A/N Thank you to all who reviewed last time and sorry for the wait; English coursework came first!
A small warning for gore at the start in this I'm afraid; it's only imagined, but still. We are heading down a very dark rabbit hold now my friends, so hang on.
Enjoy!
Chapter Thirty-four
It was late evening by the time Aimee stumbled in through the apartment door, bone weary from an all-day rehearsal and then her part in that night's performance. Due to the dark of the evening and her exhaustion she had spent a few precious francs to get a fiacre home instead of walking as she usually did.
The apartment was still and silent, the fire burning low in the grate the solitary source of light. Pausing only to strip down to her underclothes and scrub the last traces of the thick stage-paint off her face, Aimee collapsed onto her pallet, falling without reserve into sleep.
The room was dark and cold, a distinctive smell of musty fabric rising up from the heap of canvas in the corner. The only light source was a small shuttered window in the back wall, the wood thick with dust and spider's webs. She was sat against the wall next to her Papa, the rough masonry digging into her back even through the material of her dress. The rope wrapped around her wrists irritated the skin from where she had tugged futilely at the restraints. Beside her, her Papa sat quietly, an aura of calm surrounding him that she could not understand. The taste of the gag was foul in her mouth and she had to concentrate hard so as not to vomit. The darkness felt as if it were closing in on her, creeping ever closer, tightening around her until she felt as if she couldn't breathe…
Her Papa gave a small grunt of satisfaction and his hands appeared, free of their bonds, a tiny knife no bigger than a nail file clasped in his fingers. Wrenching his own gag free he moved across the small space separating them and set to work on the knots of her restraints. A few tense minutes later she was rubbing circulation back into her chafed wrists.
"We have to move fast now, Aimee. Do you understand?" His voice was low and urgent. "We need to climb out of the window as quietly as possible."
She nodded, still scared and shaken, her throat painfully tight and bruised from the crushing grip that had been applied to it.
The following recollections are blurred and hazy: standing on unsteady legs, helping her Papa try and unfasten the stiff bolt of the shutter, ears straining desperately for signs that their kidnappers are returning, the inelegant scramble through the small exit, mud smearing her palms and making her grasp slippery as she tries to pull her Papa out, the thundering sound of footsteps in the room below, her Papa being torn from her, his desperate voice shouting, pleading for her to run…
"I will find you, I promise! No matter how far apart we may become, or dangerous it may be, I will find you! Just run, now! Run!"
She runs, feet skidding in the filth that lines the alleyway, breath coming in harsh pants. Streets away she slows, sobs of confusion catching in her throat. It is then that she sees her pursuer, a shadow darker than the rest moving indomitably in her wake, the slow arrogance of his pace informing her of the hopelessness of her flight.
Nevertheless she rushes on, head down, shoulders tight, praying and pleading with her Heavenly Father to deliver her, to keep her earthly father safe, to…
She does not see the student until it is too late, the paper clutched in his hands falling to the wet ground in a muddle. She bends down to help him, relieved that Enjolras has found her in her dream, but when he looks up at her, something is wrong. The soft blue of his eyes are empty of life, dull and blank. She looks down, her heart hammering in her chest, and screams as she sees the blood.
It is everywhere, flowing from the myriad of wounds pitting his body, the body that falls heavily against her. The blood is soaking her, choking her, drowning her…
Aimee's initial sensation upon awakening was of being trapped. Hands pinned her shoulders and arms and clasped her face. She fought, sobbing and gasping, still filled with horror at the imagined images, her heart crying out for one person and one person only; Enjolras
Somewhere through her blind panic and rib-crushing despair she heard Eponine's husky voice murmuring soothing words and felt Musichetta's silky soft hair brushing her hand. The cool rim of a beaker was touched gently against her lips but she turned her head away, eyes creaking open to mere slits. To her surprise Combeferre was stood there, the light thrown from candle stub by her bed glinting off his glasses.
