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Chapter Text

Lt. Enjolras.
3rd Batt: Royal Welsh Fusiliers.
July, 1917.

I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority because I believe that the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it. I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers. I believe that the war upon which I entered as a war of defence and liberation has now become a war of aggression and conquest. I believe that the purposes for which I and my fellow soldiers entered upon this war should have been so clearly stated as to have made it impossible to change them and that had this been done the objects which actuated us would now be attainable by negotiation.

I have seen and endured the sufferings of the troops and I can no longer be a party to prolonging these sufferings for ends which I believe to be evil and unjust. I am not protesting against the conduct of the war, but against the political errors and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed.

On behalf of those who are suffering now, I make this protest against the deception which is being practiced upon them; also I believe it may help to destroy the callous complacency with which the majority of those at home regard the continuance of agonies which they do not share and which they have not enough imagination to realise.

Chapter Text

Liverpool -
July 5, 1917.

“I still think this is a bad idea.”

It was a hot day in the city, the hottest in recent memory, and the sunlight was blinding. It bounced off the old harbour windows, shimmered on the river Mersey, and reflected off the impeccably-polished surface of Combeferre’s glasses. Enjolras closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He could feel a single bead of sweat lazily making its way down his neck and seeping into his shirt.

“Enjolras… Did you hear what I just said?”

“I heard you.”

He could hear Combeferre shifting in his seat beside him, but did not need to open his eyes to know the expression on his face. He would be shielding his eyes from the sun with his left hand, trying not to frown. If you knew where to look, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth would betray how concerned he really was.

“You’ve already sent the letter, haven’t you.”

It wasn’t a question – Combeferre knew him too well for that – so Enjolras did not answer. Nearby, a child was screaming with laughter. The wind danced across the docks, lifting up skirts and tipping the hat off a bearded man’s head, sending him running across the street, cursing under his breath. Enjolras smiled.

“It’s not funny.”

“No, I know. I know.”

Enjolras could feel Combeferre cross his legs, uncross them, then tap the steel bench with his fingers as if steeling himself for the next question.

“Did Lamarque say when he is going to read out the letter?”

“At the next House of Commons assembly, I should imagine.”

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know.”

A dog ran past them, its nails ticking on the tiles, swiftly followed its owner. A young man, Enjolras guessed, based on the energetic gate of the steps. A second bead of sweat was slowly making its way down his back, sliding between his shoulder blades.

“They will court-martial you.”

“Yes.”

“They will have your head for this.”

“I know.”

There was a bang and a pained yelp as Combeferre punched the arm rest of the bench with his fist. Enjolras opened one eye and turned his head. A young woman walked by, carrying a large bag of groceries. She kept lifting it up higher onto her chest, shifting the weight from one hand to the other, trying to get a better grip on the bulky package with her sweaty arms. A single tomato wobbled precariously near the top of the bag, rocking back and forth against the thin brown paper. Another lift, a groan. A long lock of her hair stuck to the woman’s face, not to be moved by a shake of the head or a well-aimed blow of air. With each breath, it tickled her nose, her forehead. Another lift. Another.

“Enjolras.”

“Hmmm.”

“Look at me.”

Combeferre had taken off his glasses and was pinching his nose, like he trying to squeeze away the headache the news had probably given him. He put his glasses back on again and fixed his eyes on Enjolras.

“You know I have always supported you and that I agree with you whole-heartedly.”

“I do.”

“I just… I wish there was some other way, one that does not end in you being found guilty of treason or cowardice or God knows what else.”

Enjolras shook his head. “If I am going to make a stand, it has to be public. This letter should send ripples through the ranks, get people talking. No pseudonyms, no hiding. People know my name; let it do some good for once.”

Combeferre nodded silently, scratching his neck. It seemed that the long summer was slowly drying him out, leaving nothing but fiery red skin and chapped lips in its wake. The British were not made for this kind of weather, and no one felt it more keenly than Combeferre, who had taken to moving from shadow to shadow, seeking relief wherever he could find it.

“Have you written to Courfeyrac?”

“He knows. He shares your concern, although he chooses to express it in slightly more colourful terms.”

Combeferre snorted. There was still that pull at the corner of his lips. Enjolras reached over and touched his arm. Combeferre froze.

“I had to do it. If there had been any other choice, but… I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. I just… I had to.”

Combeferre covered Enjolras’ hand with his own and squeezed gently.

 “I know. Believe me, I know. You were never very good at standing on the sidelines.”

“So many men – I had to do something.”

“You already were, though. Doing something.”

The tone in his voice made Enjolras look up, but Combeferre had already taken back his hand and was now keeping his eyes trained on the river Mersey. The ships coming in were black silhouettes in a sea of razor sharp light, sea gulls cawing away as they swerved around the masts.

“You told me that you would come to me if this ever happened again. You said that you would tell me if they sent another feather to your home -”[1]

“I know what I said, but –“

“—who do they think they are anyway?”

The sweat was gushing down Enjolras’ forehead now. He wiped it away impatiently, sitting up straight now.

“All this talk about cowardice and doing your duty – do they even know that you were turned down for medical reasons? Did they even ask? You tried to enlist - and to be treated this way by your own countrymen! It is an absolute disgrace.”

Combeferre produced a watery smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

“Easy for you to say, you’ve got a Military Cross. People were fawning all over you when you first got back and they saw that purple ribbon on your chest.”

“Yes. Well.”

“What?”

“…”

“Enjolras, what?”

“I got rid of it.”

“You did what?”

“I got rid of it - I threw it out.”

“Threw it out where?”

Enjolras nodded in the direction of the river Mersey. Combeferre’s jaw dropped.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

Combeferre let himself fall back against the steel bench and groaned. At the other end of the dock, two men burst out laughing and clapped each other on the back, their sweaty hands leaving dark stain on the rough fabric of their shirts. The smell of fish was in the air, salty and sharp.

“Well.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re definitely getting court-martialled now.”

[1] A white feather is a symbol for cowardice. At the start of the First World War, the Order of the White Feather was formed by British admiral Charles Fitzgerald; the aim of this organisation was to shame men into enlisting by having women hand them a white feather if they were not in uniform, preferably somewhere in public. I have read one story by a young man who describes being confronted by his crush; she walked up to him in the street, gave him a bright smile... And then handed him a feather. Ouch.

Chapter Text

Until, from the horizon’s vaulted side, 
There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
Spangling those million poutings of the brine 
With quivering ore: ‘twas even an awful shine 
From the exaltation of Apollo’s bow; 
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.

Endymion, John Keats.

Craiglockhart -
July 5, 1917.

Grantaire had never been a morning person. To him, sunlight was a harsh intruder, a real stubborn bastard who would sneak up on him and grab him by the eyelids, yanking them open and forcing him to face the world. As a child, he had had developed a tactic to protect himself from this interloper. Every night, he would take the thickest blanket he could find and carefully tuck himself in. Not a single crease was left unattended; this was of the utmost importance. If he would forget one of the corners, he knew that a wrinkly hand with long, sharp nails would grab his ankle and drag him out, off the mattrass and into the shadows underneath his bed – so there was no room for error. Grantaire would pull and tug until he had created a cocoon of fabric, covering every inch of his body, always leaving his head for last. Once the final layer had been sculpted into position, he would slowly let out his breath, pull up his knees, and fold his hands between his thighs. Nothing could get to him now. No sunlight, no cold night air, no muffled sounds of his parents shouting at each other downstairs or of glasses breaking. In the cocoon, it was just him, heating up the fabric with his breath.

In the summer, the blanket would be replaced by a single sheet and turned into a damp, itchy second skin, sticking to his arms and making it difficult to breathe. Still, it was a small price to pay for protection. Every morning Grantaire would wake up drenched in his own sweat, and every morning his feet would leave damp tracks on the floor as he walked to the washbasin on the other side of the room to splash some cold water on his skin. His foot prints were like a chart, a record of the elaborate choreography of Grantaire’s movements as he washed his hair, grabbed a shirt from the wardrobe, tore the sheet off his bed and crumpled it up into a ball. Every morning, he would pause before the mirror and run his free hand over his face, his neck, his shoulders.

He was still here.

He had made it.

Twelve years later, things had changed.

