"Phantom's face's at the window
Phantom's shadow's on the floor
Empty chairs and empty tables
'Til I hear you sing once more..."
Populairables
February 11, 1825
Meg sidled over to Christine. "Well, you were right."
"About what?"
"Remember what you told me, that night when Inspector Chagny visited?" She laughed. "I was patient, like you said, and I think I wished for it more than I wished for anything else. And presto, I Woke Up this morning with, well, what you called magic."
"Oh." Christine blinked.
"So what Loop is this, exactly?"
Christine raised her eyebrows. "Your parents, innkeepers, took in me, a little girl, for money. You have a sister named Azelma. We were taken by a white-haired man with secrets, and whose name is Jean Valjean, and you don't know where we -"
Meg's mouth formed an O. "Wait, his name is Jean Valjean?"
"You really didn't see through my paper-thin excuse that night? - was that really the only thing I said just now that you picked up on?"
"To be fair," Meg defended, "one, some of it was a lot more subtle at the time, two, you changed a lot of it, and three, there's barely any singing. Take right now, for example. We are having a conversation with normal words." She frowned at Christine's flat look. "What? Backups are supposed to be reliable."
"That's just a Variant. The backup of the baseline is the book."
"Wait, there's a book?"
Utterly unimpressed, Christine heaved a sigh. "Yes, Meg, there is. It was published just under a decade before our baseline starts, and I have no idea how you've gone this long without hearing of it. Any more questions?"
Meg took a moment to consider that. "...No, I'm good. Hang on, so Raoul's Javert -"
"He isn't Awake," Christine clarified.
"Right, right, and you're Cosette, and I guess Erik's Marius. That makes me... Eponine, right? Well, at least I'm not Fantine. So what were you going to do about me if I hadn't Woken Up?"
Christine pursed her lips. "Well, if there started being any romantic complications, we were thinking of pointing you in Enjolras' direction and saying your name was Patria -"
"What, you think that would have worked?"
"It would have been worth a shot, anyway, and it would have been funny. But Valjean said it was stupid and he wouldn't let us. I don't think he's quite grasped the point of shenanigans yet," she added conspiratorially.
Meg shrugged. "It can take a while sometimes. I know I was so very confused about that thing with the aardvarks."
Christine wrinkled her nose. "Honestly, I'm still not sure I understand what was going on with the aardvarks."
.
May 31, 1829
The garden at the Rue Plumet was just as overgrown as his recollections of the book had suggested. Erik pushed his way through one last budding bramble, strode to the door, and firmly rapped the knocker. Several minutes passed, and he grew worried that there had been something which he had forgotten, that there was some other place to which he should have gone instead; then the door cracked open on a young face.
"Want me to get Christine?" Azelma asked, with the knowing smile of someone who thinks herself awfully clever.
"No, actually," he said, and her smirk deflated into wide-eyed curiosity. "Would you fetch your father, please?"
"'Kay." She closed the door on him.
As he waited, Erik absentmindedly hummed an aria from La fille du régiment. He thought he had the score for that opera on him. Wasn't it set in Napoleon's time? Well, that was good. It would work well for his next 'composition' for the Salle le Peletier - he felt a bit guilty about claiming the works as his own, but it wasn't as if the true composers had even had the ideas yet. Nor did he have the time to write his own, as he had wholeheartedly plunged into the world of the Amis de l'ABC. He wasn't particularly social by nature, but something about the group stirred the blood in his veins. Perhaps it was simply the proximity to people he knew would be staging a revolution in only a handful of years. He was building up his plans for that, and this set him in the perfect position.
In any case, he preferred not to be as penniless as the young man he was replacing. As long as the Paris Opera Company kept paying him, he would keep introducing the operagoers to some of the better works from their future. Yes, La fille was quite a good one. It would serve nicely.
He was shaken from his thoughts by the door opening once more. "You wanted me?" Valjean prompted.
"Yes," Erik said. "I was wondering if I might move in with you?"
Valjean frowned. "I doubt that would be a good idea. Do you have nowhere else to live?"
"At the moment, I'm still with my grandfather, but if I remain there much longer that Royalist will finally figure out what sort of people I've been associating with - I won't last long with him after that, which is why I'm asking. Then I had been thinking of living by my lake, but without the Opera foundations in place it's not nearly so habitable. I suppose it would always be possible to rent a room somewhere, or perhaps Courfeyrac would take me in as he did Marius... Why are you so opposed?"
"You know I prefer solitude."
"Yes, but you live with three girls and a maid. One more wouldn't be too many, would it? Besides, I'm not averse to seclusion myself. In such a large house, we could each keep our own solitude without coming across each other."
"Perhaps, perhaps not. Yet you are a young man with many friends," Valjean countered.
