A/N: Thanks again to Valiya for brushing and dusting until this here shines. Likewise thanks to judybear236 for comments

I hope there are still some people out there enjoying this...

Thanks to all who put me to their favourites or followed lists, and to those who reviewed or discussed with me via PM. I really appreciate it :-)

So, here's the next chapter. I hope you still like it. As always, I'm grateful for comments!

Chapter 19: Dew on rustling leaves

"We are all slaves to our histories. If there is to be a .. bright future, we must learn to break those chains."

In the end, he would not be swayed. As much as Cosette pleaded and asked, Jean Valjean was adamant about leaving the house he no longer considered a safe haven for his daughter. There were no words she could speak, no pleas she could utter that would change his mind.

It had not been all too surprising to her. Her father was a strong man, powerful in his emotions and convictions. He was as contradictory as sea and sky, calm, loving, tender, secretive, brooding and utterly unswayable once his mind had formed. Cosette knew that he listened to her; that sometimes her words were able to sway that unwavering mind of his if she uttered them carefully and lovingly and then left him to think on it for a while. But even this technique had failed to show effect this time.

It was all the better that she had taken such precaution as she could.

After having spoken to him, she had returned to her room. Not to sleep as her father had commanded her to, but to pen down a note to Marius, a small letter only that she agonized over for a long time. For what could she tell him? What could she say?

In the end, she settled for simple words. Simple, but true and clear, and gave her new whereabouts to him along with her love.

She slipped out of the house quietly before Touissant got up, treading through the early morning garden on bare feet as the dew kissed her toes in the pale light. The birds sang around her and covered the sound of steps she was making.

She placed the letter into the intrinsic iron weavings of the fence at the side of the gate, beneath a few curious branches of ivy. It was hidden well enough not to be spotted directly, but still possible to be made out if searched for.

It was all she could do.

And so they left their lodgings in Rue Plumet and turned towards a different place, one that Cosette had heard her father talk about a few times, but had never visited. Anxiously, she watched the busy streets of Paris rush by in the afternoon light, the activity of all those outside the fiacre nothing but a blur before her eyes.

Her father was sitting at her side, nervously fiddling with his cane as he was lost in thoughts of his own.

It felt familiar of sorts.

Cosette frowned.

The thought there was unbidden, coming out of nowhere as these thoughts would. But now that it was there, she could feel it like a thorn, burying itself into her flesh and meaning to stay.

She blinked as the scenery before her shifted and changed; streets turned into squares and streets again, houses and shops passed by. Cosette tried to determine why she somehow felt that she had done this before, that this was not the first time she was leaving a home in a hurry.

Come up here, Cosette, quickly…

A flash of an image – a wall, a rope in the deep of the night. The figure of her father standing on the wall, bowing down to her as he urged her to grasp the rope and follow him, his arm reaching down to her as her heart pounded violently.

The thought was gone like water running through her fingers. The flash of intuition that had brought it about was gone, and Cosette was again staring at sunlit Paris streets. A vague feeling of dread, of darkness remained though.

What happened?

She carefully placed her hand against the upholstery of the carriage, as if the reality of plush and cloth would bring her thoughts back to the here and now. After a few moments, her heartbeat slowed again and she was left to breathe more freely.

The wall must have been Picpus, she realized after a few moments' thought, harmonizing the vague memory with clearer remembrances of her own. It was the convent where she had spent her youth while her father had tended to the grounds and gardens with his brother…

Again, Cosette hesitated, frowning.

Not his brother. Not her uncle. She had never questioned it, had accepted it as reality. It was an oddity that only now that she twisted and turned it between her thoughts and suddenly seemed disquieting.

Monsieur Fauchelevent had been one of the guardians of her early years. He had been her uncle to the world, and in some manner, to her also. Deep down however, she had always known this to be untrue, had always known that this was only a part of the story for the world to see.

You will say nothing of it. Never ever, Cosette, do you understand? Don't breathe a word, don't breathe a sound. You are not to tell, remember?

