Hello! I'm new. I've been a little hesitant about posting anything since the quality of writing here is so high, but I thought I'd plow ahead anyway. The plot of this - should I go on - may be a little atypical, and I hope the characterizations don't offend. Any and all OCs are purely for plot purposes.

Enjoy. :)

For the second time in the span of ten minutes Combeferre instructed the serving girl how to place a damp cloth over Enjolras' brow. "If you feel he's become too warm," he said, speaking slowly and annunciating clearly, "I want you to dip this rag in water, then place it on his forehead. But wring it out first, mind you. Do you understand?"

The serving girl bobbed her head. She was a plump, ruddy-cheeked maid, aged fifteen or sixteen, with an oblivious spirit. "Yes, Monsieur. I do the same for Madame whenever her head pains her."

"He hasn't got a headache, however," said Combeferre sharply, not at all like him. "He's been feverish all day. Do you know how to check him for fever? Use the back of your hand, not your palm. The back of the hand is more sensitive."

The serving girl drew herself up to her full height – not very tall – and squared her shoulders proudly. "Both of my brothers on the farm had the measles, Monsieur, and I nursed them through it. If there's one thing I know, it's fevers. But my! The storm's picked up. You'll have a hard time of it if you don't leave now, Monsieur."

Combeferre followed the girl's gaze to the window whose shutters were thrown back. The snow came down so heavily that he could see little but a falling wall of white – most unusual for Paris in December. "Perhaps I had better stay. I'll leave when the storm passes."

The serving girl, though she knew it was not her place to offer advice unsolicited, piped, "But, Monsieur, he's sleeping soundly now. And after all the thrashing he's been doing, he's likely to sleep for a good while. Long enough for you to return to your own rooms and collect a few things. I'd be most surprised if he woke in the meantime."

Combeferre nodded acknowledgement of this, but said anyway, "I'm unsure."

Between them, on the little bed, slept the object of their conversation, as pale as the sheets in spite of his fever, his skin clammy, the fire in the hearth echoing the glints of his golden hair, damp with sweat. He wore a linen shirt that was open to the waist and pulled back, so that most of his chest was bare. The white expanse was blemished by a constellation of rosy scar tissue. There were eight of them, the size of a franc, all grouped together on his breast. He would bear those marks forever, along with two of the bullets that had made them, now sealed deep within his flesh, too deep for any surgeon to remove. Lodged so close to his heart and lungs, Combeferre supposed they were what gave him the fevers, which came and went, never disappearing for very long.

Combeferre was glad Enjolras was sleeping easily, after a morning of frightening delirium, in which he had cast himself against the mattress, struggling violently in Combeferre's arms, as he sought to restrain him. He was so calm and still that Combeferre was disconcerted. He had watched Enjolras wither and suffer these many months. Now, having spent his strength, he was so very weak, he seemed like a wisp of dandelion seed. One stiff breeze might carry him away.

Combeferre pulled up the blankets that had fallen off his sleeping charge, obscuring the scars from the serving girl's view. He had not told her how Enjolras had won those scars, he hadn't thought it proper. The girl's mistress, and Enjolras' landlady, was a committed Republican who was aware of his involvement in the uprising. She knew of his wounds, yet could only have formed a vague guess about his escape. Combeferre himself was not entirely certain how Enjolras had survived that June night, though he had his hypotheses. In the smoke and confusion of the wineshop, with the clamor of gunshot all around, he had not witnessed Enjolras injured, nor had he seen him afterward, in the dawn, as he crawled through an alley to safety, bloodied and weapon-less. Enjolras, in conscious moments, had never told him, and he, sensing something, had declined to ask.

"He sleeps like one dead," he murmured over the silent form, giving utterance to his greatest fear.

The serving girl, with cheerful assuredness, disagreed. "He has the healing sleep about him, Monsieur."

Combeferre adjusted his eyeglasses and pulled on his overcoat. "It's just as well that I go. I haven't changed my clothes in three days, nor slept more than an hour. I'll be back with bedding and spend the night at his side. Yes," he mumbled, "that should do it. And I will rout out Joly, as well. He knows more than I. He's sure to come."

