The City That We Loved

The New King

Duval dropped to the ground at Enjolras' feet. He didn't lower the gun for a few moments. The tunnels were silent except for Enjolras' heavy breathing. The gun dropped from his hand.

He could already feel it seeping in his chest. The feeling of guilt. Regret. Anger. Shame.

He'd just killed a man.

The thought made him sick. He held his stomach and ran over to a corner where he puked his guts out. His forehead beaded with sweat. When he finished, he rested his head against the tunnel wall.

"Enjolras..." Combeferre said. Enjolras looked up at his friend and saw the fear in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

Am I alright? he thought. I just killed someone in front of you. In front of all of you, and you want to know if I'm alright? Why don't you hate me? I certainly hate me.

"I'm fine," Enjolras responded. He looked back at the body and turned away to vomit again.

"You're obviously not," Combeferre said. When Enjolras finished the second time, Combeferre checked his forehead. "You're burning up. I think we need to get you to a hospital."

"Are y--you just going to ignore the fact that I just...just...?"

"I'm not ignoring it," Combeferre said. "I'm just putting it aside for a moment to deal with you." Enjolras looked at the faces of all his other friends. He hated feeling weak in front of them. He hated that they were now afraid of him. He hated that he now hated himself.

"I'm not going to a hospital," Enjolras said. "I'm a wanted man, and now..." He looked at the body of Duval again. "...and now, I'm going to be wanted for killing a police spy." He looked away, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't want to look...but he had to. He had to punish himself for what he'd done. He had wanted to avenge Bahorel and because of all the anger that he had built up, he had killed a man who deserved punishment but not death.

He was as bad as Duval himself.

"Enjolras, I'm sure we can find someone in the hospital who is loyal--"

"Loyal to what?" he asked. "I haven't done anything. The people don't care. Grantaire said it himself. No one gives a shit."

"We do," Jehan said. Enjolras looked up at the poet. Then he looked into the faces of all his other friends. Why weren't they angry with him? Why didn't they hate him? He certainly deserved to be hated. Enjolras tried to get to his feet but nearly fell back down again. The pain in his back was getting worse.

He could feel fresh blood running down his back and he moaned.

"I'm...not going to the hospital," he said. "Not in Paris."

"Then we'll take you out of Paris," Combeferre said. "Where the police can't find you but you can't expect to get better without help." Enjolras nodded, finally agreeing with him. "Montparnasse, do you know anybody that can get us out of Paris safely?"

"I might," Montparnasse said, rubbing his chin, raising his eyebrows.

"Grantaire, do you have anything else?" Bossuet asked. Grantaire, who had been surprisingly quiet this entire time, looked up. He shook his head. Enjolras stumbled forward.

"I will give you the spare keys to my father's house and you can steal whatever you'd like," Enjolras said. He pulled out his key chain from his back pocket and handed him the spare key. "Just get my friends and I the hell out of Paris." Montparnasse nodded and smirked.

"Want us to hide the bodies, too?" he asked. Enjolras stared at him, his icy colder than the Arctic Ocean. "Alright, alright, rich boy. We'll get you out of Paris and hide the bodies. I really hope your father has some nice stuff, Gabriel Enjolras."