"Am I?" Taken aback, Erik considered that point. "It seems I am. How strange. I wouldn't invite them here if you were against it, and it wouldn't be such an odd thing. We don't go to each others' homes much, we Amis. I can't even remember a day when we did."
"And if they were to write you letters? I am more comfortable without my address being given out."
"They can leave their letters at the Café Musain, where we meet, and I will pick them up there," Erik suggested.
Jean Valjean sighed. "Thus we come to the crux of the matter. A fourteen-year-old may be friends with a nine-year-old, that is well and good, but you must understand that a boy of eighteen should not live with a girl of thirteen. The one is coming into his manhood, the other is yet a child. It is simply not allowable." He held up a hand. "Do not speak to me of how long you have lived by Yggdrasil's standards. You may count a thousand years between the two of you, you may count a million, but I do not care. Mental age is not all that matters. Christine may not be my daughter, but I nonetheless consider myself responsible for her in a sense. My concern may well be entirely unfounded, but do permit an old man his prudence, however foolish."
"Very well, I will respect that." Erik allowed, brushing over his disappointment. "Shall we still meet at the Luxembourg on Saturday?"
Valjean chuckled. "As always."
"A bientot, monsieur Valjean."
"C'est ça. Au revoir."
The younger nodded to the older, turned, and submerged himself once more in the bushes and flowers of unkempt spring. As he walked, he looked around appreciatively and nodded to himself. Yes, there couldn't be a better place for clandestine meetings. Marius and Cosette had had the right idea.
.
April 9, 1831
The back room of the Café Musain was filled with conversation and good cheer when the three arrivals made their way over to one of the tables.
"And so, Bossuet, I cannot help but think that - Erik!" Courfeyrac broke off, turning to his roommate. "And who might these young ladies be?"
"This would be Christine Mathieu -"
"Ah! I have heard a great deal about you, Mademoiselle. Is your father still safely unaware?"
"He caught us together in the garden last night," she admitted.
"And this is Meg Mathieu. They are here as students," Erik said, just how the young man before him had introduced him to the Amis several years ago.
Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows. "They?"
"We," Meg confirmed. "Is it so impossible that we might have political opinions of our own?"
He thought it over for a moment. "No, I suppose it isn't."
.
June 5, 1832
The day had finally come. General Lamarque was dead. The Amis de l'ABC were constructing a barricade. Amid the mounting chaos, Meg was in the middle of dragging a chair over to the growing wall when Feuilly walked up.
"What are you doing here, Mesdemoiselles?" he exclaimed. "We enjoyed your presence at the Café Musain, but combat is no place for ladies such as yourselves."
Christine rolled her eyes and set to prying another cobblestone from the street. "The barricade has a hole that needs filling." It came loose in her hands, and she wedged it in the gap. "And so I have filled it. I'll let you interpret that metaphor yourself."
"But surely the delicate flower of thy beauty should bloom in an equally beautiful place, and not in this violent spot," he protested.
Meg crossed her arms. "The only field this flower wants to bloom in right now is a battlefield. Give me a gun and I'll serve as well as any man."
"There are some men here who had barely thought of this revolution at all before today, and you haven't said a word to them. And then you turn to us, who have stood with you for nearly a year, and tell us to leave? I'm sorry, but we're staying," Christine asserted.
Feuilly looked between the two girls, deliberating. "If you must."
.
Erik looked over the barricade as the construction was finishing up. He knew he should simply fill a crate or two with what he had collected over the past three years or so, and just distribute them in the most mundane way. It was simple, it was consistent with what they knew, it raised no real questions. Then again, he had never been one to pass up theatrics.
The last paving stone was shunted into place, and he saw his opportunity. Striding amid the throng, he drew gun upon gun from his Pocket, along with generous helpings of bullets, and handed each to the nearest astonished person. However much weaponry they had had before, they would certainly be in no danger of running out now. Eventually, just as planned, he was confronted by Enjolras.
"What the devil art thou up to?" the man demanded.
Erik grinned. He set himself just so against the least flammable section of the barricade, angled himself just right - and shifted from human to griffin-as-human. His shadow morphed perfectly: most of it was positioned so as to minimize the discrepancies from a man, leaving the crowd of rebels with the impression that his shadow was that of a blazing humanoid with wings outstretched. He raised his fist to the air, fingers clenched around one last gun appearing from apparently nowhere. "The devil, you say? The devil is nothing, for God is on our side!"
Hell yes, he would enjoy this fight.
.
Little Gustave tugged on Enjolras' sleeve and pointed. "Dost thou see that man over there?"
"What of him?"
"He's a police spy," the urchin declared.
"I recognize him now," Erik agreed. "I have seen him many times in uniform." At Enjolras' nod, he strode away, quickly gathered a couple of burly men, and returned. The revolutionary had already begun the confrontation. Oh, he would take a great deal of pleasure in this.
