A/N And so we continue. I will just shout out to all of you lovely people who have helped me hit 150 reviews. I truly am ecstatic and cannot thank you enough.
There is a little crudity and swearing later, but the situation warranted it.
Now though, your questions will begin to be answered as well some new ones being raised.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Eh, you get the idea.
Chapter Thirty-eight
It was dark; dark and warm and comfortable. Somewhere in her peripheral vision a tiny pinprick of light wavered and flickered, blurring and sharpening as Aimee tried to stop her vision swimming. She blinked again and again, taking a deep breath to calm the sudden nausea that threatened to overtake her as she remerged into consciousness. Slowly, gradually, the world around her began to stabilize and she was able to take stock of her location.
The candle sat in an ornate holder, it's bright clean flame denoting its expense. A low fire smouldered in the grate across the room, the heat rolling off the glowing coals making the room stiflingly hot. Above her head drooped a luxurious fabric canopy the colour of claret, the deep red complementing the dark wood of the bedframe well.
A dull ache of dread began to grow in the pit of her stomach as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, wide, fear-filled eyes trying to make sense of her surroundings. Her mind was jumbled and foggy; nothing made sense. She sat up further and felt a small weight tug on her neck, followed by the cold touch of metal. In a dumb gesture of hopeless denial, she reached for the ornament about her collar, suddenly not wanting to remember, not wanting to make sense of it all.
The candle flame glinted off the once reassuring oval of her silver locket as she held it up with trembling fingers and everything was once again clear…
The delightful high of the performance still hummed through her as she battled her way through the crowd of cast and crew that had congregated backstage. Although she had changed into something slightly less cumbersome than her final costume, it was still taking her a frustratingly long time to reach her dressing room.
"Well done!" shrieked one of the chorus girls as she dashed past, pausing briefly to squeeze Aimee in a tight hug.
Several other such accolades were thrown to her as she hurried past and she tried to seem thankful, an act that was becoming increasingly difficult when the only thought in her mind was of her father.
Was he already waiting for her? What did she say to him after this time? Would she even recognize him?
Finally free of the constricting mass she rushed down the corridor, jerking to a halt when she saw a thin strip of light beaming out from under her dressing room door. She had left no lights burning. A shudder of nervousness scurried through her; she straightened her skirts unnecessarily and tucked a few loose hairs behind her ears with trembling hands.
The handle bent smoothly under her touch, the door swinging inwards with a slight creaking of its hinges. Abruptly, the door was pulled from her grasp from the other side and pulled open swiftly. With a silent gasp Aimee stumbled forwards, her anticipation making her legs unsteady. From behind the door of the tiny room a figure emerged, moving out of the way to create space to pull the door open wider. He was whip-thin and tall, with sharply handsome features and a definite aura of menace about him.
"Good evening, my dear." The voice, which came from across the room, was pleasant and well-modulated and sounded somewhat familiar.
Her eyes snapped away from the silent stranger towards the speaker, a desperate hope rising that maybe, just maybe, it was her father. She was sadly disappointed if she was expecting some flash of recognition, for the man who was reclined lazily on the room's only chair inspired no such feeling in her. Her confusion must have been writ clearly on her features for he gave a light chuckle and sat upwards, crossing one elegantly booted foot across the other.
"You seem surprised to see me, Mademoiselle Lyon. As your patron I was expecting a little more gratitude for the opportunity just given unto you."
It took her a moment or two to process his words through the crushing disappointment she felt, but she soon plastered a smile onto her face, understanding that this man was the key reason she had emerged as the star of the show.
"Forgive my rudeness, sir," she apologized, attempting to move away from the man by the door for his proximity unsettled her. "I was expecting…someone else."
"Oh?" His grey eyes register polite surprise, tinged with a micheif that made her feel strangely…trapped. "I thought your sweetheart was away on business?"
"How did you…?" she began to ask, nerves making her defensive, but he waved away her query before she could finish.
"I know everything about everyone in this theatre. What kind of a patron would I be if it were otherwise?" He gave an easy gesture of command and the man by the door lifted something from behind him; a silver bucket filled with ice and holding a large bottle of champagne.