He rounded on the serving girl, his expression stern, his face exhausted. "If he wakes and asks for anything, you are to give it to him. Tell your mistress I will cover the cost of whatever must be purchased."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"But he will not ask for anything," Combeferre added, sighing. "He never does."

He went across the room to the chair against which his cane was propped. The air was colder near the window, and he could see his breath. He suddenly felt a sharp pain in his right leg. It was the old injury he had sustained in June, when a soldier's bullet shattered his thighbone into several pieces, crippling him. The wound had never properly healed: so repulsed had his surgeon been at the quantity of blood that he had fainted straightaway, and when he came to, his hands shook so badly that he mis-applied the splint.

Combeferre doubled over, gripping the limb, now a half-inch shorter than the other.

"Monsieur!" said the serving girl, alarmed.

Combeferre offered her a strained smile. "It's nothing," he said though gritted teeth. He rubbed the throbbing muscle until the pain had somewhat eased. "This room is very cold. Too cold. Keep the fire stoked. If your mistress values the life of her tenant, she will provide more fuel."

"But it is very dear, Monsieur."

"I'll pay. Don't fear. What is your name?"

"Phébé, Monsieur," the girl answered, her cheeks very ruddy.

"A Titan out of Greek mythology. Grandmother of Apollo and Artemis," Combeferre mused, taking up his cane.

"Pardon, Monsieur?"

He shook his head. "I shall return shortly. Watch him well." He looked at Enjolras sleeping with fond but weary eyes. He longed to stay, fearing the worst should he leave, even for a moment; but he knew, too, that it was foolish to carry on in his condition. Bodily, he was tired and hungry, having not eaten more than a few mouthfuls in three days; emotionally, he was spent.

"He will be all right," he told himself, "for a few hours." Still, he pulled himself only reluctantly through the door. He thanked the landlady in the parlor most sincerely for lending him her maid, then stepped into the blizzard, glancing back at Enjolras' window in hopes of seeing him through it. He saw only the ice collecting in strange shapes against the pane.

"Well," said Phébé, serving girl, former peasant, and now makeshift nurse. "You sleep nice and easy, Monsieur, while I build up your fire."

Enjolras was untroubled as she tied her shawl tightly around her shoulders and gathered up the bucket of coal, trying as much as possible to shovel coal into the fire without making any noise. Unluckily, the little scoop was made of tin, and it made a loud racket against the rolling coals and tin bucket. She finished her task quickly.

"There!" she said, wiping the smuts from her hands. "That should keep Monsieur Combeferre happy for a while. And you, too, Monsieur Enjolras. It's become very warm in here. I've never been in a room so warm, to be perfectly honest," she babbled, addressing Enjolras asleep on the bed. "I grew up in a three-room hut on my father's farm. One room was the kitchen – the baby always slept there, right next to the stove. Then, there was Maman and Papa's room, which they shared with Grandfather. And I slept with my four little brothers and sisters in the other room, all together in the one bed. It was crowded, but you were thankful for it come winter."

She bustled about, plumping his cushions, seeing whether his chamber pot was filled. "I've never had my own bed before. Now I do. It feels strange. Sometimes I feel like a princess. But then my feet get cold, and I wish little Charlot was there to lie across them, even though he always snored."

She continued to talk in this manner, sharing anecdotes from her life, aware that Enjolras could not hear her but little concerned by it. She liked to hear the sound of her own voice, which Madame complained gave her headaches. She stopped abruptly in the description of her father's farm, which she sorely missed, when she heard, above the howling wind, the sound of the front door slamming.

"It can't be Monsieur Combeferre so soon," she said.

In the foyer below there soon rose two voices, feminine and masculine. One was undoubtedly her mistress's, the other she didn't recognize. However, it was no business of her own – to make nosy about Madame's guests – unless, of course, Madame needed something done, such as tea served. Still, she shifted the coals with the poker, straining to understand a word or two of their conversation. Madame was older and lived alone, apart from her tenants, and while life was easy, it was also very often tedious for a young girl. Overseeing an invalid was as much excitement as she had had in many weeks. That he happened to be very beautiful, even as an invalid, caused her no small amount of blushes and her simple country heart to patter like a drum.

