A/N: Not sure if I should put that up given the time, but well... I hope there are not too many errors and I don't want to make you wait...
Thanks for all the lovely comments. You make my day and push me on to write more
Thanks also for judybear's corrections again.
Love
Spirit
Chapter 45: Catharsis
"You must understand, I have had a revelation." "What kind of revelation ?" "Most profound and substantial one. The kind of revelation that transforms your mind, .. your soul, .. your heart, .. even your flesh. So that you are a new creature. Reborn in the instant of understanding."
Ten minutes after Joly, Bossuet, Jehan and Marius had left the apartment in Rue Pascal to seek some rest – if such a thing was to be had in a night such as this – in Jehan's lodgings, which were spacious enough to host a group of four, Enjolras was still standing at the window, looking down into the silent street.
He had barely spoken two words since they had left the scene of the Corinthe, as if his eloquence had been spent on his speech in the ruins and his quarrel with Javert, and the events of the day left him hollow, exhausted and without anything to say.
Maybe, Combeferre mused, this was not so far from the truth.
He was not sure what had happened in the Corinthe shortly before and after the explosion of the machine infernale. He remembered Grantaire jumping up and screaming something, but after that, everything had been chaos and fire, and by the time he had dug himself out of the layers and layers of dust that had covered him, most of the damage had already been done.
It was not their first encounter with death. It was not even their first encounter with a violent death.
1830 had spared none of them, and in the fighting there had been ample time and opportunity to lose comrades and, on a few occasion, friends.
But in 1830 they had been lucky. None of them, none of their inner circle had been lost during that time. Now, a new revolution not even started, they were already a man short.
Cold words.
Not a just man short.
Grantaire had died.
Combeferre forced himself to give at least mental expression to this truth, to think it clearly and strongly, the same way he forced himself to look at gruesome sights in the autopsy room during his medical studies – to observe, to learn, to understand.
And to never, ever shy away from reality.
Such was the calling of a man of science.
Thoughtfully, he stared at Enjolras' unmoving back. He could be as still as a statue when the mood took him, and stillness seemed to come from the same source as his silence, as if he had used and spent all of his fervor and was now left with nothing to give.
For a few moments, back in the Rue de la Chanvevrie, Combeferre had seen something lurking in his friend's eyes. And he did not fully understand. In this war, Grantaire was a fallen soldier, and while Combeferre bemoaned him deeply, and the nagging question of what could have been done to avoid this sacrifice was his and his alone to battle, he was surprised that Enjolras seemed to fight demons of his own.
Guilt and doubt rarely featured in the mindset of his friend.
"Perhaps you should rest, my friend", he advised quietly, knowing fully well how hypocritical that must sound in light of the fact how little he himself had slept during the last nights.
For a while, Enjolras remained silent, and Combeferre started to wonder if he had even heard his words. When his answer came, it was quiet and calm.
"Perhaps we both should."
"I will take the first watch", Combeferre offered, and again his friend took a long while before he replied in the same, neutral tone that did not even carry a reprimand.
"Like you did yesterday I presume."
There was truth in the accusation, of course. And if he was honest with himself, Combeferre was not convinced he would find sleep either. But for the moment, his demons were only quietly mumbling, and there might be hope for him to rest some time during the night. Exhaustion was waiting, lurking, somewhere just beyond his vision, and he had the distinctive feeling that if he stopped, it would be a long, long time until he started again.
"If I sleep now, I will not be able to take a watch", he therefore confessed. "I am beyond help by a nap, I am afraid."
Enjolras nodded slightly as if to himself.
"Very well."
No argument. No attempt at a command.
Just quiet admittance.
Enjolras turned around and walked towards the bed – Eponine had occupied the couch and fallen asleep there before any of them had realized what she was doing and could have offered her the more comfortable sleeping place – without even uttering a further goodbye.
Combeferre debated silently if he should let the matter stand, but perhaps it was something in the way he held his shoulders that made him call out quietly to his friend once more.
"Enjolras. Is there anything I can do?"
Standing in the doorway, he hesitated for a moment, before he answered.
"You can wake me for my watch", he said and stepped into the room and out of Combeferre's field of vision.
A few moments later, he saw Enjolras shuffling into the bed, and then, the apartment fell into deep silence.
There was a clock on the mantelpiece and it was silently marking the time. Combeferre sat at the table, the light dimmed to a few candles as to not wake Éponine, who was sleeping on the chaiselongue, and tried to read.
It was a futile gesture at best.
"Candide", although he had read it before, was entertaining material, and yet, he found himself rereading and rereading the same page all over again.
More often than not, the letters became a blur in front of his eyes, his gaze coming out of focus, and when he managed to finish a page, he realized that he did not have the slightest inkling of what he had read.
Other specters and images occupied his mind.