The patron produced two glasses from somewhere and gestured for his servant to pour. "I thought it best that we celebrate your triumph in proper style," he explained, passing her a flute of the delicate, fizzing liquid.
"Thank you," she murmured, at that moment wanting nothing more than to get out of the room and find a quiet corner in which to cry. Her father had not come, despite the promises held in his letter.
"You appear to be in very low spirits for one who has just performed the closing night of a popular show to a sell-out audience," he observed, catching a bead of condensation that was running down his glass.
She smiled and took a brief sip of the champagne before replying. "I am merely tired, monsieur. The excitement of the show has exhausted me."
"Well then," he said, placing his glass down and gesturing again for his servant, "I shall not keep you long." He now held a neatly wrapped cream box, tied with a pleasingly curled red ribbon. "Here is a small gift for you, as congratulations of becoming this theatre's new first lady of the stage, the prima donna of the Theatre de la Reine."
Aimee stared at him uncomprehendingly. "You're…you're making me the new prima donna?" she sputtered, her head reeling slightly. "But…" she trailed off, not a single word coming to her mind. Soothing her dry throat she took another, larger, drink of the champagne.
He simply smiled and began to unwrap the box himself, drawing the ribbon slowly, leisurely out of its bow. "You shouldn't be so shocked," he said, allowing the ribbon drop to the floor in a vermillion tangle. "A beautiful, talented woman such as yourself was always bound to achieve such greatness."
His silken tone flowed over Aimee like water, the soft syllables curling into her ears. She felt dizzy and light-headed, as if she were drunk. She peered suspiciously at her glass to find it only half empty.
Watching her with a chilling smile he eased the lid off the box and laid it aside, tissue paper still concealing the contents. "I have been looking for someone such as you for quite some time," he continued, peeling the covering aside. As the object came into view Aimee stomach roiled in horror and through her drugged haze she stared at him, terrified.
"I said I would find you," he crooned, "and I did." He lifted her silver locket out of the box, the same silver locket that had been stolen from her apartment, and held it up by the chain. It swung back and forth, the light glinting off the burnished silver, a hypnotic movement that her eyes were forced to follow.
He smiled again, a cold sharp smile, and leaned in closer to her. She tried to back away, but her legs felt unsteady. Her vision swam. The hammering of her heart made her gasp shallowly as she began to make the connections, faster and faster until tears ran involuntarily down her cheeks and her knees shook.
"It was you," she whimpered, stumbling backwards only to find herself caught by the solid menace that was his bodyguard.
"Yes," he smirked, rising with the dangerous grace of a jungle cat, his grey eyes alight with triumph, eyes that she had last seen hidden behind a mask as the music of the ball rose and fell. "It was I. Now," he eased the glass flute from her quaking fingers, "drink up. Ether is such a volatile drug I want you to be well dosed up before we leave."
She helplessly tried to twist her head aside, but the bodyguard held her head in an iron grip as The Patron forced the sparkling poisoned liquid down her throat. Her vision swam and a feeling of extreme drunkenness draped itself over her and she staggered alarmingly as they released her.
"Time to go, I think." His voice sounded from a long way off, but she felt clearly the unpleasant sensation of his arm snaking around her waist. "We do have a very strict schedule to abide by."
A draft of cool air signified the opening of the door and Aimee felt her head loll against his shoulder as she sagged powerlessly against him. She had a vague impression of the dark corridor stretching out ahead of her, and the unpleasant violation as he kissed her fiercely and dominatingly, every movement of his lips an example of his power over her. The noise and light of the street crawled past her heavy eyelids, then the sound of horse's hooves and iron carriage rims accompanied by the soft darkness of expensive upholstery as she was laid on a seat. A desperate cry went out from her heart for someone, anyone to help her, but then her mind became foggier and thoughts became too difficult to form. Then everything slowly advanced into oblivion and all was blank.