She flinched at the memory of another night, just as terrible, just as implacable. Her father's eyes mercilessly placed upon her as he had almost frightened her in his intensity. He had not yelled at her, but whispered; screamed whispering, if there was even such a thing. She remembered the terror, not at him, but at the situation itself, and at what she had seen in his eyes. Knowing him now, as she had not known him then, she realized that he had almost been scared out of his wits.

Slowly, she turned her head to watch her father. There were remnants of that same expression in his eyes now. It was well hidden and deep, but present to the careful observing eyes of a daughter.

He turned abruptly as he noticed her watching him and the expression was gone in a second, replaced by a scowl that nonetheless attempted friendliness.

"Cosette?"

For a moment, she did not know what to say. Should she ask him about what she thought she had remembered? But then again, she was not even sure if it was a memory, or a dream, or even a memory of a dream. And if she asked him, would he answer truthfully?

Her father was a man shrouded in secrets, and he kept them very well. There must have been reasons for it; if the flashes of intuition that she had received really were any representation of what truly happened, she could believe that the reasons were grave. But still, recently she had felt that she should be privy to some more information about who and what they actually were.

Maybe it was Marius that had brought this about. Looking at his dear face – even simply remembering it – had been like a window into another world. A world she longed to see and experience, a world where there was laughter to be had and dreams to be shared. Without even saying a word, he had opened up a door that Cosette had not even known to exist. He had said little of it when he visited her, when all of their words were dedicated to this strange, new bond. But Cosette had seen him in the Jardin du Luxembourg and about town, had watched his dealings with his friends as they handed out leaflets as well as dreams.

She had never considered that things might really be possible to change. Of course, like every other child, she had not been able to fully escape the dealings of two years before. But of course her father had been hiding during what they now called the three glorious days, and as far as she was concerned, not much had changed with that changing of the tide.

The rich were still the rich. The poor were still the poor.

And Cosette and her father lived in their own, private idyll taken out of time.

Marius had burst into this world, bringing with him all that they had tried to shut out. No wonder her father was not happy about it.

Cosette forced a smile onto her lips and averted her eyes.

"It's nothing, Papa," she finally said, after too long a break which made him frown.

"Cosette, my dear," he began, and took to placing one hand under her chin to lift her head, so that he might look into her eyes and discern her mood. "I am sorry for dragging you out like this. I hope you know that." She nodded meekly, and tried to bite back tears that came with the look of concern on his face. "Of course I do, Papa…" she managed to say. She wondered if this was a moment to confide in him, to try and finally understand what it was that he was so desperately hiding.

But there were remnants of darkness in his eyes that were not dispelled so easily.

Maybe next time…

He seemed satisfied with her answer and released her chin, turning his gaze back to the hustle outside his window.

Cosette, doing the same, could not help wishing that Marius would find her letter soon.

Finally, she decided to go.

Throughout the afternoon, Éponine had roamed the city of Paris, on the lookout for various items that might come in handy when her plans for her father and the rest of his gang would see realization. She had taken what little money she kept for emergencies, stored behind a loose brick in the wall of the shabby tanner's shop a few houses down from the Gourbeau tenement, but she had not spent any of it yet.

Having seen the inside of La Force by now, as well as the cell that her accomplices had been placed in, she had, together with Gavroche, devised a plan that should allow them to help them to safety. Given a bit of luck and proper planning, it would hopefully see success.

The cell itself had been equipped with a window that might be just large enough to bring them through, one by one, given the possibility that they were able to remove the bars. From there on, one might proceed to the roof of the prison, and then, further on around the courtyards towards the New Building of the prison. Fortunately, it had had its roof refurnished and was therefore – by way of ladders and passages – not as shut off from the outside world as usual.

The fine details of the plan were still to be fleshed out, but Éponine had understood clearly that it was imperative to bring at least two items into the prison the next time she went there to visit: a rope and a rasp.

Smuggling that into the prison of course would prove a difficulty in itself, and so the afternoon had been spent by planning, scouting and investigating. All without any real purchase yet to be done.

It was no matter. She could spare another day – a coup like this was to be well planned.

