Author's Note: I'm baaaaaaack! :D And I am so so so so SO SORRY for being away for so long! Life has been a bit hectic lately, and I just didn't have the time to devote to writing like I wanted. I've literally been moving back and forth halfway across the country due to work-related travel. Plus, there was so much snow that for awhile, I couldn't get out of my house to access the internet, and then one of the older animals where I work passed away, so yeah... Real life kinda got in the way. :P BUT the good news is that I have now settled down in a place with internet access at the house, and I should be here for at least another month, so hopefully, I'll be posting more regularly again for at least a little while.

We are now entering the second act of this story-Cosette's young adult years. I'm super excited about this because there are a lot of really great awesome amazing scenes coming up in the future, some of which you'll recognize as a nod to the original, others entirely unique to this story's plot. HOWEVER, I should warn you that THERE WILL EVENTUALLY BE SOME MAJOR CHARACTER DEATHS. Not in this chapter or the next one, but soon. I'm not going to say who will die or if their deaths will be the same as in the original, but it WILL HAPPEN. I know I've had a couple of close calls/fake outs in the previous chapters (Valjean getting shot in the precursor to this story, Cosette nearly drowning)...and I'm not promising you've seen the last of those...but there will be SOME characters who really actually die and will not be coming back. You have been warned.

Chapter Thirteen: The Coming of Spring

The winter was long and harsh, the icy winds of the north prevailing upon the land into late March. But just as night must eventually give way to the dawn, so too, must the winter come to an end, the first warm kiss of spring melting away the veil of snow to reveal a virgin earth blushing pink with cherry blossoms. There was a stir in the air, a breeze that carried a tiny windborne seed heralding the promise of hope and change. It was a fragile little thing at first, a waif at the mercy of the wind that chanced to land among the thorns before another gust carried it off to better ground. It took a summer's healing rain and a winter's quiet rest for it to germinate—and several more for it to mature. But when the first bud finally appeared, the whole world seemed to hold its breath awaiting the timid flash of color as the tender petals reached out to the sun.

Valjean saw it and marveled with the paternal affection of a gardener regarding a rare and precious wildflower that God placed within his field, a seed he had not planted but cherished nonetheless, a fragrant blossom in the spring of life that brought a little color into his approaching winter.

Javert, far more of a practical man than he ever was a poet, ordinarily would not have taken notice of such things. A little orchid clinging to a dying branch was bound to die as well. But this one did not. It grew. It flourished. It drank in the sunlight as though it couldn't get enough and rejoiced in the rain when it came. And when it finally began to bloom, one cautious petal peeking out from beneath the bud, so captivating was its metamorphosis that he failed to notice the changes occurring within the tree itself. A stately old oak, long dead on the inside though it may stand tall, can fool the world into believing it has life in winter, but come spring, there are never any buds. A beech, however, though it be destroyed at the trunk, has hope, for there is life in the roots. So, too, he discovered, was there life within that wooden heart.

As for the orchid herself, she hardly noticed the changes at all until they were upon her, one happy season of her life blurring into the next until she had all but forgotten the dark days of her childhood before life with her Papa. The memories were still there, hidden in the recesses of her mind, but they had become hazy, a terrible nightmare that no longer seemed real in the light of day. Unfortunately, the good memories—though they had been few—were erased along with the bad. One morning, as she was brushing her hair in the little vanity mirror in her room, she began pondering the face staring back at her—large doe eyes, tiny button nose, a dimpled smile, cherry lips not yet ripe, cheeks too round for a woman but which seemed out of place on a child. A few raised red blemishes—hardly noticeable to an outsider but which seemed hideous to her—dotted the forehead and the skin where hair the color of dirty straw that was not quite brown but no longer truly blonde brushed against her cheeks. She sighed. There was nothing extraordinary about the face. In fact, it was rather plain. It was not ugly but neither could one quite say that it was beautiful. She wondered, then, if her mother had been beautiful and realized, with a start, that she could no longer remember her mother's face. Quietly, she laid the brush aside and traced her fingers over the glass, tenderly caressing the features that she knew so well yet suddenly seemed strange. For an instant, the image blurred, and another seemed to take shape, her own girlish figure transforming into the soft curves of woman with creamy porcelain skin, long platinum locks that shone like the sun, and a dazzling smile of the finest pearls. She blinked. The phantom figure had disappeared, leaving in its wake the form of a forgotten child. The mirror-girl lifted a hand to her cheek, and Cosette did the same, surprised when her fingers encountered something wet.

xxxx

Cosette, like her father, wore her heart upon her sleeve.

