A/N Sorry for the wait, but I've felt a little lethargic in regards to writing this recently as reviews have been basically none existent. So please, just send me a line, even if just to say you enjoyed it; I'm not asking for an essay.
Thank you to everyone who has followed recently; it's never too late to join the party!
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Even though we are now way off the original story now, the only part of this I own is the AU plot and my original characters. A dead literary genius from the 19th century owns the rest.
Chapter Thirty-six
The crimson words wavered slightly before Aimee's eyes as thick, foul terror filled her lungs like mud and froze her diaphragm.
Who? Who had found her? Her father? Surely he would not announce his presence in such a lurid manner. But someone else might….
"Such spirit; it will be shame to break it quickly." A gloved hand ran down her cheek, tugging softly at the cloth gag in her mouth. "To destroy a new toy directly after procuring it, is…foolish. I prefer to get my full satisfaction first."
After a final, almost chaste, caress the dark spectre stood, exited the tiny musty room, and shut the door behind him, extinguishing all light, and seemingly hope, with him.
Wrenching around to block out the dripping letters she was vaguely aware of Gavroche looking up at her, a flash of uncertainty infiltrating his nonchalant mask and revealing the generous hearted fifteen year-old boy he was. She forced herself to inhale and exhale slowly, completing her breathing exercises over and over again until her heart stopped pounding and she felt her chest loosen.
"I can't stay here, not now" she said, almost to herself. Then to Gavroche, "Can you find your sister and tell her not to come home? Annette and Musichetta as well, if you can." She crouched and retrieved the little knife, replacing it in it's' sheath. "I'm going to stay with Margo for tonight." She looked around the little room sadly. "This place isn't safe anymore."
"Why isn't it safe anymore? Who did this?" Gavroche asked, standing by as she flitted around the room, urgently filling a large carpet bag with clothes. "Aimee, what's goin' on?"
"I don't know, Gav," she replied, a dark undertow of anger tugging at her sensibilities. When would she be free of this darkness in her past?
She hurried to finish packing, left a note on the kitchen table as a precaution in case one of her friends returned to the apartment before Gavroche could pass out his warning, and exited the rickety building after informing Jermaine of what had occurred. The huge man towered over her, his great muscled body filling the doorway.
"I shall keep a look out, mon petite oiseau chanteur," he assured her in his rumbling bass voice. "If anyone suspicious looking comes by, I'll give him a good thwacking!" Bright teeth shone in his dark face as he executed a terrifying grimace. "Fly little bird, fly away from here," he called as she ran down the stairs behind Gavroche. "Be safe."
Grasping her hand in his Gavroche proceeded to tug her into a series of side streets that she would normally avoid at all costs. They sped through the filth and the water, Aimee struggling to keep up with the ferociously fast boy.
Some significant time later, after doubling back several times, they emerged onto Rue Victoire, the street on which Margo's house was built.
"I'll be alright from here, Gav," Aimee assured him, squeezing his shoulder appreciatively. With a final smile she walked away, never looking back to notice the painful look of undisguised adoration that crossed the youth's thin face before he reluctantly sped off.
It felt odd to knock on Margo's front door; a door that, until fairly recently, had always been open to her as her home. When Margo answered, traces of flour in her braided hair, her face lit up into a smile until she saw the carpet back clutched between Aimee's trembling hands and unhealthy pallor of her face.
"I think I might need to stay with you for a little while," Aimee said, not even attempting to hide the waver in her voice.
Without another word the older woman tugged Aimee into the house, took her into her apartment, placed the coffee pot onto warm, and asked, in a calm but firm voice, to be told everything.
And so Aimee related, for the first time ever, the full horror of what her past held, of what she had experienced, and the darkness nipping at her heels even now. Margo did not flinch at the horrendous details, nor shudder at the memories laid bare before her by the despairing young woman.
"I felt as if I could never fully explain everything to the boys," Aimee choked, fighting a futile battle to hold back tears. "It would only distress them or anger them, and that would help no one, not even me." Her chest heaved as the first sob broke through. "I had hoped it was over, had prayed it was finished; that I had somehow escaped…" She broke off as she attempted to catch her breath, to no avail. "But I will never be free, not truly, not ever. I'll always be afraid and never understand why!"
