AN: So June and July were rather hectic months. Like I said last time—I'm not abandoning this fic. No way Jose. Too much effort poured into this baby. Thank you for all the follows and likes and reviews so far. They keep me going when plotting this monster makes me want to tear my hair out.

Interlude—The Letters of Marius Pontmercy, 1915-1916

January 10, 1915

Courfeyrac:

Words cannot express how grateful I am that you were best man at my wedding. So please, accept this gift as a token of love from both Cosette and myself. It's not much, but this ring has been in my family for generations, once belonging to the ancestor after whom I was named. It's a funny ring—as you will note by the scratches and corroded edges. My father once told me his grandfather, my namesake, had worn it during the 1832 uprising. He told me it brought my great grandfather luck when he needed it most, and though I feel it is a part of me, I hope that in these trying times it is of some comfort to you to know that my friendship is unwavering.

Azelma will be found. Do not worry so. It is only a matter of time. You know how Enjolras is once he is set to a task. My only regret is that Nina did not come to me first for help. I assure you, I have reprimanded Madame Hucheloup for her indiscretion. Though when you next visit, I'm afraid you may not find her very accommodating.

What news of Feuilly? The papers are full of disquieting reports about the battles in Champagne. I must confess, I think of him often.

I shall be back in Paris at the end of the month. Until then, give my regards to everyone. Especially Grantaire. I suspect he will be in need of friendship.

Your faithful friend,

Marius

January 12, 1915

Enjolras,

No doubt you are surprised with whom I send this letter. Consider it my way of returning your most generous help this past summer.

Nina told me of your accord and now I understand why you were so secretive about the letter last fall. Still, I wish you both would have come to me sooner.

She will no doubt inform you of the developments herself, though I pray you keep this from Courfeyrac a while longer. I have also enclosed the documents you seek and will remain discrete. I will admit I am curious, but trust you will tell me in due course. All I ask is that you return the letters when you are finished. It is, after all, a priceless artifact of my family's history.

—Marius

January 25, 1915

My darling,

Joly has been sent to war. He left on the train with his regiment this morning.

It was only a matter of time—what with the casualties being what they are. Bossuet is despondent and Musain is without its usual cheer.

A group of us saw him off—Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, Jehan and I. We could not find Grantaire pr Bahorel, which saddened Joly greatly. So strange to see him dressed in the French blue, a pack on his back and his jovial face so solemn. "I shall see you all again soon," he said. Bossuet nearly burst into tears.

Enjolras is upset, though he does not say so. He asks every morning if there is any word from Feuilly and I suppose Joly's name will be added to this daily ritual. Feuilly has sent just one letter back. A short missive, the words half-blackened so it is impossible to discern where he is truly.

For now we hold fast. The papers still talk of the war ending with the Germans running back to Berlin, their tails tucked firmly between their legs. But every day the war continues and the casualties mount. It is a miracle that Combeferre has not yet been called to duty.

Rumors of conscription float around the Sorbonne like wildfire. The whispers say we are running out of Frenchmen. Those unlucky enough to be reservists or in the middle of their 3 years, as well as territorials. If I am to speak true, I fear Courfeyrac is next. Our search for Azelma has not gone well and he has it in his head that should he enlist, he may find the scoundrel Montparnasse. It is the ravings of a lovesick lunatic, and I am hoping to talk him out of it before he takes it too far. I pray you have better news than I on this front.

What a melancholy letter. I'm afraid I speak far too much of my troubles and my words have half the grace of yours. I do miss you so very much. Please write as often as time allows—your letters are all I have to sustain me through this trying winter.

Lovingly,

Your Marius

May 14, 1915

My love,

Your letter arrived this morning just as I was about to sit down to write this one. It is as if you know when I need you most. I was so very glad to read news of home and the daily going ons of the house. I am pleased that Gavroche is furthering his studies and that Azelma has returned safely. I look forward to telling Courfeyrac this afternoon. I suspect you may need to prepare for a surprise visit.

