Hello all! I know I should be working on "A Revolutionary Heart," but this just popped into my head and demanded to be written. Just a little drabble piece... Hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: NOT. HUGO.

~Rosey

My Son Julien

I am not here to talk about my son the leader.

I am not here to talk about my son the hero.

I am not here to talk about my son the revolutionist.

I am here to talk about my son Julien.

My baby.

Today is my Julien's twenty-first birthday, and he is growing up far too fast. Too fast, too gentle, too beautiful for his homely, silly little slip of a mother. No words that I own could adequately express the love and compassion I feel for my boy. His words probably could, since he could make the dictionary sound like a hymn if spoken aloud.

I am a simple woman, and I certainly do not deserve my darling boy, but I will try and express in my own foolish little words how much I adore him.

My Julien is the light of my life. He is good and smart and kind and passionate. Of course, he is also rather serious and stoic, but I've seen him laugh and I've seen him hurting and yes, I have seen him cry. I am his mother after all, and though he may not shout it out to his friends, he does love me and I love him.

When my son was five years old, he came up to me and tugged on my skirt one afternoon when I was making dinner. I turned and knelt down in front of him. "Yes, darling?"

"Maman, what's Patria mean?"

I smiled a little at the book he had in his hands. A book of French history for children. He had gotten it for Christmas and had not put it down. My son could read before he could walk.

"It means our Motherland, Julien."

My son thought for a moment and then smiled. "Good. I love Patria."

And in that moment, I knew my baby was not going to be your average child. He held more patriotism in him at this childhood age than I hold within me even today. My son, the patriot and the rebel and the revolutionary.

But he is so much more.

My son is as real and human as you or I.

In fact, let me tell you about how human my son is.

When he was thirteen, he came to me in the night, coughing violently and his poor beautiful little face flushed. He woke me with a gentle tug on my sleeve, and when I saw my baby standing there I wanted to cry.

"Maman?" was all he had to say before I quickly took him back to bed and held him long into the night. The fever lasted four days, and I never left his side once. My boy trembled and grew delirious, and he was broken. I had to put him back together, and I assure you that as he lay there in my arms sicker than I had ever seen him or ever cared to see him, he was no "Apollo," as his dear friend Grantaire calls him. He was a sick and exhausted little boy.

One of the nights that he lay in my arms he looked up at me through those beautiful blue eyes, so glazed with fever, and he said "I love you, Maman."

And I broke down and cried, holding my son late into the night, never letting go.

When he recovered, he didn't remember most of those fevered nights, but he remembered that one.

I've seen my son laugh, and laugh hard. When he was fifteen he had his friend Etienne Combeferre over for the night, and I do not even remember what Etienne said, but my son laughed longer and harder than he ever had before, until tears were in his eyes and he could scarcely breathe. His eyes were shining and he was laughing so hard... He was so happy. He was just a fifteen year old child then, and for a few moments, indeed acted like one.

And I've seen my baby boy cry. I don't like thinking about those times, but they happen.

When he was eighteen I heard him alone in his room one night, through the walls. At first I thought that I had to be mistaken. But the sobs continued and when I went in the room he was sitting on the edge of his bed, crying into his hands. I took him in my arms and held him, and he at last spoke.

"There was a beggar woman outside a wealthy man's house... She was asking for a simple piece of bread," he whispered as those silver tears dried on his marble cheek. "And when she wouldn't leave... He... He shot her." He trembled slightly, and I just held him closer. "And the authorities didn't even pay attention."

And then there was venom in his voice, and then my son became the revolutionary again, and his eyes shone with passion for justice as his silver tears dried.

Oh my son... How I wish I could rewind time, and watch you grow up all over again. Watch you grow into the beautiful young man you are now. But I cannot rewind time, or make it stop, no matter how I wish I could.

You are a good boy, my darling. You are smart, and kind, and gentle and loving. You warm my heart on the coldest days, and take my breath away with all your accomplishments. Words cannot express the love I have for you, and the desires and dreams I have for your future. I am so proud of you, and don't you ever forget it. Never forget what a good boy you are. What a wonderful boy you are. I wish I could just hold you in my arms and never let go. Never release you into the world which you so perilously fight for. I wish I could wash your beautiful blond curls with my old lavender soap, sit you on my knee wrapped in a towel, and comb your locks as I did for you when you were a toddler. I would give anything to go back to those days.

I wish I could hug you forever. When we embrace, I never want to let go. It always hurts a little when I do, because you are my sunshine, and not having you constantly in my arms makes a dark cloud hover over my head.

I fear I will loose you to this revolution, and I fear if you do survive you will never be the same again.

But no matter what the outcome, know that I love you, my baby. My darling.

My Julien.

Well I wrote this super late at night so it may not be my best, but let me know what you think!

~Rosey