Prologue

New Year's Eve, 1831

Alexandre Enjolras took the long way home. He knew his friends were a bit upset about having a meeting on New Year's Eve, but he had made it up to them by allowing them all the wine and spirits they wanted. He had even imbibed a little himself, just to prove that he wasn't a killjoy. He hadn't seen most of his friends since Christmas, as several of them had gone home to their families in the South, and tonight they had all wished each other a happy Christmas as they drank and toasted one another's health. Enjolras knew the Amis couldn't afford to miss another week of meetings. Joly and Bossuet were starting to lose interest, and if they left, others would be sure to follow.

The snow was coming down in gentle drifts, settling in uneven patches on the gray cobblestone. As Enjolras heard the bells of Notre-Dame striking 11:00, he thought, This is it. Next year, 1832, will be the year we overthrow the king for good. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and, looking around first to make sure no one was watching, was so frivolous as to catch a snowflake on his tongue. The air was clear and the night was beautiful, no moon and all stars. Enjolras turned the corner and passed the Gorbeau Hovel, on the very edge of town. Sometimes he missed the countryside, but not on nights like this. He could live in Paris for the rest of his life.

Suddenly Enjolras heard a rustling behind him. He turned back quickly, then decided it was probably nothing. He continued walking as if nothing had happened.

Two blocks later, Enjolras heard another rustling noise, louder this time. He was sure it had come from behind him. He reached into his pocket and grabbed his pistol, just in case. If anyone was following him, he hoped that they would see this gesture and think better of the idea. To throw them off, he began walking in the opposite direction of his building.

A quarter past eleven. Enjolras was now sure he was being followed. He had seen pieces of footprints in the falling snow behind him, definitely not his own. He drew his collar as high up around his face as he could, and lowered the brim of his hat, to obscure his face from recognition. It did not occur to him that he was lost. He had lived in Paris for nearly two years, and in the daylight he knew the city like the back of his hand. He was perfectly confident that he could find his way back home when he needed to.

Suddenly a gloved hand grabbed Enjolras' shoulder and pulled him into a narrow alley. Another gloved hand, belonging to the same man, clapped over his mouth in the same instant. "One noise and you're dead," whispered a gravelly voice.

"Walking on the edge of the street," another voice laughed drily. "Typical country boy mistake. Here's a tip, if you ever get out of this alive: always walk in the middle of the road where everyone can see you."

"Season's greetings to you too," said Enjolras once the gloved hand loosened its grip over his mouth. His heart was pounding, but he kept his cool. "May I ask what you gents want from me? If it's money, take this louis. It's all I have."

"Foolish boy," said the gloved man. "It's not your money we want, it's your friends'. We know who you are, you see. You're Alexandre Enjolras, law student and chapter leader of Les Amis de L'ABC. We've been following you for the last several weeks. And we think your bourgeois friends would pay a pretty penny to get you back. On the other hand," he chuckled evilly, "maybe the police would pay more."

"You won't turn me in to the police," said Enjolras, calling his bluff. "You're outlaws yourselves."

"We're robbers," said the laughing man. "Petty thieves. The police wouldn't waste their time with us. It's people like you they want. They know about these 'ABC' groups sprouting up all over the city, and they're willing to pay just about anyone and look the other way to keep from being overthrown."

"What's this? What have we here?" said a third man, pushing his way forward and reaching into Enjolras' pockets. "A pistol? My, my. Mighty apprehensive, aren't we, for a man of the people? Here, let me relieve you of your weapon. You won't be needing it anymore."

"You'll never get anything out of me," said Enjolras defiantly, "or my friends. We can't be bought or blackmailed. We're fighting so that people like you can have a brighter future. So if you kidnap me, you're only hurting yourselves."

"Let him go, papa," said a hoarse female voice from behind them. "He won't be of any use to you."

"Éponine, go away," said the man who had taken Enjolras' pistol. "I told you to stand watch at the corner."

Éponine. Why did that name sound so familiar? Enjolras was sure he had heard it before. He studied the girl's face in the dim lamplight. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, yet she seemed to have grit and maturity beyong her years. She reminded him of Gavroche, though he couldn't think why.

"I've had it with being your watchgirl," said Éponine. "You try to control me on the assumption that I want to live. But you've made my life so miserable that you've undermined your own purpose. Go ahead and kill me, I don't care. Just leave that boy alone."

"You ungrateful wench," said Éponine's father angrily. "I rob bourgeois know-nothings day and night to put food on the table for you and your sister, and this is the thanks I get? If you can't make yourself useful, then get out of the way."

While Éponine's father made this speech, Enjolras noticed that his pistol had somehow made its way into Éponine's hand. She fired a warning shot, and the bullet ricocheted off the brick wall of the alleyway.

"Run!" she shouted to Enjolras.

