A/N: At last, at long last, I am able to give you the final chapter of 'When Tomorrow Came'. I am so, so sorry for the delay; but as you will find out, this chapter was excruitatingly hard to write; not helped by the fact that my soul has died with it and I am now little more than a weeping, emotional wreck who has no feelings left whatsoever. As always: as I am not Male, French or living in C18th Paris; how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me! Enjoy x

'In the name of His Royal Highness the Most Reverent King William IV; we, as part of his Majesty's Royal Guard have come with the arrest warrant of one M. René Enjolras.'

Nobody speaks. Nobody moves as the blow falls onto bodies that refuse to accept it. No… This isn't happening… Not after they had come this far… Not Enjolras… Not Apollo… No… No! Time stands still. He feels two pairs of hands instinctively tighten on his shoulders, but whose they are; he doesn't know. It doesn't matter anymore though. Nothing matters anymore apart from the sea of bayonets, glinting in the half-light that bars any chance of escape. A mass of darkly clothed guards with blank, impassive faces stare into the room; eyes hidden under their helmets as they silently survey the scene; their eyes filled with an almost laughable confusion. Were they that misinformed? A small smile of gleeful satisfaction tugs at his icy lips as he continues to watch them; silently daring them to take him. Knowing that they will take him and if they do, he will not go quietly. He cannot; not after so much has already been sacrificed on his behalf…

One man. Four women. Nine boys. Why nine? One looks little more than twelve; his arms locked around the neck of another, both pairs of eyes huge with undiluted terror. Why is he there? Surely he's not… God knows why… There must be some mistake; perhaps they have misinterpreted the instructions from that informant… Always thought he looked a bit shifty… Always easy to do with those Frenchies… An easy mistake… They had been ordered to take one… But which? Eyes flicker over the pale, terrfied faces in growing confusion and at last come to rest on the blond head staring back at them in impassive, haughty silence; a slight smirk playing at the corners of his tight mouth; mocking them with all the contempt his shattered self can muster. His large, blue eyes bore into theirs, blank of all expression apart from an inexplicable sense of calm as he waits, the hand that is not bound up in the cotton sling whose white fabric is now sullied to a dull grey resting lightly in the palm of a woman who shares the same calm, blue eyes, same almost regal presence; marred slightly by the tangible taste of fear radiating from all of them. Mother and son? Probably. The silence stretches for what seems like an eternity; broken only by the frantic, desperate beating of fourteen hearts, clinging onto the silver thread of life with every fibre of their beings... 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

The desperate, thudding iambs of his heart seem unnaturally loud in the silence as he stares back into the dark, narrowed eyes of the man whose loud, rough English voice has shattered the silence. It is as if it is desperately trying to cling to a life which, deep down he knows is over. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. A flicker of movement, so small that it was barely noticeable… The pack moving as one, large, dark mass as it closes into its prey… The pressure of his Mother's fingers digging in his palm, desperately keeping him grounded in reality as he stares calmly back into the blank, expressionless faces, waiting…

Without warning, he feels his body being tumbled forcefully from the cocooning safety of the hammock and onto the cold, hard, shifting floor where upon he is forced onto his knees; his muscles screaming with unheard cries of agony as they are forced to contract. Feels hands on his shoulders, trying desperately to pull him back; hands he knows but they are soon overcome by the harsh, hard palms of strangers; forcing him to comply. He will not comply. He will not come to them like a lamb walking meekly to the slaughterhouse. He hears a cry of anguished pain ripped from a body that could be Grantaire, could be Combeferre, could be anyone for all he knows as a body is forced back and he is suddenly alone. Alone and falling as his head hits the harsh, cold wooden floor with a sickening crack as he is shoved onto his stomach, the impact of the fall crushing the sling, crushing his broken arm which screams with silent pain as he desperately tries to bite back the sudden onslaught of fearful emotion threatening to overwhelm him as he struggles for breath; desperately trying to remain calm. Desperately trying to ensure that it is him they get, that the others are left untouched… They have nothing to do with it…

Dimly, he feels a river of scarlet trickling slowly down from a gash on his forehead as he lies there, thoroughly winded, waiting. Waiting for what? He doesn't know. He knows nothing now, only blood soaked, icy cold pain and fear. Blood runs in a river of scarlet down his face, dripping into his half open, gaping mouth, choking him as he lies there, listening to the frantic thumping of his heart. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. He splutters, tries to cough; but his lungs won't work. They are compressed under an unknown weight as a guard straddles his steadily breaking body, his weight crushing any last whisp of oxygen from his screaming lungs. He will not submit to them. He must not. He has to make sure that the others… Make sure that they at least get out alive… He owes that much to the remnants of his battered, bleeding band of dreamers who have clung on relentlessly to his side, following him into this Hell without complaint, without question. They are the ones who matter. Not him.

It doesn't matter about him. He is the one they want and they can take him, but not without a fight. The others though… His first and best friends… They have to survive this… It is imperative that they survive…They have to keep together...

