A/N: Thanks to you all so much for reading responding and all that jazz...

I hope this chapter lives up to expectations...

Again, comments make my day

Chapter 43: Rubicon

I suppose there'll be a war now, hm? All that running around and shooting one another. You'd think that sooner or later, it would go out of fashion.

Deep, slow breaths.

There was little that was anchoring her now in the realm of frightening chaos, and so she tried to reach for the only source of calm and countenance that was to be had, deep within herself.

The stench of smoke was everywhere, the cobblestones were hard under her knees, and the screams and shouts infiltrated her senses from all sides. She was in hell.

And she took deep, slow breaths trying to calm her racing heartbeat.

Courfeyrac had sat up after a while, cradling his tender shoulder but claiming he was fine otherwise, and Katya was not surprised that he was as restless as her, surveying the rubble before them as if determination alone would unravel the place where their friends had been buried.

All those who were not hurt or otherwise busy were in the remains of the Corinthe, placing step after careful step on difficult footing, moving aside stone and wood in the search for their fallen comrades. Like an army of ants bees would cover a hive they were swarming the collapsed house, and Katya would have given much to be allowed to join them.

Yet, she was condemned to wait here, kneeing next to Courfeyrac on the hard, dusty cobblestones while others looked for those that were still missing.

While others looked for Feuilly.

Deep, slow breaths, she chided herself, and felt resistance of the corset against the intake of air, as if her chest had not been tight enough already by worry and anticipation. But the concentration worked, and her heart rate slowed.

Panic would lead her nowhere. And she refused to acknowledge that their story could end that way.

Courfeyrac was trying what he could to calm her. It was clear that he was shaken himself – they all were – but his humor was not easily quenched, and he was full of dry comments and encouraging words. At times, Katya smiled – more for his benefit – but her heart was not in it.

The girl Éponine, on the other hand, who had joined them temporarily, was now among the others in the ruin. She did not participate in carrying away rubble – Katya suspected that what she wore were her best clothes and she did try not to stain them too much – but she was peeking through holes into the deeper parts of the destroyed house, calling names trying to discern shapes.

Katya would wish to join her, and probably would have, had there not been the watchful eyes of her mother. She had not joined them yet – but might any time – and while a good nine months should have been enough to convince her that she had outgrown her regard for the unsuitable fan maker in favor of much more eligible Barthélemy Courfeyrac, she would not take any risks.

Her – their hard won freedom was too precious to loose.

If she had not lost much more than freedom this day.

A shifting motion inside the surrounding crowd finally captured her attention, and Katya turned around to see what was happening. Courfeyrac copied her motion, and for a moment, she felt him freeze, and then take a deep breath in astonishment.

"Now that's a surprise", he muttered under his breath and tried to get upon his feet without moving his injured and obviously hurting shoulder too much. Katya, ever playing the role of the devoted friend, quickly stepped up to support him and so they both stood to meet who was pushing his way through the crowds.

It was a group of fifteen, workers mostly, by their dress and habitus, and the leader of their group – slightly better dressed than the others, took a step towards Courfeyrac and gave a friendly nod.

The man was rather small, almost a head shorter than Courfeyrac himself but slender and wiry, cutting a striking figure that betrayed the former military man. His brown hair was closely cropped to his head and a well-groomed moustache covered his upper lip.

"Barthélemy Courfeyrac", he greeted. His tone was neutral, betrayed no love for the other man, but rather a grudging acknowledgement and respect. His face betrayed little of his thought.

Courfeyrac mirrored his cautious tone.

"Charles Jeanne", he said. "Now this is a surprise."

Katya searched her memory for more references of the man and found little. Feuilly had mentioned him a few times, but rather cautiously. She dimly remembered that there had been some quarrel with Enjolras, quite some months ago, but did not remember the particulars. He was part of a different crowd than the emigrés were, but in the grand scheme of things he could probably be considered to be on their side.

At least for now.

"And that's the lovely Mademoiselle Kataczyna Woroniecka", Courfeyrac remembered his manners and introduced her to the other man, who gave a stiff bow in response to her careful curtsey.

"Mademoiselle", he greeted, with courtesy, "It is a pleasure, although I rather would wish that the circumstances were different." His gaze strayed to the ruin behind her. "In fact, Courfeyrac, let's not waste time on hollow formality here. We've come to offer help. It seems as if you could do with a few extra hands."