It was still dark when Grantaire opened one of the back doors of the Craiglockhart War Hospital. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, letting the morning air creep into his nostrils and sting his lungs. A cool mist covered the lawn and the terrace’s stone tiles were cold underneath his feet, the chill already spreading to his toes. No point in going back in for his shoes though – by then the whole ward would already have woken up and the morning would begin. Not that this held any meaning for him anymore. These days, night and day had sunken into each other to create a hazy blur of fragmented moments. Grantaire had lost all sense of mornings and afternoons. He was either awake or he wasn’t – and sometimes he couldn’t even say that with absolute certainty.

Doctor Valjean told him that he was lucky he got any sleep at all, but Grantaire didn’t feel lucky. Sleep was supposed to be a time of relief, a few blissful hours where the gears of your brain would stop churning and you could let yourself slide into sweet nothingness. When Grantaire closed his eyes, there was no relief. Instead, he was hurled head first into the mud, fingers clawing at his shirt, his belt, rattled breath punching his eardrums like gunfire. He would try to get up, but with each movement, he could feel himself sinking further and further into the sludge. Grantaire frantically looked for something, anything to cling on to, but his nails could find no grip on the clay, leaving only deep, desperate claw marks that slowly filled with rain, and he was slipping and sliding further down, down, down. The mud was closing around his knees, his thighs, and seeping into every crevice of his skin, his clothes, his hair. He tried to call for help, but the ooze crushed his lungs and his mouth tasted of silt. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and there were grains of sand in his teeth.

And then he woke up.

There was no relief in sleep.

And so Grantaire tried to stay awake, to avoid closing eyes for as long as he possibly could. He would wander around the ward for hours as the other officers went to bed, occasionally pinching his skin and running his hands over his face, his neck, his shoulders.

He was still here.

He was still here.

Grantaire used his free hand to clear one of the stone steps of wayward grass and then slowly lowered himself down, gritting his teeth to suppress a pained groan. Then he flicked open the aluminium case he had been holding in his other hand and took out a cigarette, putting it between his lips. The case disappeared into the pocket of his maroon dressing gown and, after some fidgeting, he took out a small lighter. In the distance, a rabbit was crossing the lawn, occasionally stopping to prop itself up on his hind legs and sniff the air. Grantaire examined the fiery tip of cigarette for a moment, rolling it back and forth between his stiff fingers. Then he put it back between his lips and reached his hand into his other pocket, taking out a notebook and a little brown pencil.

It had been Valjean’s idea, the writing. During one of his visits to the ward, he had noticed the stack of books on Grantaire’s nightstand and picked them up to examine the titles. “Keats. Tennyson. Shelley. Not bad.” He looked up at Grantaire. “Nothing modern?” Grantaire had merely shrugged. Valjean slowly let his middle finger slide down the back of Grantaire’s copy of Keats’s Poems, right where it had been worn down and was now slowly coming apart.

“There are some moderns I like,” Grantaire said. “Gurney isn’t half bad, I think. Maybe Charles Sorley. Really though, I think there is only one poet alive right now who is truly worth reading.”

“And who might that be?”

“Enjolras, sir.”

“Really? And what makes him so special?”

Grantaire thought for a moment.

“I think,” he started, weighing each word carefully. “I feel like he talks to us – to us, not to some faceless reader in a distant past. He writes about this, here, now, and it’s like – he doesn’t try to make it into something it’s not. It’s real, somehow.”

Valjean nodded, silently encouraging him to keep talking.

“There are so many other voices out there, but most of them – it’s all fake, their words, they’re not genuine, they don’t come from here. They parade around these words, but it doesn’t mean anything. With Enjolras, it’s different. I feel like I – like I can see what he wants me to see. Like I’ve been there, like I know what he – what he is trying to show me and I… I understand. I know.”

Grantaire sighed and let his arms drop to his side. Out of the corner in his eye, he could see that Valjean was looking at him – and smiling.

“But what about Tennyson?”

“I think if I had the choice of making friends with Tennyson or with Enjolras, I should go to Enjolras.”[1]

Valjean had walked out of Grantaire’s room chuckling, leaving Grantaire to put Keats back on the shelf. The following session, the doctor had handed him a notebook bound in brown leather and Grantaire had started writing.

The rabbit was gone, but all across the grounds, birds were starting to wake up, chirping back and forth and rustling through the trees. The pencil and notebook lay on the stone tile next to Grantaire’s left foot, forgotten. As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, he let his head fall back and blew a ring of smoke up into the sky.

He was still here.

He was still here.

[1] Actual thing Wilfred Owen said about Siegfried Sassoon in a letter to his mother (15 August, 1917).

Chapter Text

House of Commons debate
30th July 1917[1]

Mr. LAMARQUE
I wish to raise the case of an individual officer, Second-Lieutenant Enjolras of the 3rd Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers. This young officer, I think, appears to have one of the finest and most gallant records of service in the Army. He enlisted as a private - without waiting for the War to break out - on 3rd August, 1914, and I imagine would be one of the first 1,000 men to enlist. He has been wounded, and has been awarded the Military Cross for conspicuous gallantry. He has received formal recognition from the General Commanding for distinguished service in the field.

About three weeks ago this young officer came to see me, and told me he had written this letter to his commanding officer.

[…]

This young officer asked me if I would follow up his case and, if necessary, bring it to the notice of the House. What he anticipated has occurred. After some delay he was forced to appear before a medical board, and the board, having heard the opinions he had expressed in the letter, informed him that he must be suffering from the effects of a passing nervous shock due to his terrible experiences at the front. He will be sent to a hospital for officers suffering from shell shock and other minor ailments later this week.

I read that letter, because I think, however profoundly honourable Members may disagree from it, that it contains no indication whatever of having been written by a man suffering from any kind of nervous shock. This young officer is known to Members of this House. I myself had a long interview with him only a few weeks ago, and he certainly impressed me as a man of most unusual mental power and most extraordinary determination of character. The fact is, that the decision of the medical board is not based upon health, but based upon very easily understood reasons of policy.

It was quite clear that it was the easiest way to avoid publicity. I think it was also based upon reasons of personal kindliness. This was a very popular and distinguished young officer, and the medical board was only too ready to believe that this letter could only be written by someone suffering from nervous shock. But the evidence is the letter, and I really do not think that any impartial person would say that that letter is any evidence at all. As a matter of fact, this officer had been in this country for three months, and it had never occurred to a soul that he was showing evidence of nervous shock until he wrote the letter.


Mr. MACPHERSON:
The proper reason is that which is given in this telegram, that the military authorities saw that there must be something very wrong in the case of such an extremely gallant young officer who had done excellent work, and who had shown, by getting the Distinguished Service Order, that he was no mean soldier. He comes home, and when it is found that a man of this character has written a letter of this sort to his fellow officers, conclude that there must be something radically wrong, and instead of taking disciplinary action they take the natural course of asking him to appear before a medical board.

I do not think even my honourable friends opposite would go so far as to say that a medical board, knowing the man to be guilty of a breach of discipline, in order not to assist the political attitude of my honourable friend and his colleagues, would say that this man was suffering from shell shock. I have great respect for medical boards, but I do not believe for a single moment that they would solemnly send a man to an institution of this sort under those circumstances, and I hope my honourable friends opposite will not press me to accept that view.

Here is a gallant young officer who has done his best at the front, and done nobly, and, like so many others, has received a nervous shock; he comes home, and in a state of very great nervous agitation he writes this letter, which I understand is now going to be published by the No-Conscription Society. I think my honourable friend should hesitate before making use of a letter written by a man in such a state of mind, because I do not think that will help the No-Conscription movement, and I am quite convinced that such action would not be appreciated by the relatives of this gallant officer. Therefore I ask my honourable friend and those associated with him who have made us of this letter to hesitate long before they make further use of it.

[1] Read the full transcript of the Sassoon debate here.

Chapter Text

Craiglockhart War Hospital
August 2, 1917.

“Just pick a card.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Any card.”

“I’m thinking!”

Joly glanced at Grantaire and then back to his cards, which were slowly sliding out of his hands. He tried to apply more pressure with his thumbs, but it was useless; the thick bandages around his fingers prevented him from getting a grip on the smooth, shiny paper. Grantaire turned his head and pretended to look at the clock on the back wall, giving his friend some time to fumble.