She must have made some movement that proved she was awake for her three friends moved back slightly, allowing her to push herself up into a sitting position.
"Why is 'Ferre here," she mumbled, still shivering from the haunting reminders of her terror.
"We sent Gavroche for him. We couldn't wake you," Eponine whispered, sounding as close to tears as Aimee had ever heard her. "You were screaming and crying and pleading and…we couldn't wake you."
Filled with a sense of remorse that she knew was unwarranted Aimee pulled her dearest companions into a tight embrace, filled with awkward angles and bumping elbows but chasing away the fears of them all.
Combeferre shifted awkwardly, obviously uncomfortable with this show of female emotion, perhaps feeling as if he was trespassing into a realm no man should see. "Enjolras is safe, Aimee," he said softly after a moment. "I promise he is safe."
A brief moment of vulnerability swept over her as she realized he must have heard her panicked commentary, but his non-judgemental gaze soon banished her uncertainties. "He was dead," she said eventually, shuddering. "There was blood everywhere and he was dead…"
"Shhh," Musichetta soothed, "you are safe and Enjolras is safe, we promise. Now, you are going to go back to sleep right now so that when you see your darling beau tomorrow you won't look like a reanimated corpse."
Aimee summoned up a watery smile and nodded, acquiescing gladly. "Thank you for coming, Combeferre."
He smiled warmly at her. "You are my dear friend and the woman with whom my best friend is in love. It would be crime of friendship to not assist you in any way I could." He replaced his hat and tipped it, sparing a longer, fonder glance for Eponine that went unnoticed by none, before retrieving his bag and exiting the little apartment.
With Aimee's insistence, both Eponine and Musichetta returned to their own beds. Annette, bless her sweet heart, had never even stirred, utterly worn-out by a long day at the dressmaker's shop. The candle remained lit, its' quavering flame drawing Aimee's attention, the warm orange of its' light burning away the dark cold of her fear. In thoughtless instinct she reached beneath her pallet for the silver locket, her heart breaking anew upon recalling the robbery and her loss of the only link with her family.
"Are you looking for me, Papa?" she asked to the dark. "Are you?" Allowing herself no more thought on any subject, she leant over and blew out the candle, soon succumbing to the unreliable peace of sleep. She had a long day of work the next day and with her lead debut looming ever closer she needed all of the rest she could get.
Many streets away, in a completely different section of Paris, other candles were burning bright, providing illumination to far darker deeds.
"She took the position?" A languid hand delicately gestured with a smouldering cigar as if to punctuate the question.
"Yes." This second voice was nervous, a slight quaver in the monosyllabic answer betraying his fear.
"And our fiery young revolutionary shall be suitably…distracted. The trip will take them several days I believe." A cloud of richly-scented, noxious smoke was dispelled by the original speaker into a perfect smoke ring. "It fits in perfectly." Again the hand gestured, the cigar leaving a slow-moving smoke trail in the warm air of the drawing room. "You may go."
The second stranger stood up, glad to be dismissed. He never enjoyed being here, the animal trophies staring blindly down from the walls, the opulence paid for by the pain and suffering of others. He bowed swiftly and prepared the make his escape, but the hand reached out again, a heavy ring glinting in the light of the candles. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
A moment later and the desired object was placed tentatively into his hand: a heavy brass key.
"Yes…fits in perfectly," he murmured once more as the smoke drifted laboriously upwards to the ceiling.
The next day was typical of May, bright and warm, spring now firmly prevailing over winter. Small children played in the parks overseen by pretty young nurses. A group of street urchins laughed loudly as they wove through the crowds, a scrawny mongrel yapping at their heels. Young ladies in beribboned bonnets and elaborate dresses strolled demurely with their chaperones and cast flickering glances at the strutting dandies who passed them by. All was peaceful, all was calm and Enjolras was furious.