Months and months of repression and exhaustion broke through as she cried, great wracking sobs that hurt her ribcage and stole her air. Margo merely reached forwards and held her fiercely, a hard look on her motherly features.
"There is a story I need to tell you," she said softly, whispering the words straight into Aimee's ear, "a story from many years ago. You see, before I moved to Paris with my husband, may the Blessed Father keep his soul, we lived in the country with our five boys. It was a remote place, beside a road and backed by woods, but we were happy there. It was during the war; the country was falling to pieces; desperation forcing people into action they would normally never countenance."
Aimee's tears slowed as she listened, her breathing still unsteady.
"My husband was called up, as so many were, and I was left alone on this farm with my boys. The oldest was thirteen, the youngest just four months." Margo gave a haunting smile at the memory of her children. "Not long after Serge, my husband, left, a band of outlaws began to roam the region. They were hard men, bitter and lawless, and they terrorized the village that was closest to us. I knew that they would start ransacking the farms next, so," she took a bracing breath, "when I saw them riding down the road, I sent my boys into the woods and told them not to come out until I called them, no matter what."
Aimee's eyes were wide in fear as she listened. "What happened?"
"I loaded the hunting gun Serge had left and both of the horse pistols and waited for them." Margo looked deep into Aimee's eyes as she spoke, her next words slow and deliberate. "I killed four of them, in cold blood, in my farmyard. Because I knew what they would have done to me, what they had already done to others, and that they would have then hurt my boys and that…" she shook her head, tears trembling on her eyelids, "that, I could never allow." She grasped Aimee's hands. "What I am trying to say, my dear, is that sometimes we women must fight for ourselves. We must turn and face the darkness and strike it down. And we must do it not only for ourselves, but for the ones we love." She reached out and cupped Aimee's cheek. "I am not saying that you will have to do this, or even that you must, but remember…you can. You are capable, even though you do not feel as if you are."
They remained seated, locked in an embrace that spoke of security and trust. Neither spoke; there was nothing at that moment to be said. Gradually, Margo pulled away, dabbing gently at the tears that ran down both of their cheeks.
"I'll pour us that coffee now I think," she said with a half-smile, standing up with some minor difficulty.
Aimee also stood, a faraway look clouding her eyes. "I'm just going to up to Enjolras' apartment for a minute," she said distantly, "I left a…er…a book up there…and," she made a vague gesture and disappeared out of the door.
The stairs seemed a lot steeper than Aimee remembered them, the wooden boards fading in and out of focus as she climbed. The door to Enjolras' apartment was locked – naturally – but she pulled the spare key from its place in a crack in the wall and opened the solid wooden door.
Now that she was in the home of her beloved she expected some of the unrest within her spirit to quiet a little, but no feeling of peace or safety came to her. Seeing one of Enjolras' books laid open on the hall table she closed it, smoothing the deep bend in the spine that intimated the amount of time the pages were opened. Walking to the bookshelf she plucked a jacket from the back of the chair, draping the garment about her shoulders, hoping that the touch of it would bring her calm. She buried her nose in the red fabric, inhaling the unidentifiable scent that was Enjolras, but no comfort came of it.
Drawn within her thoughts, of Margo and of red words and fear and the past, she replaced the book on the shelves and trailed around the room, fingers brushing lightly over the walls; the bookcase; the handle of Enjolras' bedroom door. Slowly, she turned the handle and pushed the door open, feeling as if she were trespassing on his most private sanctum despite their relationship, but desperate to find the peace she searched for.
A smile sprung up among the remnants of her tears as she took in the habitual chaos that she knew Enjolras lived in; the paper, the books, the clothes. Despite being meticulous in the rest of his life, Aimee always found it curious, and somewhat amusing, the slatternly state in which her beau kept his room. Yet beneath her amusement her heart was still in turmoil. Whatever she had come searching for in these rooms, in Enjolras' belongings, was not here; the possessions and space was empty without his presence to lighten them.
