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Apollon Rising
Chapter Three (parts XIX and XX) Synopsis: a young Gavroche meets Courfeyrac on the streets of Paris, while an older Gavroche continues to seek the powers of the mystic for a sleeping draught to ease his nightmares. But as the hour of the diavol approaches, Gavroche realises his own thoughts and desires.
XIX.
calendrier: summer 1827
Gavroche can remember how he met Courfeyrac described with three simple words that, when he hears them years in the future, will wrench his heart: liberte, egalite and fraternite.
Liberte:
Through the crowded streets of Paris, a young Gavroche pushes between Marius and Courfeyrac to duck into the alleyway. Three other young children follow him, fighting their way through the people.
At the same time as a young boy with a golden halo of curls knocks them aside, Courfeyrac is discussing politics and law with Marius. It takes the students several moments before they realise that they have been effectively relieved of several francs, stolen by expert hands of the youngest Thenardier son (as Courfeyrac will discover a year after meeting Gavroche).
Two things happen simultaneously: Marius complains about his hard-earned francs and runs after the boy, and Courfeyrac realises that Marius won't ever pay him back if he keeps losing his francs to street urchins. He wonders if there is an invisible target on Pontmercy's back, as this is the third time this week.
Courfeyrac sighs and follows Marius. He finds his mate and the blond child in the alley; Marius has the boy at the collar to prevent his escape, an expression of disbelief on his face as he stares at his white-knuckled hands at the boy's light blue cravat. Courfeyrac is slightly stunned with Marius (as is Marius with himself) and approaches the two slowly.
"Marius." Courfeyrac touches his friend's forearm. Marius releases his hold and apologises before taking a step back. The boy blinks at them, dirt smeared across his face.
Egalite:
Courfeyrac holds out his hand and Gavroche reluctantly drops the francs into his palm. After a moment, Courfeyrac sighs and shoves the coins back at the street urchin. Gavroche beams, the sun flashing from his golden curls. His fingers fumble at the loosely tied cravat at his neck-a relic given to him by his older sister Eponine. He wore it with traditional Thenardier pride, although it was too large for his small stature.
Gavroche holds out the dirt-covered fabric; it is frayed at the edges, the stitching broken. "Something for you," he says, "something for me."
Courfeyrac takes the light blue cravat that Gavroche offered him, before the young boy turns (the coins hidden away among his layers of clothing) and runs after his mates. Courfeyrac stares in his direction before the boy disappears into the crowd, before Marius calls his name. He carefully folds the cravat and sets it inside his waistcoat pocket, turning to his friend.
"Technically, that should be mine." Marius scowls
"Technically, you still owe me ten francs."
Fraternite:
Courfeyrac gently washes the light-blue cravat and asks Musicetta to mend it before he ties it around his neck.
In the dirty streets of Paris, the blond curls of the street urchin are easily spotted, and over time, Gavroche follows in Courfeyrac's shadow, an extension that quickly grows from friendship into one of brotherhood. Although Gavroche continues to live on the streets, he spends the colder nights with Courfeyrac at his flat.
After the Les Amis forms, Courfeyrac introduces Gavroche to his fellow student revolutionaries, and pins the patch onto his younger brother's coat.
XX.
calendrier: juin 1840
Dark clouds part the moonlight shining on the wet streets of Paris. Shivers course down Gavroche's spine as the mystic beckons him inside once more, before she and her acolyte retreat into the warmth of the mud hut.
It only takes Gavroche a moment longer to follow. The aromas of spice and sandalwood surround Gavroche; the humidity inside infuses soft undertones of dirt and earth into the air of the dwelling. The mystic stands before a bookcase burdened with overflowing spice jars and parchment paper. Set at odd intervals around the small room, candles melt wax upon the wood, their candlelight flickering wallow light upon herbal sticks and knuckle bones.
"Pardon Mademoiselle," Gavroche carefully chooses his words, "I understand you market in sleeping draughts and concoctions to ease the ills of the night?"
She searches through the dark-coloured glass jars, and her acolyte answers, "Mistress markets in magicks of the soul and of the earth."
The humidity and earth-smell cloy in his lungs and Gavroche coughs. The mystic and acolyte take no notice, and the man continues in his Romanian brogue, "But she believes not your words, young Thenardier-Pontmercy; she wishes to hear what you genuinely seek at the hour of the diavol?"
Gavroche jerks; he did not recall declaring his name. The mystic turns, indicating for her client to cup his hands together, and she dusts his palms with a white powder. It begins to numb his skin, and Gavroche raises an eyebrow to the acolyte.
"I have no need to explain her methods, Monsieur."
"My apologies."
The mystic continues her ritual and anoints Gavroche's hands with oil, followed by the area of the third eye upon his forehead. There is a slight burning itch where the oil touches his skin.
"What is it you truly seek at the hour of the diavol?" the acolyte repeats.
Gavroche remembers fragments of nightmares that he cannot piece together, words that he doesn't understand. "Foolish dreams of a foolish young man, following and leading equally-foolish schoolboys in a long-past time forgotten to the people," he mutters. A part of him disbelieves that the mystic's powers can bring him any sort of peace, and another part wonders what peace it is he seeks.
Lost in thought, Gavroche sighs and reaches at memories he can never remember. They leaden his heart and bring tears to his eyes, while the candles continue to flicker, the oil weakly burns his skin. But the mystic smiles, her eyes glittering silver in the candle light. Leaning forward, she takes his hand within hers.
"It has been decided then?" the acolyte continues to speak for his mistress.
Gavroche replies, "It has." He doesn't flinch from the mystic's piercing eyes
There has never been no other option-for not Gavroche, not anymore.
"You wish to be torn from this time as it progresses forward," the acolyte speaks not in questions but in certainty. "Thrust through the ether of the abyss, forced into an era past. Do you have an understanding of the magicks that must be harnessed to perform the work of the diavol, to return you to a time before the blood was spilt upon the barricade?"
"I do not," Gavroche says.
The acolyte continues, "She requires certain possessions to perform the magick."
The mystic presses lips to the oil anointed on Gavroche's forehead. Her touch sooths and calms his whirling mind.
"An item embedded in the essence of that time, covered with the blood of a loved one."
Another small part of Gavroche's heart breaks apart-tucked away in his bedroom, is Courfeyrac's light blue cravat, the one given to him by a young street urchin so many lifetimes ago. It is marred with the blood of Joly, Combeferre and Courfeyrac; pierced by bullets from below, their blood had ran in rivulets across the upper level of The Café Musian.
... to be continued
