Les Hommes de la Misericorde

(Men of Mercy)

Chapter 36: Returns, Memories, and New Beginnings

The moment Javert sets foot in Avignon, his anxiety eases, the knot in his stomach uncurling ever so slightly. He's been traveling for two extra days, making the usual seven into nine due to a broken stage coach, and there'd been a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach the entire journey. There'd been something telling him that he'd never get here, that he'd never find his answers, that Valjean and his daughter and those insurgents were long gone.

Why does it matter, that familiar voice asks him, the voice that's been his only companion for weeks on end, the voice that agrees and disagrees with him in nearly the same instant.

"It matters," he mutters aloud, having ceased to care about whether or not strangers hear him. He's too far gone for that, and he doesn't know these people, no longer has any impression left to make now that he's no longer an inspector, now that his life is in pieces before his eyes.

He has nothing left to live for except these answers from these people he feels he is obligated to despise and yet begrudgingly respects. Nothing left to live for, and yet he cannot face the bridge again, cannot wipe Cosette's face from his mind, her pull on him strange and confusing. She has not committed the crimes of her father, but she must approve of them.

Musn't she?

That is not her fault, the voice tells him, soothing.

Why does he care?

Does she also agree with the crimes of her rebellious new housemate, the revolutionary with embers in his eyes?

He shakes his head, firming his stride as he walks down the street in search of the address of an inn he has written down on a piece of paper. It's a recommendation he took from Bertrand, whose family is from a town near Avignon, and often stayed overnight in order to rest.

"My family might be able to house you, if I sent a letter on," Bertrand offers with a kind smile. He is one of the few people who knows Javert's home address in Paris, and had unexpectedly shown up, concerned over Javert's well-being.

"No, thank you," Javert says, firm but trying to be polite, trying with every fiber of his being to hold onto some semblance of his former self, some makeshift sense of propriety.

"Well, at least try this inn," Bertrand says, handing him a small slip of paper, and Javert wonders when he'd even let the word Avignon slip past his lips in anyone else's presence. "I don't know how long you're staying, but they usually have a fairly large contingent of long term resident types for travelers and things."

Not really knowing why, Javert had taken it, and after a few minutes walking about Avignon, he finds himself standing in front of the door. He's always had a solid sense of direction, likely from so much time spent roaming the streets as a child and needing to find his way in the dark. But he's never even been to Avignon before, and yet he hadn't struggled, hardly even recalled the past few minutes after exiting the stagecoach.

He stops short of going inside, considering his appearance for a moment: he's shaved all of once during the journey, his long, but normally well-kept hair mussed, clothes wrinkled.

They're used to travelers, the voice soothes him. They won't notice the inner turmoil.

Yet. A sinister tone edges in.

Moments from several weeks ago flash in his mind, complete with vivid color and ear crashing sound.

Valjean riding up like a hero from some damned novel Javert would never pick up.

The sun glinting off Enjolras' hair and bathing his pale, blood speckled skin in light.

The pounding of hooves on the ground as the other insurgents arrive.

The gamin screaming at him when he'd taken Enjolras away, his eardrums ripping with guilt at the sound.

He's right. They're right. He's wrong. They're wrong. It's a contradiction of reality, and one he must sort out. He squares his shoulders, stepping back toward the inn. He doesn't even have a plan, doesn't have a strategy, doesn't know if he'll knock on their door tomorrow or in six months.

For the first time in his life, the grey slips in, a fog over everything, blinding him, choking him. And as he steps into the inn, it envelopes him.

Grantaire isn't much of one to always know exactly what the date is. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't. Today is an exception to that rule, because not only does August 6th mark two months since the fall of the barricade, since the beginning of this strange new life, it also marks what would have been Bossuet's 30th birthday. Were Grantaire up to his old habits, he would likely be currently halfway through a bottle of absinthe. As it is, he sits on the portico in the cooling summer evening, his chair situated between Courfeyrac and Feuilly, with Enjolras and Combeferre across from him. There is a half-full glass of wine in his hands from which he takes small sips. A letter rests in his pocket, written but unsent, a letter to Musichetta that he wants to show to his friends first, to make sure it's safe, that it will not give Enjolras away.