The image of the Corinthe collapsed. Helene's face, her husband's blood on cheek and nightshirt, and the immediate surge of panic – a world with her married to Alexandre was bearable, but a world without her…? The quick glance he had gotten of Grantaire, the impact that had broken his neck, and the gruesome sight that had once been his legs before shrapnel and wood had torn apart and destroyed what once had been there.
Blood. Screams of pain.
Combeferre closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to calm himself. He realized the error immediately. Closing his eyes called forth more images of the last days, and the sentiments with it.
You can leave, she had said and dismissed him, as if he had been nothing but a passing acquaintance.
The memory of the hurt in her eyes cut deep, and so had her words. And yet – what right did he have to be offended? And what right did he have to dwell on this, when he had lost a friend today? And so many allies? How could he dare placing his personal issues over this?
He placed his head in his hands as a wave of guilt ran over him unbidden. In the chase to help someone that did not want his support, he was on the verge of leaving alone those that depended on him.
And now, one of them had died.
Combeferre looked at his fingers. He had scrubbed away the blood, thoroughly, upon arriving here, but still, it felt as if he could still see it.
As if he still could feel how Ramon had died, right under his fingers, his last, shuddering breath running through him as Joly and he had waited for another to appear that never came.
Combeferre could not remember feeling so powerless and lost.
It was only the blur of his vision that told him he was crying, silently, shaking with the misery of too many days and too many worries, adrift and pained and utterly, utterly alone.
Sometime during his misery, his hand slipped into his pocket to remove the folded piece of paper again. He had no idea how often he had looked at it, how often he had reread the same words, felt the same pain at the callous, elegant phrases.
And yet, inexplicably, it was the only thing he had that made him feel close to her.
Writing, articles, le Globe, this had always been what brought them together, what drew them to each other. The art of the word, and this was safe ground, familiar ground for both of them, rules set and laid out, and a place of inexplicable comfort.
No matter what else they never had.
They always had this.
Combeferre stared at the pages unseeingly. The letters molded together between his eyes, but he knew the words, and more still, he knew what stood behind them.
The fleeting thought had stuck, as if it had struck a chord inside him and resonated there, and he placed his head in his hands again, uttering a silent groan.
"I am an idiot", he concluded, although he should have known better.
In uncertain times, it was always good to go back to the fundamentals.
And the fundamentals were that he was a writer for le Globe. And suddenly, suddenly everything became clear.
He feverishly sifted through Enjolras' notes in search for blank paper and found it, took ink and pen with him and returned to the table, laying out the tools of his trade, and then it was words, black on white, ink on paper, and a story unfolded, quite on its own.
He could have laughed with relief, or wept, and all of a sudden he understood, why Hélène had written the article she had, why she had poured all the pain and anger and worry into the blank pages, phrase by phrase. The relief was so great, the callous words pouring out of him like bad blood from a festering wound and like with a festering wound, the cut brought pain and healing in equal measures.
He lived through the past days again, through all the events full of pain and worry. He built a monument for his fallen friends in words and thoughts, sang his admiration for Hélène without even once having to mention her name, and somewhere between all this, he found a fraction of himself again.
In the end, when he put aside the pen, he was trembling with emotion and exhaustion. The clock had turned, and he realized that he had sat here for three hours without thought or hesitation. In front of him were pages and pages of drafts, some crossed out, some merged, in an uncharacteristically frantic working approach. He felt as if all the ink in front of him was not just black pigment in water, but blood, his as well as that of his friends, and there was some comfort in knowing that he had given them a glimpse of eternity that way.
Three hours had passed and the time for his watch was over. He felt the heavy weight of weariness on his shoulders, as if finally, the days were catching up with him, and exhaustion cut bone-deep.
He stumbled to the other room, almost blind with weariness and shook awake Enjolras, who opened his eyes almost instantly, finding some measure of surprise in his friend's eyes.
But he was too tired, much too exhausted to notice and dropped down into the bed, barely finding the strength to remove his shoes before sleep claimed him and he thought no more.
Eponine was not sure what had woken her.
The apartment was absolutely silent, so silent, that she almost wondered if whoever was keeping watch had fallen asleep and they were unprotected. Maybe, she fancied, this was what had woken her, girl of shadows that she was, used to living dangerous and unprotected, and never, ever at ease.
She had in truth forgotten what it was like to be safe.
But the watch had not fallen asleep. Enjolras was standing at the window again, much the same as the last time that she had lain here, and again he was motionless, looking out into the streets through a half-opened curtain.
And yet, nothing in him reminded her of the time that she had been here before.
A boy of summer no more… she thought unbidden, not fully knowing where the thought had come from, but feeling the depth of its truth none the less. She knew that night did not suit Enjolras, but where in that first night there still had been the distant memory of a former glory, a notion of repose and neglect, he now gave the impression of a flame gone cold.
