Notes: The revolution is almost upon us! ONE DAY MORE! Also p.s. I hope you Sandman fans enjoy the little cameo here. Thanks as always for being wonderful readers!
For Hannah (azelma-jondrette), Ginger (youwerejustakid), Iman (barbreyryswells), and Aimee (pleasantscreams) who are this ship's shield-maidens and some of the finest people I know.
Chapter Seven
A Hope in Hell
Easier coming back than going out, Grantaire had said once, and it was true. The portals between realms were sealed, but a demon's mind was a portal in itself, a connection to the red rocks and bone-strewn soil of the land that had forged it. To return to Dis, all Enjolras had to do was visualize the place, and move.
A small bronze sun floated high above the crimson clouds as he appeared at the obsidian gates of Lamarque's palatial dwelling. Two griffins blocked his path, creatures with eagles' heads and eagles' wings on lions' bodies, the gloss of black feathers fading into rough, tawny fur. And damn it all, because Enjolras absolutely loathed griffins; they were the biggest bunch of bureaucratic ass-wipes he'd ever had the displeasure of encountering. The meticulous beasts had never met a rule they didn't like, and, as far as he was concerned, they existed solely for the purpose of making everyone else's lives more difficult.
"The General is not admitting visitors today," one of the griffins announced while its companion pushed itself into the thin, dry air, circling the scene. "He is ill." For such a bulky creature, its voice was reedy and high-pitched.
"I am aware that he is ill," said Enjolras. "I have come to pay my respects."
"We have been given instructions of the strictest nature. No visitors." The griffin looked its beak down at him. "You may mourn him later, but you shall not disturb him now."
"He is a dear mentor. He will be pleased to see me," Enjolras tried to reason. "We discussed an urgent matter the last time we spoke-"
"No visitors," the griffin repeated. Its lion's tail swished. "By order of the Morningstar."
Well, fuck.
Enjolras stormed away. The revolution would proceed without Lamarque- his death would in fact be the spark that ignited it- but it would have been nice to see the old goat one last time.
When Dis becomes a republic, I will fight tooth and nail to pass a law demoting griffins to janitors, Enjolras vowed savagely.
He stretched his wings and rose above the ground, arms folded in front of him and ankles pinned together. In this contemplative position, he glided through the air in the direction of the slum districts. The city was plunged into the lull of mid-afternoon, but he did spot a cluster of demons marching on the ground with a carriage in their midst, bearing scarlet flags emblazoned with yellow flame insignias. He made a face and ascended until he was high enough to reasonably pretend that he couldn't hear them if they called out to him. He was in no mood to be hailed by Baal's honor guard, or to speak with Baal himself. Enjolras had been at odds with the King of Wrath ever since he'd started campaigning for equality at Lamarque's side.
He finally touched down in the land of the Untitled and was assailed by the stink of unwashed flesh and dirty canals. Ramshackle buildings with broken windows leaned into one another, all looking like they would fall down at the slightest breeze. There was little light to be found here, as if the sun itself had turned its face away from such a pathetic place. The minor demons bowed as they scurried past him, their loose rags revealing protruding ribcages, their eyes hopeless and dull.
A slight weight settled on Enjolras' shoulder. A dusty voice whispered in his ear, "How many miles to Babylon?"
"Three score miles and ten," Enjolras murmured.
"Can I get there by candlelight?"
"Yes, and back again."
The passphrases of the Resistance having been satisfied, the imp flicked its little wings and gripped Enjolras tighter with its hairy hands. It fed him information as he walked down the street with an aura of nonchalance, and his mind swam with news of possible sympathizers and rumors of invasion.
"Beware," the imp told him, "for the Queen of Envy grows suspicious. She asks about you."
Enjolras suppressed a groan of frustration. Of course Nemesis would be the first of the Seven to know something was up. She was the Inescapable One, cunning and clever, with a vast network of spies at her command. It was only a matter of time before she found out about the Resistance. They had to act fast.
"Tell the others it won't be long now," Enjolras told the imp. "Lamarque's funeral. Spread the word."
The imp flew away and Enjolras turned the corner into a dark, deserted alley. He traced runes on the dead-end wall and it opened up into a small chamber lit by dozens of candles. He stepped inside, the wall closing behind him, and almost crashed into-
"What," he hissed, "are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you," Grantaire replied. "I knew you'd end up here eventually."
"You disobeyed my orders-"
"For good reason."
Enjolras scowled. "Well, then, I am all ears."
"What you are, my Prince,is in a fouler mood than usual." Grantaire smirked. "I surmise that you were unable to speak with Lamarque. A tragic state of events."
"The guards would not let me in," Enjolras admitted grudgingly. "But what is your point?"
"I am Acedia, am I not?" The other demon gestured to himself with a lazy hand. "I may walk unseen when I choose, and so may all whom I choose."
Enjolras studied Grantaire for a moment, and then asked, "What's the catch?"
"Catch?" The Marquis repeated, sounding faintly amused.
"You have never helped me before. To what should I ascribe this sudden flirtation with altruism?"
"You wound me," murmured Grantaire. "Perhaps I am bored. Or!" He held up his index finger, cutting off Enjolras' frustrated sigh. "Or perhaps I know Lamarque is your friend, your teacher, and you will miss him when he is gone. It is up to you what to believe."
A muscle ticked along Enjolras' jaw. "All right," he said at last. "You will take me to the General."
"Thanks for letting me do you this favor." Grantaire's tone dripped with sarcasm. "But you have something to take care of first, and I'll leave you to it. I shall wait outside." He inclined his head in a parody of a bow and sauntered out the door leading back to the alley.
The shadows clung to Enjolras as he advanced deeper into the candle-lit gloom until he reached an altar, on which rested the disembodied head of a young, dark-haired man, whose eyes were closed and whose lips were tinged with the bluish pallor of death.
Enjolras could be a rebel all he wanted, but, at the end of the day, he was still a demon, and if you were a demon you couldn't undertake an important venture without consulting an oracle first. It simply wasn't done.
"Orpheus," he said, and the man's eyes opened.
It was a dreary gray afternoon on the surface, all overcast skies and watery light. The Café Musain housed only three customers: Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Éponine, who were exchanging mournful looks with one another across the table.
"Dumb kids," Éponine muttered, referring to the new recruits. "I didn't think we needed to train them how to use the fucking coffeemaker."
"What are we going to do?" groaned Jehan. "The Musain's brew is much too bitter for my taste." He pushed back strands of strawberry blond hair from his forehead, revealing a dark wet smear on his rosy skin.
"Um, you've got-" Éponine started to say, but she subsided when Courfeyrac reached over with a handkerchief to gently dab the ichor from the other boy's face.
"I am terribly sorry," said Courfeyrac. "I know you two need your post-exorcism caffeine fix. I have no idea how it happened, either. One minute the recruits were asking me where I kept the beans, and the next, the machine was exploding."
"Bastards," Éponine groused. She took a sip from the cappuccino she'd ordered and her features screwed up with disgust. "We should put in a requisition form with Musichetta."
"Let Bossuet and Joly do it," suggested Jehan. "That particular drama is keeping me on the edge of my seat. Better than Estelle et Némorin."
Courfeyrac's chestnut eyes twinkled. "What is it with humans and angels?"
"I don't know," Jehan mused. "What do you think, Ep?"
Éponine glared at them. "What's that supposed to mean?" She was a bit annoyed at herself; apparently, her attraction to Marius had not gone unnoticed.
"Nothing," the other Templars chorused innocently. They drank their coffee, mirroring each other's actions.
Jehan put his cup back down, gagging. When he recovered, he said to the girl, "It's just nice to see you in love."
You should have seen me before, came the unbidden thought from the deepest part of her. I was so happy. And there it was again, Enjolras' pale skin in the sunlight seeping through the bedroom windows, his eyes at half-mast, his sculpted lips whispering prayers into her neck, into the backs of her knees. And on lazy Sunday mornings, watching television in bed with his arm around her, while little Azelma snuggled up to them, her birdlike hands tugging at Enjolras' golden hair. That warm, contented feeling, the kind that was so different from passion, the kind that filled the heart with radiance instead of engulfing it in flames.
Éponine forced the memories away with another swig of foul-tasting coffee. She glanced at Jehan, and noticed an unusual sliver of blue in his crystalline eyes.
"What the-" she said, but Courfeyrac was already peering at the silver crucifix around his neck, which had slid out from under his collar and thrown sapphire light into Jehan's irises.
"Two in one afternoon?" Jehan sighed as they leapt to their feet. "We're really working for that new coffeemaker."
The sonorous tones of Orpheus' voice echoed throughout the chamber, sliding deep into Enjolras' bones. Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel had consulted the oracle before the first ascent, but Enjolras had kept putting it off. Orpheus was too vague for him, too lost in poetry and nostalgia to provide much helpful advice. However, he was the only oracle sympathetic to the cause due to his grudge against the Furies, who had made him what he was today.
"You are driven by doom, Prince of Wrath," said Orpheus, his pale eyes boring into Enjolras'. "You fight without understanding. You wish only to burn."
Enjolras' brow creased. "I myself penned our manifesto. I gave the movement shape. How can you say that?"
"I see what I see," Orpheus replied. "I see that your path is cloaked in mist. You look at your aims, but you do not hold them." He offered a thin smile. "Like me, you are plagued by what once was. You are haunted by an old ghost."
The image of Éponine came to Enjolras in the darkness, like it always had, like it probably always would. Gold-flecked eyes and slender arms and fleeting smiles. "I have already decided to let her go."
"Not her," whispered the oracle, as all around them candles sputtered and shadows blossomed. "The other. The one who died."
Once Enjolras has moved into the apartment on the corner of Requiem and Bone, his first real task is to make sure Azelma goes to sleep at a reasonable hour after Éponine leaves for work. He and the child regard each other warily as he stands by her bed while she tucks the blankets around herself. He has no idea how to interact with human children, although Combeferre had told him once that they were just like the imps in Dis, only messier.
But he does know that he shouldn't raise his voice around her, or make any sudden movements, because that will send her retreating into herself, into a place not even her older sister can draw her out from.
Enjolras clears his throat. "Well, good night."
"I'm not sleepy," Azelma says.
He wonders if she's messing with him; he'd definitely seen her yawning a few minutes ago. Some distant corner of his brain is aware, in a vague way, that he's blinking helplessly at a child and looking lost, but he really is clueless.
After a few seconds of this hopeless impasse, she takes pity on him. "You can sing me a bedtime song."
"I do not know any."
Her mouth drops open. "Not even one?"
He shrugs, and they're back to staring at each other. He briefly contemplates dialing Éponine and telling her to find a new boyfriend, because he isn't cut out for this.
"I can teach you," Azelma says at last. She pats an empty space on the mattress and he cautiously perches on the edge of her bed. "This one's my favorite. Sing it after me, okay?"
"Okay," Enjolras says, but it comes out sounding like a confused question.
She grins, mischievous and shy all at once. And then she starts to sing, with a child's lilting voice, with a child's pronounced lisp, "How many miles to Babylon?"
The three Templars ran out of the Musain, edging their way past other pedestrians. Bossuet and Joly could whine all they liked, but being on the Day Watch was infinitely harder because there were more people out and about, people who could become innocent casualties or who could place a panicked phone call to the police.
But there were no Possessed in sight. Instead, Jehan, Courfeyrac, and Éponine almost collided into Combeferre, Feuilly, and Bahorel.
"What are you doing?" Éponine yelled, cheeks red with fury. "Why are you here?"
"Ep." Combeferre swallowed, his expression tense and strained. "Your apartment- it's burning down."
By the time Enjolras and Grantaire arrived at Lamarque's palace, it was already too late. The bells were chiming, and the banners of Dis and the Wrath legion were being lowered, replaced by black flags that streamed in the air, which in itself resounded with wails coming from inside the building.
Grantaire turned to Enjolras. "I am sorry," he said, uncharacteristically somber.
The other demon's fists clenched at his sides. He had known this day would come, had known it ever since Lamarque descended with the last wave of troops and vestal bullets embedded in his body. Even as he took Enjolras under his wing, even as he campaigned for the rights of the Untitled, the General had been dying a slow death for four years.
"We have to go back up," Enjolras told Grantaire. "We have to tell the others."
"Shall I do it?"
"No." Even in his distress, Enjolras still didn't trust the Marquis to pull off a successful ascent. "I will." He held out his hand and the other demon gripped it tightly, and he forced his mind to the surface, into the void.
The first human eyes he blinked out of saw red lanterns and clumps of batter frying in oil. Chinatown. Too far. He jumped again. Towering black spires and stained-glass windows. The Basilica. Not close enough. He skipped all over the city of New Advent, seizing the most susceptible minds and then releasing them, blazing down the factories in Lament Street, the docks of Fiddler's Green, the malls and cinemas of Ghost Avenue. At last, he found a mind in Requiem, but what he saw was the apartment engulfed in bright orange fire and thick gray smoke.
"What's wrong?" Grantaire's voice sliced into his thoughts. "Why did you cry out?"
Enjolras' heart was racing. His eyes glowed silver blue as he continued down the street, leaping from one human to the next. He saw Éponine and his friends outside the Musain, everyone gesturing wildly with voices raised, and the relief was so great it almost brought him to his knees.
He needed to get as close to them as possible. A thin, pale young man was leaning against an illegally parked car, puffing away on a cigarette and quietly observing the heated discussion, mere steps away.
Perfect.
"Come on," Enjolras said to Grantaire, and they surfaced.
Too absorbed in the news that her entire life was, apparently, going down in flames, Éponine had failed to notice Montparnasse lurking around at first. But she definitely saw him now, over the jut of Combeferre's shoulder, when he started twitching and screaming, elbows jerking and feet lashing out at the air.
The Templars and the demons all turned to look, and passersby started giving him a wide berth, a few muttering, "Crazy junkies" under their breaths.
Éponine frowned. Montparnasse was much too smart to indulge in communion wafers. In fact, it almost looked as if…
"Get out of my head!" he roared, clutching at his temples. "This is mine. Mine!"
"No," a different voice growled from his mouth as he bent over, shivering in pain. "Mine. Mine, now."
"Mine, too," a third voice piped up. "What am I, fish food?"
The street became a mass of chaotic activity. People started running away, while the Templars' hands plunged into the various places in their attire that concealed their weapons. Éponine got there first, tackling Montparnasse to the ground. The smell of gasoline hit her like a wave just as a book of matches fell out of his pocket.
Éponine stared at him in disbelief. "You burned down my apartment?" she shrieked. "You little fuck!"
"Can- can we talk about that later?" Montparnasse gasped, his head rolling back and forth on the concrete, sweat oozing from his pores as he tried to push the demons out of his mind. "I'm a little occupied at the moment-"
Her fist slammed into his nose, drawing blood. Smoke bloomed all around his body, and she raised an eyebrow even as she retreated. Huh. It usually took more effort than that.
Éponine's confusion was put to rest when the mists dissipated and she found herself the focus of two pairs of blue eyes, one as dark as the ocean, the other as pale as ice.
Enjolras frowned down at the unconscious body at his feet. "You know this one?" He sounded coldly furious. "He set the apartment on fire?"
"No time for that," Éponine snapped. "Look, we have to get you guys somewhere else, we're too near the headquarters-"
"Um, Ep…" Jehan croaked.
"What?"
He pointed, and Éponine whirled to follow the line of his shaking finger.
The two angels were standing outside the Musain. Marius' mouth had dropped open in shock, but Cosette already had her gun out, and she was aiming straight for Enjolras' heart.
To Be Continued