"Do you remember the year Joly attempted to throw Bossuet a surprise party?" Courfeyrac asks with a grin. "What a glorious laugh that was."

"Joly couldn't keep that kind of secret if he tried," Grantaire mutters fondly. "He didn't even have to say what the secret was, but by his mere demeanor one knew that he did in fact have a secret."

"Bless him though, Bossuet did act surprised," Courfeyrac adds, nodding, a hand squeezing Grantaire's shoulder briefly. "Even if he wasn't, entirely."

"And Joly was delighted," Enjolras says, a smile slipping onto his paler than usual features. They'd had a rather intensive rehabilitation session this morning, and while Enjolras was making progress, he was far quicker to tire than he had ever been before.

"Joly was the definition of delight, I think," Feuilly says, sipping at his own wine.

One cannot talk about Bossuet without speaking of Joly, Grantaire muses, nor can one talk about Joly without mentioning Bossuet. It is fitting that they are together in death, because Grantaire does not like to think on them being separated even if they are both separated from all of them. From Musichetta. From him. His two closest friends gone in one fell swoop.

"Honestly Joly and I could have used Bossuet's help to decorate for his own surprise party," Grantaire says, trying to wade through the melancholy and focus on the people in front of him through the haze in his heart. "The wine we drank hit us a bit harder than we thought, and if not for Musichetta those decorations probably would have been fairly hopeless."

"Bossuet was oddly talented at home decoration," Courfeyrac muses. "And putting things together. Certainly one of his more domestic skills."

"I do wonder how Musichetta is faring," Combeferre says, concern tinging his tone. "She's a strong woman, so intelligent, but this loss, well…I'm sure she feels it as we do."

At this, Grantaire sees his moment.

"Actually," he says, pulling the folded letter out of his pocket. "I've written this letter to her? I wanted to speak with all of you first, given the safety risks here, but…" he trails off, his words so rarely failing him.

"Wanted to let her know of our situation," Combeferre finishes for him.

"Yes," Grantaire says, appreciative. "And to possibly see if we might know of hers."

"I can only imagine she feels as we do," Feuilly says, echoing Combeferre's words, looking down into his glass for a moment before looking up at his friends again. "I should like to know how she is: I always did enjoy it when she was around. Her knowledge of books alone was fascinating!"

"I enjoyed her sense of humor a great deal," Enjolras replies, studying Grantaire's face for a moment as he hands the letter over.

"That's because she sat and made up the most horrific puns with you," Courfeyrac says, jabbing Enjolras lightly in the side.

"Oh," Enjolras says, shoving him back. "She did not trust me much at first, if you'll recall."

At this, Grantaire laughs, the sensation chasing away the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach for a few moments. He remembers the sounds of Enjolras and Musichetta bickering, remembers, a few visits later, hearing those same two voices laughing together.

"She had a picture of you in her head, and it turned out you were not what she expected," he says. "You challenged her expectations, but she was stubborn, which she was fully willing to admit, so it took her a bit."

Enjolras smiles at the memory before looking down to read the letter, Combeferre's eyes also landing on the page from the chair beside him.

"Do you think it safe to send?" Grantaire asks after a few moments.

"You don't mention any of our names," Enjolras says, handing it back. "You don't even mention the barricade, just that we are safe in Avignon with family. And you signed it 'R' so she'll certainly know who it's from, even with the vague details. I too, should like to know how she fares, and to let her know that we are thinking of her." He looks to Combeferre. "What do you think?"

"I think no one could discern anything from this letter that would put us in danger," he says, agreeing. "Especially considering the world thinks you dead."

The fact of that, the words and their still raw newness, settle down between all of them, leaving them silent for a moment.

"Well," Courfeyrac says. "Hopefully if the correspondence continues we shall be able to become clever about communicating almost via code. Let us send it, I say. Risks are always worth it for friends."

"Yes," Feuilly agrees. "I'm sure even Valjean couldn't argue with this. It will be a time before we hear back, but I think it will do all of us, Musichetta included, good to hear from one another. Joly and Bossuet would certainly want it."

Grantaire raises his glass to that. "Madame Bellard heard me mention that raspberry tart was Bossuet's favorite, so she's in the kitchen making one in honor of his birthday. I think with Cosette's assistance. She sent Marius to Avignon with Valjean and Gavroche, because last time he tried to 'help' her with the baking he set something on fire."

"Bless him," Courfeyrac says, fond.

The room descends into a silence that recognizes the missing people, the spaces between them where their friends should be. After a few moments a soft chatter begins again, and Grantaire slips out, half-full wine glass still in his hands, and retreats through the house to the garden. The sun is setting behind the trees, but it's still mostly light out. He remembers teasing Joly about his love of sunsets, remembers Joly's reply and Bossuet's grin.

"The sky is going to sleep, R, and even though it bathes the world in darkness there are still pinpricks of light in the stars. I think it's beautiful."

Joly's hand swatting his arm, Bossuet ruffling his hair.

"You sound like Jehan."

"I think we could all do with sounding a bit more like Jehan, sometimes," Bossuet adds.

"Grantaire?"

Enjolras' curious, concerned voice draws him back to the present.

"Are you all right?" Enjolras asks, leaning on his cane, but so as heavily as he has in the past few weeks.

Part of Grantaire wants to lash out, but he buries the urge, turning to face Enjolras.

"Not really," he says, not possessing the emotional energy to lie or even to put up a façade.

Enjolras offers him a sad smile, honest with his emotions even before he speaks rather than trying, as always, to remain visibly strong for the rest of them.

"I'm not really either," he says. "It's such a strange feeling…bittersweet, I'd call it. Missing all of them, but also remembering them so fondly. And thinking of Bossuet today in particular."

Grantaire takes a gulp of his wine, wishing, wishing, wishing it was liquor, closing his eyes against the urge, because he will not give in, he can't, he's already been through too much hell that he does not care to repeat: the vomiting, the shaky hands, the hallucinations. The sheer, absolute hell.

Enjolras takes his silence as invitation, and really, it is.

"I know that…" he hesitates, and it sounds odd for his usual directness. "That you losing Joly and Bossuet would be like me losing Combeferre and Courfeyrac. We all loved them of course, we were all a family, but they were your dearest friends."

Grantaire gazes at Enjolras for a moment before nodding, returning the smile even as his heart beats with an ache he's grown all too familiar with. Yet he feels somehow more awake to life now than he has in a long time, and the two feelings collide strangely.

"I'm glad we all decided upon sending this letter to Musichetta," Grantaire finally says. "She always teased me about talking too much, but I personally think she rather enjoyed it. After all, Musichetta didn't spend time with people she didn't like."

"No," Enjolras answers, chuckling. "She certainly didn't."

"Fiery," Grantaire says, affectionate. I thought she might drive Joly mad when they first met. Bossuet was a rather balancing influence on the two of them. And their dramatics. When they would fight and Bossuet couldn't seem to make a dent, he'd just come to my rooms for a little while for the quiet. He usually stayed with Joly, but at those times he stayed with me."

"Quiet? Around you?" Enjolras teases.

"The Courfeyrac in you is making itself apparent," Grantaire says, flicking him lightly on his uninjured arm. He is still not completely used to this new easiness between them. It was not as if they hadn't shared moments before, it was not as if they spent all of their time fighting or anything of the like, but rather miscommunicating. But there had always been a wall between them, one they could reach around but not through because Enjolras was too focused on his work, and Grantaire too fearful to go beyond a belief in his friends and into a belief in the cause or even himself. Their friendship has taken on a newness, and pleased as Grantaire is, he is still adjusting. Still telling himself that he won't lose this too, won't lose this trust Enjolras has placed in him.

"All of this time we've spent together doing your rehabilitation has certainly taught me that you have some snark," Grantaire continues.

"Well, I did very much appreciate Bossuet's sarcasms," Enjolras says. "So I felt I should use some myself, on his birthday, even if it was a bit at your expense."

"You never cease to surprise me," Grantaire admits. "The moment I think I have you figured out, well…"

"Hmmm," Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same for you."

"I shall return that sarcasm when you least expect it," Grantaire says, turning to look at the sky, resting his elbows on his knees.

Enjolras smiles again and turns to look with him, as they both wish Bossuet a silent happy birthday, watching the sunset Joly loved so much, all their souls touching across the expanses of life and death.

As has become his habit when alone, Enjolras sits out in the garden, a book in hand. Feuilly found it in a shop in Avignon and read through in a matter of days before pressing it into Enjolras' hands in eagerness. Feuilly himself was in Avignon: he'd found part-time work doing some advertisement painting for an older widowed woman who was running her husband's business with the help of her adolescent son, and from the way Feuilly talked, they seemed like quite the kind, friendly people. Grantaire had accompanied Feuilly into Avignon, saying he wanted to take in the city a bit. Combeferre was upstairs tending to letters from his professors in Paris and making arrangements to take his final exam at a university in Marseilles in the fall term. It was more a formality than anything, and luckily Combeferre's professors hadn't suspected his revolutionary activity, but easily accepted his answer that the air in Paris had made him ill. Courfeyrac was out with Marius and Cosette on the horses, riding about the grounds, perhaps discussing their plans to go into practice. Enjolras has encouraged Courfeyrac endlessly into opening his own firm, as his father has agreed to give him a bit of his inheritance early to cover costs, but it's obvious to Enjolras that Courfeyrac is still too worried over him to stay gone for too long during the day. Valjean is doing some business in the village, and Gavroche is playing with some friends he made just down the street at a neighbor's home.

They're all still adjusting, Enjolras reminds himself. It is mid-August and summer is still in bloom, but is in its twilight now. Somehow June 6th seems like just yesterday and still also as if years have passed. He massages his leg absentmindedly as a small, vague pain shoots through it, reminding him that it, like his heart, his soul, is not healed. There will always be a scar on all of them, will always be moments of pain and of memory.

But he will heal, he tells himself. He will feel better. They all will, one day. Perhaps they do a bit already, even if it is hard to see. That's the thing about pain, he supposes. About grief and loss. Either you remain in stasis, or it changes you, propelling you forward in a myriad of ways. You ache, you cry, but you learn. You teach.

He knows these things, had talked with Jehan about them at length; about death, about loss, about everything in between, but he's restless, wishes for a distraction. If he's honest with himself, he's envious of his friends and their chances to start building lives here while he must still be careful, must watch every step. He wants these things for them, is happy for them, but frustration with his own system builds in his system with each passing day.

Enjolras' thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a childish voice calling his name, and turns around to see Gavroche walking swiftly toward him with two children in trailing behind, a boy and a girl.

"Enjolras!" he says again.

"Gavroche," he says with a smile and a nod in greeting. "Who are your friends?"

"This is Christine," he says, gesturing with his thumb at the girl, who looks around eight. "And this is Julien," he continues, doing the same a second time.

"Madmoiselle," smiling at the little girl, who looks a bit afraid of him. "Monsieur." He hesitates for a moment. He's never spent much time around children aside from Gavroche, who is certainly not an average boy of his age. Certainly he'd spoken to a good deal of gamin around Paris, but given their lifestyle, their dependence on the themselves and their smarts and their resourcefulness to survive, makes them a class of their own. He burns with anger at a society that would do this to its children, but sets it aside in favor of focusing on the three in front of them.

"Where do you live?" he asks, kind, but not indulging in that tone of voice he usually hears people use with children that varies greatly from the one they use with adults.

Too shy to answer, Gavroche does it for them, and Enjolras is reminded of the two little boys in Paris Gavroche had essentially taken in as his little brothers. He wonders what their fate will be, without Gavroche. Wonders if they will ever escape the life gamins so often face, and hopes with all his might that happiness is somewhere in their future. Freedom. The part of him that feels so lost, so out of place, steels itself when he thinks of those two little boys, of the woman he saw lighting a candle in the window the night of the barricade. His friends would want him to continue the fight, he's certain of it.

"Their mother is one of the housemaids in the Beaumont house a little way down the road," Gavroche says.

There is no mention of a father, Enjolras notes, and he wonders what fate befell him. It is not uncommon, certainly for fathers to be absent or deceased.

"Our father died of cholera last year," Julien offers, seemingly reading Enjolras' curious expression.

"Oh," Enjolras replies, still unsure of himself. "I am very sorry to hear that."

"This is En…my cousin Rene," Gavroche says, stumbling for a moment before he remembers the story they've all come up with: that Enjolras is Valjean's son and he Valjean's nephew. The other two children don't notice his brief slip up. "I've been living with his father, my Uncle Valjean, since my parents…passed."

A spark of anger heats up Enjolras' heart when he thinks of Gavroche's parents, when he remembers Bahorel telling him that Gavroche had been kicked out at the age of four, sent to fend for himself on the harsh Parisian streets.

An awkward quiet falls between them for a moment until Gavroche speaks once more, the sing-song tune of his voice indicating that he wants something. Enjolras doesn't know a great deal about children, but he does know that tone.

"Enjolras?" Gavroche asks.

"Yes?" Enjolras answers in the same tone.

"You know how you're teaching me how to read?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, I was wondering…" he trails off, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy, scraping his foot back and forth in the dirt.

"Wondering?" Enjolras asks, raising his eyebrow.

"If you maybe could…" he looks back and forth between Christine and Julien. "Teach Christine and Julien? Their dad taught 'em a little before he died, and their mother only knows the basics and can't teach anymore. So I was wondering if maybe…"

"I could?" Enjolras says, a smile flickering on his lips.

"Yes," Gavroche says, a grin on his face as eagerness blooms on Julien and Christine's faces.

Taking a leaf out of Courfeyrac's book, Enjolras pauses a moment for dramatic effect, watching as the children lean forward ever so slightly, impatient for his response.

"Well I don't suppose that would be too much trouble," Enjolras says, solemn, but unable to keep from smiling.

Quite suddenly Enjolras finds a small pair of arms wrapped around his waist, a small face pressed into his stomach.

"Thank you monsieur!" Christine exclaims, unbridled excitement in her voice. "Thank you!"

Enjolras reaches out a hand and pats her on the head. Then, after a moment, wraps his light around the little girl and returning her embrace.

"You are most welcome," Enjolras replies, suddenly overcome with a swell of emotion as he hears Julien and Gavroche give their thanks as well. He recalls an early conversation with Combeferre during his first months in Paris, remembers the words so clearly.

Your dedication to the larger picture is admirable Enjolras, and necessary. You look out for the People with wonderful passion and persistence. But you must also consider the people in what I might call the lowercase.

The lowercase?

Yes. There are the People in the wider way, all of them together. But then there are people with a lowercase p. The individuals who are each a part of the uppercase P. The pieces of the larger puzzle, the separate stiches in the blanket. Both are important, the upper and the lowercase. A balance, if you will.

Enjolras had taken those words to heart, and though he always did lean toward the larger picture, he started noticing individuals, considered their lives and their stories, vowing to fight for each and every one, and as these three children stand before him, tossed away by a society who does not consider their rights, their education, or their happiness, he becomes even more determined to teach them to read, to give them that opportunity which will open doors for a better life.

Yes, he is injured, yes his is a fugitive, yes he is grieving and a bit lost, his life forever changed, but he feels his purpose, bright, hot, and familiar, burn inside him again. Perhaps he is not building barricades or attending secret meetings in Paris, but this he can do, these children he can help. Maybe one day there will be pamphlets again, there will be even more, but for now he will focus on this and them, on changing what to the world may seem small, but to these children is the world, the ability to read and educate themselves. He thinks of Feuilly, and smiles wider.

"Gavroche," he says. "It is a nice day out. Perhaps you could go inside and fetch our materials?"

"We're starting right now?" Gavroche asks, an enthusiastic light shining in his eyes.

"Why not?" Enjolras answers. "I am always in favor of action in the present."