“Get on with it! I don’t have all day, you know.”

There was a snort, followed the sound of Joly tapping the cards on top of the table, pushing them a bit further up his hands with each beat.

“Got other plans, do you? Opera tickets? Dinner with the prime minister?”

Grantaire turned back around and eyed the six of clubs Joly had somehow managed to put down. He took a sip of his tea – cold – and scratched his chin.

“I will have you know that the pleasure of my company is in high demand, sir. You should consider yourself lucky that I chose to spend this precious evening with your rotten self.”

“Ah yes, I feel truly blessed,” Joly chuckled. He tried to aim a sharp kick at Grantaire’s chair but missed and lost his balance, almost falling out of his chair. With a loud bang, he caught himself on the edge of the table with his elbows.

“Jesus Christ!”

Grantaire jumped up to help, but one of the nurses had already rushed over; in one swooping movement, she pushed her hands into Joly’s armpits and hoisted him back onto his chair.

“There, I’ve got you!”

Grantaire cursed softly and let himself fall back into his seat, rubbing his eyes. Joly let out a deep breath and lifted his bandaged fingers to touch the slim hands still gripping his frame. “Thanks, Cosette,” he murmured, looking slightly embarrassed. Cosette gave his ribs a few soft pats before pulling away. “Who knew that gin could be such a dangerous game, eh?” she joked. Grantaire glanced at Joly’s flushed face and hurriedly replied: “it is when I play it – I am wild!” Joly laughed, a little too loudly. Behind his back, Cosette shot Grantaire a grateful smile. “I shall have to chain you to your bed if you do not mend your ways,” she said before sinking to her knees to pick up their cards, the fabric of her skirt rustling against the hardwood floor.

“Excellent idea! I might actually get some sleep for once.”

Joly grinned and shook his head.

“The fact you are still able to function –“

Grantaire scoffed.

“- somewhat function -“

“Thank you.”

“- is beyond me.”

Grantaire shrugged, shifting his weight and pushing the two front legs of his chair off the floor.

“Sheer willpower.”

As she rose up, Cosette put her hand on his thigh and pushed him back down again. He opened his mouth to protest, but then decided not to bother when he saw the stern look on her face. Cosette swept up the other cards that had been left on the table and deftly shuffled them back together into one neat stack. Joly watched her movements carefully, his own hands useless in his lap.

“Cosette!”

Grantaire turned his head and saw Doctor Valjean standing at the door, holding a clipboard.

“Could you show our new patient his room, please?”

Cosette put the pack of cards back on the table and wiped her hands on her apron as she stepped around the table.

“Of course, sir.”

Grantaire smiled at her as she pushed past him, hissing “be good” under her breath – and then his eyes fell on the person standing behind Valjean.

Enjolras.

That was Enjolras.

He was in his army uniform – lieutenant, by the looks of it – and his golden hair stood up slightly on one end, like he’d spent his train ride sleeping with his head against the compartment window. He gripped his pair of brown leather gloves so tightly that his knuckles had turned white and his eyes shot around the room, sizing it up with great precision - before locking eyes with Grantaire.

Grantaire quickly averted his gaze and stared at his shoes.

Enjolras.

Was here.

Standing on the other side of the room.

When Grantaire finally dared to look back up again, Cosette had closed the door and Enjolras was gone.

“R? Who was that? R?”

He slowly turned to look at Joly, who was gently nudging Grantaire’s shin with his foot, and grinned.

“That, my friend, was the voice of our generation.”

Chapter Text

Morlancourt
August 1, 1917

My dearest Enjolras,

(Or should I say ‘fearless leader’? The title seems more apt than ever.)

C. has given me a very detailed account of the whole affair – how you had been ordered to appear before a Medical Board but then tore up order and spent the rest of the day learning poems by heart so you would, and I quote, “have something to recite in prison.”[1] Well, you are notorious throughout England now, you silly old thing![2] However, my guess is that you were probably disappointed that they decided to send you to a war hospital instead - what a way to try to disarm your words! It may feel like you have been silenced, but your message is out there, and now it shall have to do its work without your charming personality to back it up. I, for one, would much rather visit you in Scotland than in prison - although I suspect it will be equally damp and drafty.

Speaking of which, the weather has been dreadful here at the front. Since we are still waiting for further orders, our batallion can only sit and wait while trying not to die of boredom (at least the gunners won't get us first - perhaps it would be a mercy). The good news is that  I have met a most interesting young fellow here. He is a stretcher-bearer, first-aid man, and a lance corporal. [3]

It is a curious thing, but you will understand what I mean when I tell you that, wherever I go, I am always interested in people’s faces, and I scrutinize them a good deal. Why? I asked myself the question the other day as we passed another battalion on the march and I found myself searching every face that passed as though looking for someone I knew. Then I realized that it was my soul searching for a kindred spirit in tune with my own - and though I searched every face that passed not one was there which really pleased me. But when I met Lce. Cpl. Jean Prouvaire, we looked at each other and mutually agreed that we liked each other straight off, though neither of us has said so in so many words.

I first met him at 4 o’clock one morning, just as the sun was rising. It was the first morning after our arrival at the redoubt and I had noticed that the ground behind the dug-outs was too high to be quite safe. As I felt rather chilly (bloody freezing, to be more precise), I picked up a spade and set to work to lower a portion of it. I had been working on this for about half an hour and was just resting my spade and looking far away over the channel (you know where), when I became aware of someone crawling out of one of the dug-outs, first two hands, then a head wearing a knitted cap and then the rest of the figure, crawling on hands and knees. I was watching him, not particularly interested, but when he stood up and I saw his face I was interested at once. We looked at each other for about ten seconds and then he smiled and said ‘Good morning corporal’. I said ‘Good morning’, and then ‘You’re busy early, - not a bad job either for a cold morning, ugh!’ He shrugged his shoulders and seized a pick and began to make the muck fly while I sort of observed him and weighed him up. We have been inseparable ever since. I hope to introduce you to him some day - I’m sure you’ll like him.

And that is all for now, old chap. I could tell you about the rain and the dreadful hole in my boot, but I do not wish to tell that story and I doubt you want to hear it.

Yours,

Courfeyrac.

[1] Sneaking in a quote from Robert Graves: The Assault Heroic 1895-1926 there.

[2] A line taken directly from Robert Graves himself, spoken to Siegfried Sassoon after he had been sent to Craiglockhart.

[3] The two following paragraphs on Courfeyrac's first meeting with Jehan are slightly edited and reworked excerpts from real letters written by a real soldier, lieutenant Frank Cocker. You can find a selection of his letters in the collection A Broken World: Letters, Diaries and Memories of the Great War (ed. Sebastian Faulks and Hope Wolf). I may or may not have cried.

Chapter Text

Craiglockhart War Hospital
August 3, 2014.

When Enjolras knocked on the door of Valjean’s office, he was ten minutes early for his first appointment and the doctor was still in the middle of reading his newspaper.

“Oh! I’m sorry, I can –“

He moved to close the door again, but Valjean was already on his feet. He took Enjolras’ hand in his own and shook it firmly. His skin was warm and smooth, like he had just taken a hot, energising bath and was still enjoying the afterglow.

“Not at all, not at all, come in. Here, take a seat.”

As the doctor began to rummage around in the drawers of his wooden desk (filled with medical files, it seemed), Enjolras let his eyes wander around the office, taking in the bookshelves full of medical almanacs, the thick curtains of dark green velvet, and a small porcelain vase filled with fresh dandelions. “One of the lads picks them for me every morning. The lawn is full of them,” Valjean said, nodding at the flowers.

“The fresh air helps him clear his head, even if it’s just for a little while, and I like having something cheerful to look at while I’m working. Now where did I – ah! Here it is.”

He triumphantly took a single file out of the top drawer and opened it, revealing an official-looking report and a photograph of Enjolras in his army uniform, looking like he had just been startled by a loud noise when the picture was taken. Then Valjean took a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket, put them on, and reached for the fountain pen lying next to his now-abandoned newspaper.

“So! How was your first night at our facility? Did you get any sleep?”

“Yes.”

“And your room, are you settling in alright?”

“Yes.”