Whatever it was that had happened between Jeanne and the Amis, Courfeyrac pushed it aside in a minute.

"By God, Jeanne, you're heaven sent indeed", he said, relief seeping into his voice with ease. His hand went out to grasp the other man's arm, but he had forgotten the injury, flinched and stopped the movement. "We have God alone knows how many still under that rubble."

Jeanne nodded curtly.

"I thought so." His gaze wandered up and down what was left of the Corinthe, and he gave a small shake of his head in something akin to exasperation. "This is an outrage. You know I always advised for more caution and less exposure, but even I would not have thought…"

He shook his head again.

"Why don't you tell me what happened exactly, and the rest of us gets to work over there. Maybe we can recruit some of the more eager spectators, don't you think?"

Courfeyrac nodded.

"Certainly", he said, and Jeanne turned towards his friends, conversing with them in quick, curt tones, and they set to work with surprising efficiency.

Not knowing what else to do, Katya followed Courfeyrac and Jeanne as they stepped aside a few paces to quietly converse on what had happened in the Corinthe before, and since she had not heard the story yet, herself, this was in fact useful information.

For all her worry, Katya was still herself, and so she listened and filed the tale for further reference, to convey it to her friends and to bring it to light in the most convenient of situations.

That urge was too deeply ingrained to ignore.

Jeanne's friends set to work with an efficiency that doubled, if not tripled the speed of the searching process of the others. They found out quickly that the amount of people that could stand on the collapsed part of the house were fairly limited – one of Jeanne's friends learned this the hard way by suddenly finding himself waist-deep in the ruin. However, they set up a chain to transport away stones and wooden bars, and two out of their number were fairly efficient in recruiting some of the spectators as well.

The ants on the hive were moving more purposefully now, and Katya took heart again. It was only a matter of time until everyone would be found.

Yet hope was quickly again quenched, though, when they did find Madame Houcheloup. The middle aged woman looked as if she were sleeping, but the man who carried her down from the rubble had mercifully hidden her lower body in a blanket, as if wrapping a child in linnens. Katya did not ask why he had done this. It was clear from the limp way she was hanging in his arms that the patron of the Corinthe had died with her wine-shop.

She was placed gently with the now three other dead, and Katya stepped up to her slowly, squatting next to her to get a good look at the pallid cheeks, the closed eyes, the lifeless body. Still, she refused to look at the actual injury. It was unnecessary and painful, and Katya did not intend to rob the old woman of the last shreds of her dignity. And so for the moment she stayed, maybe in silent vigil, maybe in prayer, maybe even just plainly and simply out of other things to do.

So caught up in her reverie she was that she flinched when someone gently touched her shoulder, and she whirled around to be faced again with Courfeyrac. He had finished his conversation with Jeanne – who was now joining the ranks of his brothers again – but right after she had remarked that, her attention was caught by something else.

Bahorel was carefully climbing down the ruin, setting careful steps on precarious footholds, and in his arm there was the shape of a man she knew so well, his locks as familiar as every limb, the clothes – the best set he owned now ruined, dusty and torn – as well known and loved as the turn of the nose, the delicate fingers.

She had felt those fingers in her hair, playfully tearing apart a carefully piled up coiffure, had seen those lips smile, had heard his laugh and his frustrations, and he had seemed so alive, so alive and young and eternal. For as rarely as she saw him, each moment was precious and cherished.

Feuilly's body was lifeless now, motionless, his head bumping slightly against Bahorel's shoulder with every movement, and now Katya had to muffle a scream as the sight struck her to her core.

Bahorel raised his head at the sound and met her gaze, and while his eyes were somber and dark, the usual cheer and playfulness gone, he nodded, and for a moment there was almost a smile on his features, pale in comparison to his usual demeanor, but it told her enough.

Katya felt her knees give way in relief, for a moment only, and it was by sheer luck that Courfeyrac was there and reacted quickly enough. His hand supported her shoulder – she heard his huff of pain at the strain – and kept her upright until she had caught herself again. Her legs were trembling, but for the moment she was steady. And watched with burning eyes how Bahorel brought Feuilly closer, putting him down tenderly on the cobblestones next to Combeferre, who had quickly finished dressing the cut on the leg of one of Jeanne's friends before he turned to the lifeless figure of the young fan maker.