I once thought Paris as a second home—with its buildings steeped in history and cobblestone streets. But you cannot have a home without family and my family here dwindles with each passing day.

Jehan, Bossuet and Bahorel have been recalled to service. Jehan to Ypres in Alsace. Bahorel will ship out soon to Gallipoli. We've had no word about Bossuet. He has not written yet, or knowing his luck, he has sent word and it has been lost in the mail. It is a miracle that Combeferre remains undrafted. As for myself, I suspect grandfather's name and friendship with the military has spared me thus far. How long this 'luck' will last...well we must be hopeful.

Enjolras grows more sullen with each passing day. He stopped asking for news a month ago. These days, he spends his time sequestered in his flat writing. Always writing. Long essays and articles that sometimes published in the leftist papers but mostly, they go unread. Grantaire paces Musain, his eyes restless. It's as if he doesn't know what to make of this new Enjolras and to be honest, neither do I.

I am not sure how to explain his sudden shift in character. The best I can say is that a phantom inhabits his skin. One must always walk on eggshells around him, lest the wrong word or phrase is said in his hearing. He flies into tirades and incomprehensible rantings at the drop of a hat, often unprovoked. He does not sleep. That much is obvious by the dark circles under his eyes, which are often unfocused and dazed. Once, I thought to give him happy news from your letters and he sneered at him, his lip curled in derision, voice cold as he said, "Our little lives don't count at all."

He disappears for days at a time. Grantaire and I went looking for him not two days past, only to find him half-hanging out of his window. Grantaire nearly died of shock. Enjolras was clearly unwell, his hair slick with sweat and his skin paler than death. But no matter how hard we tried to pry him from the place, he would not move. He kept muttering to himself, something about following and remembering. A fever dream. When I grabbed his arm, I had to jump back for his skin nearly burned me. Eventually, we convinced him to come back inside and spent the night watching over him.

It was a terrible sight. He twisted and turned in the sheets and I thought he might suffocate himself, so violent was his writhing. Grantaire woke him once to ask permission to administer a cough syrup, which oddly seemed to calm him. Though he said something quite peculiar. "I suppose it is alright since we are about to die."

The next morning he seemed more himself. We confronted him on his illness, to which he denied any recollection. But enough of that. You have sent me a letter brimming with optimism and I send you back nothing but gloom. I am, as always, in utter awe of your spirit. If it will make you happy to work with Azelma in the factories, then I will not stand in your way. You have my full blessing.

I must go now to finish a few errands. I look forward to seeing you with mine own eyes. In the meantime, I thank you for this photograph. I shall keep it in my breast pocket so that I may look at it whenever my heart longs for home.

Yours,

Marius

September 8, 1915

Cosette:

Feuilly is dead.

It seems worse somehow, to see it written in my own hand. Feuilly is dead. He is no more. Slain in battle. He has no surviving family other than we of the ABC who mourn him. We received word today, a letter in the mail from Jehan dated in early June. They were both in Ypres when the Germans first launched their poison gas attack at the end of April. Other than that, the details are few. Jehan's letter was short and warped by tears.

He has not returned home on leave. We don't know where he is.

We held a funeral of sorts. Those of us who are left. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were drafted a month or so ago, so it is only Enjolras, Grantaire and myself. We poured a bottle of wine in front of his shop and drank another in remembrance. The entire time we did not speak. Even now, I cannot help but think back to that day in Musain, when we tried so hard to dissuade Feuilly from war. I keep hearing Enjolras' voice in my head: "No one will be able to buy fans made by a dead man."

There is little word from the others. Cannot be helped. They are, doubtless writing to family first, and serving country second. Which brings me to the reason behind this letter and oh god, do I dread the words I must write next.

I received my summons yesterday. I am to report for my medical, and should I pass, to training. When I told Enjolras, he disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. This morning, right after we read Jehan's letter, he told me he had reenlisted. He said: "I cannot sit here while my friends die." Grantaire set off to reenlist not one minute after.

And so the dreams of our youth have crumbled to dust.

I shall try and be home for Christmas.