Valjean had always been the softer type, the criminal who wept rather than raged at his arrest, his heart breaking for the family he left behind. Years of prison, of course, had broken him of that habit, every failed escape and extended sentence hardening the heart that had once been so tender. But the bishop's act of kindness and Cosette's innocence and love had helped him to find himself again. Now, he laughed often—a deep and hearty sound that rumbled like warm ocean waves breaking against the shore—and smiled almost all the time. Yet whenever he was deeply moved, he made no attempts to hide his tears. For him, there was no shame in it. To laugh and cry openly, to experience love and loss, to think and feel of one's own volition without the fear of a prison guard's reprimand was to be alive, to be free. He relished every moment of that freedom and reveled in the feeling of knowing that while his current name might not be his own, every unrestrained tear that dripped down his cheek, every breathless moment of laughter, every unchecked smile was his.

Cosette understood her father's reasoning, having herself emerged from a life dominated by fear to one ruled by compassion. An emotional chameleon, she could not hide what she was feeling as her taciturn uncle could. When she was happy, she hummed or sang while she worked, often without even realizing she was doing so. When she was excited, she chattered away like a little bird in spring. Lately, however, her moods had begun to take a darker turn. More and more she found herself brushing tears from her cheeks or becoming inexplicably irritable…and the worst part of it all was that she often didn't even know why she was upset to begin with! One moment, she'd be contentedly reading or humming a merry little tune while she practiced her embroidery, the next, she would be weeping for no apparent reason. It frustrated her to no end, not being in control of her own emotions, and more than once, she'd unintentionally snapped at her father and uncle.

Being on the receiving end of one of her tirades, as Valjean discovered, was a very trying experience—one that tested the limits of his patience and, more often than not, left them both feeling emotionally exhausted. For a while, he feared that he had failed her as a parent—a horrible crime worthy of far more than the nineteen years he'd spent in Toulon. Before, they had never fought. Now, it seemed as though every attempt at conversation ended with a shouting match and slamming doors. And it absolutely killed him because he didn't know what was wrong or how to remedy it. Inevitably, she would come downstairs and tearfully apologize, reassuring him of her love and that she had not meant what she had said. He always forgave her, of course, but she could sense that he was still hurt, the harsh words she'd spoken in the heat of the moment cutting far deeper than she had intended.

Javert tolerated the girl's occasional outbursts surprisingly well. Though he was quick to deliver a sharp reprimand when her remarks became too saucy, for the most part, he ignored them. Years of working with stubborn horses and even more stubborn people had taught him patience, and he was, by his very nature, more thick-skinned than most. Javert had but few expressions, the subtlety between a wolf's grin of genuine amusement and a sneer of contempt almost imperceptible to those who were not intimately acquainted with his countenance. Likewise, while some men went purple with rage, Javert's dark complexion and perpetual scowl made it difficult to determine whether he was angry or simply in his usual disagreeable mood. Cosette had very quickly learned to distinguish between the two and knew better than to push his limits—though once or twice she'd come close, provoking him to retaliate with his own scathing sarcasm and a few barely restrained curses whispered under his breath. And yet, had it been anyone else, he would not have hesitated to unleash his fury. It was a courtesy, of sorts, that he allowed her such freedom. Javert was well aware that his own demeanor was rather unpleasant, and few could abide his presence long enough to hold any sort of decent conversation. That Cosette willingly endured his often unintentional hostility had garnered his respect. And so, when she had come of age, he felt it necessary to return the favor. While if she were upset, her father was undoubtedly the more sympathetic listener, if she simply needed to vent her frustrations, she knew that she could come to Javert without the fear of having him take any of her words to heart.