Courfeyrac turned to him as well, and this allowed Katya to follow, only deeply ingrained reflexes forcing her to keep up the charade even now, as she dropped to her knees, ignoring the sharp pain as she hit the uneven cobblestones.

"Maurice", she whispered softly, but he was lying still, so very, very still, face pale. His breath was going flat, but regular and he gave no hint that he had heard her words or realized that she was there.

"Mademoiselle…"

Combeferre's voice was gentle, and it made her look up, being faced with a long, sad gaze from his grey eyes. There was a second of kinship, strange and almost imperceptible, but she was raw and sensitive and felt it none the less. Feuilly had only hinted at Combeferre's admiration for Madame de Cambout, but Katya knew a half-sung song when she heard it, and news of Madame's arrest had wandered through the city like wildfire.

He knew it all. The worry. The torture. The desperate attempts to hide all of it behind a façade.

And he knew that she knew.

A quick nod acknowledged that she had understood, and he continued, she suspected, more for the benefit of Courfeyrac than hers, because this moment needed no words as far as she was concerned.

"I have to examine him", he explained, and then set to work methodically as was his nature.

He checked pulse and breath first, and then moved to examine the limbs and clothes to find some indication of trauma or injury. He was calm, methodical and focused, and only his deathly pallor and slight frown showed that in front of him was no ordinary patient, and that this was not an ordinary place to treat a patient.

And sometime during the procedure, Feuilly's eyelashes fluttered softly.

Combeferre, focused on examination, did not see it, but Katya did, and for a moment, she thought her breath had stopped.

"Maurice…?" she asked again, slightly louder than before, and placed a hand on his arm, half hidden by her skirts that were spread out on the floor as she was kneeing carelessly on the cobblestones.

Even in her distress, the game of hide and make-believe came so naturally to her.

He took a slightly deeper breath, and this attracted Combeferre's attention as well. The young doctor ceased his examination and followed Katya's gaze, only to see how the lashes fluttered a second time, and then, finally, miraculously the eyes opened, not fully, but at least enough to make sure that their friend, indeed, had reached consciousness again.

Katya felt something unraveling within her that had been wound tight beyond recognition, and for a moment she gasped at the assault, grasping Feuilly's arm a little more strongly to brace herself against the assault. Relief flooded her as Feuilly slowly looked around. He moved his eyes only, his head still lying motionlessly, a frown creasing his forehead as he took in Combeferre, the broken scenery of the Corinthe behind them, and finally, finally Katya.

The smile was minuscule, but it was enough.

"You're a sight", he whispered roughly, with tenderness, and for a moment Katya felt her throat tightening, but she forced herself to smile, to show only the tenth of the relief she was feeling.

Her mother was still watching.

"You're a mess", she informed him, attempting for sass rather than honesty, for the line that she was toeing was small, and composure felt fractured enough as it were.

A laugh wandered through his body, and he winced, screwing his eyes together as he swallowed convulsively. Combeferre took over in an instant.

"Are you in pain?" he asked, and despite the fact that he was vibrating with tension, he managed to sound relatively calm.

"Dizzy", Feuilly managed with difficulty. He had paled in a manner of seconds and only barely managed to turn his head aside before he emptied the few contents of his stomach onto the cobblestones before he even had a chance at another word.

Combeferre, with the apparent routine of a hospital intern shuffled a bit closer and held Feuilly's forehead and chest so that he would be able to stay steady more easily, but otherwise he waited until the fit had passed and his friend was relatively calm again.

"This looks like a concussion", he explained in even tones as Feuilly gasped for breath and tried to bring his rebelling body under control. "Do you remember what happened?"

"The exploding wine-barrel, you mean?" Feuilly asked roughly and Combeferre nodded. The fan maker screwed his face in dizziness at the sight of the gesture alone. "I don't remember much afterwards. Pain. That's all."

Combeferre nodded.

"As Dupruyen says", he began, obviously more for Katya's benefit, "the intensity of a concussion can be, among other things, be determined by the severity of amnesia that is coming with it. It is a good sign you remember everything, my friend. A concussion is an inconvenience, but one that rest can heal."