There was no life in these blue eyes of his, as if at the end of this dreadful day something within him had retreated deeply into himself, burrowing into the core to find whatever remainder of a spark was still to be found.
The last time she had watched him like this, from exactly the same place, they had both been different. Looking back – it was only three days, and yet, it felt as if an eternity had passed – she realized that she had changed in the meantime, a giant leap in many, many steps during these days of chaos.
As if the few words of his during their last time here had boldly called forth change.
Words, she had begun to understand, were more than just sound.
But he had changed as well and not for the better. The last time, she had felt a restlessness as she watched him, barely contained energy vibrating through his form, stilled only by convention and sheer force of will.
While now it seemed that force of will was all that kept him on his feet.
She frowned slightly at the thought, but she pushed it aside and tried to close her eyes again. Sleep, especially in a place as safe as this, was a precious good not to be wasted, and she should appreciate it while it lasted.
But behind closed eyes, the silent, lean figure of Enjolras still remained, and she felt as if she could hear his silent breathing, wavering through the room.
With a surprise, she realized that she was not indifferent to his pain. And that, while this lasted, there was no sleep to be had.
Eponine resigned herself to the inevitable and sat up on the couch, the unfamiliar dress rustling around her in an almost protesting sound.
His only response was a slightly longer blinking, but otherwise he remained still, even as she got up and stepped up beside him, looking down to the silent nightly street. She was offered no greeting, not even a nod of acknowledgement, and this was indeed a first since this story had started.
He also had yet to tell her to go back to sleep.
They stood next to one another while below a few lone late – or early – wanderers crossed the street. Somewhere in the distance, a churchbell struck the fourth hour of the morning.
Minutes passed by, counted and measured by the ticking of the clock, and Eponine found herself asking what she was doing here, but there was a strange comfort in standing here in company. Moments of calm were a rare thing, and she found that somehow she was able to appreciate it.
It was only after a while that he finally spoke.
"What are you doing?" he asked, not in a hostile manner, but cool, almost emotionless, his gaze still locked on the road below. She was not sure whether he was really interested in her response to this question, or whether he just felt the need to breech the silence that had found its way into their midst.
"Trying to make sense of things", she answered honestly because for once there was no reason to lie.
He snorted.
"A valiant endeavor", he answered and fell silent again, left her to her own thoughts for a moment before he came back to his initial question.
"And what are you doing here", he went to precise what he had actually wanted to know, and while he had not turned towards her, his posture was slightly less forbidding than before. Eponine shrugged.
"You looked as if you could use company", she answered before she could think better of it. Honesty had served her well with him, and this seemed at least to elicit some reaction, for he turned around to her, a brow slightly raised in irony. The blue of his eyes was dulled, and the magnetism she knew him to be capably of subdued, like the glow of a candle instead of a blazing hearthfire. He seemed to have lost all colors since she had last seen him, and while his fierce nature suggested a retort of some sorts against her words, all she received was silence.
She was not cowered by his gaze though – Eponine Thenardier had dealt with more dangerous and fierce people than him, to be sure – and turned back towards the road with a shrug when he offered no further words.
She was all the more surprised when she heard his almost inaudible "Thank you."
That, more than anything, told her how much was wrong with him. And Eponine had no idea how to respond to this. But after a moment's silence, Enjolras took up the thread of conversation again, quiet and, in a strange way, almost careful.
"I would like to ask you a question, Eponine, if I may", he began suddenly, with a glimpse of his former eloquence. She nodded, but he did not wait for her acquiescence. Instead he continued thoughtfully. "I have been told…", he continued, slightly fumbling for words, "that there is a streak of tyranny in me that I do not acknowledge. That I…", he hesitated for a moment – good lord, Eponine thought, the man was shaken indeed, "… am prone to inspire something like blind adoration. Instead of… conviction. In some at least."
He leaned heavy on the windowsill and took a deep breath.
"You, who look at this with fresh eyes, you, who has not been in our circle during these last four years. Would you say this is true?"
Eponine barely refrained from staring at him in surprise. She had certainly not expected a question such as this. But it seemed, as he was intent on repaying trust with trust, and she had indeed gone a long way in telling him much about the general dealings of the Thenardiers. They had entered and left a prison together, and Eponine had found that at least when it came to her own secrets, Enjolras did know how to guard them.
But she was born Thenardier, and had grown up amongst the miserable of the city. She knew that there was a price for everything, and now was probably time for payback for this trust of his.
Therefore an honest answer was in order.
It would be easy to deny it, but Eponine knew it was not as simple as that. It was obvious that Enjolras was a man tortured, and she knew herself very well how empty hollow reassurance could – and would – be. Because while quick dismissal was the easy path, it was probably also nothing that would help. He would see through it in a moment's time.