Gavroche nods so hard he nearly falls over, beckoning Julien and Christine inside with him as he goes to retrieve the books, the sunlight glinting off their retreating backs.

Enjolras' heart lifts in time to their steps, and suddenly his mostly house-bound state does not feel so static.

It's Courfeyrac who convinces Valjean to allow Enjolras outside the grounds of the house and into Avignon for the first time since the wedding three weeks ago.

"We will tuck that blonde hair glowing with the light of revolution under a hat," Courfeyrac says with a wink at Enjolras releases a sigh, rolling his eyes fondly. "That alone will disguise him."

"It has been over two months since the posters were about and his picture in the paper," Combeferre says. "The rebellion may still be on people's minds, but faces fade quickly."

"I shall be careful," Enjolras says, feeling slightly as if he is eight once again and asking his father if he might gallop for the first time on his new horse. "I shall do exactly as you instruct."

"Please, Papa?" Cosette asks, no doubt in the voice she might have used as a girl to convince her father outside of his usual realms of safety.

Valjean sighs, glancing around at all of them, who look back at him expectantly.

"All right," he says after a solid thirty seconds. "But if I sense any danger, any sign..."

"We will listen," Feuilly promises, glancing over at Enjolras and Courfeyrac in particular with a knowing look. Noticing this, they both nod.

"Without an argument, without a sound," Valjean presses, serious. "This is an area in which I am afraid I must call myself an expert."

They agree once more, and so, just over two hours later find themselves in the city center of Avignon, and Enjolras enjoys the feel of the this freedom at his heels, the sunshine on his back, pleased despite the slight overheating he endures due to the coat Valjean insisted he wear. He reminds himself that Valjean is wise in these matters, that if should like to remain outside of jail or the executioner's block, he must listen. It's a warm day, and Enjolras and Combeferre head the group, walking companionably side by side, until Enjolras draws to a halt, eyes fixed on some point ahead. On a figure in the distance.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre questions, squinting into the distance vainly, his eyes, weak as they are despite spectacles, will never rival Enjolras' unimpaired vision.

"I…" Enjolras begins, hoping they can avoid what he sees but somehow doubting it. "Let's…let's walk this way around?" he says, trying to remain casual. He is not sure if what he sees presents danger or not, but memories plague him as sure as the ones from the barricade, bright, colorful, alive, his leg aching with remembrance.

Combeferre shrugs, clearly happy to walk whichever way Enjolras prefers and scans the distance again, still not quite seeing what Enjolras does. It is only when his eyes drop, giving up, that they set upon a figure huddled in the mouth of an alleyway quite close to them. But the figure is not as any of them have seen him before: tall, regal, proud. His clothes are torn and dirty, his long hair unwashed, his skin grey with exhaustion. This is a man whose shattered mind, his broken code, shows in his physical form, on his confused, lost expression. For a moment, Enjolras feels a pang of empathy for a man who has lost his way so thoroughly. Different though their codes may be, and despite the fact that Enjolras is almost always willingly to broaden his view, he knows what it is to be lost.

The biggest difference remains that Enjolras kept a hold, even if it had only been with the tips of his fingers, slowly but surely grabbing a firmer hold after the events of the barricade. He also had people to hold on to, he reminds himself, and without them he might surely be dead. If not for them, he would absolutely be in prison.

The strange empathy for a man who was so cruel to him remains, but after a few moments it is overtaken as the trauma of what he experienced takes root. His friends' shouts of protests as he was arrested, the overdose of Laudanum, Isabelle bleeding out all over him, death in her eyes, hands pressing him down to the floor, forcing his mouth open, the knife to his neck…

Why is here? Why has he returned?

His fears come to light as Combeferre steps forward, such a fury as Enjolras has never seen before etched into the usually kind, warm features, alerting the others to the man's presence as several sets of eyes move to fix on him.

Yes, they recognize the figure before them, the figure sending a chill through their bones and over their hearts. There is no sign of his Inspector's badge, no purpose to his firm step. There is only a glint of desperation, a question, and an odd sort of fear. Whether or not there is danger remains to be seen.

Javert.