Her head still reeling from the effects of the ether, Aimee gasped silently, a feeling of pure panic overwhelming her. The past had caught up. The darkness had overtaken her. She was alone; helpless and vulnerable. And so she prayed the prayer of the fearful and desperate.
"Save me."
The small room was filled with the disjointed clamour of many voices as each man present tried to find the answers to each of their own questions. In a warehouse hidden in the back edge of the docks, Le Faucon's men mingled with the Les Amis, all of them demanding details from the hapless few who had actually witnessed the arrest of their leader.
"Quiet!" Enjolras roared, leaping to his feet as the noise reached an unbearable level. He felt as if his skull was splitting in two as he tried to keep his anger in check, the slow, hard burn seeming to be the only emotion he could now conjure from the depths of his paralyzed heart.
Giles copied the movement, giving himself extra height by standing on a chair. "Shut the hell up, the lot of you!" he yelled, his voice edged with fury. "Get a goddamn grip and sit down!"
Some still grumbling audibly, the room settled somewhat, all eyes now fixed on Courfeyrac and Bahorel. Courfeyrac still appeared a little pale and shaken; Bahorel was sporting a deep violet bruise across his cheekbone and a dark swelling that spoke of a recently reset broken nose.
Seemingly satisfied, Giles stepped down from the chair and gave Enjolras a subtle permission to take charge once again. Enjolras nodded stiffly back, his face tight and expression cold.
"Despite the large set-back this event has caused us, we must ensure that we remain calm and focused," he ordered, ignoring the concerned frown that he was certain Combeferre was giving him. "Now," he turned to face his two friends, very aware of the unfamiliar eyes following his every move, "comrades, could you disclose the sequence of events to us that led to Le Faucon's capture. Be swift and thorough so that we may begin to plan his escape as soon as we can. Time is of the essence here, with our greatest goal looming close." He seated himself, every movement swift and impersonal. "Begin, if you will."
"There is very little to tell in all honesty," Bahorel said, wincing a little as he seated himself on the edge of a table. "We arrived at the gate that had been arranged, the gate where all of the guards had supposedly been paid off to turn a blind eye. It was quiet, in fact we were the only thing coming in, and it looked like a clean run in."
"But someone must have been tipped off or different guards had been set on duty because we were stopped," Courfeyrac continued. "They moved to search the cart with weapons in and the driver panicked. He tried to run, which of course caught the suspicions of the guards and in a few seconds it had descended into a full fight."
"How was Le Faucon captured and you were not?" called an accusing voice from the back of the room.
"I said enough, Belmont!" Giles snarled, his body language indicating he was mere moments away from searching out the heckler's location and beating some quiet into him.
"He threw himself into the middle of the fight," Courfeyrac said, a quiet note of respect twisting through his words. "Started shouting about who he was and causing as much distraction and damage as possible."
"The driver must have found his honour again from somewhere because he ran back to the cart and charged it through the guards, which gave us enough time to break free," Bahorel said, picking up the narrative again. "We thought we had a chance of getting away, but then the driver was taken out – shot through the head – and we then realized that Le Faucon hadn't followed us."
"So you turned tail and ran?" sneered a scornful voice.
Giles did not bother to reprimand the speaker verbally, instead leaping down into the group and dealing out a swift beat-down accompanied by some…firm warnings. "Use your brain, man," he hissed as he returned to the front. "How would them getting captured further the plans at all? There was no way for the weapons to be salvaged and Rene was captured. It would have been more stupid to turn back, into enemy fire I might add, to go on a suicide rescue. We've broken people out of prison before and we can damn well do it again!"
A roar of approval met his words, the small group being in a capricious mood with the instability of the moment.
"And to that end," Giles continued, confident and firm despite his dislike of being the centre of attention, "we must begin to gather resources and information for the plan to be realized. The loss of the weapons is regrettable but not disastrous. Also, Rene left procedures to be followed in the event of his capture…or death, plans we must now follow to the letter if we have any chance of releasing our comrade and winning this war."
Enjolras stood in a shrewd show of solidarity. "Let each man go to his task with no doubt in his heart," he said gravely. "Let the plans be set into motion, comrades, and let this battle begin."