He looked up at Katya and Courfeyrac.

"See to it", he said, not in a tone of command, but in a tone of certainty, "that he is brought somewhere where he can sleep well and undisturbed. A carriage for the transport should do. And I would suggest you go with him, Courfeyrac. Abati told me your shoulder was dislodged. If you do not rest it, the healing may take much longer than your patience, mind you."

Courfeyrac shook his head in annoyance.

"You have to be joking, Combeferre. Enjolras is missing, and so is Grantaire. How could I – no, actually – how could we leave now, before we know what happened?"

"Enjolras is missing?" This seemed to slightly rouse Feuilly, but any attempt at sitting up was quickly stopped by Combeferre.

"Yes", he said softy, and for a moment, he seemed tired. Incredibly tired. "They both are. And all we can do is pray."

Time, he thought, as he lay there and waited, was a fickle concept.

From far away, he could hear voices, shouts, cries even, and the occasional crashing when something in this precarious ruin that he was a prisoner of gave way to pressure, weight or wear, but it was oddly peaceful, lying here with this strangest, dearest, saddest of blankets, taking each breath as a gift unexpected and waiting for something to happen.

It was a state that one usually acquired on the small rim between sleep and wakefulness, a state, in which things make sense that seemed absurd at daytime, and in which the passing of seconds, minutes, hours is insignificant, cast aside for the glory and horror of the moment alone.

The weight of the house was on his chest, not fully, but strongly enough, and he breathed flatly through his nose, using his stomach rather than his chest to suck in air, and it was just barely enough not to feel the panic of suffocation if he did not move, if he did not panic, if he stayed calm as the neverending darkness around him.

There were so many questions he would ask, but Enjolras never did what was futile, and so he did not ask them, for all they were burning on his tongue. Grantaire would not answer. The man had been a riddle in life, mocking his every word, his mere existence, and he was still a riddle in death, taking all his secrets and doubts and curses with him.

Was there a place in heaven for the non-believers? Or would Grantaire be doomed to wander the danteesque horrors of the circles of hell, lost between the layers of the world and forgotten in a place called agony? The third circle it would be, reserved for those prone to gluttony, and he would be walking through mud and rain, his dark curls damp and wet against his forehead.

Or would it be the sixth circle, the one reserved for heretics and non-believers, cynic that he was? Was he now trapped in a burning tomb, screaming in eternal agony as fires never consumed his body?

"You cannot be that cruel", he whispered, into the void again, but this time not talking at the fallen comrade but at the elusive presence that was worshipped in glorious churches and present everywhere, with the wretched, and with those in need, if the priests were to be believed. He had never questioned it, but also he had never, such as now, felt the burning need to get in direct contact with it, to plead for mercy, to reason, with a lawyers mind, good deeds against bad. To beg, if necessary, that the final act of saving his life would outweigh all those doubts and sins that he had committed. To repay his fallen friend in the only way he could still conceive.

But like Grantaire, God remained silent to his pleas.

And Enjolras found, that he had arrived at a place, where his gift for words and beliefs would not help him along.

Lost in thoughts and dreams of fire, he took a moment to hear the call, seemingly from far away, from another world indeed, but it was there and it was calling his name.

For a moment, he contemplated to remain silent. It seemed like a strange kind of sacrilege to utter words here, in this confinement, where only the ghost of Grantaire and the specter of God would keep him company, but Enjolras remembered that he was not dead, not dead yet, and that he had sworn to move the world and light the sun.

His deed was not yet done.

And Grantaire's sacrifice was not yet honored.

Bereft of any other way to repay him, Enjolras decided that he would, at least, have to live.

He forced himself to listen to the voice coming from outside. None of his friends, no, a female voice that he took a moment to place.

In an absurd moment, he wondered why a woman was even looking for him, seen as the fact that he had made it a point of alienating himself from the fickleness and softness that were linked to the members of the female sex, but after a moment, his mind supplied the image of a girl on the brink to womanhood, dark eyes, long, lank hair and a determination that was a rare thing to behold, even more so in a female.

Éponine.

Enjolras closed his eyes and said a quiet goodbye to his silent companions.

Then he called out.

"I'm here!"

It took eternity to dig him out.