Valjean hummed and scribbled something in his notebook. Enjolras uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and then began tapping his right foot in the air. When he raised his eyes again, the doctor was looking at him. Enjolras met his gaze and raised his eyebrows – a challenge. Valjean’s mouth twitched – then he glanced over at the door to see if it was still closed. Once this was confirmed, he leaned over his desk and said: “look, we both know the real reason you were sent here and it wasn’t shell shock.”

Enjolras’ jaw tightened.

“But while you’re here, it seems to me that I might as well see if I can help you in any way.”

“I appreciate that,” Enjolras began, uncrossing his legs again and leaning forward. “But I am perfectly well, I assure you. Truth be told, I would much rather be in prison. The only reason I have not been locked up for conscientious objecting is my name -  they feared that if the word about my incarceration spread, I would become a martyr and inspire more protests all across the country – and God knows the army needs every man it can get right now.”

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair and licked his lips. Valjean was listening closely, pen still in hand.

“You see, it is nothing personal – it’s all about reputation. If I let you treat me, people will truly think that I – that I am dotty, and I cannot let that happen. Who will listen to me then? I do not want pity – I want to be heard. The British government tells its people that those men at the front are fighting for king and country and that we should be proud when they die out there – but all these mothers and sisters and brothers, they have no idea what these boys are put through, the hell they face every single day. And what for? All those politicians up at Westminster, they have the power to put an end to this, and yet they choose not to. Every single day this war drags on, every damn day, they choose to abandon us. These soldiers… We should not glorify their suffering – we should bring them home. If people knew, if they only knew…”

Enjolras grimaced and let himself fall back in his chair. Outside, a small group of officers was throwing a leather ball around. With each gust of wind, their shouts floated into Valjean’s office through the open window (“other right, you loon!”). The doctor sighed and put down his pen.

“Even if I were sympathetic to your cause,” he said slowly, carefully weighing each word, “my hands are tied. I could lose my job, you see - and I like my job. I am doing some real good here and as much as I – if I did agree with you, I mean – I am not willing to take that risk. These men –-“

He gestured towards the open window.

“- they need me. I need to see this through, whatever happens.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by the sound of a loud crash followed by cheering soldiers.

At last, Enjolras nodded.

“I understand, and I respect your commitment to your men, I do. I may have jumped to conclusions too soon, but you must understand...”

“That’s quite alright. I know you were probably not expecting to find a friend here.”

Enjolras sniffed, but couldn’t help but smile.

“So, as a poet I expect you will want to write for The Hydra.”

“The – what?”

“The Hydra. It’s our hospital’s magazine, quite the project. I like to encourage our patients to express themselves in writing or drawing, and this monthly publication gives them the incentive to do so. They exchange stories, sketches – and poetry!”

“Ah,” Enjolras mouthed, nodding politely.

“Once you’ve settled in properly, I’ll introduce you to the editor – young man, just picked up poetry himself, you know. Mostly sonnets, that sort of thing. Would you be interested?”

Enjolras laughed.

“Might as well, while I’m here. Might help with the boredom.”

Valjean got up out of his seat and reached out his hand.

“Oh, I assure you, Mr Enjolras, things at Craiglockhart are rarely boring.”

Chapter Text

Craiglockhart War Hospital
August 3, 2013

It was a clear day, and the sky was the kind of deep, overwhelming blue Grantaire could let himself drown in. He was lying on his back on the hot tiles of the terrace, a cigarette in his left hand and his notebook in the other. The football game had long since been broken up and the soldiers were now scattered across the grounds – either going for an afternoon stroll or retreating inside to escape the heat – leaving Grantaire alone with his thoughts.

As he let tufts of smoke slowly drift out of his nostrils, Grantaire kept looking up into the sky. It was the kind of blue that you could only find on a summer’s day like this, when the air was just right, when the wind was just so. A single cloud, even the mere suggestion of one would’ve been enough to ruin it. It was the colour of the cornflowers outside his father’s house (his father’s house, not their house, never their house), the colour of the sea when he had first arrived in France with the regiment, and the colour of Cosette’s eyes when you told her a particularly dirty joke and she slapped you hard on the arm to shut you up before her father heard you. Grantaire wished he could scrape it off the air like a thick, sticky paste and keep it in a jar for rainy days. Or for when he fell asleep.

There was no blue in his nightmares – only brown and grey and the occasional splash of red. No blue, never blue, and especially not this shade. It wouldn’t be able to exist there; the rain would pour and pour until there was nothing left but sludgy mud, until you’d couldn’t even remember anything else ever existing. A jar would be better. Something he could put on his nightstand so he’d have something to look at before going to bed – because surely, with the sky at his fingertips, he could finally be able to sleep. At last, real sleep.

That’s when the glowing tip of his cigarette, neglected for too long, reached his fingertips and burnt his skin. Grantaire hissed and flew upright, dropping the butt onto the smouldering tiles. As he held up his middle and index finger to examine the damage, the patio door opened and a young man with dusty red hair came staggering out, carrying a small table with a record player on top in his skinny arms.

“Need some help with that, Marius?”

The man didn’t respond. He lowered the table and player onto the ground a few feet away from Grantaire, in the shade. Then he sunk down on his knees, took the record off the turnstile, and carefully dusted it off with the sleeve of his shirt. In the meantime, Grantaire lifted himself up on his palms and extinguished the still smoking cigarette with his shoe.

“I think I’ve figured out what was wrong with my opening line, by the way.”

Marius slowly put the record back in place and reached for the needle.

“I think the whole thing works much better if I replace the word ‘morn’ with ‘dawn’ – it has a ring to it. ‘Sing to me at dawn but only with your laugh: / Like a sprightly Spring that‘ -“ [1]

His words were drowned out by the opening chords of a melancholy song, all minor clarinets and violas. Grantaire let his eyes fall shut and groaned. “Again, Marius?” he asked. “We have a whole case full of records, there has got to be something else you like. How about some Ivor Novello, eh? Don’t get me wrong, ‘Roses of Picardy’ is a lovely song, I just…” But it was no use. Marius had already taken off his blouse to use as a cushion and was now sitting next to the record player with his eyes closed, breathing deeply and a smile slowly spreading across his face.

She is watching by the poplars,
Colinette with the sea blue eyes
She is watching and longing and waiting
Where the long white roadway lies [2]

There was a click and the patio doors opened again, this time revealing Enjolras.

He was wearing his uniform again – the coat far too hot for this weather. There was a book and a rolled up copy of the Times under his arm and he looked… Grantaire quickly averted his eyes and reached into his pocket for his cigarette case.

And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there’s one rose that dies not in Picardy
‘Tis the rose that I keep in my heart

“Excuse me.”

Grantaire looked up, but Enjolras had addressed Marius, whose head was still swaying softly from left to right.

“That is a charming tune you’re playing.”

Marius didn’t respond or open his eyes. Grantaire took a breath to say something, but Enjolras seemed to be determined to see his attempt at a conversation through.

“I thought I’d come out here and enjoy the sunshine. I even brought my book, see?”

There was another moment of silence as Enjolras looked at Marius, waiting for a response. “You’ve certainly chosen the right spot to spend the day,” he said, a bit more loudly. “Out in the fresh air, but not directly in that blasted heat.” Still nothing. Enjolras cleared his throat.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

Grantaire couldn’t take it anymore. He took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, turned around, and said: “it’s no use, you know.” Enjolras looked up, surprised by the sudden interruption. “What do you mean?” he asked. Grantaire nodded at Marius, who seemed perfectly oblivious of the whole exchange.

“He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t said a word in months.”

“He… Oh. Oh.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t know. And he can hear you. Sometimes he just chooses not to.”

 “I see.”

There was a long silence as Enjolras tried not to stare at Marius and instead turned to look at Grantaire.

“Right. Well. Can I sit with you, then?”

Grantaire’s eyebrows shot up.

“It’s just that I have only arrived here last night and I do not know anyone yet.”

“Wouldn’t I distract you from your reading?” Grantaire asked, but Enjolras was already heading towards him. “Nonsense, I enjoy the company,” he said as he started taking off his coat and neatly folding up the brown, woolen fabric. Grantaire quickly swept away the old cigarette butt – shit shit shit - and then presented the empty space beside him with a theatrical wave of his arm. Enjolras smiled at him and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows.