His grave demeanour appeared to influence the group for there were no raucous cheers; only determined mutterings as the room swiftly emptied of both Le Faucon's men and several of the Amis until only Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel remained.
"I shall be in contact shortly," Giles informed the quartet from the doorway as he left. "There is no need to fear for the cause; Rene set his plans too well for anything to go amiss."
"And yet he was captured," Combeferre said deliberately. "Was that factored into his plans?" It was a point of which no mention was ever made; all knew that Combeferre had his doubts about the older rebel.
Giles gave no answer but a hard, hostile stare, and then closed the door silently behind him, his mistrust evident in every movement.
"Was such a comment quite necessary, Combeferre?" Enjolras reprimanded sharply, gathering his jacket and bag towards him.
His oldest friend, surprised at the tone used against him, blinked owlishly for a moment behind his spectacles. "Why are you so…unlike yourself?" he asked, curiosity and worry finally getting the better of him. Since the moment Enjolras had stepped through the door Combeferre had noticed a marked difference in him, a sudden emotional apathy and blankness that he had never seen before. Even at the height of his zealotry in years gone by, when his whispered nickname of 'the Marble Man' was more than appropriate, Enjolras had never been this…closed off.
"In case you were not aware," Enjolras drawled, "we are preparing to rebel against our government whilst also simultaneously attempting to break a man out of prison. Forgive me if I am not filled with light-hearted mirth and unfettered joy."
"Enough of this, Enjolras, please!" Courfeyrac cut in, exasperation colouring his voice. "You have not been yourself since the night we got back and there has been neither sight nor sound of Aimee. Call me a fool, but it appears to me that you two have had a…"
"I shall call you a fool," the other man snapped, blue eyes cold and distant, "and I shall also warn you to cease meddling in my affairs."
"You are not the only one involved in this 'affair', Enjolras," came the heated reply. Worry and anger fought for prominence on Courfeyrac's face as he moved determinedly across the room. "Aimee may be your lover, but she is my friend and, if you recall, I take good care of those I keep as my friends. I am worried about her, Julien," he entreated, "especially as you have not uttered a word about what happened at the theatre."
"Were you just her friend?" Enjolras sneered, a furious coldness in his eyes that sent a shiver of dread down Combeferre's spine. The bitter-faced man standing before him was not the man he knew and respected; this man was not Enjolras.
At Enjolras' odd jibe, Courfeyrac bridled for a brief moment, until the insinuation dawned on him and he gave Enjolras a hard look.
"All you do by spewing such vicious words is to call the honour of the woman you love into question," he cautioned calmly.
"But that is exactly what I'm doing!" Enjolras spat. "Only there is no honour to be called into question, for she has none!"
"How dare you slur her so!" Courfeyrac snarled, taking a step forwards, but then Combeferre and Bahorel were there, stepping between the two warring friends and attempting to make some sense out of the ludicrous situation.
"Where has this sudden poison come from?" Combeferre asked, incredulous. "How can you say such things about a woman we all love and admire?"
"There is nothing to admire about a faithless social climber," Enjolras scoffed, trying to step away but Bahorel stepped in front of him, dark eyes hard with anger.
"You are my friend and my comrade," he said in a low voice, "but if you do not explain these hideous lies I swear to the Father that I will punch you in the face."
Face warping in a chilling snarl Enjolras twisted to the side, only for Bahorel to firmly grasp his shoulders and none too gently push him backwards, causing him to stumbling briefly before finding his footing on the smooth boards.
"You want an explanation?" he growled, the remembered pain further cracking his hardened heart, the blackness seeping further and further within. "She used us, she lied to us, and now she has moved on to bigger and better paid things." He snatched up his bag and attempted to push away once more, only to be blocked again. "She was nothing but a liar," he snarled, "a liar who grasped that her ambitions could be realized much faster simply by uncrossing her legs for the right people."
Combeferre and Bahorel stood motionless, aghast at the hate in their friend's voice, while Courfeyrac was forced into action.
