I couldn't let Them take you', Enjolras says simply, brokenly; all too aware of his own pain, of his friends' pain, of the desperate agony that their actions have caused and yet desperate, for this one moment, to try and forget the horrors of the Capital in order to try and bring this young, scared revolutionary back into the light that so desperately needs him. Unable to put any of these thoughts into some coherent form of explanation just yet, he contents himself with squeezing Sébastien's hand tighter as he watches the realisation slowly flood into the younger boy's sleep filled face. Beside him, Joly presses the younger boy's hands in a silent press of affection whilst he tightens the cannula; gently covering both of their hands with his own in a quiet, passionate squeeze.
Sébastien nods, slowly allowing the information to sink in as the wariness that has marred his features slowly begins to clear. 'None of us could', Jehan clarifies from his new perch on the windowsill, his treasured second hand edition of Pushkin still open on his lap. The poet's wide, amber coloured eyes are shining behind his tangled mane of auburn hair that has long since tumbled completely out of its' braid and frames his face like two ginger curtains shot through with flecks of gold as he surveys the scene; a small smile quirking at his lips.
They stay like that for a moment; the medic and the chief holding the young, scared boy between them as the poet watches them and for a moment, a small sense of what could be peace enfolds the room as the sun continues to climb higher and higher into the sky; breaking past the clouds in sparks of white, spring light.
The moment that passes between them feels like a lifetime and yet far too short as without warning, the sound of the front door slamming and a flurry of the girls' voices break the silence. Enjolras thinks he can hear Bahorel's loud, gruff bark for calm above the chaos as it floats up through the stairs combined with Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bossuet as the sound of hurried footsteps fades out down the stairs.
'What on earth…?' The bed creaks slightly, the mattress groaning audibly as Joly rises to go and investigate, motioning for Jehan to take his place which the poet does with a small, sad smile playing on his lips; quietly entwining his fingers with Enjolras' own in a semblance of comfort. Enjolras knows how he must look to Jehan; the youngest, the bravest; knows that the poet looks up to him, to all of them as multi limbed beacon of hope, of change, a continuously burning flame of unquenchable light and life and tries to force a smile. Tries to tell him without words that he is all right; that though the Capital have beaten him beyond belief and tried Their very best to break him, beneath the pain, the fire is still burning as fiercely as ever.
'I never doubted you'd come back, you know', Jehan says after a moment's pause, his hazel eyes still burning brightly despite the exhaustion he feels, squeezing Enjolras' hands tighter as the chief tries to draw them away; an unexpected hiss of pain fighting his lips as the pressure reaches his fingers' still too taut tendons. Squeezed in between them and propped up on his pillows; Sébastien gives a low, sleepy chuckle, but Jehan's eyes are still serious.
'I… I don't understand… ' Enjolras tails away, as he tries to put some coherency into his jumbled thoughts. He knows that he should tell Jehan that there were times back in the torture chamber; torturous, desperate minutes that felt like years when his broken mind was at its' weakest that he thought he wouldn't make it back to them. That he would die at the hands of the Capital alone and broken; a cracked statuesque leader whose dreams of setting his beloved people free from the tyrannous hold of the Regime and the Capital had failed like so many of the Resistance's attempts before hand.
'People will always come back', Jehan continues. 'You believe in it, I know you do. The spirits of our forefathers, of our brothers, our mothers; all of them, will come back. We will bring Paris back, Enjolras. We will fight on, but for that, we need you. We need you whole and we need you not to worry about us.' The poet reaches up to squeeze his shoulder and Enjolras gives him a quizzical look, unsure how to respond.
'I still…' His question dies on his tongue though; crushed to ashes by the look of piercing intensity that Jehan is giving him. The look that refers to only one of their band of brothers, the lost one, the one whose agonisingly despairing tone has felt like a dead weight to his heart ever since he read the scribbled note, ever since the ice that he has for so long now, tried to keep at bay threatened to overwhelm him completely.
'He'll come back Enjolras', the poet's tone is quieter now; but the passion is still there as it always is with the poet; a never ending fire that still burns fiercely behind each syllable.
A beat of silence passes; a moment of peace, a moment of complete stillness in which Jehan continues to grip Enjolras' hand in his; the faint ghosts of ink roving over the marble tendons.
Just then, a slow, wavering knock on the bedroom door breaks the silence and a small, rough voice that is full of bitter, desperate regrets is heard. A voice that Enjolras has not heard clearly in what feels like years and fills his very soul with hope as Jehan moves to open the door onto their guest. ''Jolras? Apollo, I… I'm sorry…' A moment later and the door is open onto Bahorel supporting a hobbling Grantaire; both battered and bruised beyond belief, but alive. Alive and whole and Enjolras can feel his chest tightening with such unsurpassable joy and relief that he has to blink rapidly in order to stop the emotion from overwhelming him entirely.
Grantaire's eyes are little more than slits of emerald green glass set deep within a face smudged red with tears, his thicket of ebony curls now resembling a birds' nest as he staggers out of Bahorel's grip towards the bed. 'I… I'm sorry…'He whispers again as Jehan reaches out a hand to hold him and guide him towards Enjolras; amber eyes pooling with a sudden waterfall of relieved tears.
Nobody knows who starts the embrace. All Enjolras is aware of is the weight of Grantaire's body in his arms, the cynic's nose buried in the tendons of his neck, his fingers caught within his hair; drinking him up, breathing him in, neither of them wanting to let the other go. Neither of them speaks for a moment and neither of them really wants to as Grantaire melts into the embrace; his hands fisted in the fabric of Enjolras' hoodie.
'There is nothing to forgive my friend,' Enjolras finally hears himself saying; although the simple words of acceptance don't feel like his own any more. 'Really'.
From outside the bedroom window, a skylark can be heard, its' song soaring high above the smoke filled city. Pulling his broken Pylades closer, the sun drenched Orestes rests his head on the mop of greasy ebony curls and feels something that could be hope bubble up within his chest. Hope that one day, one day soon; the faint notes of the skylark song will soar triumphantly over a free Paris and that he and his beloved friends, his brothers will be there to see it.
Fin
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain and will help me through my last two exams!
On a more serious note, I do have some serious thanking to do related to this story- so much so that I think I'll need to do a little Acknowledgments/After word after this- but a huge thank you to Stagepageandscreen for letting me take her premises for a Les Miserables Dystopia AU and whose criticisms and comments have literally been like molten gold for my brain, Guineamania and Sarahbob who have stuck by this religiously and who never failed to make me smile with their reviews, comments, constructive criticisms etc. You three and the rest of my readers, reviewers, followers and favourite(rs) are the reason I've kept going at this and I honestly can't thank any of you enough for your continued dedication and moral support! :)
Much love and enjoy x