—Marius

February 12, 1916

My love,

Has it been so long since Christmas? How happy the world seemed then. How wonderful it was to see all our friends together one last time.

The past few months have been arduous. Training was a bleak matter, to say the least, and I think it shall be a small mercy to spare you the details. Now, I know what they mean when they say war is hell.

We march on our way to [redacted]. The days are long, the skies unfriendly and gray, the fields muddy. Grantaire tries to keep us merry, but even he falls into periods of melancholy. It is, a blessing, that the three of us who came to war so late managed to be in the same regiment. A twist of fate, perhaps.

Oddly enough, the war seems to be doing Enjolras well. His nightmares are less frequent, though he refuses to speak of them still. Of the three of us, he has thrown himself into it with such ease one would think he has longed for it all along. The officers have noticed his natural talents and what little action I have seen has terrified me. Though I imagine it would not please him to hear me say so.

Grantaire has also shown great aptitude with a bayonet. I fear I am not so gifted. My hands are clumsy with rifles and I am an even worse shot. I am kept alive only by the thought of seeing you again. The thought that I may never see your face again, never kiss your lips—it fills me with such fury that bullets fly past and I alone am unscathed. Dumb luck, Grantaire calls it. I choose to see it as divine providence.

Combeferre has sent news from [redacted] that Bahorel has died. We suspected as much upon hearing news of [redacted], but still we had held out hope. Courfeyrac, Jehan and Joly also march with us, though in a separate division. We see them at camp and on good days, we play cards, provided we are not too tired. Last night we drank to Feuilly and Bahorel and prayed there would be no more of us lost. Unlikely as it seems.

There are rumors, filtered down from the higher ups, that a decisive battle to end the war is less and less likely. Enjolras keeps quiet on these things, even though he has the ear of some of the officers. He prefers to keep his nose buried in newspaper clippings and mysterious letters that he keeps in his breast pocket at all times. Grantaire teased they are from his mistress, to which Enjolras replied, "I have no mistress but France."

Have you heard from Eponine recently? In your letters you say she is always writing and yet it seems none of them make their way to me. I have heard enough from Joly and Combeferre the talk of triage tents and the horrors seen there. It makes my blood run cold to think Nina may be witness to such terrors on a daily basis. I can only hope that she has been posted to some convalescent facility, far from the fighting.

I apologize, my love. My letters contain more of me than they do of my love for you. You must think me selfish to write these things. But the truth is when I close my eyes, I dream of you and of home. I dream of the gardens in bloom and Gavroche with the horses, Nina and Azelma bickering and the smell of your perfume. I dream of sunlight in your hair and the sound of your voice bidding me awake.

I dream of our future and of a spring that doesn't smell like gunpowder and smoke.

—Marius

June 23, 1916

Cosette:

I apologize for not writing sooner, though by now you know why. I saw Eponine in the medical tent at [redacted]. She looked scarcely herself. I tried to talk her out of nursing. Urged her to go back home and see to you. For a moment I thought she might agree, but then Enjolras interrupted us and then I could see I had lost the argument.

The fighting is thick here. Hardly a day goes by without the roar of bombs and gunfire. The faces keep changing. Men who are either injured, or killed on the battlefield. A man called me lucky the other day, to still be alive and whole. Now I wonder if he's right. The injured are sent home and the dead…they at least get to escape this place.

We have received word that our regiment will be relocated to [redacted]. The majority of the French forces will remain here, but the [redacted] mean to launch an assault on the [redacted]. I have heard rumors that the fighting is expected to be less there, meant to be a diversion to ease the pressure here. I pray that they are true. After, we might be able to look forward to a brief sojourn home.

I was, above all things, delighted to hear your news. It gives me the greatest joy to think that when I come home, I shall be a father.

Forgive me—I must cut this letter short. We must move again.

Pray for your Marius. He prays for you.

—

AN: This is it. The last interlude before WWI and now we head into the denouement for the "first" revolution. Hopefully I can get out the next chapter before the end of August…but I'm not going to lie. It's a doozy.