"So thou hast found me out," the spy was saying, and the men tensed. "Yes, I am Inspector Chagny; yes, I serve the police. Now that that's settled, wouldst thou mind giving me a gun?"
The request left everyone dumbfounded. "Monsieur, thou must be crazy if thou thinkst we'd do that," Gustave replied. "Thou art the enemy."
Chagny leaned forward in his chair. "And that is exactly why you should," he stressed. "I can't be a police spy worth anything if I don't convince you to trust me, right?"
Erik frowned suspiciously.
"Right." Enjolras narrowed his eyes. "That being so, thou hast evidently failed."
"Therefore, a perfectly reasonable thing for me to do to earn that trust would be to take a gun and start shooting at those Guards on the other side of the barricade. Perhaps to shout 'Down with the King' a few times. I would be one of the safest out there, as they would assume I was only faking it."
Gustave blinked. "Wait, thou art joining us?"
Erik groaned in a realization.
The inspector grinned fiercely. "Let's just say that if anyone asks, I'm working very hard to gain your confidence."
Enjolras scrutinized the inspector, who smiled ingratiatingly, and nodded to himself. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the men; they shrugged, struck up a conversation, and wandered off for a drink or two. "Well! Call me thou; we are all brothers here. Thou shalt be given the chance to prove thy worth. Erik, dost thou have a pistol to spare?" Erik inclined his head, and Enjolras departed, Gustave dogging his heels.
He transferred a gun from his Pocket to Raoul's hand. "Why you little -" he muttered. "How long have you been Awake?"
Inspector Chagny regarded him with confusion. "Since I woke up this morning. Art thou feeling all right?"
"I guess I'm just, uh, feeling a bit Loopy..."
"Let's hope it passes, then. My thanks for this." He adjusted his grip on the pistol and strode away, leaving Erik to stand alone before the empty table, eye twitching.
.
June 6, 1832
The summer sun shone down on the raging battle, and Christine had ample opportunities to knit wounds. She ended up using a spell that could heal everyone within a meter or so of her as long as she had something long and thin in her hand. Practically, this translated to running around the area at random (with all the chaos, it was more or less the best way to get to everyone who needed it) waving around a baguette (it had been the first suitable object on hand that wasn't a gun, and she wasn't using one of those because it might have sent the wrong impression). Hold on, there was someone prone on the ground. She jogged over, but he didn't get up. Had she come too late? She knelt beside him and, with mounting dismay, realized it was Raoul. Suddenly, the limp figure sprang to his feet and swept her into his arms. By instinct she leaned into the embrace, relaxing in relief. She didn't fully realize it wasn't actually an embrace until he had taken her to the top of the barricade and tightened his grip further, at which point she rolled her eyes.
"Surrender now, or your precious little lady dies!" the spy roared.
"You do have a penchant for taking me hostage, don't you?" Christine said, completely unperturbed.
"What?"
"You don't remember me? The little girl with Valjean? I've already kicked you twice and I won't hesitate to do it again."
"Oh. Thee." He sent a glare her way before returning his gaze to the crowd of rebels. "Well?"
"Why, Monsieur?" Gustave called out. "I thought thou wert with us!"
Inspector Chagny barked a laugh. "I told you my plan upfront. My deception was staring you in the face, and you still thought I was on your side. Gullible idiots!" He pulled her in closer and -
The whole world narrowed down to the gun muzzle pressed into her forehead. The cold metal dug into her skin. Oh God, oh God, this wasn't happening. Not this. Anything but this. She would have fallen to her trembling knees if he hadn't been gripping her so hard.
Put the girl down!
The gun plummeted to the cobblestones, and Christine realized five things simultaneously: that she had been released, that there was an enraged griffin in front of her, that she could smell smoke, that her head was being oddly warmed, and that a high-pitched keening was coming from directly behind her. She cautiously turned her head to look - Raoul's hair was on fire. He tried to put it out with his hands, but only succeeded in burning them. After several more panicked seconds, he dove off the barricade (onto the revolutionaries' side, she noted, which was a poor choice) and began writhing on the ground, still making that noise. Having stopped to stare, the men on either side began their exchange of bullets once more, leaving him to his antics. Eventually, he stifled the flames and attempted to sneak away from the action, but someone hit him over the head with a rifle and he collapsed.
"I will take him from here," Valjean said to the man who had felled Chagny; he was indulged, so promptly swept the unconscious spy into his arms and strode off to find Enjolras.
Christine made her way to Erik, who had resumed human form. "That was certainly exciting. Th-"
"How didst thou do that?" asked Grantaire.
"Like I said yesterday, God is on our side," Erik replied, before returning his attention to Christine.
"Yes, but I cannot understand how -"
"God is on our side," he repeated tersely.
The skeptic's brow furrowed. "But that doesn't -"
"God is on our side so shut up and go away. Christine, you were saying?"