And a song stirs in the silence
As the wind in the boughs above
She listens and starts and trembles
'Tis the first little song of love.

Grantaire took out his lighter and flicked off the lid – more to have something to do with his hands than anything else – as Enjolras finally sunk onto the floor and spread out his long legs in front of him. The collar of his shirt fell open to reveal a single mole on his collarbone. Grantaire firmly looked away and lit his cigarette.

Behind them, there was the sound of a scratching needle, and then the opening notes of ‘Roses of Picardy’ drifted down the stone steps once more. Enjolras turned his head to look at Marius, who was sinking back down onto his coat and closing his eyes again. Grantaire took his cigarette out of his mouth and said: “you learn to tune it out after a while.”

“Ah.”

Enjolras was still frowning, but seemed satisfied with that comment for now. He turned back around to face Grantaire and looked him up and down for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether he was worth engaging with. Grantaire swallowed.  Then Enjolras stuck out his right hand.

“Enjolras.”

Grantaire reached over, trying to suppress the manic smile he knew was trying to fight its way onto his face.

“Grantaire.”

“Wait. I know that name.”

Grantaire blinked.

“Aren’t you the fellow who edits the – what’s it called – the hospital magazine? The…”

“The Hydra!” Grantaire jumped in eagerly. “Yes, yes, that’s me. Well, I mean, ‘edit’ is a big word for harassing people until they send in their writing each month, but...”

“Count me in.”

Enjolras had been squinting against the sunlight and finally lifted up his right hand to shield his eyes, getting a better look at Grantaire.

“I could use a distration in this place.”

Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you

[1] This refers to Wilfred Owen's "Song of Songs." It'll come back in a later chapter!

[2] "Roses of Picardy" was an immensely popular song during this era (some of the most intense fighting took place in the Picardy region), and according to a 1920 article in The Evening Telegraph, singing the song helped soldiers recovering from shell shock to regain their powers of speech. Also, as you may have guessed, Marius likes this song so much because it's about love and a pretty blue-eyed girl named Colinette. Hint hint. You can listen to the song here.

Chapter Text

Morlancourt

August 4, 1917

My dear Enjolras,

I am glad to hear that you have found a friend in Dottyville.[1] Perhaps you can convince him to reprint your letter in this hospital magazine and start a revolution from inside the walls. They would never see it coming! I can see it now: patients hitting their doctors in the knees with their crutches, poisoning them with their own medication, barricading the doors with a dozen wheelchairs… The possibilities are endless! I expect to hear that you have declared a new Craiglockhart utopia in your next letter. You know I could use a good laugh out here, so do not disappoint me.

There is not much I can disclose about my current situation that will not be blacked out before this letter reaches you,[2] but suffice it to say that it is both the best and the worst of times. The bad part is that this morning, I was sleeping in a dug-out and a rat fell on my face and bit me. It must have been running along a beam above me and the vibration of a shell exploding nearby had knocked it off. Since the poison that we had been ordered to set out earlier this week does not seem to have the desired effect, Jehan (you remember Jehan) and I have decided to take matters into our own hands. We plan to smuggle bits of bacon from the mess hall whenever we can and attach them to the end of our bayonet; this way, when the little bastards come up to take a bite, we can pull the trigger and BAM! Straight to rat heaven – or rat hell, more like.[3]

It’s not all bad though. Combeferre's parcel reached me earlier this week; he had not only sent me the Austen book I had asked him for, but also a tin of peaches, a tin of pineapples, a maltwheat loaf, and a ginger cake. I had had a long march the night before and there was another long march to face at sunset, so the loaf and the tin of peaches disappeared at dinnertime, with the aid of a few more than willing friends. Jehan (wonderful Jehan) was nowhere to be found, so I decided to save the rest for when he returned. He arrived later that night on a timber wagon and came to find me. I had put some of the pineapple and two pieces of ginger cake out on a tin plate and presented it to him with a flourish. You should have seen his eyes open wide! I said: ‘with the gracious compliments of a man somewhere in England.’ First he only blushed, but then he jumped to his feet and made an elaborate bow, and while his left hand accepted the dish, his right hand threw kisses to the invisible donor. ‘Aha! monsieur, merci beaucoup, give the dear young lad my grateful thanks and kind regards!’ He amused himself by making the other lads green with envy, by taking a spoonful of the fruit and inviting them to look at it. Then he would slowly move it to his mouth and make goo-goo eyes to express his enjoyment, finishing each spoonful with a smack of the lips. Eventually they got exasperated and threatened to throw lumps of bread at him.[4]

Like I said - not all bad.

All the best from a mound of mud in Flanders.

Courfeyrac.

[1] Siegfried Sassoon’s nickname for Craiglockhart.

[2] Letters sent to the front were opened, read, and censored before getting sent back to Britain, just in case they were intercepted. If there were any details in the letter that were considered dangerous if they were to fall in enemy hands (like regiment locations and/or movements), those lines would get blacked out.

[3] Soldiers actually did this – rats were an enormous problem in the trenches. More here.

[4] Another paragraph taken almost verbatim from the letters of Frank Cocker. Also, according to this article, the novels of Jane Austen were prescribed to shell-shocked soldiers after the First World War since they provided comfort and structure in an increasingly chaotic world.

Chapter Text

‘Jack fell as he’d have wished,’ the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she’d read.
‘The Colonel writes so nicely.’ Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. ‘We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.’ Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

The Hero, Siegfried Sassoon.

Grantaire had been on leave when the package arrived.

He had insisted that there was no need for Éponine to come pick up him, that he knew his way from the train station to her house perfectly well, thank you very much, but she had never been one to take no for an answer. When he stepped onto the platform, he knew to look for her – and there she was, jaw clenched, arms crossed. Her eyes softened when they found his face in the crowd, and she half-heartedly raised her hand in greeting, like she wanted to acknowledge his arrival without actually showing that she cared. She looked him up and down as he walked up to her, weaving left and right between the other passengers.

“You look terrible,” she said curtly.

“Hello to you too.”

The wind rippled her skirt as they stood there, taking a moment to take each other in. Éponine looked like a faded copy of herself, like someone had wrung her out one time too many. Her eyes kept darting back and forth between Grantaire and the other people on the platform, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to examine him or keep an eye out for potential threats. Her shirt was completely worn through at the elbows; he could see right through the fabric. She had only been working at the factory for a month or so, mixing chemicals and pouring TNT powder into shells, but her fingers were already starting to turn a sickly shade of yellow.[1]

“Where’s your necklace?”

“Sold it.”

“Sold it?”

“I wasn’t allowed to wear it to work anyway. So.” [2]

She met his eyes, her jaw set, daring him to disapprove, but Grantaire looked away. He didn’t ask her how much she’d gotten for it – he didn’t need to. He couldn’t imagine that the War would have inspired any generosity in Montparnasse. If anything, the bastard was probably delighted that people were flocking to his pawnshop, offering up their family heirlooms for enough change to buy stamps or a bag of sugar.[3] For a brief moment, Grantaire wondered what Éponine had used the money for.

Suddenly there was a loud bang behind them - Grantaire dropped to his knees and covered his head – but it was only the conductor  who had slammed the train door shut. Grantaire barked out a laugh (too loud, too harsh), but when he looked up, Éponine was frowning at him. He averted his eyes and got back on his feet, slightly embarrassed. “Just the…” Grantaire pointed from his ear to the train, now moving out of the station. “I’m fine,” he finished, lamely. For a moment Éponine looked like she was going to hug him, but then she turned around and started walking away from him. “It’s this way,” she said, as Grantaire hurriedly wiped the dust off his knees and followed her down the platform.

The house looked like it had been squeezed in between two larger buildings at the last second, like an architectural afterthought. Someone had tried to brighten up the place by putting up lace curtains on the ground floor, but they were so out of place amidst the cracked walls and the grimy windows that the mere look of them made Grantaire feel sad.

“Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“My landlady is out for the day, so we’ll probably have the house to ourselves.”

Éponine looked both embarrassed and defiant as she beckoned him into the hall and up the narrow staircase. The walls were covered in dark wood panelling and the ceiling hung low over their heads. The sound of Grantaire's footsteps was immediately soaked up by the thick, beige carpet, and there were people staring at him from the pictures on the wall. He felt trapped, like the house was trying to suffocate him. Still, when Éponine turned around to look at him, he quickly grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“I know it’s not much, but –“

“It’s fine. It’s yours.”