He was so incensed in fact that he could barely breathe, his lungs crushed against his ribcage with the sheer level of fury he felt. It was only due to the iron strong self-control that he had spent most of his life exercising that kept him from leaping up onto a park bench or useful wall and ranting at great length to anyone who would listen about the gross injustice displayed time and time again by their government, by their king, and by the people who were supposed to protect those less fortunate than them, an act that would no doubt get him checked in for an indeterminable stay at Le Force.
His righteous anger impaired his judgement a little however, for his long strides were taking him towards Le Faucon's meeting house. His footsteps echoed loudly in the small covered passageway that led to the yard, his harsh breathing reverberating off the discoloured stones. As he entered the yard the first thing he sensed was the feeling of hostility that instantly manifested itself. With a haughty air that confirmed his upper class upbringing, Enjolras ignored the warning looks of the men surrounding the yard and continued his march towards the door. He was three steps away when the first blow connected, a light hit across his shoulder blades; a warning.
His anger made him foolhardy; he turned on the man with a snarl. "What do you think you are doing?" he hissed, taking a step back as he realized he was faced with three very large, very rough looking men. All were armed; none were smiling.
"You's is trespasin on private prop'ty," one of the men rumbled, a huge cudgel resting easily on his shoulder.
"I have been here before," Enjolras assured them, his red-mist dissipating somewhat as he realized the precarious position he was in.
"You've got no guide," another man said, none too subtly spinning a small sharp knife between his knuckles.
"I wasn't aware an invitation was required," Enjolras snapped, his ire rising once more. "I need to see Le Faucon at once."
"There's no need to get pissy," said the third man, a muscled and tattooed persona, rousing a chuckle from his companions.
With a snort of derision Enjolras turned his back on them and made to continue. The second blow knocked him staggering, the force with which the club connected with his kidneys making him gasp. He nearly fell but kept his balance until a hand fisted in his hair and tugged sharply backwards, sending him sprawling. A boot thudded into the ribs of his other side and pain blossomed bright lights behind his eyes.
"Enough!" Giles' voice was harsh and furious.
"But he was tres'passin!" the cudgel wielder protested. "An' he was rude."
"And you are all of such sensitive personalities and were so offended that you decided to knock the stuffing out of one of the boss' allies? Trou du cul!" Giles barked, sending the chastised group slinking back to their positions with a sharp gesture. "A little over-zealous," he said, helping Enjolras up. "They've all been recruited from the streets. Good men but…a little quick to violence. No bleeding anywhere?"
Enjolras shook his head, partly in answer and partly to clear his vision. Following Giles he stepped forwards, both his head and his pride smarting. The world tilted alarmingly to the left but he stumbled on, into the house and through to Rene's war room, collapsing into the first chair he caught sight of.
Rene glanced up from where he was studying a map and gave a grin upon seeing Enjolras' condition. "My apologies," he said, sounding more amused than sorry, "but as I don't get very many unannounced visitors my men are less than well practised in hospitality."
"They're going to tear down most of St. Michele," Enjolras said bluntly, unable to hold back his reason for visiting any longer. "A bill is being passed, quietly so as to cause minimal fuss, and they are going to evict hundreds of people from their homes, tear them down, and use the space to build new houses…for the rich."
"How did you find out about this?" Rene asked tensely, all joviality forgotten.
"Do you mean, 'are my sources trustworthy'?" Enjolras bit out, then sighed. "My apologies for my temper. I discovered it from one of the Amis, Courfeyrac, who works as a law clerk. The man he works for, a Monsieur Clement, is sympathetic to our cause but also has some fairly high ranking friends, one of whom works in the government buildings. This man, who I have been told is honourable and reliable, saw the documents. He is hopefully going to try and get a copy to us as soon as possible."
Rene sat in stone-still silence, no flicker of emotion crossing his face at this news. The seconds stretched long and heavy. A bird fluttered fitfully in the chimney. The tiny clicking of a mouse's claws as it ran along the skirting board drew Enjolras' gaze.