Cosette's moods, however, were not the only thing that was changing. As her slender form had begun to smooth into the curves of a woman, she had encountered certain rather embarrassing situations that would have been better handled if her mother had been present to explain them. As it was, however, she was rather limited in female company with whom she felt close enough to share such information, and though her older friends must have certainly experienced the same trials, it was not something that was openly discussed. Thus, when she finally arrived at the cusp of adulthood, she was entirely unprepared, and it had come as a rather frightening shock. She had been feeling ill for nigh a week when she discovered the bloodied undergarments. Horrified, and not knowing any better, she believed that she was dying of some incurable disease and had done her best to conceal any incriminating evidence to avoid worrying her papa. This, of course, meant convincing him that nothing was wrong while avoiding activities that might exacerbate the problem, such as riding. Though her abilities had long been proficient, she continued to meet with her uncle for their weekly lessons, which Javert insisted were necessary for her to maintain the skills she had learned. It was an activity that they both enjoyed, so when he found her one day sulking at the stables and complaining that she could not ride, it didn't take long for him to realize that something was wrong. Beneath his steely gaze, she'd finally broken down, tearfully admitting that she had not much time to live and flushing red as a tomato when she informed him as to why she could not ride. Javert, then, caught somewhere between choking on the apple he'd been eating and trying very hard (but rather unsuccessfully) not to laugh at the poor girl's predicament, had been forced to explain that she was not, in fact, dying, but growing up. He'd kept the details rather vague, being quite confident that this particularly delicate subject was most certainly not an appropriate topic for him—or any man, for that matter—to discuss, and left the remainder of that duty to the sisters at the hospital…though not without taking the time on his way back to personally inform the girl's father that he was an utter dunce.

In truth, Javert found the mayor's apparent ignorance of the adolescent female mind and body highly amusing. Though not entirely uneducated on the subject, Valjean had had the responsibility of a man thrust upon his shoulders when he himself was but a boy, and he'd dutifully borne the burden to the point that he had never had the time to discover women as most young men do. By contrast, Javert, having grown up in a prison, had heard and seen more by the time he was eight years old than most men did until they were in their teens or early twenties. Though male and female prisoners were segregated, the guards often took advantage of their female captives—whether they went willingly or not. Late at night, he'd overheard the men's conversations as he fell asleep—conversations which he now realized, might very well have been about his mother—until one day, with childlike curiosity, he peeked through a crack in the wall when he thought no one was looking. The scene which he had witnessed had horrified and disgusted him, and he had vowed then and there that he would never touch a woman in such a degrading manner.

Nevertheless, it always surprised him at how many women chose to degrade themselves. Fantine had been one such woman, and as Cosette began to mature, he could not help but wonder whether—had she not been plucked out of the gutter—her path would have been the same. Javert did not know the answer and did not wish to. This, naturally, brought on an entirely unwanted separate set of questions regarding the effects of social and coincidental circumstances on one's decisions that made him reconsider his own choices in life and what evils he was capable of. If an innocent such as Cosette could have become a whore, who was to say that, had he gone with his mother when her prison sentence ended, he might not have become a thief? Was he not already one for having deprived the law of that which rightfully belonged to it? After years of having worked with the man on a slightly more personal level, he could not honestly say that he regretted the decision to allow the former convict to go free, and yet the injustice of his actions still plagued him with doubt.

Good? What was good if not the law? And yet, if the law demanded that men like Valjean should be locked up while men like the innkeeper who had so harshly mistreated Cosette (and who had likely been involved in illegal activities if what Javert had gathered from Valjean and Cosette's accounts of the place were true, though he lacked definitive evidence) remained at large, were not such laws bad? Or at the very least, faulty? Day after day, it became harder for him to put on the uniform without feeling like a fraud. The more he saw of this new Valjean, the more the dividing lines between good and evil seemed to blur and the more difficult it became for him to distinguish between the two. And God, Who had developed the annoying habit of interrupting his musings whenever they drifted to the subject of morality, seemed more relentless in His pursuit than ever. Of course, the mayor certainly wasn't helping matters. Javert had asked him, once, in a rare deep but frank discussion on the subject how one could possibly place such faith in something that he could neither see nor hear nor touch. His response had been something along the lines of feeling a Presence in the reading of the Word and in the natural world around them that sounded more like poetry to Javert than an actual concrete answer. He had countered, however, with a few questions of his own that had left the inspector feeling dissatisfied: The law, too, was immaterial and intangible. But from whence did such laws come? If from fallible men— who were so prone to breaking said laws—was it not possible that the system itself was flawed? And if from God, was it not necessary that such a Being exist? Javert had no answers.

xxxx

Cosette sighed, frowning as she attempted to loosen a stitch from the tangled mass of thread and fabric spread across her lap. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, the dim yellow glow of the oil lamp and two flickering candles on the bedside table barely putting off enough light for her to work by despite her position by the window. Outside, a soft spring rain was falling, the usual sounds of birdsong and children's laughter replaced with the staccato tapping of raindrops against the roof. Every once in a while, a gentle breeze would cause the curtains to flutter, carrying with it a light mist and the scent of the wet pavement wafting up from the streets below.