“Well, I pay rent.”

“So it’s yours.”

She touched his arm as she moved past him towards the kitchen. The hallway was dark, but Grantaire could have sworn that there was a small smile on her face. When he blinked, it was gone.

“Go take a seat. I’ll go and see if we still have some coffee left.”

The living room was not much better than the hallway, but at least there was light coming in through the windows. Grantaire briefly examined the watercolour painting of some roses before sitting down at the table. He could hear Éponine opening and closing cabinets in the other room, cursing under her breath ("I swear to God if Vera took the last tin"). He smiled, taking a moment to enjoy the sound of her voice - and that's when he saw the package on the other side of the table. It looked soft but bulky and was wrapped in thick brown paper with Éponine's name and adress written in the top right corner.

"Hey, looks like this is for you."

"What?"

"I said, there's a package for you."

Éponine walked into the room, wiping her hands on her skirt. She leaned over and gently touched the writing, like she was making sure that her name was actually there. The paper croaked and crinkled underneath her fingers. Tilting her head to get a better look at the postage stamp, she picked it up and sat down in the chair next to Grantaire. Then she pulled at the string that kept the packet together. A single beam of sunlight shone down on her lap; Grantaire could see a spray of rough fibers fly through the air as the knot came loose.

Éponine gasped loudly and tossed the package onto the table like the very touch had burned her skin. The paper fell open, revealing the mud-caked sleeve of a military uniform. Oh no. Grantaire reached out his hand, but Éponine closed her eyes and hugged her arms tightly to her chest, leaning back as far as the chair would let her, like she was trying to put as much distance between herself and the piece of clothing as possible. A few grains of dirt had come loose from the fabric and had fallen onto the table.

He’d forgotten they did this.

He had stopped thinking about what happened after death ever since he’d found himself witnessing it every day.

He had seen all the ways a man can die – and what came after.

Sometimes you’d get buried somewhere quiet, like a forest or a nice hill looking out over what was left of the Flemmish countryside. They’d create a little makeshift sign, listing your name, rank, and, if you were lucky, perhaps even a brief mention of how you had died heroically for queen and country. A speck of dust forever England. [4] And then the troops would move on, leaving you to rot under six feet of foul clay, alone. And then you were forgotten.

Sometimes there was even less ceremony than that. Joly had told him how he had been on trench-digging duty one day when they’d come across a mass grave. His shovel had made a sickening crunch when it hit the first body. The smell had been even worse – he had run to the side, desperate not to vomit on the dead. Later they were set to work to bury people. They pushed them into the sides of the trench but bits of them kept getting uncovered and sticking out, like people in a badly made bed. Hands were the worst; they would escape from the sand, pointing, begging – even waving. There was one which they all shook when they passed, saying “Good morning” in a posh voice. Everybody did it. The bottom of the trench was springy like a matress because all of the bodies underneath.[5] When Joly had torn the skin off his hands until they bled because he could not stop washing them, he had been sent to Craiglockhart immediately.

Grantaire reached over the table and pulled the package toward him. A few more grains of sand came loose and rolled across the surface. The cracking of the paper sounded unnaturally loud as the rest of the room seemed to hold its breath, as if dreading the worst - though what could be worse than what had already happened? Was there anything left to fear?

Yes.

Of course there was.

It was Gavroche’s kit, everything he’d had with him at the front. At the top were the clothes he had been wearing when he was hit. First Grantaire picked up the tunic (damp – why was it damp?). It had been torn front and back by a bullet; he gingerly traced the holes with his fingertips. Straight through the heart. He would have died instantly. 

He carefully folded the tunic and put it aside. Then the coat, heavy, thick. It was stiff with blood and mud and audibly cracked under his hands, large slabs of caked dirt breaking off into smaller pieces onto the table. There was a pair of blood-stained breeches too, slit open at the top by someone obviously in a violent hurry. They tried to save him. He folded these too and put them on top of the other garments. Cold, lifeless pieces of clothing, the stench of mud and death fuming out of every single fiber. It was difficult to imagine Gavroche – restless, warm, loud Gavroche – wearing them.

Grantaire wanted to gag.

He wanted to run.

Leather boots. A handful of copper coins. A tin of Vaseline. A pair of rolled up socks. A pocket knife. Two brushes still covered in grease. A tin cup. [6]

Éponine let out a hoarse wail and folded even deeper into herself. Grantaire couldn’t bear to turn his head; if he saw her like this, he feared that something deep inside of him would snap, never to be put back together again. He just continued to take out one object after another and lay them out on the table – everything that was left of Gavroche, and yet not a single thing that felt like it had actually belonged to him. It was like he was performing the autopsy of someone he had never even met.

A bar of soap. A can opener. Some matches.

And there it was, hidden at the very bottom of the pile – a crumpled piece of paper with two lines on it, seemingly scrabbled in a hurry.

I was too late.

I’m sorry.

[1] Read more about women working in munitions factories and why some were called ‘canaries’ here.

[2] This wouldn’t have been allowed for two reasons: first, jewelry and hairpins had to be left at the door because they caused a potential hazard when working with the machinery. Secondly, the workers would have had to wear an identity tag much like the ones soldiers would wear. This way, they could be identified in case there was an accident (and by accident I mean explosion).

[3] Not to mention that women working in those factories earned only half the salary the men had previously received in their position.

[4] Had to get some Rupert Brooke in there.

[5] A few lines taken directly from Akenfield: Portrait of an English Village by Ronald Blythe, a book that was loosely based on Blythe’s interviews with the villagers.

[6] Here is a picture of everything in one soldier's kit.

Chapter Text

Sing at me at dawn but only with your laugh:
Like sprightly Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Like Love, that cannot flute for smiling at Life.

Sing to me only with your speech all day,
As voluble leaflets do. Let viols die.
The least word of your lips is melody.

Sing me at dusk, but only with your sigh;
Like lifting seas it solaceth: breathe so,
All voicelessly, the sense that no songs say.

Sing me at midnight with your murmurous heart;
And let its moaning like a chord be heard
Surging through you and sobbing unsubdued.

Song of Songs (1917), Wilfred Owen.

Enjolras looked up and smiled.

“It’s perfect.”

Grantaire hadn’t even noticed that he had been holding his breath until he let out a loud sigh of relief. He nervously rubbed his sideburns, finally allowing a laugh to escape from his lips.

“You mean it?”

“Of course I do. I don’t see the point of false flattery – I will never be anything but honest with you about your work.”

“Yes, I noticed when you tore apart my sonnets.”

Enjolras smirked and looked back at the notebook, letting his index finger dance across the page. For a split second, Grantaire felt a pang of frustration at his own scratchy handwriting.

“It’s just a short lyric –“

“But there is a melody to the words – which is quite fitting, of course. It’s... It's charming.”

“I'm sorry - charming?” Grantaire snorted.

Enjolras flushed.

“Yes. Charming. Why do you – I don’t understand what’s so funny.”

“I’m not surprised! You were truly the Brother Bertie of your regiment, weren’t you?”

“The… What?”

Grantaire barked out a laugh.

“Brother Bertie! From the—You honestly don’t know?”

“No, I don’t,” said Enjolras grumpily, looking down and closing Grantaire’s notebook. “But I’m sure that you are going to tell me.”

“I’ll do you one better,” crowed Grantaire. “I’ll sing it!”

Enjolras looked up, alarmed.

“Sing i—“

“Brother Bertie went away,
To do his bit the other day,
With a smile on his lips,
And his Lieutenant’s pips,
Upon his shoulder bright and gaaaaay-“[1]

Enjolras winced.

“Oh, I know this—“

“As the train moved out he said,
‘Remember me to all the birds!’”

Grantaire waltzed over to the desk and swooped down to take Enjolras’ hand.

“No, please don’t –“

“And he wagged his paw,
And went away to war,
Shouting out these pathetic wooooooords –“

Grantaire pulled Enjolras to his feet, grinning from ear to ear.

“You really don’t have to-“

“Goodbye-ee! Goodbye-ee!
Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee!”