Having run about town all afternoon had conveniently put off the decision of whether she would go to the Café Musain in the evening or not. In spite of this, the early evening found her sitting a few streets away on a barrel with still no clear path on what she was going to do.

She watched the sun, as it disappeared behind the tenements around her, a first sunset happening before the real one did. It made her feel uneasy, as if she was counting the minutes until it was too late.

And that thought was what made her pause.

If Éponine was being honest with herself, she wanted to go. Of course, she had seen the assemblies that they were holding; the public ones, at least, as well as those outside of their familiar haunts: Markets, squares, street corners…

She had initially been there for the sake of Marius. But somehow, gradually, this had slightly shifted during the last day without her truly noticing. She had helped them and received help in return. She had, of all things, been talked and listened to, and had seen her opinions floating around in the words of the students who, by standing and education, should have better things to do than listen to the wonderings of a gamine.

Yet, it had been an unusual experience, one that deep down, she would like to repeat.

Also, she had not forgotten the fervor with which Enjolras spoke of what he was doing. There was an earnestness to him that reminded her of a priest, an absolute faith and conviction that was utterly strange, but a wonder to behold. Éponine was skeptical at the sense and outcome of what Marius and his friends were planning. However, their earnest dreams were not fully dispelled by her pessimism. A part of her was angry for letting herself be fooled again by yet another set of pretty words, but another part had felt comfortable, for a few moments' time, and that was a rare gift.

All things considered, she truly wanted to follow the invitation uttered, even if it was only to see what would happen.

And Éponine had gone very long without doing what she wanted to. Maybe it was time to change that as well.

When she arrived at the Café, an hour before sundown maybe, the main room was already relatively full despite the hour.

The room was candlelit; the sun had vanished behind the towering tenements and the warm golden glow mingled with the remaining daylight, giving an impression of a world in-between. And a world in-between it was, of sorts, the café humming with anticipation of the things to come.

Éponine took a look around at the young faces around her. Some of them were deep in discussion, others obviously just biding their time, a drink in front of them, exchanging few words as they watched the proceedings around them.

Apparently, the friends of Marius had been at least partly successful in their plan of contacting their friends about the city.

Éponine wondered if she should continue to the back room that was accessible through a door on the right side of the café. She had been forbidden to go there up to now, and had usually sent Louison in when she was looking for Marius, but that was supposed to have changed with the invitation that Enjolras had uttered yesterday. She had half a mind to try it, just to see if he had been true to his word.

However, as she turned to the right, she found him sitting in the main room of the café instead, alone at a smaller table that was pushed to the right wall of the café where he had a good overview on who would enter the place. The table in front of him was littered with papers – notes, two books and an edition of le Globe of a few days back – but he was not looking at it. Keen eyes surveyed the room, his cool, blue gaze sweeping over those present until it came to rest on her surprisingly, and he cocked his head slightly in what might have been a greeting.

"Éponine?"

It did not sound unkind, a bit offhanded perhaps, but his eyes stopped their restless wandering over those assembled for a moment.

She nodded in greeting.

"Monsieur."

That elicited a small frown from him, and he pulled out one of the chairs of the table he was sitting by with an inviting gesture that surprised her profoundly.

"Will you sit with me for a moment, since we're both here early?" he offered calmly, his eyes going back to scanning the room, the frown still present on his face. There was no real reason to deny the request – the room was full of unfamiliar people otherwise, and sitting with someone she knew was definitely better than haunting the shadows alone. Thus she complied, taking a seat at his side.

"It does not seem just, does it?" he asked without turning towards her. His posture was relaxed, but his fingers, toying absentmindedly with a corner of one of the papers lying in front of him, betrayed noticeable anxiousness. Éponine frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"The address," he gave back neutrally, but still she was not sure she understood what he was implying.

"Monsieur?" she therefore reiterated. She did not want to repeat her question from before, but she hoped that this choice of word would confirm or contradict her suspicion of what he was implying.

"And again she does it." He sounded slightly annoyed, turning his head towards her now, but his face was unreadable in the flickering candlelight.

He seemed warmer here, in this golden glow. His eyes seemed less cold as he regarded her now, and the blond hair was slightly darker, softer in its color, the lines in his face less clear and severe.