The heady, combined stink of sweat, blood and fear makes him gag as he desperately tries to force his throbbing head upwards. But before he can do anything, before his sluggish, unresponsive brain can even process the thought, he feels fingers' digging like knives into his scalp as a hand yanks his hair back off his face. The cold, metallic whistle of a blade that he barely registers as it comes to rest on the pale, tender skin of his throat. A flick of the wrist… A last, futile, desperate struggle as he tries to throw his head back… A thin, metallic note that cuts through his brain; searing his skin like ice cold fire…

Pain. It envelopes him in a thick black cloud that is slashed with blood which consumes the continuous, never ending scream that is ripped from him before he can even think about restraining it. Desperately he struggles against the bearlike grip that restrains him, forcing him to submit to an unknown authority; his silent cries of pain and fear drowned in the rising confused crescendo of voices which don't make sense. Nothing makes sense. A sudden explosion of agony in his face as he feels the swinging thud of a fist followed by the sickening crunch of knucklebone on blood caked lips. A river of scarlet blooms from his broken nose and dribbles sickeningly into his open mouth as he continues to lash out; desperately trying to stand and yet knowing that his injured leg will never take the weight. It bursts in a sudden explosion of fiery heat through his abdomen and he doubles over, retching; his chest heaving as the acidic tang of bile rises steadily up his parched throat. His leg, unable to take the strain, buckles under his weight and he finds himself sprawled on the constantly shifting floor; the cold, hard wood digging painfully into the thin fabric of his trousers, caressing his battered face as he tries to right himself. Right himself before they sense his moment of weakness and press their advantage...

From somewhere he hears a word being screeched into the chaos; but his brain is so full of blood and pain and ice cold fear for his friends that it makes no sense. Dimly, he feels his head being yanked up again; firm, unwelcome hands gripping his sweat soaked hair between thick fingers, nails digging painfully into his scalp as his slowly breaking body continues to twist, desperately, fruitlessly trying to evade the unknown, unwelcome hands that continue to beat his steadily breaking body into submission.

He can't see. Can't think. Can't breathe. The only thing that makes any sense is the pain that has enfolded him into a clutching, perverted embrace and refuses to let him go. It dances tantalizingly before his shattered eyelids; blood red… burning amber… brilliant, blinding white… Unconsciously he can feel the sliver of scarlet trickling with sickening slowness down his neck; feels the persistent throb of his pulse as the hobnailed toe of an unknown boot catches the sling; throwing him across the constantly shifting floor as he was nothing but a poppet doll that Henriette used to play with. Instinctively his useless body curls up and rolls over in a futile attempt to avoid whatever is causing his torment, but the pain is not yet over. The shattered muscles in his arm scream in silent agony as he furiously blinks back scalding, salty tears of pain, fear and rage, trying desperately not to cry out. He will at least, refuse them that one satisfaction. He has to. And yet… It wasn't meant to end like this. He wasn't supposed to die like this, curled up like a frightened animal with no means of defending himself, of defending his friends. He has to defend them, they need him. He has to… He will not let them do this to him. If he dies, he will die upright, facing his foes, silently mocking them until the bitter end. They will not break him. They can break his body as much as they want but they will not break his pride.

Another numbing explosion of pain rips through him as the unknown boot continuously kicks him over and over again; the steel capped toe delighting in the mutilation of any vulnerable scrap of skin it can find. Silent screams crowd tantalizingly around his barren, bloody mouth but he chokes them back because deep down he knows that is what they want. They want to know how much they can reduce this golden, godlike leader into being nothing but a bloody, bleeding scrap of humanity. They want to know how much they can throw at him before the marble statue crumbles completely and is nothing but a sorry heap of powdered ash; he knows that much. He will not give them that satisfaction he tells himself over and over again; as he lies curled up against the continuous ferocity of the blows raining down on his breaking body. They do not deserve it, they will not have it. That, at least he is sure of; if nothing else.

He will not give them what they want. He clings to the thought as tightly as he clings to the presence of his friends whom he cannot see; clinging to the fact that they are here, that they are not yet blank faced corpses, clinging to the fact that despite his folly, there is a chance that they will survive … They have to survive, all of them.. Combeferre… Courfeyrac… Gavroche… Grantaire… Marius… Cosette… His Mother… M. Frauchlevent…Adrienne… Toussaint… Joly… Bahorel… Bossuet… Jean Provaire… Eponine Thenardier… It is their duty to survive… To be free…

Harsh, hard hands grip his shoulders, heaving him to his feet as he staggers, his injured leg buckling under the sudden weight of his broken body. Blurred shapes flicker weirdly through a half closed eye, squeezed painfully shut by a blow that he can't remember receiving. Shapes that have no meaning and yet they do and he can't think why or where... His brain is slowly dying with the excruciating pain that his body is desperately trying to retaliate against. He welcomes it. Welcomes the sense of numb unreality that is slowly creeping over his steadily breaking mind. It will soon be over. All of it. They will soon be able to taste the sweet wine of freedom…