Christine chuckled as Grantaire stormed off. "I just wanted to thank you for stepping in there. I've been handling the gunfire well enough, but that was, well..."
"No thanks needed." He smiled at her. "Now get out there and keep being the best fiancée I could ever ask for."
.
"You are the commander?"
"Yes," Enjolras affirmed.
Valjean indicated the man he was carrying, who had begun to stir. "Chagny betrayed us; he threatened to kill Christine."
"Erik's girl?"
"My daughter," he said, which was close enough to the truth. "Let me take care of the traitor."
"Certainly." Enjolras turned his attention to reloading his rifle, and that was that.
.
"What am I to do with you, then?" Valjean mused, his back to the other, standing in a secluded alley.
"Take thy revenge," Chagny said. "Isn't that what thou wantest? Isn't that what thou saidst thou wouldst do?"
"When I said I would take care of you, that was not quite what I meant, Inspector."
"What, then?"
Valjean frowned. If he simply let the man go free, the blood might as well be on his own hands. Nor could he be sure of preventing the suicide later, as the battle would likely go on for quite some time. "Come with me." He seized Chagny by the arm and began searching for rope.
Some time later, he found a sufficient length of it and returned to the alley. "Stand by that lamppost," he directed, and Chagny obeyed with a sneer. Valjean bound the spy to the post and turned to leave.
"Didst thou forget thy gun?" Chagny called out, but he went unanswered.
.
Eventually, a young man wandered near. He held a bottle in each fist, and only a slight sway in his step betrayed that the opened one wasn't his first. "Ho! it is our Icarus. Even two meters off the ground was too high, and he has gotten himself a sunburn. Well, Icarus, how does it feel to have thy eyebrows burnt off like the wax on thy wings?"
"Oh, be quiet," Chagny grumbled. "Hast thou come to do what Valjean didn't?"
"Was he to kill thee for thy crimes? For shame, Inspector! He has yet to even aim at any man and thou thinkest so highly of thyself as to be the first. Alas, I have brought nothing but these, but wine may serve as well as bullets, if thou wilt."
"That it may, but sadly, my hands are tied."
"Are not all our hands tied with the cords of Life? There is so much that she does not permit us, the wretch. Let me loose a knot or two, and we shall soon drink together to Death. May she rescue many from Life's tyranny." He proceeded to free Raoul's right hand from the rope and hand him a bottle.
"Thou certainly art quite cheerful," Chagny said, taking a swallow nearly as soon as the wine was in his hand.
"It comes from my immense pleasure in the thought of dying for France. Such a worthy cause, they tell me! A dreary one, rather."
The inspector snorted. "What is this? A revolutionary who criticizes his revolution?"
"I am called Grantaire; and I suppose I make a habit of it."
.
June 17, 1832
As he did every few days, Erik popped into the house on Rue Plumet. "Hello, Azelma. How goes it?"
She folded her arms. "I'd be lots better if thou wouldst actually let me do something. Everyone else's off at whatever you're doing and I'm shut in here."
He shook his head. "You could be hurt."
"I'm fifteen! Only a year younger'n Lotte and Meg. How come they're not stuck here too?" But he was already gone.
.
June 21, 1832
"Where have you been, Erik? I was searching all over the barricade for you!"
"The barricade? Which one?"
"Which one? What are you talking about?" Christine retrieved the worn tome and flipped through it. "There weren't any other barricades. None. I know it talks about two other ones here, but see it's contrasting our one now with two from 1848 -"
He grinned. "Well, now there are three more. I happen to be quite good at rallying the people, I'll have you know."
"Since when?"
"All right, I may have brought Enjolras with me," he admitted. "He took the teleportation surprisingly well for his first time."
.
July 14, 1832
"As I'm sure you know, today is the day the French people took the Bastille forty-three years ago. Well, I figured that if there were ever a time for something truly momentous in our own revolution, today was the day. So you see, I set the palace on fire this morning."
.
August 1, 1832
On the intersection of the Rue Saint-Denis and the Rue de la Chanvrerie there stood a barricade. Shabby as its construction had been, it had nonetheless stood there for fifty-seven days and, its defenders swore, would stand there for longer still. It was formed from cobblestones and wooden beams, of iron bars and empty wine casks, of massive stone blocks and doors torn from their hinges, even of an omnibus and a mattress, and for this one day its length was dotted with roses in full bloom. They were red roses: red, one might suppose, for the Revolution. But today, that was not all the roses stood for.
On the far side of the barricade there attacked the forces of the National Guard. Living men fired at the ramshackle wall, and dead men littered the street. Each guardsman that fell had two more there to take his place; they had numbers on their side. They were there to defend France and her king, and so they shot at the rabble-rousers. But today, that was not all the National Guard attacked.