Removing the jacket from her shoulders she placed it on the bed, running one hand across the hastily smoothed bedclothes before moving out, away from the empty rooms, down the stairs and seeking her other place of solace; the garden.
Shutting the door behind her the scent of spring blooms instantly surrounded her, a scent that usually pleased her. But today the smell was overly sweet and cloying, the colours too bright, the sun too harsh. An ache rose in her chest, a frustrated longing for…something; something she could not name or identify, only a sensation of wanting her burden to be lifted, of wanting to feel truly at peace for the first time in her memory.
The murmuring of quiet voices caught her from her agonies and a familiar current of fear shocked through her. 'Found you,' echoed the words in her head, 'found you, found you, found you.' Cautiously she moved towards the fence, peering through the thick foliage to try and catch sight of the person beyond the fence. Her line of sight picked up the crouching figure of a priest, dark haired and narrow-shouldered, handing a small package to a woman curled up by the wall. Her bright eyes were those of a fading consumptive, her face alight with the curious beauty that illuminated the sufferers just before the disease took them. The priest placed a gentle hand on her forehead, murmuring indecipherable words of comfort before standing and moving away with a quiet farewell.
Aimee could clearly see the look of peace on the dying woman's face and her heart cried out for the same feeling. Before she knew what she was doing, she had unlocked the back gate and hurried after the black-robed figure walking down the street.
She felt a little conspicuous and hoped that no one realized what she was doing, but the unrest within her urged her onwards, ever onwards. The priest turned a corner and for a moment Aimee was convinced she had lost him, but the turning revealed itself to be a door into a tiny building, the carved cross on the door identifying it as a church. She glanced up the street; yes, she could still see Margo's house from here. How many times had she walked past this building without ever noticing it?
For a moment, she hesitated, unsure as to whether she should cross the threshold, several memories assaulting her.
The church was huge and dark, lit only by flickering candles. The wavering light created an eerie atmosphere that scared her; she was only six years old. The stained glass depictions of Heaven and Hell were both illuminated in terrifying shades of red and orange. She did not like it, not at all.
Years later now and it is just her and Papa sitting alone in the house in Paris. A wave of guilt washes over her as she hears the bells calling the righteous to Mass, yet her father makes no signs of moving.
"Are we not going, Papa?" she asked tentatively.
"No," was the short answer. No more was ever said on the matter.
Since her attack and the difficulties of the following months, she had not found the time nor had the inclination to visit a house of religion. She knew Enjolras was not a believer, although she remembered him telling her once he was more agnostic than atheist.
Just then, as she was on the verge of moving away, she heard a sound coming from within, a sound she could identify with; singing. The voice was soothing, the words jumbled by the closed door, but the haunting plea in the words seemed to be taken straight from her troubled heart and transferred into the mode of communication she loved so well. Hands shaking ever so slightly, she opened the door.
The smell of sweet herbs instantly enveloped her, mixed with old wood and a hint of damp; this was not a rich church, nor a new church, but she felt safer now than ever before. As the door clattered closed the singing stopped and she winced as the black-robed figure turned towards her.
"I'm sorry, Father, for interrupting you," she mumbled, shifting from foot to foot in uncertainty.
"There is no need to apologise, my child." His voice was soft, calming, as he moved towards her.
As he came closer, Aimee was able to distinguish his features a little better. She frowned briefly, his plain face with deep kind eyes sparking a memory. "I have a feeling I have seen you before, Father," she said.
"You have," he said, smiling and gesturing for her to sit in a pew, "I am around St. Michele often; I know you by sight also, my child, but not by name. You are a companion of those young student revolutionaries, no?"
"Yes," she replied shortly, feeling uncomfortable that he knew so much. Was she that easy to observe?
"You seem troubled," he said, sitting on the pew in front of her. "Is there any way I can help?"
The quiet atmosphere loosened her tongue and opened her heart; for the second time that day she found herself unburdening herself.
"I am afraid, Father, of something I cannot control. I feel alone, and scared all of the time. It is less noticeable when I am with my friends or my…sweetheart," she blushed slightly, but he merely smiled in encouragement. "But he is not here and I am so, so afraid…" Her throat tightened and she had to stop, mortified to be crying in front of a stranger.
