TheIbis2010- Yes! I wanted to try and include at least one suggested name from each reader. JAnd thank you so much! This chapter is a mix of angst and fluff, and Enjolras gets to see a darker part. Hope you enjoy! And as for Éponine, she shall be making an appearance sooner than you think ;)

Stagepageandscreen- Aw thank you! Although, as my fic's guardian, I request a proper courting if you truly love it… ;)

ConcreteAngel(RoxHerHalo)- I… Urhm… whatever are you talking about?

So, I decided to skip the Ceara/Bahorel friendship thing. Since this is more of a series of connected vignettes than a story, I don't think that will affect much. I'll just include it somehow…

Henri went to bed that night with the painting etched in the very fabric of his brain. Even with his beautiful wife gently tucked in his arms, he felt Ceara's loneliness as if it seeped through the painting and into his life. The next morning, as the gray light came in through the window, his beloved was gone (She worked at the Opera) and he was alone, truly feeling it as he hadn't before.

He looked to the front page of the textbook, on which the university dean had scribbled the late Grantaire's address. He was scared by his own desperation to leave as quickly as he could. Henri had to force himself to eat breakfast and change into proper clothes, otherwise he'd have left with an empty stomach and his night shirt barely covering his knees. Why was this artwork overtaking his life? Why did he feel such a need to discover more until the story was complete?

It made little sense, and it kind of terrified Henri. As he sat at his empty table with a barely touched meal in front of him, he wrote in his journal of his findings and what he'd picked of the story so far. As his pen made loops and lines on the paper, his mind wandered. Before he realized it, his hand guided the ink off the page and onto the mahogany table. He sighed and quickly ripped a page in his notebook and wrote a brief note to the maid, telling her of what he'd done and that it needed to be handled before Madame Enjolras came home. His wife had a feisty streak, one that was prominent when they were wed seven years prior, and he had no wish to be on the receiving end of her anger.

Part of him wanted to annoy her, just to see a shard of the girl he fell in love with. Lately she'd become withdrawn and sad, and he could do nothing to make her happy. He knew she wanted a child and that he was unable to produce one. She always said that 'Three is a crowd, and crowds are my life'. Henri felt very much the pathetic husband for being unable to give his wife what women were expected to possess.

With much on his mind and a weight on his heart, Henri packed a schoolboy's knapsack with all of Grantaire's important works. In the case of the table cloths, he'd roughly copied the drawings to the best of his ability and tucked the copies in the pages of the textbook, taking care not to smudge anything. He stepped onto the street, stopping for a moment to deposit a few coins into a beggar girl's outstretched hand. As he met her eyes with a kind smile, he did a double take. Her eyes, with a gleam of mischievous intent in them, seemed horribly familiar, as well as her strangely textured hair.

A beautiful grisette came up to the two of them and began scolding the child (who was just short of ten years) in argot. Then she looked up at Henri, and once again he was struck with a strange sense of déjà-vu. Her hair caught the early morning light and allowed red-ish tints to be cast from her waves.

"My apologies, Monsieur. We are not in desperate need for money, my daughter just enjoys…" The woman trailed off, glancing up at Henri and narrowing her sharp eyes. "Say, do I know you from somewhere?"

"I do not believe we have met, Mademoiselle." Henri reached out his hand, and the woman stared at it as if she was surprised that he dared to touch someone of such a lower social ranking. With much hesitance, she delicately shook his hand, her calloused fingers feeling strange against his smooth hands. "I am Monsieur Enjolras."

Shock flittered across her face, her eyes widening to a comical size and her jaw going slack. In wonder, she raised her hand as if to touch his face before pulling back. She bent uncomfortably close to him, scrunching her nose as she inspected his face with care. "Non, it couldn't be the same one." As she mused aloud, she gently eased her slightly grimy child closer to her.

"And your name?" Henri was determined to know from where he knew this woman.

"Madame Montparnasse." She seemed to withhold a cringe at the sound of her surname, and with one last tight smile in Henri's direction, she scooped the coins out of the child's hands and shoved them back at Henri. He shook his head and nodded towards the pair's gaunt cheeks.

"You need it more than I."

He left them on the corner and racked his mind for a Montparnasse. Alas, he could think of nobody with that surname. Cursing himself for not pursuing the woman's first name, he continued on his way to the address listed on the inside of the textbook.

"Well, here ya go." The concierge's daughter was about ten years Henri's junior, and she led him to an attic space and pointed roughly at a collection of trunks. "Have fun. Had a couple of other Messieurs go through it a good eight years ago, give 'r take a few."