On the near side of the barricade there fought a large collection of rebels. A few had anticipated their rebellion for months or years, while others had found themselves caught up in it the day it began, or even had joined later on, but such distinctions had since faded. Some men fired through gaps in and over the top of the wall, but many men were otherwise occupied. Each insurgent that fell was taken with care to the wine-shop to be healed; they had magic on their side. They were there to defend France and her people, and so they fought even now. But today, that was not all the rebels fought for.
On the rose-bedecked ground floor of the wine-shop there had gathered a collection of these revolutionaries. The atmosphere was hushed, expectant, as if they had been interrupted in the middle of something important. They came here often to drink, to laugh, to find a moment of respite from the trying combat. The keeper of the place had resigned herself within the first week to the circumstances and had encouraged this behavior, so as to maintain a modest business despite her location on a battlefield. In this oasis of merriment could often be found the same sort of conversations as these particular people had always had in such places: there were discussions of women past, present, and future, there were arguments regarding philosophy, there were chatterings on whatever subject had caught someone's fancy, and all the while wine was imbibed as if it were water. But today, that was not all these revolutionaries had gathered for.
On a section of the room set aside for this purpose waited a young woman. Her years as she could count them numbered sixteen; her years as she could not count them numbered far more. She wore her black-and-cream dress, which she had worn many times over in the same performance of a singular opera. Brown curls tumbled down her back. She turned a golden band over and over in her hands. A small sapphire, set in silver, adorned her finger, and a rose adorned her ear. Every so often, someone would approach, she would draw the rose from her hair to hold it as she would a wand, and he would leave once more; otherwise, she was left with her thoughts. She anticipated the end of the fighting, as they all did: the defeat of the National Guard and the royalists, the institution of democracy upon France at long last. But today, that was not all the young woman was waiting for.
.
"Grandfather!"
M. Gillenormand turned around to find his estranged grandson striding into his study. He must have been imagining the faint whiff of smoke that came with him. "Erik! So you have returned! and what do you expect of me now, you rascal?"
"I would like to marry monsieur Mathieu's daughter, Grandfather. Will you allow this?" the young man asked politely, if urgently.
"Do as you please, boy."
"Thank you, Grandfather. Shall you be attending the wedding, then?"
He raised an eyebrow. "When would this be?"
"Today, Grandfather. I can take you now, if you would like."
"Today! You are certainly impatient."
"Perhaps," Erik conceded, smiling nervously. "Shall you come, Grandfather?"
"Perhaps," the old man countered. "Where would this be?"
"At the barricade, Grandfather. Shall you come?" he inquired once more.
"At the barricade! so that is what you have been doing? Betraying our King and country! I see I have spoken too soon. No, my boy, I rescind my consent to this. I shall not permit any action of yours as long as you continue to rebel in such a manner."
The smile dropped from Erik's face. "You're certain of that?"
"Absolutely."
"There's nothing I could say that would change your mind on the matter?" he pressed.
"Nothing, if you are committed to your foolish politics."
"All right." His manner shifted, becoming colder. For a moment, there seemed to be a club in his hands, but it vanished with a shake of his head. "I really should have left well enough alone after you granted me permission. But I did not." His narrowed eyes blazed golden, but that too dissipated. "So much the worse for me. Rather, so much the worse for you." Next was a flicker of rope, a noose that flashed in and out of existence. "I do not intend to leave this room without your consent to marry. My fiancée much prefers that I not be unnecessarily violent - I myself tend to find it grows more distasteful as time passes - and thus it is no difficulty to rein in my instinct when I care to." He hefted a rifle equipped with bayonet, considering it. "The weapon of choice of the revolutionary. Perhaps...but no." He dismissed it as he had the others. "However, my dear monsieur Gillenormand, this time I am not so inclined. There is a young woman who loves me and whom I love." He drew a sword from a sheath which had not been there a second prior. In an instant, he had forced the other man to the wall, the blade's point pressed to his throat. "I always was fond of the épée," he commented offhandedly. "I am going to marry her, Monsieur, and while I do not particularly care whether you will it or not in your heart, it would be best if you agreed." His lip curled. "Now, Grandfather, I shall ask my first question a second time. Will you allow my marriage to Christine?"
Wide-eyed and speechless, M. Gillenormand managed a slight nod, at which point Erik sheathed his blade and produced the document of matrimony. "Sign."
The grandfather did so.
"I shall not bother you again."
.
"I have it!" Erik announced as he reappeared, and those present breathed again.
"Excellent." The officiate, a fellow revolutionary who had by chance been qualified for this, took the papers and looked them over.
"And there is no one else?" Christine asked anxiously.
He shook his head. "Your father signed, as did two witnesses, the two of you, and now his grandfather has signed consent. That is all that is needed, and we may continue. Erik, with your ring, declare Christine to be your lawful wife."