"This is the sign we have been awaiting," Rene murmured, the slow syllables almost inaudible. "This will be the final indignity that will push the people into rebellion, this will give to them a reason to rise up against the corrupt leaders who have taken their money, their dignity, and who are trying to take their homes. We will lead them, we will guide them, and we shall win."
Enjolras remained soundless, an unsettling feeling of nausea prodding at him that was not only caused by his earlier assault. The time was near, nearer than it had ever been before. The tinder was now set, the flame was being blown into life, the time of ignition was drawing ever closer.
"I have much to prepare, my comrade." Rene stood, a preoccupied look passing over his face. "Your news is most welcome; plans made many months ago can finally begin to put into motion." He continued as if speaking to himself. "Facts must be verified and proof found. Ah, the groups must be also informed and gathered, messages must be sent to all who support us. Enjolras!"
Enjolras turned from where he was exiting the door, raising his eyebrows in question.
"The ammunition trip is now more imperative than ever. I would like to leave within the next two days, three at the very latest. Prepare yourself and your men; I shall send instructions to you as soon as I can."
"We will prepare," Enjolras assured him, thereafter leaving the revolutionary leader to his plans.
His anger temporarily sated, Enjolras found his feet turning in the direction of the Musain, certain that at least a few of the Amis would be present; it was now late afternoon and all classes would have ended.
He caught an omnibus for some of the distance, the dull throbbing across his lower back and ribs causing him not a little discomfort and making walking uncomfortable. Limping up the stairs to the back room, he gritted his teeth in a grimace as the muscles twinged painfully but ensured all trace of soreness was safely hidden before opening the door.
Some of the Amis were scattered around the room; Combeferre was sat working at the table by the window, Grantaire was hidden away in his corner, surprisingly sans bottle, Bahorel and Feuilly were teaching Annette how to play cards while Aimee and Courfeyrac completed the ensemble. His heart leapt slightly in his chest upon seeing Aimee, settled at the piano and playing some soft sweet melody that soothed his tightened nerves.
Courfeyrac was near her, seated on a chair that he had turned backwards and straddled with an air of informality. His chin rested on his folded arms which were placed on the back of the chair, his fingers lazily tapping out the music's rhythm; a picture of contentment.
As if attuned to sensing his presence Aimee glanced towards the door, her fingers ceasing to move and a smile splitting her face as she saw in stood in the doorway. "Julien!" she said in greeting, rising hastily to greet him, placing a shy kiss on his cheek and pulling him into a brief embrace, a hint of curious desperation present in her movements.
As her arm pressed against the tender flesh he attempted to remain unaffected, but could not withhold a small wince, a miniscule movement of which she instantly took note.
"What happened?" she asked, noticing his slightly rumpled appearance for the first time.
"A minor misunderstanding with Le Faucon's bodyguards," he said, dropping gingerly into a chair. At the hiss he let out, Combeferre rose to investigate, pulling Enjolras to his feet and subtly lifting the back of his shirt to observe the damage. His lips compressed into a thin line of displeasure as the already darkening bruise appeared, livid against the pale expanse of Enjolras' skin.
"I have an ointment you can place on the bruise to soothe it," he said shortly, his unspoken criticism of Le Faucon being heard loud and clear by all.
"I shall need it," Enjolras replied, returning to his chair, Aimee sitting beside him, "for our journey has been hastened forwards and we leave in the next two or three days." He turned to Courfeyrac who was watching him with the curiously blank expression that was predominant on his features nowadays. "The information you gave me has been of the upmost importance. Rene feels it is the moment we have been waiting for, that we have found the element to tip the balance and throw the country into revolution."
The room had gone very quiet.
"When will it begin?" Combeferre asked for them all.
"Soon," Enjolras replied, his hand seeking out Aimee's under the table. "Soon."