"You ought to close the window, Cosette. You'll let the rain in."

She glanced up from the half-finished work of embroidery, forgetting, for a second, the position of the needle as she tugged another knot free.

"OW!"

A tiny bead of blood appeared on her left index finger, and almost immediately, she noticed a small red stain on the fabric. She frowned, lifting the finger to her lips and, frustrated, set the embroidery aside.

"Sorry, Papa. I didn't hear you come in. Did you have a nice rest?"

"Yes. I'm feeling a bit better now, thank you. I think I pushed myself a bit too hard yesterday."

She smiled. "Just because you are strong enough to perform the work of a jack doesn't mean you should," she scolded gently. "They had the machinery available."

He shrugged. "The children wanted to see if the rumors were true…so I indulged them."

He paused for a moment, recalling the look of awe on their faces when he had lifted a beam the size of a small tree above his head. If Javert had still been on his trail, he wouldn't have dared to take such an unnecessary risk, but since the only man who recognized him as a former convict had given up the chase, he'd felt safe enough to show off a bit. The children, of course, had been delighted, but it had left him rather sore and tired. Though he did not like to admit it, his age was beginning to show.

"Besides," he continued, "the workers needed some assistance, and they knew that I had done such lifting before, so…." He spread his hands.

Cosette rolled her eyes in mock irritation. "And you will probably do so again."

Suddenly, her smile faded. This was the longest peaceful conversation they'd held in days, their playful banter bringing back memories of the way that things had once been. Cosette missed those days terribly now. She felt the tears gathering in the corner of her eye and hastily moved to brush them away.

"I'm sorry, Papa," she apologized. "I don't mean to be this way."

Valjean knelt gently before the chair and took both her hands in his. "Cosette, my child, you know that you can tell me anything. I understand that you are at a difficult age, but I suspect that there is something else troubling you. You've been very distracted lately…." He hesitated. "Is…is it a young man?"

She laughed half-heartedly through her tears. "No, Papa. It's nothing like that," she assured him.

The older man let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Then tell me," he raised a hand to cup her cheek, brushing a tear away with the pad of his thumb "…what is it?"

Cosette studied the hands in her lap, anxiously twisting the fabric of her dress.

He frowned. "Please, Cosette. I cannot fix the problem if I do not know what it is."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hesitant to ruin such a tender moment with yet another argument. But she had so many questions—questions to which only her father held the answers. She knew from previous experiences that he did not like to discuss the past.

"Tomorrow is another day," he would say, "a chance to start over and make things right. It is God's gift that we can do so. But we are never promised another sunrise. That is why we must make the most of the present He has given us and let go of the past."

And for a while, that explanation had been enough. But now she questioned it, for how could one learn from his mistakes if the past was entirely forgotten? How could one know which direction he was going in life without also knowing from whence he came? Experiences, she knew, shaped a person. They were the foundation of sorts which others built upon. Like a book, one could not simply skip ahead to the middle chapters of life without having first read the beginning and expect for it to make sense. A person's past did not define them, per se, but it did have a great influence on their present perspective of the world—and Cosette knew almost nothing of hers.

At long last she sighed, closing her eyes and steeling herself for the inevitable.

"Tell me about my mother."

Valjean heaved a longsuffering sigh. They had had such discussions before, and none of them had ended well. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cosette, I have told you—"

"That she was a good person. That she loved me. I know…but I do not know anything else…." Her voice took on a wistful tone. "I do not know how you fell in love or how you first met. I do not know what her laugh sounded like or if there was a sparkle in her eyes when she smiled. I do not know if she bit her nails when she worried like I do," she paused to examine the uneven tips of the fingernails on her right hand, "or if she liked to sing me lullabies to help me get to sleep…. I don't really even remember what she looked like…. I don't know anything about the person that she was—or the person that you were for that matter.

"Why did you leave us for so long? Where were you between the years when you worked with Uncle in Toulon and the day when you became the mayor? There is so much that I don't understand!"

She looked down.