What ensued was complete chaos. The gang members all chased Éponine, while the man with the gloved hands tackled Enjolras and tried to hold him down. Enjolras broke free with a nimble kick in the right spot, but he refused to run away while Éponine was still in danger. He darted back into the fray, pushing and shoving until he made his way to Éponine. She was skillfully avoiding the gangsters by climbing the brick wall, digging in with her nails and toes. But the youngest, a black-haired fellow with pearly white teeth, was swiftly catching up to her. Tall and thin as he was, he reached for her ankle.

A blow in the stomach from Enjolras sent this man crashing into the wall, doubling over and bleeding in pain. Enjolras took Éponine's hand so he wouldn't lose her again. But now they were cornered.

"We make a break for it on three," he whispered between gritted teeth. "One, two- "

If Enjolras had been looking at Éponine's face, he would have been able to see that this was not a good plan. But he wasn't, so he didn't. Holding tight to her wrist, he pushed his way through the barricade of robbers and murderers who stood between him and freedom. His only thought was that he must keep holding on to Éponine no matter what. She had already intrigued him so much tonight. He longed to know why she was standing up for him, why she thought that her life was no longer worth living, and if there was anything he could do to help her.

Unfortunately, holding each other's hands meant that Éponine and Enjolras only had half as much firepower. They were easily trapped in the large, bulky bodies of the Patron-Minette, like fish being caught in a net and pulled onto the deck where they could not longer breathe. Desperately, Éponine spat in the face of the gloved man, and Enjolras bit the nose of the man with the ominous laugh. But it made no difference. They were cornered, for real this time.

Just when all hope seemed lost, two young men arrived at the opening of the alley. They were accompanied by a police captain and four gendarmes. One of the gendarmes seemed quite old to Enjolras, perhaps fifty or even sixty. His white hair was wispy and striking beneath the blue and red cap.

"We heard a gunshot and came to get the police as quickly as we could," said one of the young men, out of breath. "Is everyone all right?"

The black-haired robber stepped forward, smearing the blood on his face in a gesture that was barely noticeacle. "Oh, thank God, it's the police," he said. "This young man, he is my sister's beau, but he beats her horribly, as you can see. She is terrified to leave him. He pretends to be a bourgeois to impress her, but it's all a lie. Our father and I, we knew we had to protect dear 'Ponine. So we got together, in secret, of course, to plan to take her away from Paris, and her uncle and godfather, they offered to let her stay with some old friends. But monsieur found us out and started attacking us, and for some reason 'Ponine leaped to his defense- it's just horrible." He was crying now, his tears spreading the blood all over his cheeks.

There was a tense silence. Then the white-haired gendarme turned to the captain and said, "Monsieur, do you believe this tale?"

The captain stared at him. "I would certainly like to hear what the faux-bourgeois has to say for himself," he said coldly.

"You're a poor liar, monsieur," said the white-haired man, softly but firmly, turning to the black-haired one. "If you are telling the truth, then why did you not go to the police when you found out about monsieur's treatment of your sister? It's obvious that the blond gentleman is the victim here and not the assailant. Why would one man take on five, especially in a dimly-lit alley like this late at night? I'm telling you, I've seen too many cases like this not to know who is guilty and who is innocent. You have before you a gang, and a quite notorious one at that. Let the bourgeois and the girl go and take in the rest."

Unfortunately, two of the "rest" had just disappeared into the shadows behind them, the ones known to Éponine but not to Enjolras as Babet and Claquesous. They knew a way to get out of the alley and back to the Gorbeau Hovel without being detected. Guelemer was too big to conceal himself, and Jondrette and Montparnasse had to stand their ground because the police had already seen them.

"Monsieur," said Éponine, turning to Enjolras, "tell them you didn't do anything wrong."

"I was robbed," said Enjolras truthfully. "I was walking home, miding my own business, when these peasant scum suddenly jumped out at me and demanded my purse. I had little to give them, only a louis d'or. But I think it's quite a shame that a citizen cannnot even walk down the street on New Year's Eve without being pickpocketed in a most vicious manner."

"All right," said the captain, turning first to the white-haired man and then to Enjolras. "Don't worry, I believe you. Fauchelevent here has always been a fine judge of character. My deepest apologies, monsieur, for suspecting you." He turned to his men. "Let's arrest the lot."

Enjolras watched in horror as the policemen arrested everyone there, including Éponine. In spite of himself, he was relieved that the police had not suspected him of being an Ami de L'Abaissé, and that the circumstances had not allowed for the black-haired man to accuse him of that particular crime. As the bells struck midnight and he arrived home, he did not think he would ever see his savior again.

(A/N: Thanks for reading! I thought about giving Éponine a more low-class dialect, but decided against it because it was too distracting, so you can just imagine her talking like Eliza Doolittle if you want.

By the way, Valjean will be making a later appearance in this fic, but not for a while. The problem with a lot of Enjonine fanfic is that there either isn't enough Valjean or no Valjean at all. But the Brick is mainly about Valjean, so why do so many fics exclude him?

And no, the police captain isn't Javert, he's just some random police captain. Because wouldn't Javert recognize Valjean if they were in the same patrol unit?

Also, don't worry, Éponine won't be in jail for long.)