Erik drew from his pocket a ring whose setting was empty. His eyes still burning as gold as the gleaming metal, he followed it with a pin, with which he pricked his finger. A single drop of blood fell and crystallized, and the setting now held a ruby. He took her hand and slid the ring onto her finger. "Christine, with this ring, you are my lawful wife."
"Christine, with your ring, declare Erik to be your lawful husband."
She opened her hand on the gold ring and returned the favor. "Erik, with this ring, you are my lawful husband."
"Now by the laws of France, I declare you lawfully wed. Erik, kiss your bride!"
They didn't have to be told twice.
.
August 13, 1832
"Grantaire, we told thee ober and ober nod to fraternize with our hostage!" Joly reprimanded. "Now he is loose. No doubd he is eben now reborting eberything."
"A bound man made for better company than any man preoccupied with combat, even so," the drunkard muttered.
.
August 29, 1832
Christine squinted at the foe. "Is it just me, or are there more uniforms out there than just French?"
"Have you not heard yet?" Gustave beamed. "We've fought so well that the English and Spanish have come to Louis-Philippe's defense. Soon we'll beat them, too!"
She had her reservations. True, it demonstrated how far they'd come over the past four months, but two more armies was a lot of men to fight. "That's… certainly something."
"Isn't it, though? And then we win!" He tossed a pistol in the air and caught it.
"Gustave, why don't you give that to someone else? A boy like you should stay safer," she suggested.
"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Thou art not my mother."
While she was processing that statement, Meg lowered her gun and chimed in. "Maybe not, but I am your sister, and I say you're going to keep out of danger." As she shepherded the boy away from the barricade, Erik strolled over. "So what now?" she wondered.
He shrugged. "We keep fighting, I suppose. I could shift into griffin and -"
"No," Meg cut him off. "Not happening. Don't burn people alive, Erik."
"I was just going to say I could spook them," he protested.
She looked away sheepishly. "Oh. Yes, that works."
.
November 26, 1832
"The last of the other barricades have fallen!"
"Then we'll just have to fight harder! For France!"
"For France!"
.
December 2, 1832
"Azelma, how are you?" He frowned. "Azelma?"
A search of the building produced a note on the door to her room.
Got bored. Going to live on the streets and pickpocket people.
"How am I going to explain this to Valjean?" he wondered.
.
December 18, 1832
"Are you all right, Christine? You look exhausted."
"It's nothing."
"You've been running yourself ragged for months!"
"I'm fine. Excuse me, there's someone over there I need to get to."
.
January 7, 1833
"I'm not sure how we spent more than eight years together in this Loop without having this conversation," Erik began.
"Which conversation would this be?" Meg inquired. "I can name quite a few we haven't had just off the top of my head."
"Such as?"
"For starters, we haven't yet discussed composing an opera to be sung by dolphins." She laughed. "Sorry, I know that's not what you meant. What did you want to say?"
He coughed. "I'm replacing Marius, and you Eponine. If there was ever a time to talk about...well...it would be this loop."
"Oh, that." She snorted. "That doesn't carry through to when you Wake Up and you know it. Besides, Unawake Me had never even heard of Unawake You yet, so there was basically zero chance there."
"How our Unawake selves felt hadn't really factored into my concerns," he admitted.
Her eyes widened. "You think that I... Don't worry, I'm not. Our relationship is complicated, but it's definitely not a romantic one."
"You're sure about that?"
"Completely. No love here." Meg looked at him oddly. "Wait, do you feel -"
Erik dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "No, of course not. It's just that there are some Variants where you're very much -"
"And those are called Variants for a reason," she reminded him. "Look, I'll let you know if anything starts to develop, if that would help. I don't think I'll ever need to, though."
"I would appreciate that, yes." He chuckled. "So you're not planning on taking a bullet for me and dying in a tragically romantic act of unrequited love?"
"Since when would I ever do that?" She lightly punched his shoulder, then rolled her eyes at a worn crimson cloth on the ground. "Great, the flag's fallen again. That must be, what, the fifth time this month? Hang on, I'll get it." Snatching it up by the pole, she scaled the barricade and set to lodging it back in place.
While she was thus occupied, Erik noticed a Spaniard taking aim at her. "Look out!" he called, but she merely glanced around in confusion. He scrambled up and shoved her back to the unevenly-cobblestoned street of the rebels' side. The patter of the gunfire was too constant to make out which was the man's shot by the sound of it, but he certainly felt it as he echoed Meg's fall. "Look what you made me do," he observed, oddly calm. He put a hand to his stomach and lifted it to his eyes; it came back red and wet.
"What was that you said about taking a bullet and dying?" Meg smirked down at him, although she seemed unsettled. "You know, I'm really tempted to just point and laugh right now. Lucky for you, I won't." She turned over her shoulder and raised her voice. "Christine! Come over here right now!"
