AN: Um...hi?

So...yeah, I haven't updated in months...possibly close to a year. I really have no excuses; school has been busy, and I sort of just...lost inspiration for this story, so...I'm very sorry, if anyone's still interested in this.

I REALLY have to thank Lifes-death-bed for reviewing and for giving me the incentive to update this again; girl, this is for you!

Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables.

"We'll have their full support, I think," Tamar mused, her voice filled with a kind of awed pride. "The men at the docks were...vehement...to say the least." Not only that; vehement was too gaudy a word to describe the fire that had sparked in the hearts of those men. Impassioned. Blazing. Intamable.

Sitting here now, in the Musain's back room, giving her report, she still felt the ringing reverberations of the workers' shouts and cheers in her mind, and marveled at it, allowing her ego to rise just a bit in knowing that she had set them off...but then, she hadn't, really. She had merely held rebellion's lit match to the kindlings of discontentment and rage already lying in those rough hearts, ready to burn at the slightest touch. And burn they had….

"I'm pleased to hear it," Enjolras replied, startling her from her reverie, giving her a tight-lipped smile that his relieved, grateful eyes belied.

"You should have seen her," Marius cut in, his own voice hushed with something...almost akin to reverence. "She just...went up there, no fear whatsoever, and even when she tripped, she spoke to everyone and brought them to her side...worked them up, and -"

"It was nothing so great," Tamar protested, feeling uncomfortable with the young man's laudation of her. Still, Marius shook his head, refusing to hear her 'undermining her success.'

"Non, par Dieu," he breathed.

Suddenly turning his clear blue gaze upon Enjolras, the younger man leaned forward convulsively and grabbed the leader's tanned, calloused hand in his own pale one. "I understand," he said fervently, gripping the digit tightly for emphasis. "What you do here, what you aim to achieve, I see it now! This day, I have seen...the sorrow, and the plight, the desolation of the people, but have also seen their hope, their fire. This day, I have seen...a world, I have been made blind to my whole life…."

Enjolras pulled away none too gently, eyeing Marius with cautious suspicion, but Marius sat back unperturbed, gazing incredulously about the café as though he were seeing it for the first time.

"This day," he murmured, a crystalline tear sparkling on his dark lashes, "I have seen the heart and soul of France."

X X X

Marius, in his elated state of epiphany, was only too happy to relay the account of what occurred at the docks to the other Amis upon their arrivals, though they were bursting with news of their own endeavors. The back room of the Musain soon echoed with the sounds of the men's' combined voices, and Tamar found herself feeling more than a little overwhelmed as she tried (and failed) to listen to everyone at once.

"That's enough," Enjolras said suddenly, his low voice carrying a quiet authority that effectively silenced the chaotic group. "Mercé. Now…." He trailed off for a moment, glancing around sharply to meet everyone's eyes, as if to gauge their energy as being wrought of good or bad. "One at a time, se te plai. Have we had success today, or not?"

As it turned out, most everyone had; the fact seemed almost too good to be true. Combeferre and Joly spoke animatedly of their assurance regarding their fellow medical students' support of their cause and subsequent attendance of Tuesday's rally, while Feuilly, at the factory, had garnered as passionate (and a bit more violent) response from the workers there as Tamar and Marius had incited at the docks. Enjolras was, as befitting his nature, reticent regarding his speaking at the Sorbonne, but the passionate blaze in his eyes was more than enough of an indication of triumph. Courfeyrac and Jehan each clutched a stack of what Tamar presumed were the pamphlets, and they enthusiastically spread them out over the tables for the others to peruse and overlook.

Tamar picked one up and began to flip through it, feeling rather surprised by just how many of the Amis had contributed to its making. Courfeyrac's pieces were, as expected, humorous, advertising rallies, calling for 'the subduing and subjugation of fat monarchical cocks,' and often accompanied by crude caricatures of despised officials. Combeferre's short essays were temperate, wise, begging for a pacifistic approach to securing change, while Bahorel and Feuilly countered those proposals with fiery calls to arms and rough denouncements of the system in layman's terms. Jehan had written lyrical, stirring poetry, and Bossuet and Joly, in lieu of offering writings of their own, had transcribed the galvanic words of the beloved General Lamarque: the peoples' man himself.

As for Enjolras...Gott, but his words were riveting. Written in both fluid French and the curling langue d'Oc, they named passionately the abuses of the bourgeoisie, raged against the king's complacency, demanded rebellion and change in flaming, merciless declarations that set the blood to boiling. He really did have a way with words, she thought, thinking suddenly of the grim, desolate faces of the wasted waifs upon Paris's sordid streets. Even the most hopeless of them might listen to such ardent please…. For the sake of Enjolras, the Amis...the country...she could only pray they would.

X X X

"This day is good for us all," Enjolras said, with a note of suppressed pride and pleasure in his voice. Turning to Tamar and Marius, he added, "Mark it well. Having such great successes all at once is, unfortunately, too rare."