Enjolras walked Aimee to the theatre that evening for the daily performance, arms linked, their footsteps in perfect time. The May evening was warm and pleasant; the sun cavorted over the very tops of the Parisian skyline, joined in this dance of nature by the pirouetting breeze that brushed gently at their skin and softly blew their hair.
"It's a good time of year to be travelling," Aimee remarked quietly, twisting their fingers closer together. "Only pray that it doesn't rain."
He murmured some noise of agreement, somewhat lost in his own thoughts. Aimee drawing to a halt caught his attention and he turned to face her curiously. She was biting the corner of her lip, a look of uncertainty playing across her features.
"You look as if you want to say something," he encouraged gently, turning to wrap her in an embrace, leaning back so as to keep sight of her face.
She gave an empty flash of a smile. "Just nervous for the performance and…"
"And?" he prompted again.
"I'm scared," she whispered and he knew she was referring to far more than the performance.
"So am I," he said, pulling her closer and holding her tight, as if these few brief moments could shield her forever.
From the alleyway perpendicular to them a figure watched behind the concealment of a stack of mouldering crates. He was dressed in rags; filthy and skinny. But beneath this destitution was a sharp mind and a heart filled with resolve. He observed for a few more moments until the couple moved out of sight, then, with a quick visual sweep of the local area, moved on. The man, both hunter and hunted, was soon lost in the shadowed tangle of streets, no trace of his presence left behind.
To those involved, it appeared as though the subsequent two days passed far more swiftly that was normal. The content did not vary; Combeferre, Joly, Enjolras and Courfeyrac attended their classes, Eponine and Annette continued in their shift at the dress shop, Feuilly still ran between his three jobs, Aimee returned home late and often slept until noon, and was as it should have been.
But hanging over them all, continually, was the oncoming revolution. Le Faucon had sent his orders to Enjolras giving the time and location for their exit from the city. More and more messages passed between rebel groups; weapons were stockpiled, meeting locations whispered from one to another, assemblies from farther afield made their way into Paris in their ones and twos. The city was tensed for action, primed to explode.
Enjolras could feel the new energy of the city as he traversed the streets on the misty morning of their day of departure. A set of saddlebags hung across his body, filled with anything he might need for the journey; a fresh change of clothes, a razor and a small mirror securely wrapped in his shirt, and, concealed at the bottom, a small pistol with a bag of shot and a horn of powder.
He had bid farewell to Aimee the evening before, stealing a dozen kisses from her at the top of the stairs at the Musain.
"I truly am sorry I must miss your debut," he murmured into her hair, retaining the scent of her hair to memory.
"I don't care about the performance," she replied, fisting her hands in the material of his jacket, "just promise to come back safe and sound. That's all that matters."
He had not replied, knowing to make such a promise was unwise, but now, stood in the damp expanse of a stable yard waiting for the horses that Rene had hired, he almost wished he had. Not just for Aimee's sake, but for his…because he did so hate to break promises.
"Combeferre will keep an eye on her," Bahorel assured him, guessing rightly the cause of his chief's silence.
"We'll be back soon enough," Courfeyrac said, fastening his saddlebags onto the saddle of a handsome bay and mounting up with a grace that spoke of many hours spent in the saddle as a child.
Rene, mounted on long-legged black gelding, adjusted his girth strap and ensured his saddlebags were secure. "We have a long way to go, my friends," he warned as Enjolras mounted his grey and Bahorel scrambled into the saddle of a well-built chestnut, his lack of coordination prompting a quiet snigger from Courfeyrac.
"Let us make a start then," Enjolras prompted, settling the reins securely between his leather gloved hands.
With a sharp nudge of his heels and soft touch on the reins, Rene spun his horse and set off out of the yard at a spanking trot. In ten minutes they were out of the city, breaking into an easy canter that ate up the miles and widened the distance between the small group and Paris, the shallow hoof prints in the soft road the only trace that they had ever been there.
A/N And so it truly begins! Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading and please review to let me know what you thought.
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz