As a fill to a Les Mis Kink Meme request on LJ :) It can be found currently on page 7 of Round 2.

Rated M for not so nice "torturing" of sorts.

Thoughts are appreciated.

They had been in the cells for four days.

Scarce amounts of food, barely any water. And whatever little rest they managed, the revolutionaries were often awoken by startling or otherwise obnoxious noises. This morning- or night, afternoon, they had lost track of time- they were woken by the gruff voice of a soldier, slapping his hand against the rusty bars.

"Get up, now."

Slumped against the walls or each other, the surviving Amis woke up with drowsy alarm. Enjolras, in his own cell, licked his lips and picked his head full of knotted blonde hair from the puddle on the floor it had been laying in. In the adjacent cell sat Marius, groaning as he stretched to stand.

Combeferre and Grantaire were already being ushered out of the cell they had been sharing, followed by Courfeyrac, who had been sharing a cell with another random inmate from a few towns away.

They had survived the fight at the barricade, but the French prison was a whole new experience.

In all honesty, Enjolras had assumed there would be many casualties at the barricade. In his eyes, it would surely either end with death or success. There could not be an in between. Even if they did land in prison, he was positive they would be gunned down by a firing squad immediately.

But it had been four days, and none of the aforementioned situations had presented themselves; and Enjolras, the leader with words that always managed to crawl their way into people's minds, had lost some of the fire in his own eyes. Three other revolutionaries had already died in the clutches of the Guard, and it was looking grim for the rest of them.

But now, they were being ushered from their cells with roughness and urgency, something that was unwelcome but expected from the soldiers. They were being seen as rebels; traitors. The epitome of what these soldiers fought against.

Grantaire wasn't in drunk stupor for the first time in awhile, and as they were pushed down winding, dark hallways by gruff soldiers, he managed to get close to Enjolras. "Execution?"

He pursed his lips, "Not all of us at once." No, if they were killed, he would be the first to go. There was no doubt. He was the leader, and it was obvious and true; so why were they being led in a pack?

"Then why…" But Grantaire was cut off when he felt the butt of a rifle jab him in the back, ushering him to silence. Enjolras shrugged.

The rebels were led down too many staircases to count. Enjolras had been busy trying to memorize the paths they took in case they had the chance to escape, but by now his head was a blurry mess of dark hallways with a foul smelling odor that stung his nose. He walked in the front of the pack, guided by a soldier who clamped his arms together, but he was glad. One glance back at his companions made it clear that they would be falling apart if he hadn't made it.

Enjolras was the glue of their revolutionary efforts. It's not because the other men were weaker or less devoted than him; no, it wasn't that. But it was because of his willing determination and positivity that prevented the rest of them from losing hope.

Everybody keep the faith… for certain, as our banner flies, we are not alone, the people too must rise.

He was the leader for a reason.

But when the men were all shoved with force into a room larger than cells, Enjolras didn't like how it felt to be a leader at that moment. Not when a burly officer yanked at his forearm with a suffocating grip and pulled him away from his companions. There was a table in the center of the room, with worn out ropes wrapped around the four corners.


The stench of the room stung his eyes, and hands were on him everywhere, pushing, tugging at the bloody rags left of his clothes. He was shoved down onto something- the table, he thought- and he felt the ropes.

First his wrists. Then, his ankles. They were certainly restraints.

What, would they bleed each of them to death one by one? But Enjolras shook the thought out of his head; surely, that would be too messy for the stuffy French officers to clean up. Not even traitors were worth the effort.

In his dizzy fog, Enjolras made out his men; lined against the wall, most likely shackled to the ground, which was a popular means of restraint during these times. He gave them a broken, cocky smile- whatever he could force from his restrained state on the table.

A voice, in thick, French drawl, cut through the silence and the musk that hung in the room. "So, these are the bastards who pulled the barricade stunt, eh? Not a very burly crew."

To much of the surprise of the fellow revolutionaries, Enjolras was the one to speak up. "We're the French revolution," he spat, bitterness stinging the corners of his words.

The officer laughed. "You're nothing. You're schoolboys, and that's it. I'm guessing you would be the one called Enjolras, correct?" The man- larger than Enjolras and rather built- crossed his arms and walked towards the prisoner. He knew who the officer was. He was known as Laurent, and the Amis knew him from their extensive studies; not much, but enough to know his close partnership with Inspector Javert. "Ah, don't answer me, that's just fine as well. The rest of those schoolboys there… your followers, hmm? Your mockery of an army?"

Someone spoke up. Marius. "More of an army than you'll ever be."

"An army of the People," Enjolras declared. He may have been in a completely compromising position, but that didn't mean he wasn't in charge. He was always in charge.

But, Laurent didn't seem to acknowledge this. "You're an army for the People?" His tone was mocking.


"You proudly stand up and preach your blasphemous and rather perfidious ideas to crowds; ideas which are severely traitorous to the King and very easily punishable?"

"Yes," Enjolras said again. He could not see where this was going. If he was going to be killed, just let it be over with. Enough with the stupid questions. "Looks like we'll burn in Hell together." He forced a bitter smile at the man, drenched in sarcasm.

"Well, then. That settles it," Laurent turned from Enjolras to the group of men, a strange smile cutting its way across his cheeks. "Boys, do you agree with your leader's dedication to the cause?"

"Yes," It was Grantaire who spoke up without hesitation. His answer was instant.

"Let's show that to all of Paris, then! Let's show them your treachery proudly!" Enjolras was confused, and when he glanced to his men, they all showed equal confusion. Everyone was still alive, and Enjolras was still strapped to the table. This was going where…?