Henri thanked her and pressed a tip into the Mademoiselle's hand. She gave him a half-toothless grin and disappeared to find her mother to celebrate her good luck.

After a good few minutes of rummaging through boxes of clothing and shoes, Henri came to a trunk that seemed to be heavier than the rest. He opened the top with the slightest bit of exertion (men of Henri's age shouldn't have been able to do such activities for so long, but the Enjolras family was wide known for their fitness). Glancing inside, he saw neat stacks of books, some of which (judging from the binding) were notebooks.

He sifted through the piles carefully, and his search turned positive results. He found three canvas paintings that were wrapped in linen. Those he handled gingerly, afraid that the paint might chip or the canvas might break. He also got his hands on two notebooks, one thinner than the other. In the thin notebook, the pages were filled with Grantaire's messy scrawl. In the other…

Henri opened it to the sight of his cousin, wrapped in nothing but the French flag. He grinned grimly. Jackpot.

He botherned not to return home to look through the notebook, and instead sat with his back against one of the trunks. He flipped the pages, noting a strange aspect to most of Grantaire's pictures. The young artist had the oddest quirk of adding darkness to most of his sketches. He drew Parisian scenes, and one of them was dark around the edges, giving Henri a disconcerted feeling. Grantaire showed a couple strolling by the Seine, their arms tenderly linked. The shadows around the happy pair seemed crouched and ready to pounce, as though there were living monsters hidden in the dark.

However, Henri came upon a sketch that he found unique and beautiful. Different from the other depictions of Paris, the scene was of the poorer part of Paris. The children dancing in the corners were gaunt and ragged, their limbs mere more than bones. Despite their condition, as shown by a laughing little boy in the center, they were happy. Grantaire delved into the unbroken innocence of the Parisian gamins' souls.

As the dates on the sketches got closer to 1832, Henri looked through them with a gaining impatience. He passed several drawings of Les Amis de l'ABC, and a couple of the Musain's scullery wench, Louison. Finally, he came across a few that continued the story to a certain degree.

The first one was of Ceara standing in front of Bahorel, her slim body seeming even smaller in comparison with his broad stance and stocky build. His thick arms wrapped around her and her small, square feet were kicking in the air, laughter in their faces. It was a fond gesture, not unlike that of father and daughter or brother and sister. The date was of late December, placing the event as shortly after that on the back cover of Grantaire's textbook.

Henri smiled at the touching scene and then flipped to the next one, which was slightly more detailed. It showed Ceara asleep. Henri could not tell where she was, but her head was resting in the crook of her elbow instead of on a pillow. Her shaggy hair tumbled over her arms and shoulders, a single strand falling over her cheek and then curling down beneath her chin. Her eyes were closed peacefully. Her full lips were ever so slightly upturned in a sleepy smile that elevated the mood of the piece of artwork. Her nose was tinged red with colored charcoal, and the air around her was tinted as if there was a sun between her and Grantaire, enveloping the girl in golden hues and yellow rays.

Once again, Grantaire made an exception in a drawing. There was no darkness in this picture besides the shadows of her long eyelashes and her hair. Henri carefully ran his smooth fingertips over Ceara's lightly clenched fingers. He wondered where she could have been.

January 1832.

The meeting broke fairly early, more so than Enjolras would have liked. He could feel the electric charge in the air as the incitement for rebellion drew near. He knew not what the disastrous event would be that would become their incentive, but he knew it was gradually approaching. However, the cold months made people lazy, for all they wished was to delve beneath quilts with their beloved and eat hearty food. Thus being, Enjolras was fairly lucky that he managed to keep his friends focused for more than an hour. Enjolras was one of few that actually enjoyed France's winter, therefore placing him at a more industrious state than the rest.

It barely took any time for the remaining Amis to leave the café's back room in favor for a warmer, more loving setting. Combeferre, before returning to his home, stopped to speak with Enjolras, who still had papers spread before him as he attempted to redeem the evening by completing as much work as he could.

"Mon ami, you must rest. You will work yourself to death, I believe." Combeferre said, gently. Enjolras glanced back up with charged blue eyes and shook his head dismissively.

"Beliefs are nothing but what could be. I must stay in sight of reality." He responded, and Combeferre laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder before asking what a few of the Ami's had been wondering.

"Have you seen Ceara around? The air gets colder each day, and we've no way to be sure of her safety."

