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Sacrifices: June, 1832
The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing. And who was it? One of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire. He was sought among the wounded, he was not there. He was sought among the dead, he was not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combeferre said to Enjolras, "They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set on the death of that spy?" "Yes," replied Enjolras; "but less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire." This took place in the tap-room near Javert's post. "Well," resumed Combeferre, "I am going to fasten my handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man for theirs." "Listen," said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre's arm. At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms. They heard a manly voice shout: "Long live France! Long live the future!" They recognized the voice of Prouvaire. A flash passed, a report rang out. Silence fell again. "They have killed him," exclaimed Combeferre. Enjolras glanced at Javert, and said to him: "Your friends have just shot you." Combeferre frowns at the floor for a moment, then puts a hand on Enjolras' shoulder. "Come and talk to me." For a moment Enjolras seems not to hear; then he nods curtly and leaves the room without a backward glance. Combeferre follows him. "Julien -- perhaps we should keep watch a while longer." Enjolras shrugs. Combeferre walks toward the edge of the barricade where they had sat before without glancing to see if Enjolras is with him. Enjolras comes to stand silently beside him. After a few moments, Combeferre fumbles in his waistcoat pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He makes use of it to dry the tears that have been running down his cheeks. Enjolras says nothing, but he reaches out to rest a hand softly on Combeferre's shoulder. "You still won't leave." It is a statement, not a question. "No," in a reassuring, rather than a stubborn tone, though his voice is hoarse. Combeferre blows his nose. "Why not?" Enjolras looks over at him swiftly. "Now?" "While you are still alive. Yes. Now." "And let them die for nothing, uselessly?" The passion in his voice is startling after his stillness. "I'll be damned first." "You'll be damned either way," Combeferre says bitterly. "By that logic, I already am," equally bitterly. "A thousand times over, if you like." Combeferre embraces him with the speed of someone who fears he will be pushed away if he hesitates, and if a kiss can be punishing, the one he gives Enjolras is. Startled, Enjolras resists for a moment, then yields, though his fingers dig painfully into Combeferre's arms. "Come home with me," Combeferre demands. His voice is hoarse, and he is weeping again. Enjolras' eyes are suspiciously bright, but he looks at Combeferre steadily, jaw set in an expression that resembles fury. "No. Not now." "Please. As you love me, leave this madness." "No." He tears free of Combeferre's arms, backing away. "I cannot, I will not, and you have no right to ask it. I have-- we have a responsibility here, to the living as well as the dead, to our friends as well as to our cause. Perhaps you could live with yourself, knowing that Christophe is dead, Jehan was murdered, for nothing, to no possible good-- but I couldn't." "What good will it do anyone if we meet the same fate?" Combeferre bites his lip. "What good can that do? Our responsibility is to the memory of our friends; our responsibility is to make certain that their deaths were not in vain. If we all die so swiftly as they have done, that is a greater betrayal than leaving this place and keeping faith with what they -- what they died for." Enjolras shakes his head slightly. "They killed Jehan in cold blood. Do you think any of us will leave here if we try?" "They didn't see Marius. We couldn't all leave at once, but we might leave quietly." "Fifty of us? Coming away from here, looking as we do, carrying guns and swords, dirty and sweaty and some of us wounded?" "Leave the guns, then. If one of us left every half an hour?" Combeferre waves a hand. "That would be fewer of us doomed." "Then we would not be gone until this time tomorrow." Enjolras looks away from him. "Even granting that we gave up-- I don't stir from this place unless everyone else has gone." "Then there would not be so many of us in danger." Combeferre puts a hand on his shoulder. "I can't say that I don't care if I die, because that isn't true, but I would feel less of a weight on my soul if there were twenty men with me rather than fifty." Enjolras is silent for a minute, gazing into the shadows, his face tense and troubled. "In the morning," he says at last. "Something may yet come-- but if it doesn't come by morning, we'll start to send them home." "In the morning, it will be