His leg buckles again as he staggers against the unknown chest; taught spasms of fiery, icy pain surging relentlessly through the broken limb but the hand gripping the collar of his jacket keeps him upright; the suddenly taught tendons screaming in silent agony as they refuse to take his weight. The sharp sounds of unknown vowels jar painfully on his ears as once again he hears the ominous 'click' of a sea of safety catches being released. This is the end. He is going to die. Die like Joly, like Bahorel, like Bossuet, like Eponine Thenardier, like Jehan, like the countless other nameless students who gave their little lives to Patria, to a cause that had died before it even had a chance to ignite and live… Die a death that should have been dealt in France, in Patria; not in an unknown ships hold in the middle of a stretch of choppy, indigo water that is so tantalizingly close to the bright white land of freedom. He just hopes, prays… He is going to die the death which Fate has decreed for him long ago, but for some inexplicable reason has kept the card safely stored in her deck; refusing to use it until the time is right… She will use it now. 'Enjolras, whatever happens; we won't blame you'. Oh my friends… Don't give up hope…

His last thoughts before his brain shuts down completely are of his friends. His stubborn band of revolutionary dreamers who have clung to his side regardless of where his prideful imaginings for a free France have taken them, regardless of the dangers which only now are they beginning to understand… He hopes that they will be safe, that M. Frauchlevent can do what he could not… That their sacrifice will not be in vain, unlike so many of the others who had risen to his scarlet Liberty flag without question; completely oblivious to the fact that their little, insignificant lives would soon be cut with as much care as a farmer at harvest time, slicing through fresh wheat with a sickle. That they at least will be able to enjoy the blissfully rare taste of the freedom that they had fought so long for. That they will be able to find the fleeting, evanescent sense of peace that they have hoped for, dreamed of in all those candlelight hours holed up in the Café Musain. Peace that is so tantalizingly close and yet so far away…

'Does the accused have any last words?' The attempt at chivalry is almost laughable as he eyes the official who had pronounced his death sentence through half closed lids, his brain sluggishly returning to reality; his eyes swollen shut by a rainbow of brutal bruising. Dark indigo. Deep blue. Vicious yellow. He does, but they are not the ones that these English men will want to hear. They dance tantalizingly on his lips, teasing his lolling, barren tongue but he bites them back. Not yet. He hears the steady, resounding 'click' of the safety catches; hears the panicked, combined intake of breath from nine bodies who have been through too much and all for his sake; hears his heart; the regular, steady iambs now disjointed; as if it too knows this; at last, at long last, is the end. His brain is suddenly full of flickering memories; memories of a different life. Memories of his friends, his brothers, his blissful childhood in Amiens that now seemed little more than a distant dream…

Combeferre's smile as they walked back to the apartment, discussing Robespierre's conflicts with Danton and Desmoulins… Bahorel's infectious laugh as he swings Gavroche up onto his shoulders… Jehan's poetry, floating through a body so young, so innocent that it had been hard to believe that he actually understood what they were fighting for… Feuilly's courage leaping high in his wide dark eyes as he took his good hand in his- 'we'll keep fighting Enjolras. We'll keep fighting for you. Don't worry about us Mon Ami. We'll be alright.' Joly's anxiety for Gavroche as he brings him the latest figures of the influenza epidemic that was sweeping the slums of Paris like wildfire, shaking snow out of his mop of dark hair and wringing his hands in desperation… Courfeyrac's wit as he teases Marius about Cosette, trying to guess her name... Grantaire's cynical adoration that only now, when he is about to die, he fully understands. Bossuet's philosophical debates on the meaning of luck… Marius's passionate love for Cosette, which he so often ridiculed with the Bonapartist slipped away into the shadows of the night, but only now truly understands… Gavroche's childlike innocence that shrouded a heart which held such courage and determination for the band of wide eyed street urchins who thought of him as a God. Henriette's wicked grin as they danced that final, graceful minuet in the sun bathed field listening to Argos's frantic, confused barks, basking in the dying rays of childhood innocence… His Mother's wide blue eyes filled with compassionate determination as she takes his good hand in hers and kisses it, thumbing away the silver lakes of salt that stained his face as he listened in desperation for Combeferre and M. Frauchlevent's return to the dark, comforting world of safety…

He raises his head slowly to look the man full in the face; forcing his exhausted eyes open to their fullest extent, taking in the dark sea of bayonets surrounding him; barring any chance of escape. Silently hoping, praying that they do it now; before he loses his nerve. A splash of scarlet cloth fluttering in a sticky, stagnant breeze… A girl's twinkling laugh as two bodies dance in a field bathed in a bath of pure gold… Faces… Names… Memories… Four words shouted into a shocked silence…

'Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!'

Fin

A/N: This is for all the countless people who have believed in this story (especially Sarahbob- you have been wonderful!) and given up their time to read, review, follow and feed me the virtual chocolate I need to keep going- I honestly can't thank you enough and would have stopped long ago had it not been for your determination to read more of this! Much love and once again, please feel free to read and review: I'm open to anything! Phoenixflames12 xxxx