He, however, did not seem uncomfortable, instead reaching into his robes and pulling out a clean handkerchief. "What of your family?" he asked. "Surely they must be of some protection."
"I have no family," she murmured, fresh tears welling. "My mother is dead, and my father is…I don't know where he is."
"There is another Father always watching over you," he said, "one who knows your fears and weaknesses and yet loves you regardless. He cares for you, protects you, even when you feel alone."
"Then why am I in danger!" Aimee snapped. "Why is my life being strangled by this…this…evil I cannot even name? Why must I fight for every moment of peace I experience?"
He did not immediately respond to her outburst, brows furrowed in thought, giving her words true contemplation. "We are all followed by evil, by darkness," he said slowly, "every one of us. But it is those of us who understand that we cannot destroy evil on our own that find the courage to face it." He pulled a small black book out of his robes and flicked through the dog-eared pages. "It says in Psalms, chapter 40, verses 13 and 14, 'Be pleased, Oh Father, to deliver me; Oh Father, hasten to help me! Let those who seek to destroy my life be ashamed and abashed altogether; let those who are desiring my evil be driven back and put to shame.'" He closed the book and looked at her piercingly, a strength radiating from him, the power in the words he had quoted filling Aimee with the peace she had longed for. "The cause your friends and loved one fight for is noble and just, and you…" he leaned forwards, "you do not have to fight for yourself. Does it not say in Proverbs 3, verses 5 and 6, "Trust in the Father with all of your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. Know Him in all of your ways and He makes all your paths straight.'" He handed her the well-worn book. "You are never alone, mademoiselle, even in the darkest of times. Remember that."
"Thank you, Father," Aimee whispered, her thumb caressing the worn black leather. She looked up at him, tears rising in her eyes but not falling. "I don't feel so afraid anymore." She rose, cuffing the final tears away with his worn but neat handkerchief. "My thanks, once again," she said, handing the damp cloth back to him, "but I have much to prepare for."
"Don't we all?" he replied, a subtle smile playing around his kindly face. "Farewell, my child, and may the Father protect you."
A curious euphoric haze surrounded her as she slowly returned to Margo's house, slipping back in through the garden gate. On reflex she glanced towards where the woman had been laying, not sure how to feel upon seeing that she was gone. Clasping the little book in one hand she relocked the gate, replacing the key in its hiding spot.
"There you are!" Margo cried, rushing out from the back door to bundle Aimee up in a crushing embrace. "I was so worried! You were there one minute and then you weren't and you weren't up in Enjolras' rooms and the door was open, as was the gate, and I was so afraid…someone had taken you…"
Aimee returned the hug, her sense of peace tinged briefly with guilt for causing her dear friend such worry. "I am fine, I assure you. I am sorry to cause you worry, dear Margo." She dropped a kiss onto the neat braids pressed to her cheek. "I was at the church a little way down the road, talking to the priest. I feel at peace, Margo, for the first time in my memory, and possibly before that; I feel at peace."
"Praise the Father," Margo said softly, taking Aimee's hand and pulling her back towards the house. "Maybe you won't worry so much now, hm?"
Miles away, out on the north road out of Paris, Enjolras also worrying a little. He could not help it, especially as the last time he had seen Aimee she had seemed far too fragile and not a little worried. He slapped irritably at a fly and squinted ahead into the harsh light of the lowering sun.
"How much farther?" he called back to Rene, unable to remember the last time they had passed a marker stone.
"Twenty miles or so!" the rebel called back, checking his horse's pace to talk with the wagon driver. He seemed to argue for a moment, his face tightening with displeasure, but then it relaxed in weary acceptance. "We stop here for the night!"
Courfeyrac groaned in relief as he tumbled out of the saddle, rolling his hips almost obscenely as he attempted to get some feeling back into the aching joints. "I was woefully unaware of how out of practice I was with this form of riding," he groaned, sighing with relief as muscles stretched and relaxed.