Enjolras tried to free his hand, but Grantaire only gripped it tighter and raised Enjolras’ fingers to his lips, theatrically pretending to kiss them.

“Tho’ it’s hard to part I know,
I’ll –“

“No.”

“- be -”

“Stop.”

“- tickled to death to go,
Don’t cry-ee, don’t sigh-ee,
There’s a silver lining in the sky-ee!”

Enjolras sighed deeply, but the corner of his mouth was twitching.

“Bonsoir, old thing, cheerio, chin chin,
Nappoo, toodle-oo, goodbye-ee!”

Grantaire clicked his heels together and bowed like he was giving thanks to an invisible crowd, cheering wildly.

 “Thank you, thank you! I’ll be here all week!”

“Fantastic. Can I please have my hand back now?”

The second Grantaire let go, Enjolras moved away from him and sat back down in his chair. He clenched his jaw for a second, then blurted out: “I am not that posh.” Grantaire raised one eyebrow. “You could have fooled me.” Enjolras picked up the notebook again and turned it over and over in his hands, looking pensive.

There was a moment of silence, finally broken by Grantaire.

“I didn’t mean to—“

“No, I know.”

“I just wanted –“

“Yes, no, of course. I’m just… I’m tired, is all. I had a session with Valjean this afternoon, and it was…”

Enjolras looked down. He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. Then he opened the notebook again and flipped back and forth until he had found the right page.

 “I really did like this poem, you know – the ‘Song of Songs’ one. In fact, I would love to show this to some publisher friends of mine – with your permission, of course. Could you copy it out for me?”

Grantaire blinked.

“I… Yes. Yes, of course, I… I would be honoured.”

They looked at each other. Then Enjolras smiled.

“I still hate the sonnets though.”

“You prick.”

“I really do.”

“Keep talking like that and I swear I’ll start singing agai--”

Grantaire ducked just in time as his notebook sailed over his head and crashed into the door behind him with a loud bang.

[1] The song Good-Bye-ee (1917) mocked well-educated soldiers who couldn't stop themselves from using public school language such as “chin-chin!”

Chapter Text

The first time the reality of the war truly hit Cosette was when Valjean had taken her to visit their old home in the convent in Sussex. They had gone for a walk on the South Downs, occasionally bending down to pick flowers or look at a curious insect, when they heard it. There was a strong wind blowing in from the south east, and with it came the scent of salt and the sound of the guns in France. It was like a distant thunder, rumbling across the waves and crashing into the hills. The very air crackled. Cosette had frozen in her steps and tilted her head up. Valjean’s mouth had tightened into a grimace, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. He had not spoken a word on the way back. Cosette had been silent, too, but she would occasionally brush her fingers against the back of her father’s hand, just to assure him that she was still there. It wasn’t until they had gotten back to the house that she realised that she was no longer holding the flowers.

Later, Cosette would compare the sound to the beating of gigantic carpets by gigantic women up in the sky. She could almost see them, standing face to face and holding the heavy carpets in their strong arms by the four corners, then tossing them into the air and bringing them down with a dark thud while the dust rose in a cloud above their heads. From that day on, all walks on the Downs were accompanied by this sinister sound of far-off beating. Sometimes it was nothing more than a faint echo, and sometimes it seemed almost to come from the next fold of grey land. Cosette had never felt so small and powerless as the morning when she had climbed the path on her own, as phantom horsemen dashed through the mist with a thunder of hoofs, threatening to crush her without a moment’s thought.[1]

Only a few months later, Valjean had found Cosette weeping in her bedroom. He had pulled her to his chest and asked her what was the matter. “Bertie left for the front this afternoon,” she had sobbed. “The Weathers boy?” Valjean had grumbled, softly stroking her hair. “I did not know you were so fond of him.”

“I’m not – not really. It’s just – he is – he was the last one left – all the boys – everyone I have ever danced with is gone. They’ve all gone.”

Valjean hadn’t tried to console her. He didn’t tell her that Bertie would come back, that any of them would. He hadn’t said anything about praying for their safe return. The next morning he walked out the door, something about seeing a man about a job, and came back that same evening with the news that they were moving to Scotland.

He had tried to keep her away from Craiglockhart at first. He told her as little as possible about the condition the soldiers were in and what they had seen, but Cosette could see it in the way his eyes glazed over sometimes when he thought she wasn’t looking. She would catch him staring out the window, looking at nothing, his tea cold on the table. When she straightened his tie one morning, she suddenly noticed that the hair at his temples had gone gray. She had looked him straight in the eye, begging him to be honest with her, to tell her, but Valjean just pressed a kiss on her forehead and left for work. He didn’t come home until long after she had gone to bed. Cosette could hear him stumbling around the hallway for a few minutes before going up the stairs to his bedroom. After she was sure that he had gone to sleep, she quietly got up and tiptoed to the kitchen; Valjean’s dinner was still sitting on the table, untouched.

She had been strolling aimlessly through the village streets when she ran into Musichetta, who almost swept her off her feet in a frantic hug. “It’s Bossuet,” Musichetta had shrieked into her ear. “He’s coming home on leave tomorrow, and he’s staying for six days. Six days! I can’t get the time off, so he’ll probably just have to sit around in the pub and watch me work.” “That’s how he first fell in love with you though, isn’t it?” Cosette had joked. “I bet it was the sight of watching you pour a perfect stout that won him over.” Musichetta laughed, the first hair-tossing belly laugh Cosette had heard from her in weeks. They had clutched at each other, relief and excitement running through them like pure adrenaline, giggling at nothing in particular in the middle of the street.

Musichetta had finally agreed to borrow one of Cosette’s new dresses (“yes you can, I won’t take no for an answer”), but refused to take her earrings. “Last time he saw me my hair was coming undone and my hands were sticky with stale beer,” she said. “It’s been months - he may not recognise me if I look too – too…” She gestured at Cosette.

“Then I suppose you would never agree to letting me cover one of your shifts so you can have some alone time with him, would you?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’m offering.”

“But you don’t the first thing about –“

“So teach me.”

She should have known better than to think that she could sneak anything past her father. Cosette was reading the newspaper at the kitchen table when she could feel him put his hands on her shoulders and lean over her to see it said (War Cabinet Ready For Long War: Will Win At All Costs).

“So I hear the Rose and Crown has a new bairmaid.”

Cosette winced.

“Bit clumsy, they said, but you’ll forgive her instantly for spilling red wine down your shirt when you see her smile.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I knew you wouldn’t approve – but I was only trying to help Musichetta and Bossuet. With everything they have been through, they deserve to have just one day to themselves.”

Valjean squeezed her shoulders. Cosette put her hands on his and sighed. She had rehearsed her apology all afternoon, but now that the moment had come, she could not bring herself to say the words. “Did you hear about Bertie Weathers?” she asked.

“I did.”

“I was walking past their house when they told his mother. They tried to tell her that it was a quick and painless death, but she kept shouting at them that they were lying, that she could feel it in her bones. She kept screaming at them at the top of her lungs, and then she just sank down to her knees, right there on the driveway. Bertie’s father practically had to carry her back inside.”

Valjean didn’t reply. His thumb gently caressed her neck, but he seemed deep in thought. Then Cosette took a deep breath.

“I want to become a nurse.”

They had argued all night, but in the end, they reached a compromise; Cosette would be allowed to volunteer, but only if she came to work at her father’s war hospital. She had begged Valjean to let her go to the front, but he had thundered that if she was so desperate to see the horrors of war, at least she could observe them safely at Craiglockhart.

“You want to help? These men need it – lots of it.”

The training had been much more severe than she had anticipated, but Cosette was determined not to complain. The collar of her uniform was stiff and scratchy with starch, but she ignored it. Her hands became raw from scrubbing the floors, scrubbing the bed pans, scrubbing the blood from underneath her nails before going home. As she lay in bed, every single muscle in her body hurt – muscles she hadn’t even known she had. In the morning, she pinned up her hair and carefully pushed every stray lock underneath her white cap. Valjean tried to catch her eye in the hospital hallway sometimes, but after a brief, reassuring glance, she marched past him, a tray of soiled bandages in her hands.