Candlelight was a gentle thing.

"Mademoiselle," he continued, putting an emphasis on this address. "I thought I had made myself clear enough before, but apparently this is not so. Events – and your own courage – have swept you into our middle, have they not? And by your own inclination you have come back to this circle." He raised a brow. "To my slight, yet pleased surprise I might add, but that is beside the point."

Yet, it gave Éponine pause. That was certainly an unexpected statement coming from him. The offhanded nature of the remark did not diminish its worth. Éponine was certainly, definitely not used to being welcome anywhere, but hearing it reiterated again and again made her start to believe she might be welcome here in the café, in this circle. And for more than just her imminent usefulness. It was a heady thought.

Yet, Enjolras continued, unfazed and unaware.

"This would indicate that you at the very least consider doing what I offered you a few hours ago. Join forces with us. Take your chance to shine."

There was a question in his eyes, if not in his words, and Éponine was slightly at loss what to say. Of course this had been what was wavering through the room, and of course this was the decision pending.

But was she, for the sake of companionship and an elusive feeling of belonging, for the sake of a purpose even that she could barely name, willing to give up her cover and step at the students' side? Was she really willing to – as she had said to Marius some time ago – plot to overthrow the state? Would she even want it?

Snippets of her conversation with Gavroche came back to her; her callous words about the chances of success and the merit of the revolution the students were obviously planning. But this had been Gavroche. Her brother, who brought out both the best and the worst in her, who had run where she had stayed, who was free when she was in fetters, both her own and that of other's making. Her brother, who hoped when she fell too hard.

She could never think clearly when discussing with Gavroche.

Yet it was a valid question to ask if she was thinking clearly when conversing with Enjolras.

How would it be to allow herself to dream, let alone believe?

She hesitated, and Enjolras' brow rose slightly at her silence. It was still questioning, not yet a reprimand, and Éponine realized that an answer was in order.

"…Maybe?" she answered, and he let out a snort, turning away his weapon of a gaze. Éponine felt that this indeed was a reprimand.

"There is no such thing as 'maybe' in this venture, Mademoiselle," he informed her coolly, and the tone in his voice had dropped from spring to winter. Still, Éponine did not cower in the face of adversary.

"Do you really think the people will rise at your call?"

Another snort, and a shake of his head.

"Are you basing your answer on the chances of success?" he asked, and some acid crept into his voice. He could be terrible, Éponine realized with almost a pang of fear, and she had come close enough to be able to make an enemy out of Marius' friend. But then again, she had no inclination of being pushed about by a bourgeois boy, especially not one who was constantly spouting words of égalité.

"That's beside the point," she therefore answered, turning her head towards him and gazing at his profile. She took in the sharp lines of his face, the mouth pressed into a thin line. He considered her answer for a moment.

"Point taken," he then replied, only slightly less cold. He shifted slightly in his seat, taking a few moments before responding to her initial question.

"So yes, Mademoiselle, I do think they will rise."

"Why?"

He considered this for a moment, but in profile, she could see his features relaxing slightly as he formulated an answer, as if lapsing back into familiar ground.

"The simple answer would be that I have been told so by many, and I have seen it come to pass. This city has been boiling with uneasiness and anger for a long time, Mademoiselle. Words and truths can light that spark and have done so on numerous occasions in the past. Little fires – granted, but the day will come, when they unite. But that I suppose, will not satisfy you." He turned to watch her and she gave him a slight shake of her head in confirmation. "Therefore, the more complex one. It is my firm belief that the oppression keeping this land in a death grip cannot be endured forever. I do believe that the uprising two years ago was a dream unfulfilled, a revolution stolen from those that have carried it from the start. It is a large part of the bourgeoisie that has taken the fruits of the work that others have done. Nothing has changed when it comes to the unrest of the abased. If anything, the reign of Louis Phillipe has brought all the deficiencies of this country's status in sharper relief. Therefore, it cannot last."

Éponine shook her head, and was rewarded with a raise of his brow. He seemed to have calmed down, the anger slightly quenched.