"Stop your whining, Courfeyrac, and help me off this damn beast," Bahorel growled. "I've been sat like this for so long I can't get my leg to bend."
Enjolras could not help the weary smile that appeared thanks to his friends' bickering, he himself letting out a sigh of relief as his feet met solid earth. He listened silently to Courfeyrac's good-natured grumbling as they unsaddled their horses and tied them to picket ropes, deciding that his friend had merely needed several days ride in the clean country air to return him to his former self.
"…and finally, I am chafed in places I should not be chafed," Courfeyrac said to conclude his complaints of the day. "That and I am extremely glad to not be in possession of a mirror, because if I look as awful as you do I will no doubt die from the shock of seeing myself in such a state."
"Who cares what you look like when we've got these beauties," Bahorel cut in, pulling one of the rifles from its hiding place on the wagon and caressing the barrel lovingly. "I can see why Sharpe and Harper love these things so much."
"Put the toys away, boys, and come and get something to eat," Rene said, snatching the rifle out of Bahorel's hands and replacing it in its hiding place, snapping the canvas back down with a decisive snap.
Bahorel, in a stunningly juvenile display of insolence, pulled a face at Rene's receding back prompting Courfeyrac to smother his weary snorts of mirth as an impromptu coughing fit. Enjolras merely shook his head in despair and followed after the older man.
There was little conversation that night, all of the men feeling too exhausted to make any sort of small talk. There was only the muted sound of eating and then a brief hustle as they all bedded down for the night, one of the wagon men who had slept on the seat most of the day offering to take the watch. Then, there was only silence.
As Enjolras settled himself down, staring blindly into the darkness surrounding him, he let his mind briefly wander as exhaustion trailed through his bones and tugged him towards the aching bliss of sleep. Twenty miles…would they reach Paris in time for him to catch the show after all? The embers of the fire hummed in the way that only fire can as he considered the possibility.
Their speed was limited by the wagon, but the roads were good and the weather bearable. He sighed, once, attempting to release some of the pressure behind his eyes that came from a long day in the fierce sun coupled with a strange, irrational worry that he felt whenever he thought of Aimee.
"You miss her?" The soft voice was Courfeyrac, a few inches to his left. The centre's face was hidden in deep shadow, only the shine of his dark hair catching the light of the fire.
He saw no reason to hide his feelings, not here in the safe anonymity of the dark and to one of his closest friends. "Yes."
A strange chuckle, hollow-sounding and dry preceded his friend's reply. "Don't do anything stupid, will you? Aimee's a special kind of woman, the kind that doesn't come along all the time. Remember that."
Enjolras gave a quiet chuckle of his own. "I never thought I would see the day when I was receiving romantic advice from you, Courfeyrac, famed dandy and the Libertine of the Latin Quarter."
"Never say never, that's my advice," his friend mumbled, his words slurring as he drew closer to slumber, "also, never drink with Irishmen and never let a once in a lifetime woman get away." A pause filled the space between them before Enjolras just heard the mumbled words, "Learnt that the hard way…" A moment later and deep breathing, interspersed by Bahorel's surprisingly quiet snores, was the only sound coming from the camp.
Enjolras wondered on his friend's cryptic mutters, but not for long. Sleep pulled him into its sweet embrace, tempting his dreams with Aimee's laughter and the soft touch if her hand in his own. In his sleep he smiled, the night wore on, and unbeknown to all, danger advanced ever closer, it's scent on the wind that of expensive cigars and dripping red paint.
A/N Almost to the big moment, people! I am unbelievably excited for the next few chapters; I've been preparing them in my head for over a year now. Again, sorry for the wait and reviews are appreciated.
I would just like to say that the mentions of religion in here are my own views. In homage to Hugo's use of religion throughout the original novel, as well as my feelings that Aimee is in need of divine help, I have included these sentiments in detail. The version used for the quotations was a translation taken directly from the Hebrew texts, I'm not sure of the date. I have compromised by 'Father' due to the fact that my religion does not use the name of God, but canonically the characters would be Catholic and so would use it. If you have any questions leave them in a review or PM me. I'm happy to answer and explain things.
Until next time, mes amis!
Libz