"How can you say such things about her?" he demanded, confusion and anger pushing him forwards. "She adored you, trusted you, loved you! How can you cast her off so quickly?"
"It is she who has cast me off!" Enjolras roared, whirling around in a blind fury. "It is she who has draped herself in the bed of the theatre patron to secure the leading part! We all meant nothing to her! Nothing! We were just a boarding house to her, a group of decent fools to toy with until she found something better." His pain was hidden by anger; soul-shattering grief shielded by distain. "She made me fall! I became the very thing I despise; a lovesick fop chasing after the first whore to flash me a smile and an inch of leg…"
His words were cut short as Courfeyrac leapt at him with a bellow. The two of them crashed down amongst the tables, Courfeyrac pummelling downwards at Enjolras' head and shoulders.
"How can you betray her like this?" he howled. "You didn't deserve her, you soulless bastard!"
They rolled on the floor to the sounds of snarls and huffed curses, crashing into chair legs and tables, a maelstrom of unbridled antagonism.
"There are things of more importance to be considered right now," Enjolras gasped, gaining the upper hand for a brief moment. "She was a distraction from my true purpose."
With an angered grunt Courfeyrac forced himself to push back, pinning Enjolras' light, lean body beneath his weightier bulk.
"I loved her," he half-sobbed, his face close to the other man's ear. "I loved her like I've never loved anyone before, but I let her go because I saw how happy she was with you. I saw how perfect you were for each other." No longer fuelled by rage he staggered to his feet, supported by a stony-faced Bahorel. "So for you to be so…so faithless to her infuriates me in ways I cannot begin to verbalize."
He shook off the hands resting on his shoulder and began to back away, staring down at the man who had once been his close friend with something bordering on revulsion. "I will fight in this war, monsieur," he announced coldly, "but I will not do so alongside men like you."
Enjolras struggled to a sitting position, holding his bruised side gingerly. "If you so wish," he replied stiffly, clambering to his feet with only Combeferre's assistance. Bahorel stood by, his usually open face shuttered as he watched the two friends tear themselves apart.
Shaking his head in disgust, Courfeyrac left and Enjolras felt, through all of the pain and the fear and the sadness, a dull ache in his chest that was not from his bruises; it was the feeling of a friend being lost.
At the shrine of friendship never say die….
"I'm sorry, Enjolras." It was Bahorel, pugnacious, loyal Bahorel, who now spoke. "You are no longer the man I admired," he said, his words heavy with regret. "In fact, to a greater degree, I am ashamed of you." He raised a warning hand as Enjolras made to speak. "You have condemned Aimee without ever checking the facts; the man I knew would never act in a such a way." The hand lowered and he shook his head. "I will play my part in this battle we have begun, but I can call upon you as a brother no more." Without another word he too left, pulling another shard of Enjolras' heart out as he did so.
Let the wine of friendship never run dry…
Combeferre cleared his throat uneasily and Enjolras looked over at him, feeling empty of all emotion. "Will you abandon me also, brother?" he asked, the pain of yet more betrayal twisting his silent plea for compassion into an ugly accusation.
"No." The word was spoken quietly, but Enjolras heard it, the single syllable giving him a shred of hope to latch onto.
"No, I will not leave you, my friend," Combeferre promised wearily, "but Bahorel is right. You are not the man you were; the good man, the noble man who loved so deeply. I only hope…" Here he paused to sigh and Enjolras saw suddenly how aged his friend appeared, lines marring places that should not yet carry such weight. "I only hope that when all of this is over, we can try to discover what has truly happened here."
"There is much to be done before then." Enjolras rolled his shoulders to ascertain the damage received and was pleased to discover only a dull ache. "And maybe this is for the best," he murmured, almost to himself. "After all, men like me do not get the happily ever after."
A/N Just a quick note: the drug used on Aimee, ether, has the same effects as alcohol, but affects the drinker very quickly and only takes a tiny amount to intoxicate.
Hope you enjoyed this soul-destroying chapter. Please leave a review!
Until next time, mes amis,
Libz xxx