"What is it - oh no." She knelt to his side. "You're going to be all right - you should already be getting better, why - oh, no!" she cried.
"I'm already all right," he told her.
"No, you're not - God, I dropped my baguette -" Christine frantically searched the ground for something she could use, a gun, a piece of wood, anything -
Erik shook his head. "Don't bother, I'll be fine. A little fall of rain and all that."
"But this is ridiculously preventable!" she cried.
"It's also entirely temporary. You'll see me again soon enough, right? Look, we were never going to win this with just the one barricade, not once England and Spain involved themselves. This had to happen sooner or later if I weren't going to burn them to the ground, and you knew that."
"Look, there's a rifle right over there -"
He sighed. "Christine, are you really going to deny me a dramatic last stand? Because I am very much in the mood for a dramatic last stand right now and you are keeping me from it."
She eyed him suspiciously. "...did you get yourself shot on purpose?"
"Definitely not," he assured, wincing slightly, "but I have the opportunity and I want to take it."
She gave the gun one last troubled glance, then met his gaze. "Fine, if you insist, but I'm joining you."
"All right then." Erik climbed to his feet, flashing her a smile as his shirt grew ever redder. "So let's give them something to remember."
Christine returned it. "Follow my lead." She mounted the barricade and helped him up. A shot from behind barely missed her arm; their foes had seen them. Well, that was to be expected. She surveyed the crowd of rebels, all uncertain as to what she was thinking. "To the will of the people!" she shouted, raising a fist to the sky.
Erik laughed. "To the health of progress!"
"Fill your heart with a rebellious wine -" A bullet pierced her side.
"And to tomorrow, faithful friend -" Another hit his shoulder.
"We want to create light!" she rallied.
He shifted to griffin and reared into the air. Despite the obscurity of the night!
"To illuminate the world and to change life!" they called out together, and the Amis and assorted populace cheered. Christine leapt to Erik's back, and as one they charged at the enemy.
Garnets and rubies littered the ground behind them. As the gems fell, faster and faster with each passing second, they formed a trail that grew ever longer and ever denser. They twinkled in the glow of sunset, sprinkled liberally over the cobblestones, in the cracks, on the fallen Guard members and their allies; they were as bright a shade of scarlet as the roses which had once festooned the area, as the tattered flag of the revolution, as the fresh-fallen blood which stained the glimmering stream. The path began at the top of the barricade, led straight to the mass of soldiers, and wound its way through the forces. There were notably more dead and injured men near the ribbon of red than away from it. It ended in a puddle around two young revolutionaries lying side by side, panting with laughter and adrenaline and a great deal of pain.
"There's a new life about to start, you know." Erik coughed and smiled weakly.
Christine lay her head on his chest. "Then I'll see you when tomorrow comes."
.
"Great, just great." Meg groaned, turning her back to the barricade to face the throng. She shouted, "Don't throw away your lives, people! Okay, yes, Erik and Christine just died. That doesn't mean that you should join them in 'noble' sacrifice, but it does mean that if you get yourselves shot, there's no miracle cure and you probably will join them. Remember that that is not good! There is such a thing as strategic retreat! They outnumber us and we are going to start losing men if we continue. We have lost this battle, but not the war! But we should stop trying to win it on this battlefield! We are students, are we not? We are lawyers and teachers and workers and farmers, are we not? We'll return to our normal lives and we'll change the world with words and actions and petitions! And we have families! Unless they're also here, we haven't seen them in seven months! What do you say, everyone? Let's all go home!" Her speech utterly failed to rouse a single cheer, and she rolled her eyes at the scores of men before her, each just as steadfastly devoted to his cause as he had been back in June. "No one? Good job! I was just making sure that nobody was wavering in cowardice! Yeah! Let's all die for France! You stupid suicidal idiots," she added under her breath, "with not an ounce of common sense between the lot of you."
"Leave them be," Valjean advised, walking to her side. "Some will have cut their lives short, and that is their choice. Others, those who have always come here to fight, have lived seven months longer, and is that not enough? This is what they want, Meg, and their minds will not be changed. I have tried. It is best to let them have their way."
"Fine. Hey, Gustave!" She caught her brother - God, but that was still so strange - by the arm as he darted by. "Go and find the Amis and everyone else who was close to Christine and Erik. Tell them to sneak away from the barricade at some point and meet us at Erik's grandfather's place tomorrow. Tonight I'm going to climb over to bring those two away, and we'll see if we can give them a proper funeral. You in?"
"Sure I'm in."
"Good boy." She gave him a push, and he was on his way. "See, that's how you save at least a handful of people. Will you help me get the bodies? I don't think I'll be able to carry both."
He nodded solemnly.
"Mademoiselle, Monsieur," greeted Enjolras as he strode over.