Enjolras sighed, knowing now that he was to get no more work done. For that wondering thought had been eating at him since she neglected to enter after Bahorel, who was always the last to arrive. Remembering how she'd stood in the snow for hours and said it was nothing, it was common knowledge amongst the group (specifically Joly) that she had little care for her own health, so they took that as a responsibility to ensure that she was healthy. She was slightly spoiled as such, for Courfeyrac and Grantaire would supply her with alcohol and the others with food. Joly, much to Ceara's amusement, took it upon himself to give her a check-up every meeting. Enjolras was the one she was most grateful to, for he did none of these things which made her feel somewhat uncomfortable.

Due to many voyages to visit families for New Year's, Les Amis de l'ABC hadn't met for weeks, and their worry increased when their petite sœur (nicknamed as such by Bossuet, L'aigle des Meux as he was) made no appearance after their hiatuses.

"Non, have you spoken with Grantaire about it? Is he not the one who is closest to her?" Enjolras asked, doing his best to maintain a cool tone. Combeferre, the one with which he was closest, could tell something was amiss and raised an eyebrow but said nothing of it.

"Well, Grantaire is currently… Otherwise occupied," Indeed, the local drunkard was unconscious under the table, "and I have reason to believe that she is closest with Bahorel, who likewise asked. Enjolras, you cannot hope for followers if you do not care enough for your own members." Combeferre smirked when Enjolras' head snapped up.

"I do care! Of course I care, she is… Oh." Enjolras saw the teasing in Combeferre's eyes, and he understood that his friend intended to bristle him.

"Take care, Enjolras."

"Au revoir, Combeferre."

Enjolras left the café in the darkest time of night, wrapping his overcoat around himself in response to the biting air. It had been a day with a pale blue sky but no warmth, providing Paris with an icy feeling that reminded many of Enjolras' eyes.

He walked slowly to let his mind rest. When he passed by a nearby bakery, he heard sniffling in the alley. Usually he would walk right by, but he had extra sous burning holes in his pocket, and he intended to put that money to better use than frivolities. So he followed the noise to the bakery's side door. There he saw a female form curled in the doorway with only a thin shawl as protection.

Enjolras knelt down and frowned when the girl didn't react to his coming nearer. He carefully brushed frozen hair from her eyes and started at what lay beneath. It was a familiar, sleeping face. He shrugged off his coat without a second thought. As he draped the thicker fabric over Ceara, she whimpered in her sleep and her arms twitched slightly. Her skin was icy to the touch and Enjolras was sickened at the realization that she was too cold to move. Her nose was an unhealthy red color and her fingers were tinged with purple. She had a few bruises on her arms from sources that Enjolras was scared to know.

It didn't take him long to figure what to do. He gently placed the skinny (in the time she hadn't seen Les Amis, she'd lost what little amount of fat made her seem slender in opposition to emaciated), freezing girl into his arms. She was frighteningly light and he was filled with urgency to get her to a safe, warm place. To his chagrin, his flat was several blocks away.

Thinking suddenly of the Musain, he turned back and hurried to the café. He pushed through the door and past a protesting Louison ("Monsieur Enjolras, the café is closed. Whatever are you doing with that girl? Monsieur!). He went into the back room and lit several candles, rekindling the light in the room. He laid Ceara on the table, and she began to shake violently (based on what little medical knowledge Enjolras had, he figured that chills were better than her prior paralytic state.)

He discarded his jacket as well and eased it under her, hoping to make the table feel kinder on her body. He couldn't believe that such a surface was an ideal place to rest. However, a smile emerged on her face as her shivering gradually stopped and she nestled into the wood as if it was the most comfortable place she'd slept in a while. As far as Enjolras knew, it was.

He carefully felt at her damp hair and brushed the wet strands behind her ear. Without knowing it, her head moved to meet his palm and he leapt back as if shocked. Suddenly very uncomfortable with the fact that he'd been watching a young girl sleep; Enjolras relit the stove, fully restoring the room's previous warmth. Once satisfied with the environment, Enjolras collapsed in his chair, too tired to leave again.

His hand unconsciously found the small of Ceara's back, and he rested it there, as if by doing so he could keep her safe. He fell asleep with his head on the table. At some point, Ceara awoke and pulled Enjolras's arm further over her waist so that it almost seemed as though the marble man was cuddling with a gamine.

Grantaire woke in the morning and saw that strange sight. He ignored the pull in his heart when he saw that Enjolras stayed by the side of a young woman he'd just met when he always left Grantaire alone in the cold room. He managed to ignore it because he focused on the way the stubby candles reflected off Ceara's shaggy curls. He had left his notebook there at the last meeting, and he pulled it out and began to draw…

Do you have any idea who the woman was? I think it's obvious, but as the author I can't say anything!