"Too true," Courfeyrac sighed, placing one hand dramatically on his chest in a gesture of affected grief. The action garnered some laughs from the others, but a warning glare from the leader made him lower it, grinning abashedly. "Right then, Apollo," he exclaimed sheepishly...but with no great amount of regret. "No antics for you, I see…. But where are Bossuet and Bahorel?"

It was a reasonable inquiry. Those two were the only men not present in the café to give a report...apart from Grantaire, who, in all probability, had not left the Musain at all. Tamar could only assume that they were still seeking out those other groups that Bahorel had mentioned having contact with...or else some dire mischance had befallen them. Given Bahorel's propensity for violence and Bossuet's horrid luck, that wouldn't be at all surprising….

"They have not returned," Enjolras replied, with a frosty note in his voice that Tamar recognized as worry...as well as aggravation. "I did, however, see them upon returning from the Sorbonne; they were making for an inn by the river."

"To meet another group, I suppose?" Combeferre asked, sounding a bit too unconvinced for comfort.

"Presumably." The blonde leader's response was tight, though, and his eyes, gazing resolutely towards the back room's door, were dark and cold, like a frozen sea. The frigid look discomfited them all.

"Presumably?" a husky bass voice suddenly roared, startling everyone. "Enjolras, for shame! Did you ever doubt me? When, pray tell, have I ever spurned my duty to the cause for a jaunt in a pub?"

"Four times in the last month, and thirteen more in the last year," came the dry retort, eliciting more laughter from the gathered men and girl.

"Well." Bahorel sauntered into the back room like a man without a care in the world, smiling crookedly and sporting an impressive black eye. "Can't really argue with that...but I was doing business this time, I assure you!"

"If your business was brawling, then I daresay you completed it passably well-"

"In his defense, Eastern Europeans are rather...volatile." Bossuet, walking- or limping, rather- through the door, looked even worse than Bahorel did: his hat missing, his balding crown bleeding, his nose broken, both eyes swollen, and two teeth knocked out. Joly immediately rushed to him, fussing over his hurts like a fretful mother hen, while Enjolras's stony eyes roved over both injured men, anger lighting an icy fire within them

"Tak," a new voice said suddenly: gravelly, carrying a thick Polish accent. "Some of my men, see, they get a bit...how you say...out of control? Whoever is leader among you Amis, I am sorry for that...but your men Bossuet and Bahorel did duty right, I think, if it was finding help. Here you have your help."

X X X

The man that walked through the door now was tall and lanky, with tanned skin, a week's worth of rough ginger stubble, and thick curls of flaming copper hair that brushed the collar of his worn sea-jacket. His face, with its close-set eyes, hooked, crooked nose, and wry, thin-lipped mouth, was not the sort to inspire confidence, but he swept off his battered tweed cap all the same, and bowed to the room at large, like some self-assured foreign envoy greeting a king's court.

"Good it is to meet you all," he rasped, flashing white teeth in a quick, brash grin. "Bossuet and Bahorel have told me much about you: eleven men, one still mostly a boy, one a Bonapartist, one a useless pijak, and the rest young men like me. Your leader, they tell me, they call Apollo, and he call himself Enjolras." The name seemed to stick in the Pole's throat, mangled slightly by the lilting, guttural accent, and he winced. "Pryzkro mi. That name for me is stranger than the rest." Pausing for a moment, he scanned all of their faces with dark eyes that gleamed with unexpected sharpness. "Who here is Enjolras?"

"I am he." The golden-haired leader stepped forward, confident and wary all at once as he gave the Pole a guarded scrutiny. "And your name, sénher? I'm afraid I have yet to hear it."

The brash grin was back, and the rangy redhead brought one large, bony hand up to clasp Enjolras's firmly. "I never said it, see. Pavel Dubcek I am called, and I wear revolution's colors proud as any self-respecting Francuz." That said, the man, Pavel, drew aside one lapel of his coat, revealing a cloth fleur-de-lis pinned to the inside, bearing the red, white, and blue colors of the rebellion, just like the rosettes of the Amis. "My men outside, they and I are Fleur-de-lis- the hope of the lost. Just like you Amis de l'abaisse."

Sorry it's rather short; I really needed to adapt to this story again, and get a feel for the characters and plot. In other news, Pavel and his Fleur-de-lis will make very important additions to this story's cast; be prepared to see more of them in the future. Now….

Translation time! French will be marked with an F, Occitan with an O, German with a G, and Polish was a P.

Non, par Dieu (F): No, by God

Mercé (O): Thank you

Se te plai (O): Please; literally, if you please

Gott (G): God

Langue d'Oc: The official French name for the Occitan language

Tak (P): Yes

Pijak (P): Drunkard

Przykro mi (P): Sorry

Sénher (O): Sir, Mister

Francuz (P): Frenchman

Amis de l'abaisse (F): Friends of the abased

Feel free to correct me if you have better translations.

That's all for now! Remember to review! Auf Wiedersehen! Au revoir! ¡Adiós!