"Did Gustave fill you in?" Meg asked.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"No." He gave one sharp, brusque shake of his head. "There will be time for funerals later. For now, I will better honor them by continuing the fight." He turned on his heel and moved to his former position, raising his rifle once more.
She looked to Valjean. "I don't suppose any of the others will choose differently, will they."
The old man sighed. "They never do."
.
That night, Meg was standing by the barricade, waiting, when she heard the patter of little feet. A shadow ran over and resolved itself into Gustave. He reached out to her and she responded, sweeping him up in her arms. "Meg!" he wailed.
"Hush, now, we don't want to wake anyone," she told him. "What's wrong?"
He lowered his voice as well as an upset child could. "Meg, please, I'm scared. What a dream - an awful dream!"
"Don't be afraid. You're all right. What was it about?"
His wet eyes caught the starlight. "Everyone was dead," he whimpered.
"Oh, Gustave," Meg breathed. "No, honey, everything's fine. Don't cry." She met Valjean's concerned gaze as he approached and said as an aside, "This is something he does sometimes - but I know I never actually drowned him, so I think it's safe to say that everyone dying isn't inevitable."
"...Drowned him?"
"Never mind. Long story. Gustave, would you be kind enough to go to the other side, please?" Sniffing, he nodded, and she heaved him up to get him started. "There's a good boy. Valjean?"
"Yes?" He paused, one foot already on a piece of wood projecting from the barricade.
"I just thought of something. You two go on ahead, I'll be right with you."
"Of course." Smiling at her, he deftly clambered over.
.
Christine and Erik were still lying where they died, Valjean noted as he made his way to them, as were many fallen soldiers. The foe didn't seem to be very prompt about moving their dead. Shifting his hold on Gustave (the boy had fallen asleep), he sank to the ground. He brushed a lock of hair from Christine's face, tracing her cheekbone with his finger.
"I'm not sure I've ever seen her dead," Meg said quietly from behind. She moved over to kneel beside him. "Normally, when she dies, the loop crashes. Because she's the Anchor. But so are you, I suppose, so that doesn't really apply, now, does it?"
She picked up the other girl, holding her gently in her arms, and Valjean did likewise with Erik. They began moving through the Rue Saint-Denis, stepping softly on the cobbled street.
"What exactly didst thou do back there?" he murmured.
"For one part, all of their weapons are now in my Pocket. For the other, why don't you look behind you?"
He did so. "Oh."
"I don't have many Looping tricks yet. It was the only feasible thing I could come up with, but I think it should work."
"I see."
The rest of their trek was spent in silence.
Atop the lonely barricade, the chill breeze of midwinter midnight set a white flag fluttering.
.
July 13, 1833
The sun shone brightly over the Luxembourg Gardens. It didn't seem as if the world were about to end, but then again, Meg reflected, it never did. "So this is it, then?" she asked, tossing a pebble into the pond. "The last few minutes of the loop?"
Valjean nodded. "How long until we see each other again, wouldst thou say?"
She watched the ripples moving across the formerly-still water. There was probably some sort of metaphor there, but it was beyond her. "Who knows? Yggdrasil is a fickle thing. Probably a couple millennia at the very least. But then, you'll get to see Cosette again. You must miss her."
"I do." He smiled at her. "All things considered, however, I believe that I had very good substitutes."
"Thank you. Speaking as a girl who rarely has a father, I think you did a very good job of it as well."
"Thank thee. I do what I can."
"You certainly do." She chuckled.
"The view I take is that one can learn a lesson from every loop they go through," he mused.
"And what did you learn from this one? That Yggdrasil was a thing?" Meg asked.
"Something like that." He squinted at something happening on the other side of the pool and gave a start, drawing Meg's attention and laughter. "Never mind," Jean Valjean said. "I do believe I learned that Azelma is going to land herself in prison one day."
Meg Giry smiled wryly. "Diamonds never sparkle bright if they aren't set just right," she replied. "But you'll have as long as you need to pull it off."
And here we are. It's been a year to the day since I started writing the Phantom Loops. Fourteen chapters and 43,650 words about Christine, Erik, Raoul, Gustave, and Meg inside a giant broken multiversal tree computer, and there's still no end in sight.
In addition to the new chapter, I've rewritten chapter one. (In the year I've been writing this, I've grown quite a bit as a writer, and I've become increasingly dissatisfied with the quality of my first snips.) I hope you like the new version as much as I do.
My thanks to Alibi27 for all of the invaluable help you've provided behind the scenes. To Igenlode Wordsmith, for the thoughtful reviews you always leave. To the Infinite Loops community over at Spacebattles, for introducing me to this setting a year ago and helping me along since then. And, most importantly, to each and every one of you out there reading this right now. You are all absolutely wonderful. Here's to another year.