Laurent was pulling a bundle out of his pocket. He gestured to a silent other soldier who stood in the doorway. "Édouard, gag him."

The soldier- presumably Édouard, did just that, and before Enjolras could rack his mind for information on the situation found in his studies, a thin piece of cloth was being fastened tightly around his neck, pressing into the back of his mouth as a gag.

Against the wall, Grantaire shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like where this was going. Not at all.

Enjolras tried to hiss a bitter curse at his captor, but the gag held tight, and the noise that came out was a muffled jumble of syllables. And when Laurent unwrapped a small knife from his pocket, Enjolras squirmed a bit against the table.

"Oh, calm yourself. I could cut off your tongue if I see fit. Would be a bit difficult to spread your word, then, wouldn't it, soldier?" He snapped. He seemed to notice everyone's gaze on the knife in his hand, and he chuckled darkly. His eyes darted from each of the barricade boy's faces, and his lips curled into a grin. "Oh, don't wet yourselves. Killing him would be far too easy." With a careful and swift hand, Laurent began to cut away the fabric that remained on Enjolras' shirt. The silence in the room was chilling, as was the air that hit the leader's bare skin.

Laurent let the moment linger for the men in the musky room. Most of the boys were able to maintain their composure, but he noticed the one- Grantaire, maybe- was growing increasingly visibly uneasy.

"I'm going to make sure your leader will be able to display his disloyalty to the King in the most permanent way possible," A wicked sneer curled from his lips as he turned back to his victim. "Now, will you bleed like the haughty man that you are?"

Enjolras watched as the tip of the small knife pressed into his chest, just above his right nipple, and crimson blood followed its path. He winced, his teeth clenching together over the gag, but pain was something he had come to expect. He could handle a little knife. He wouldn't break; he was better than that. His men were watching. They depended on him, and he wouldn't-

But when the knife took a sharp turn, slicing through his skin at a deeper level, Enjolras found his back start to arch away from the table in pain, and his hands twisted into fists, tugging against the rope. More pressure, and he choked against his gag, feeling warm wetness begin to trickle down his collarbone.

Red; the blood of angry men. Oh, how the irony stung.

The knife took another turn, and he couldn't stop himself from a noise of anguish that sprouted from somewhere in his throat, but the sound came out resembling a deranged animal. The humiliation made his heart beat faster. Stop this, Enjolras. Stop it. You're their leader. You will not break yet.

"How's that for you, you revolutionary scum?" Laurent sneered, lowering his face closer to the struggling man. "Can you feel the King's power now?"

Where is the King who runs this show?

The knife drove in harder, and Enjolras made a horrible noise that twisted in his throat, strangled by his own struggles. He thrashed his head side to side, as if it would do anything. Pain spotted his vision.

The men against the wall weren't keeping their composure anymore. Grantaire was trying his hardest not to watch. Marius had tears in his eyes. The other two- with names starting with C's that Laurent couldn't remember- were standing close to one another, as if being nearer to someone else would make the pain less for them to watch. All of them were stuck, though, chained to one another and the floor.

Enjolras' whole chest was warm, now, wet with his own body's blood. He was dizzy, and the heat of the room seemed to suddenly intensify, and the sweat that formed on his body stung the cuts harshly. As Laurent continued his work, pain bloomed from his chest and twisted through his lungs and into his heart, making every breath feel like a stab on its own.

Enjolras twisted and yanked desperately against his bonds. The pain was dizzying; electrifying. It tore at him, and when his breathing started to come out as breathy gasps, Grantaire couldn't take it.

The enraged man, feeling his superior's pain, lunged against the chains. "You bastard!"

Laurent was getting just the reaction he wanted.

Enjolras, on the other hand, felt the pain mix with his humiliation. The tears that splattered against his cheeks seemed to make everything worse.

He had told himself he wouldn't beg, either; and he had began to, as the knife scrawled against his chest, drawing blood and tearing his fragile skin. It burned. Seared. It did everything that Enjolras would have expected from the fight at the barricade, from a heroic stab to a fatal blow; not as a victim of torture, in front of the men who looked to him as their leader, as the unbreakable rock that would lead them through it all.

He snapped back to reality when the knife started at a new place on his chest, and his vision was growing fuzzy at the edges. He writhed. His screams were muffled against the gag, and he knew that whatever Laurent was trying to carve was something intentional and intricate.

Through the dizziness and the fog, he could hear Laurent hiss, closer to his ear than before. "You failed. You failed your men, and you failed your damn revolution."

The knife dug in deeper. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he wasn't sure what was real and what wasn't at this point. He could hear protests from his men. Or was it an illusion? He didn't know. The pain overtook him. Engulfed him. His mind had no room for anything else.

He didn't even process when Édouard removed the gag so he could pant. The knife hadn't left him yet, though, so he made horrid noises; not muffled by the gag anymore.

"Beg," Laurent shouted, so close to his face that the intensity of the words aided his dizziness. "Beg to your King!"

Apparently he didn't, because someone's voice- Marius?- pleaded from the other side of the room; "Dammit, Enjolras, just do it!"

And it was when a choked, quiet, and defeated "Please…" dribbled from his quivering lips that the knife ceased on its path of destruction. And as Enjolras welcomed the feeling of passing out, the men looked in horror at the word scrawled across his chest, marked now by freshly blooming blood.


He was alive, and yet they had broken him.

...I tried?

PS- If you are interested for me to post an epilogue chapter, or how Enjy & company deal with the aftermath, let me know. Thanks for reading!