In a moment she heard footsteps on the stair, heavy and tramping. Then the door to the room creaked open, and in the doorway stood a hooded figure with snow on his shoulders and covered head. Phébé, who was not easily excitable, shrieked.

The hooded man stood like a statue, as if her shriek was no more to him than the wind outside.

"Phébé!" Madame called. The old woman appeared in the doorway behind the man, a little breathless from having run up the stairs. She was tall and narrow, with a nose like a hawk's and eyes like a doe's. Her dress was black and trimmed with crêpe, as befitted a widow. "What is it, child?" she said. "Are you harmed?"

"No, Madame," said Phébé with a hand at her throat. "He startled me, that's all. My God, I can feel my heart in here!"

"Come away, Phébé," Madame said.

"But, Madame, Monsieur Combeferre has ordered me to stay."

"That's quite all right. There's something needs doing in the kitchen."

"Yes, Madame," said Phébé a little sadly, for there seemed something exciting about to happen now with the arrival of the hooded stranger. He would not move as she passed him, instead standing stock-still. She was forced to squeeze against him to get out of the room, to which Madame responded with a disapproving cluck of the tongue. But the stranger, though Phébé brushed his arm, did not take notice of her, and the overawed serving girl thought he might be transfixed. In truth, he was half-frozen. He had been caught in the blowing storm for many hours, buffeted by the frigid winds, cut down by the sleet and ice. The heat of that warm room was so intense that his numb limbs had started to thaw immediately, and as the blood began to course back through his body, he felt intense pain that threatened to overwhelm him. Having felt nothing for so long, he suddenly felt everything.

In the hall, Phébé whispered, "Madame, who is he?"

"A friend of Monsieur Enjolras', or so he said. Truthfully, he seems a little incongruous when compared to Monsieur Enjolras' other friends." Madame replied, leading Phébé down the stairs.

"He looks mysterious," said the girl, entranced.

"You've been too long out of the country, child. He looks more like a bumpkin to me."

If Phébé had been allowed to stay a few moments longer in the room, she would have soon discovered that the stranger was exactly as Madame had said and not a character out of a Gothic romance. His great black cloak and hood hid his face and form and made him seem much larger than he was in actuality. He threw it off and no longer gave the impression of a brooding wanderer but that of a half-starved peasant.

In the huts and houses of the provinces there were hundreds and thousands who looked just like him – as many grim-faced men in shabby tunics girded at the waist with fraying cords, with rags around their legs, their feet in broken boots. And surely they, too, appeared as misery personified, with their bodies bent from burning brush and tilling soil and faces old before their time. The stranger, though he hadn't been born a peasant, had recently shared in their misery. He was dressed in their rags, had performed their labor, had lived their deprivations. Now, for a moment, he was the most pathetic of them all in the way he continued to stand there in the doorway. He trembled; snow melted off his hair; his troubled eyes peered out of cavernous sockets. He did not stare at the fire, which lent him its heat and revived him. He stared instead at the pale figure on the bed, so still he might have been a funerary monument. His eyes had alighted on him as soon as he opened the door.

The stranger's expression was half each elation and anguish, and he was so torn between the two emotions that he couldn't decide what to do.

After a minute's staring, he took his first tentative steps. He went to the bed. Enjolras turned his head in his sleep, as if aware of the foreign presence. This miniscule movement, little more than a twitch, had a great effect on the stranger. When he had inquired after Enjolras at the door, scarcely trusting to hope, the landlady had replied that he had not yet departed from this world, that he still lived, though was ill. But Enjolras had lain so tranquilly that the stranger was sure the woman was mistaken. In his joy he took the hand that hung over the side of the bed and clasped it to him.

"Enjolras," he whispered. "Enjolras, to know you live – I can't speak."

It was sentence straight from his soul, and as is often the case, it was meant to remain secret. He would not have spoken it had he thought its recipient might overhear.

Enjolras' eyes opened. Perhaps the shock of the stranger's cold flesh against his, which burned to the touch, had brought him from his slumber. Or else his voice had wakened him. In any case, Enjolras was now awake, and he looked at the stranger with pained, delirious eyes, and said, "Grantaire, I can't breathe."

If you'd like, please review/critique. I'd be grateful for any at all.