Éponine was sitting anxiously on a beam, watching the proceedings as the helpers took away the rubble one by one, moving aside the remnants of the house to place it on the streets, neatly one next to the other in an oddly orderly picture.

She had bound up her skirt to protect it from tearing up at the sharp edges of the rubble – not only would she not deliberately ruin a garment that she had come so surprisingly in possession of, but also was she aware of the danger of falling down on this treacherous ground, and the day had seen enough injuries without her adding to it. Certainly, it was not proper, but the students knew the dictates of necessity, the working men that had arrived sometime after the catastrophe and offered their help did not seem to care all that much, and for the spectators, they could do whatever they pleased as far as Éponine was concerned.

Somewhere a few steps away, the firefighters were gaining ground on the fire, so at least the smoke was receding and the danger to be killed by another of those beams falling from an increasingly unsteady roof was, if not getting smaller, then at least not increasing. The smell of smoke was still everywhere, but it was not any more the dusty, burning smoke that a large fire would bring but the damp, heavy one that came with the mixture of flame and water.

The Thénardier siblings moved through the ruin of the Corinthe with the agility and skill of those born to tread dangerous paths, and with the efficiency of a team carrying long experience in working together.

Gavroche found his way into the tiniest nooks, like a snake winding into spaces that seemed much too small for him, and then he would take an oil lamp that Éponine handed down, so that he brought out light between the bars and stones of the collapsed house, thus allowing to look farther.

Éponine would then wander around the rubble and try to discern shapes and bodies inside the thus illuminated part of the collapsed house, peering through viewholes and rifts, for as little light as the oil lamp gave, it was more often than not enough in the absolute darkness that reigned inside the rubble.

They had found Madame Houcheloup, that way, and the sight would be one that Éponine would never forget. She was not squeamish, but one of the major beams of the roof had hit the widow squarely in the underbelly and the damage had been extensive.

Éponine tried to tell herself that the old woman had at least died quickly, yet the words sounded hollow and empty to her own ears.

Later, one look had given her a glimpse of gold amid the brown-and-grey that was the ruin of the house, and thereby she knew they had found Enjolras.

Since then, they were trying to dig him out, unbuilding the pile that was holding him imprisoned.

It was tedious work since the removal of a wrong item could damage the people underneath, and so their progress was slow. Gavroche, who could climb in to have closer looks, consulted with two of the helpers, who – as Éponine gathered from the conversation – were construction workers for which item to remove next.

Éponine felt helpless, and restless for her lack of occupation, but it was not to be helped, and so she fidgeted and watched and waited.

Finally, an eternity later, they had reached deep enough to be able to drag out both of them, one after the other. By that time, they already knew that Grantaire was dead.

Enjolras had not conveyed it, at first, but it had become obvious as they came closer, and he had not denied it either when asked.

Since then, every single one of the friends had been in a sort of numbed shock.

Éponine was not sure what she would have expected, but it was not this, this grim, painful, determined silence that had such a tremendous feel of 'later' that she could almost grasp it with her bare hands. Delayed grief was an ugly thing, she thought, although she knew this ugly specter so well herself. She was almost grateful for Joly, who did indeed cry when he received the news.

It was an odd sign of humanity amidst this silent, cold activity.

It was Bahorel, who finally retrieved Grantaire with all the tenderness of a father holding a child. He silently wrapped the fallen friend in his jacket that was tattered and torn and a poor excuse for a shroud but better than nothing still. With slow, careful steps, he brought him down from the pile and Éponine closed in to help Enjolras exit his temporary confinement as well.

For a moment, he looked at her outstretched hand uncomprehendingly.

He was a horrific sight, covered in blood and dust and dirt, eyes wide, hollow and dark in intensity. It almost seemed as if he did not recognize her, but finally he took the offered hand wordlessly and placed the fingers of his other in those of one of the construction workers.

On a quiet command, they pulled him out of the hole. Enjolras helped by doing his best to wind himself out of his confinement, avoiding stones, sharp edges and dead ends until he was sitting at the rim of the hole that they had dug to reach him and he let go of both hands to steady himself.

For a moment, he was still, utterly still, taking in the scenery like a stranger to it, his eyes wandering over the crowd assembled, over the faces of his friends and allies - a slight twitch at the sight of the man called Charles Jeanne – and finally to Éponine, who received a quick, curt nod in greeting.