"I know that it is painful for you to remember her…. It is painful for me, too…but I do not want to forget—I cannot forget—someone who is such a part of me! Please, Papa…" she begged, "I need to know."

At the mention of Toulon, Valjean was certain his heart stopped momentarily. He himself had never spoken of the place, and that Javert had apparently made a passing comment on the subject in a conversation with his daughter greatly troubled him. He shouldn't have been surprised, he supposed, as inquisitive as Cosette was, that the issue had come up. What did surprise him was the apparent delicacy with which the situation had been handled given Javert's tendency toward brutal honesty. That they had "worked together" in Toulon was, in fact, the truth—Javert had been assigned as a sort of supervisor over a group of prisoners that happened to include his number—but it was a highly abridged version of the reality. If Cosette ever discovered the real reason why he'd been in Toulon…. He shuddered,making a mental note to thank the inspector for his discretion at some point.

He sighed. "Someday, Cosette, I promise you that I will explain everything."

"Why can't that 'someday' be today?"

"You're not ready yet. When the time comes—"

"But I am ready!" she insisted. "I've been ready for years! Why do you think I keep asking? I am not a little girl anymore, Papa, and I don't wish to be coddled like one! Whatever the truth may be, I am capable of hearing it."

Valjean stood stiffly, turning his back to the chair. "You will learn, Cosette, that some things are better left unsaid." His voice was strained, the fear of his past sins being discovered having brought out a defensiveness that the girl could not understand.

"But why?" she pressed. "Don't I deserve to know? Don't I have a right? It isn't fair!"

"Cosette…" he warned.

"Every time, it's always the same—'I'll tell you when you're older' or 'You're just not ready.' But I am old enough, and I am ready! You are the one who is not ready. You are the one who is afraid to face the truth!"

"Cosette, ENOUGH!"

For a moment, the room was silent, indignation giving way to remorse as the echoes of his anger dissipated. The old man's shoulders slumped.

"Cosette, I…." He frowned. "Where are you going?"

She snatched up a leather saddlebag and threw a cloak around her shoulders. "To speak with Mother," she replied tersely. She threw a glance over her shoulder as she headed out the door. "At least she listens to me."

xxxx

The cemetery was quiet, the usual reverent air of solitude permeated by an even deeper silence. Though the clouds had disappeared, the birds had yet to reemerge from their dwellings. It was moments like these, when the natural world seemed to hold its breath and the damp earth was as soft and fresh as the day that Man first set foot in the garden, that Cosette felt closest to heaven…and Fantine. Spring was a time for renewal and regeneration, for healing and hope. It was a promise, a covenant with God that even the darkest and coldest seasons of life must come to an end, that every storm replenishes even as it destroys, that no matter the challenges one faces, life can and does go on.

The site where Fantine had been laid to rest was long grown over, the gardeners taking little care to distinguish one pauper's grave from another, but Cosette had no trouble finding it. She had visited the site so many times that she knew precisely where it was, a weathered rock with no markings on it the only indicator that this plot of earth was sacred.

"Oh, Mother…." She knelt down to caress the stone, the wet grass soaking through her skirts at the knees. "Papa means well, I know…but he just doesn't understand." She sighed. "I wish you were still here…."

To herself, she added, I wish I knew who you were.

A/N: Okay, so I know there was a looooot of symbolism in the beginning of this chapter, and I hope you didn't get too bogged down with it. I just thought it might be fun to play around some more with the "flower language" stuff, and I got a little carried away. Most of it I tried to make pretty straightforward, but some of it was a bit more subtle and difficult to pick up on unless you're really familiar with plants. In case you missed it, here's some info you might find helpful.

*Cherry blossoms symbolize hope, spring, love, and feminine beauty/sexuality (coming of age).

*Orchids are fragile but beautiful flowers that start out as tiny dust particle-sized windblown seeds. They depend on special fungi (which in turn depend on trees) to germinate and grow, and they are often found attached to the roots or branches of trees, though they do not cause any damage to the host plant. Once germinated, they take several years to mature. Orchids symbolize love, affection, beauty, and sexuality (again, here associated with coming of age).

*Oak trees symbolize strength, power, courage, justice, honor, and protection. Oaks, however, are not very good at regenerating if the heartwood has been destroyed.

*Beech trees, however, regenerate by sprouting up from the roots even if the main trunk has been damaged or cut down. They symbolize tolerance, softening criticism, growth, and change.