"Those are beautiful words, Monsieur," she said. "But there are those who have no time for words. To them, you might still be one of those that…" she considered her words for a moment, but then decided that honesty had started this strange conversation, and honesty should carry it on. "… well...that stole the last revolution from them."

Enjolras shook his head.

"That is ridiculous," he said, "I was and am as furious about this coup two years ago as anyone."

Éponine nodded.

"That may be. For you and for Monsieur Marius, but you don't really look the part, you know? You're bourgeois. To the bone, actually. Why should they believe that this time will be different?"

"Previous failure should not be a reason for not taking the right path, Mademoiselle."

Éponine shrugged.

"Well, that's possible. But…" She almost faltered under the growing intensity of his gaze. He was a force to be reckoned with, and Éponine did not have the fine gift of weaving beautiful words as he had. And so she told him. "… Look Monsieur, I am not a student as you are, and I know nothing about all those beautiful things you talk about. But I know about Saint Michel. A rabble is one thing. It's fun, it's only slightly dangerous. You run with the crowd, and when the Cognes show up, you duck for cover. Strength in numbers, yes, but it's all a game. Nothing earnest. Barricades, a true fight, that's different. The earnest thing, we've had twice. People have tried to change things for the better twice, and twice nothing has changed from where we're sitting. People have died that could still be living; children have lost their fathers because they believed in something that never happened. Everyone's trying to survive somehow. Perhaps people are tired. Rabbles are easy. Revolutions I wouldn't know."

Enjolras considered this for a moment. Éponine would have thought that her words would stir his anger again, but they did not. Instead, he squinted, his blue eyes almost curious.

"Who are we talking about?" he asked.

"Not me," Éponine gave back. "I was just thinking…"

He relieved her of his gaze again, looking at the growing crowd of people in the front room of the Café. The expression on his face was curious, the clear lines softened again. She would have almost thought there was a hint of a smile.

"For not being interested, you have given the matter an impressive amount of thought."

"I never said I was not interested," Éponine contradicted, almost angrily. Now there was a smile; minuscule, but undeniable.

"Ah," was all he said. And even though she was not sure why, Éponine felt caught, and this predictably roused her anger.

"What is 'ah' supposed to mean?" she snapped.

"Mademoiselle," he answered. "What you are talking about is doubt of the means. Doubt of the feasibility. But that is not what I asked when we set out on this conversation. The only question you should ask yourself is if you want to be able to reach a 'yes' or 'no' from 'maybe'. Everything else is just an obstacle to overcome. The means is relative. The goal is absolute."

Éponine considered this for a moment.

"That easy, huh?" It was meant to sound sarcastic, but finally it came out more like a true question.

He turned back to look at her, and this time he was serious, and this time, there nothing more to be said. The gaze that looked for hers held a strange quality, beseeching, and almost warm.

"Yes, Mademoiselle. It's that easy."

She held his gaze and had the feeling of standing at an edge with darkness looming below, caught between standing, waiting in that final and terrifying moment before a jump. He had dispelled none of her doubts. In fact, he had in some manner acknowledged it.

Could she, after all this time, allow herself to dream?

He stretched out his right hand, an offering given, which in turn increased the pressure on her and her thoughts. But maybe, just maybe he was right. He had listened to her, and if anything she believed him; that he took the people for what they did, not what they were. This conversation was proof enough of that. And would it really be so bad? She had moved in and close to their circles for such a long time. How would it be to do something because it was right, and not because it was for Marius, or her father?

Slowly, she returned his gesture, conscious of the movement every step on the way. It might be that she was sealing her doom, but had she not thought herself doomed anyhow? What was there to lose? And what was there to gain?

His hand clasped her arm, strong and firm, the warmth of his fingers effortlessly seeping through the thin blouse she was wearing. Her fingers on his coat sunk into the thick, rich fabric, feeling the arm underneath, its warmth almost completely shielded by the cloth.

He did not smile. But something in his eyes flickered for a moment, in satisfaction, maybe, or even relief.

"I am glad to hear it, Éponine," he fell back to her previous address effortlessly and released her arm in a gentle, calm movement, almost languid and relaxed.