She wondered if a response was expected from her, yet he did not wait for it, but instead rose and took his way down on his own, stopping in the middle of the pile, almost as if in an afterthought.

For a moment he remained, motionless, and Éponine held her breath at the image of this beautiful, slender young man, glorious in appearance, yet utterly wrecked by circumstance, golden hair full of grime and blood, jacket torn and dusty, the only thing of color in his face the clear, blue eyes that like icy shards looked around, drinking in the scenery.

She took a moment to realize, as he stood there, that he had the air not only of someone standing on a collapsed house, but that the rubble he was standing on had somehow the look and feel of a barricade, haphazard and ragtag in its construction, and a revolution leader upon it, beaten, torn, but not yet defeated.

He stood, as the wind moved a few strands of golden hair, but otherwise he was motionless, and in this stillness, he exerted a gravity that had every single person on the Rue de la Chanvevrie turning his eyes to him, baiting their breath at the sight before their eyes.

And then, Enjolras began to speak.

"Citizens", he began, not loudly, but his voice carried far, by gift and experience, carried to the last of the spectators without effort, "what do you see?" Silence answered him, but it seemed that he had expected nothing else and so he continued. "An house collapsed? Unfortunate deaths?"

He shook his head, and some gold flashed where the dirty locks parted and gave free the sight on some cleaner ones. "I will tell you what I see, my friends. I see Rubicon. A river crossed, and there is no turning back. This", his arm went out in great gesture to the ruin of the wine-shop behind and under him, "is not the work of circumstance. Those who died here, today, in this wine-shop, by a machine infernale directly and deliberately placed here are not the first to fall. But who is the first? Who can say where it began? Does it begin with the child that starves while the mother is hidden away in prison? Does it begin with the unjustly condemned? Does it begin with a knife in the night? The answer to this question, my friends, is academics. And yet, this is Rubicon."

He took a few steps down, but still he was widely to be seen, his charisma almost like a magnetism going out to the people.

"This", he continued, "is the answer to words that I have heard more often than I can count. This is the answer to the belief, that only opposition, only fighting, only sin leads to repression in this land. Some of us have lured themselves into the belief that those, in whose hands lies what remains of the trois jours glorieuses are worthy of that noble heritage. My friends. This belief stands corrected."

He crossed over the pile carefully to address also another part of the crowd, continuing unfazed, voice carrying, even though the footing was difficult.

"This is the result of people speaking their opinions. This is the result of a group of friends meeting for an exchange of minds. This is the government, attacking its own people. This, citizens, is Rubicon."

His voice took on intensity, became louder and angrier, and Éponine heard something vibrating in his tone that she could not quite place, but that reached a deep chord within her and strung it with almost painful ferociousness.

"Alea iacta sunt. The time for play is over. The time where we thought we could live in a world of in-between, undecided, wavering, is over. The people – France itself – is under attack. And time will come, where we all must decide who we are. If we stay silent; if we abide, the day will come, where Corinthe will be only the first in a long row, where the names of those that have died here will be long forgotten under a much more gruesome list of dead, where we will have only been the first to fall. The Rubicon has been crossed, the oppressor has walked into our lands, arms drawn. Against all treaties, against all reason, the people turns again against its own. It is revolution again, eating their own children, but in secret, this time, not in the open. It is the desecration of July and more."

He took a deep breath and paused, only to continue more softly.

"Today, citizens, we are standing in twilight. We are at knife's edge between light and darkness, and yet, there is hope. There is hope if we stand together, there is hope if we do not abide. The Rubicon is crossed, yes, and it is time for Rome to take up arms. The day will come, when the fate of this land will again be decided on a barricade, when the republic, the true republic and her citizens must defend what is right and true against oppression, as it has done so many times. If we stand together, citizens, we might yet see dawn."

Éponine watched the spectacle before her eyes, the power of his words, all the more fuelled for the real hurt that was seeping through them, and she would have almost missed her brother's comment.

Almost.

"Shit", he said. And that caught her attention.

She turned towards him, frowning.

"What?"

Her brother motioned with his head towards the end of the street, where, in the darkness, people were amassing.

"Javert."