too late." Combeferre turns away. "If we do not begin now, we have murdered each one who could have left, and thrust in the knife together." "Audric--" Julien's voice trembles. "If something comes, it will carry everyone still here. If it is something strong enough for victory, it will not matter how many of us remain." Combeferre turns back to look at him. "Damn it. I would do anything to keep you all safe. I only wish you felt the same way." "Do you think I don't?" There are tears in Enjolras' eyes. "They may not be my lovers, but they are my brothers. Do you think I want them hurt? But this is too important. We've worked too hard, we've staked too much to give up while there is still hope of succeeding." He makes a small sound which may be a chuckle, or may be a sob. "Christophe would kill me if I agreed to back down now." And, reaching for Combeferre's hand, "Give it until morning. A few more hours till it's light, and then if there is no change, we will end this." Combeferre takes his hand, and embraces him after a moment. "Is there hope of succeeding?" he asks, in the emotionless voice one might use to inquire the answer to a mathematical problem. "There may be," quietly. "We have to see it through." Combeferre strokes Enjolras' hair. "If you are injured, beloved --" "Then I'll be better off than Jehan." He buries his face in Combeferre's shoulder. "God." Combeferre's voice is choked. "I thought I understood this until I saw the blood on Christophe's chest. Now -- I don't know. And you doubtless think less of me for it." "No, love." Enjolras kisses his cheek. "Just-- please, be with me now. And trust me as I trust you. I need you." His voice breaks. "I won't leave without you." Combeferre returns the kiss. "Audric..." Combeferre lets him go. "I won't leave. I trust you with my life, my love, my dearest friend." He looks away from Julien. "I don't know what else you expect." "Have mercy on me," Julien breathes, half-audibly. His eyes, colorless in the distant torchlight, have a wracked look. "Mon coeur-- mon frère." "I --" Audric shudders. "I can't give you more than this." There is a moment's silence. "I know what I'm doing, Audric. As much as any of us do." "If you only understand this as well as I do, we are both on the verge of disaster. Audric raises a hand as if to touch Julien's face, then stops. "We should do what we can to prepare. Whatever that is." Enjolras regards him steadily, deliberately remote. "When you decide what it is, I won't try to prevent you from doing it. Meanwhile, my decision stands." "I love you," Combeferre says quietly. Enjolras glances down for a moment, and holds out his arms. Combeferre takes a long, shivering breath. "Julien --" He embraces Enjolras. "I love you," Julien whispers, and hugs him tightly for a minute. Then, his hands straying downward, "Shall I--?" Audric buries his face in Julien's shoulder. "Oh, God." Softly, "I did say 'later', didn't I?" "Yes -- yes, you did." "So. And this is later." Julien draws him aside, into the shadow of the wall. "I keep my promises, beloved." Audric looks as though he is about to protest, but he says nothing. Julien kisses his cheek. "I love you." And, unfastening Audric's trousers with the dexterity of long practice, he goes on in a whisper, words he has said before now to Aimery, Christophe, Jehan; a curiously formal recitation, in the context, for the last phrases are spoken against sweaty bare skin. When he comes to the end, he falls silent, to finish what his caressing fingers have begun. Audric is unwontedly quiet, responding only when the recitation demands an answer, He has one hand tangled in Julien's hair and the other clenched into a tight fist. When it is over, he covers his face with the hand that had been in a fist and shudders. "Oh, my love." "My dearest," Julien murmurs. "My beloved." After a minute he rises lightly and embraces Audric again. "Do you understand everything that you mean to me?" Audric asks in a choked voice. He kisses Julien before he can answer. Julien returns the kiss without speaking, running his fingers gently through Audric's hair. Audric hugs him tightly. "You should rest, love," Julien says quietly after a minute. "So should you." Julien shrugs. "Maybe." "We should all rest. Please." "Probably," Julien concedes with a sigh. He seems disinclined to move. Audric kisses his cheek. "We both need to try to sleep." Julien returns the kiss. "Everyone does. Go and tell Aimery, will you?" Audric blinks at him. "I'm sure he knows." Julien sighs. "Tell him to tell the rest, then. I-- I need to think, Audric. I'll be there in a few minutes." "All right." Audric lets him go reluctantly. Julien squeezes his hand. "Je t'aime." Audric gives him a brief smile. "Je t'adore." He pauses a moment to make sure that his clothing is set to rights, then leaves.
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