The officers took to her instantly – the ones who recognised her, anyway. One time, an ailing soldier kept calling out for his fiancée. He was feverish to the point of delusional, and his screams had kept the other men on the floor up for hours. Another nurse had tried to calm him down, but he would no longer listen to reason. Eventually Cosette pulled up a stool beside him, took his hand, and said: “I’m here – I’m here.” As she whispered sweet nothings in his ear, his breaths grew shallow. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the other nurse walk back and forth through the hallway, peeking into the room every time she passed the door. She was waiting for the man to die so she could give the bed to another patient. Cosette cast her an angry look, but the woman just shrugged and walked away. Forty minutes later, the officer’s breathing stopped. Cosette was already halfway home when she realised that she didn’t know his name.

Sometimes, before going to bed, Cosette would open her old jewelry box and run her fingers across all the necklaces she had not worn in almost a year, all the bracelets that seemed to belong to a time she could barely even remember. One night, she had looked up to find Valjean watching her, leaning against the doorframe. She hurriedly closed the box and pushed it towards the far end of her night stand.

“I’m fine.”

“I know. I just…”

“I’m fine.”

Valjean sighed and took a step forward into her room.

“Cosette…”

“You know we cannot go back to the way things were –“ she began to argue, but he interrupted her: “I know, I know. Truly, I do. But do not let this steal away your sweetness. I hope that when all is said and done, you can still believe that this world is a beautiful place if you know where to look.” The light caught his face, and suddenly Valjean turned from a tall and powerful presence into a tired old man with hunched over shoulders. Cosette wanted to get up and put her arms around him, but he straightened his back and stepped back into the doorway.

“Be soft, Cosette. Do not let this war make you hard.”[2]

[1] I've reworked a paragraph from an essay by Virginia Woolf for this part (The Times, 15 August 1916). Woolf and her family had spent most of the previous month on the edge of the Downs near Lewes, Sussex.

[2] Paraphrasing Kurt Vonnegut there.

Chapter Text

LILITH.
I think there is more sorrow in the world
Than man can bear.

NUBIAN.
None can exceed their limit, lady.
You either bear or break.

LILITH.
Can one choose to break? To bear,
To wearily bear in misery.

The Unicorn, Isaac Rosenberg.

As the days passed, the heat went from mildly unpleasant to unbearable. It was now impossible to walk on the terrace without burning the souls of your feet on the smouldering tiles, so most of the Craiglockhart patients had sought refuge inside. There were a few brave souls out on the lawn, most of them smokers, who would get up every hour or so to find a new spot of shadow to sit in.

Enjolras and Grantaire had retreated upstairs and sat in companiable silence on Enjolras’ bed with a chest board set out between them. They had opened the window as wide as it would go in the hopes of catching the occasional breeze, but all it had done was let more heat in, slowly seeping into every pore. There were damp circles underneath their arm pits and on the small of their backs, but both pretended not to notice. Enjolras was leaning forward slightly and frowned as he considered his next move. His index finger was slowly moving back and forth across his bottom lip – an unconscious expression of deep concentration. Grantaire looked away.

The papers on Enjolras’ desk were ordered in neat stacks; even his pen was lined up perfectly parallel to a mysterious black notebook.  Grantaire could barely resist the urge to reach out and flip it open to a random page, just to have a peek inside. Could there be any unfinished poems in there? Would Enjolras ever let him read them?

And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there’s one rose that dies not in Picardy
‘Tis the rose that I keep in my heart

“That song again,” It wasn’t a question, but Enjolras still looked at Grantaire like he was expecting an answer. Grantaire shrugged. “Sounds like Marius has decided to brave the heat after all.” He took out a cigarette and was about to light it when he saw the frown on Enjolras’ face.

“No?”

“If you don’t mind.”

The cigarette disappeared into Grantaire’s breast pocket, and Enjolras turned his attention back to the chess board. Outside the window, there was a sudden loud scratch followed by determined footsteps going back inside (“you’ll get it back once you’ve found another bloody record”). Grantaire let his eyes wander around the room. There were two shelves filled with books on the wall behind Enjolras – he thought he could make out a volume by Thomas Hardy, but did not want to turn his head to get a better look.

“Did you know him? Before – before, I mean.”

Enjolras didn’t look up this time, but even though his eyes were fixed on Grantaire’s rook, he seemed to be miles away.

“Who, Marius?” Grantaire asked. “We used to be in the same regiment before coming here. He’s a good man, Marius. Bit naieve when I met him, but…” He paused to think. “Gentle. Yeah, gentle. He’s the kind of man who says ‘thank you’ and actually means it every single time, you know?”

Enjolras smiled, his hair falling into his eyes. Now that he had started talking, Grantaire couldn’t stop. He took the unlit cigarette back out of his pocket and started twirling it back and forth between his fingers.

“People change in the trenches, they all do. We go in white and come out gray and brown, smelling of death.[1] If we come out at all, that is - and I’m not sure Marius has. Some part of him is still there, I think. He may have made it back to England, but really, he died out there.”

Enjolras still wasn’t looking at him, his expression carefully blank.

“Anyway, Marius was a reckless fighter. It’s a miracle he made it back at all. He took no aim, didn’t take shelter – he would just stand there with more than half his body above the trench wall, pale and tight-jawed, shooting at nothing. It was like he was in a trance. A phantom with a rifle.”[2]

Grantaire rubbed his chin, his black stubble scraping against his palm.

“Valjean tried to explain it to me once,” he said. “Why he doesn’t talk, I mean. He told me you should imagine language as a city, one of those really old ones full of strange little alleys and squares and nooks and crannies and cellars, reaching out as far as the eye can see. Each morning, Marius wakes up in this city, and every single morning, he finds that he does not know the way. It’s like he is a traveler who has been abroad for a long time and now cannot find his own house anymore. He keeps stumbling down the streets, searching for a sign or that one landmark that will tell him where he is, but nothing looks familiar. All day long, he wanders a ghost town filled with fog, completely lost.”[3]

“Christ.”

“’s More than that though, if you ask me. I think Marius has not just lost his way – he has lost any sense of the city. It’s like… It’s like he no longer knows what a streetlamp is for, or what a balcony is, or how to cross a bridge. It’ll take nothing short of a miracle for him to find his way back home.”

Enjolras' mouth had tightened and his lips were almost white. “Hey.” Grantaire gently kicked Enjolras’ knee with his foot. “Where did you go?”

“I just…”

Enjolras sighed and ran one hand through his hair, staring at a point on the wall just above Grantaire’s head.

“I look around this place, at these people, and I realise that they are all… Broken, somehow. You don’t always see it right away, but there is always a crack somewhere, hidden underneath their dressing coats. And they can’t ever be fixed. Valjean is a good man, but even with all his books and theories, there is always going to be a crack. They will never be the men they were before. It’s something they don’t tell you when you join the army and even though I’ve seen it happen so many times now, it never fails to surprise me, to see them shatter one by one, and…[4] I suppose I have started to wonder when my turn is going to be, when I am going to break. Or if it’s already happened.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Enjolras suddenly seemed to realise that he had spoken them out loud. He quickly glanced at Grantaire, then coughed and leaned back towards the chess board. His hair fell back into his eyes, hiding his facial expression – deliberate, Grantaire now suspected. He could see Enjolras’ hand tighten around his right knee, knuckles turning white, and swallowed. Before he could stop himself, he quickly reached out and wrenched Enjolras’ fingers free, covering them with his own. Enjolras froze and for a moment Grantaire could swear he could feel an invisible hand reach into his chest and squeeze - but then Enjolras’ shoulders fell and he let out a shaky breath.

In the hallway, the nurses were starting to get the patients ready for supper; the sounds of their chatter and starched skirts rustling as they went from door to door were muffled, as if careful not to disturb. Enjolras’ fingers were warm and dry, and even though he was still pointedly keeping his eyes fixed on the board between them, he did not take his hand away. Grantaire just took him in - the line of his neck, the golden hairs on his arms - as their heartbeats pulsed back and forth through their fingers, thumping up through his arm and seeping into his chest.

Maybe they really were broken. Maybe they could never be fixed. But they were still here and for now, he was holding Enjolras’ hand.

There was still a beat.

[1] Taken from the book itself.

[2] Same here.

[3] I basically reworked this paragraph on language from W.G. Sebald's Austerlitz.

[4] Slight rephrasing of this quote by Douglas Coupland.