"No more Mademoiselle?" she could not help teasing, since he put such an emphasis on it.

"Well, that was the point of the whole conversation, was it not?" He leaned back and Éponine could see some of the tension leaving his body. "I would not think it very just for you to stick to honorary addresses while you do not accept them yourself."

Éponine frowned at his roundabout way of speech.

"You have made yourself one of us," he explained, "By deed first, and now by word as well. I would suggest you address me as the rest of them do."

That was clearer, but no less frightening. But Éponine had never been one to linger on past deeds. She had made a decision and would see where it led her.

"Enjolras," she tried out his name on her tongue. She had heard it said so often, it came easy to her. He nodded seriously.

"Thank you, Éponine."

For a moment, silence settled between them comfortably, and both of them turned towards the ever growing amount of people that crowded in the Café.

"It seems," Éponine remarked at length, "that you were fairly successful in rallying the troops."

Enjolras nodded.

"Not all of them bourgeois, mind you," he gave back with some attitude, but it did not carry much of a sting. "Students, workers, the whole variety of those that have dedicated themselves to the cause." There was grim satisfaction in his voice as his eyes roamed over those assembled. "We will see how many there are in the end. But after what has happened, I am glad for everyone who comes here today." He took to looking to the books, papers and notes that littered the table before him. "I have not forgotten what you said, Éponine. And it may be that you have raised a valid point that is worth considering. We have discussed it between us, but it may be useful to reiterate. We will have to see what we will do about it in time. I would like to delve into this again with you, Combeferre and possibly Feuilly, when the brawl has lessened. Seeing as you brought the point up, I would value your opinion on it."

Éponine shrugged.

"I am not sure that there is much else I can say," she said.

"You have said a lot," Enjolras retorted, "and some of it from a different angle than I was used to." Again, there was almost a smile on his face as he turned towards her again. "Let me tell you something about this group here that you may or may not be fully aware of. Though, I will probably have to draw on words of those that can formulate these things better than I can in order to express it." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "The strength of the spirit that we carry lies in two roots. One of them is conviction – there can be no revolution, no great deed indeed without conviction underlying it, and a good deed for the wrong reason will forever be tainted. The other however, Éponine, as some of my friends never cease to point out, is diversity. Look around at those assembled, and you will find that strength is more than the sum of our parts, which are indeed as different as could be. Every voice carries a different note to it. Different may be at times, annoying at best, infuriating at the worst, but a fool I would be, would I not draw on this resource as well, as it lies so readily before me." The smile turned slightly rueful. "Or so Courfeyrac tells me," he added with a spark of humor. "Therefore," and now he turned serious again, "I would have you speak your mind, Éponine, as we all do."

She almost smiled at that.

"You may come to regret it," she informed him dryly.

"I would not think so." In contradiction to her humor, he was deadly serious. "It seems I will have to repeat myself when it comes to you. An opinion is an opinion and thus worth to be considered. This is reality here." He gave a quick gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room. "It is one of our hopes that…"

"Éponine!"

She raised her head at the familiar voice, and indeed, it was Marius pushing his way through the crowds. His eyes were sparking at the sight of her as he approached the table she shared with Enjolras.

"You came!" He had always had that easy friendliness that seemed to come to him without effort, extended to everyone that he even held the slightest inclination for. It was addictive.

"I came," she answered, and Marius flicked a quick gaze to Enjolras, who sat next to her unfazed, with the slightest of frowns on his face.

"And you've been monopolizing her." Marius almost sounded accusing, but there was humor in his statement as he shook his head. "I haven't even seen her up until now."

And it was only then that Éponine realized. She had stepped into the Musain, as she had often done so previously, but this had been the first time that she had not immediately looked for him, that her gaze had not found his familiar figure in the crowd with infallible accuracy.

The revelation almost took her breath away, had it not been for the relief that came with it.

Looking into his dear, dear face, she attempted at a shrug.

"Neither did I see you," she answered, and as he gave back a taunt on her being blind and unfocused, she repeated it to herself, just because she could and just because it was true.

I didn't see you, Marius.