"Difficult", she answered, as if trying to gain time, and she found that he had turned to look at her, blue eyes intent on her own. He did not interrupt her, gave her the time to think that she needed, and she tried to reward this with as honest an answer as she could.
"Because there is no clear yes or no from what I'm seeing. I have not seen so much of it, but from what I can tell, there is what you do, and then there is what you are. You weave beautiful dreams in your words, Monsieur, that is for certain. You have bold and big words, sometimes even too big for the likes of me; but if one listens, there are interesting things to be had. You understand well, for a bourgeois, I will give you that."
His eyes narrowed at the strangely warped compliment, but Eponine continued, going the way to the bitter end.
"But then there's also what you are. I'm not sure how I can describe it, but whoever told you that does have a point. You're like one of these people that would be believed, even if they told the absurdist of stories. It's… well, it's the way you look. Like something from a story. And… I don't know. The way you move? The way you hold yourself? I can't say what it is but if you speak to people they listen, no matter what you say. They may forget afterwards, but while you speak they listen. Or think they listen. Even if they just watch."
She remembered that first day on the market, where she had been astonished at the fact, how well that bourgeois boy had been able to capture the attention of a crowd. It was difficult to say how he had done that.
"I think it's a bit of both, maybe. What you say, and how you say it, and how you look."
She shrugged, not sure if she had gone too far, and Enjolras shook his head, maybe in disbelief, maybe in exasperation.
"Looks", he said derisively, "Charm. All of these are fickle. Unreliable. And completely irrelevant both to me and the cause."
"Sorry Monsieur", Eponine retorted, "but that's not true. Why do people listen to others? Maybe also because of what they say, but if you would put my father up on a pedestal and have him say the same things you say, he would be received quite differently. Looks and charm get attention. Your words later give you a chance at their heart."
"Because of the people's unfortunate habit of judging a book by its cover, vulgo a man by his clothes. If you put me in a poor man's clothes the reception would be different as well."
Eponine shook her head.
"Yes. But you would still be you. And that would still be different."
Enjolras fell silent at that, and Eponine watched him, realizing that his fists were curled tight, as if he were prepared to fight a battle. However, he did not take up the thread of their conversation, but let her words hang in the air, the muscles in his jaw telltale sign that he was clenching his teeth.
"I see…", he said, after a while, nodding as if to himself. "I… had not considered that."
He turned back to the road below, and clasped his hands behind his back, a deceptively relaxed gesture given the fact that Eponine saw how one of his hands held the other in a deathly grip.
"I thank you for your honesty, Eponine", he continued softly. "It is appreciated."
He sounded so dejected that she felt the sudden and utter need to console him.
"I don't mean that your words don't matter", she added a bit hastily. "Because they do. You believe what you say, and that is a rare thing. And…"
But he stopped her by raising a hand. Shaking his head, Eponine was not sure if the ghost of a smile had made a quick visit on his face, but if it did, it was gone before she could even fully acknowledge its presence.
"I can see what you are trying to do, and it is appreciated", he intercepted her words. "But I assure you that there is no need. The truth does not require softening by careful words."
Eponine fell silent at this, and he retreated back into his thoughts, back into that almost eerie stillness, as if he had forgotten her presence altogether.
She wondered what had made him ask the question in the first place. Enjolras had never seemed to be a man who was given to self-doubts. Quite to the contrary – it seemed that his conviction had taken on an absolute quality that left very little room for deviation or questioning.
So, the source of this question must lie in what had happened today – in the Corinthe.
She remembered how they had found him, lying under the rubble, his body mostly covered, shielded and protected by Grantaire, a singular stroke of luck that had left him relatively unscathed.
But had it been luck after all?
Eponine frowned. She knew very little of Grantaire except what little she had seen during the last days, and what little Marius had told her in between things. A drunkard of good humor and many ramblings. Constantly contradicting Enjolras to the latter man's annoyance, and, while pleasant to be with on the whole, rather uninvolved in their revolutionary activities.
But was that all that there was to this story?
Hate and love were close sisters, the people said, and what if the coincidence that had led to the position that they had found the two men in had not been a coincidence after all?
It would at least explain the question, and fairly thoroughly at that.
She was on the verge of asking something to that effect, when Enjolras started again. His voice was almost stubborn, carrying a plaintive note.
"I do not want this", he said, almost sounding ashamed of this admittance. "This… whatever it is. It should not be relevant."
"But it is", Eponine contradicted with a shrug. "It is a part of you. You cannot change it at a moment's whim. You are what you are. There's no use running away from that, because it comes back and it is running faster than you."
"Have you learnt nothing?" Suddenly, the fire was back in his voice. Although he did not speak loudly, his words had taken on the quality of a sharp hiss, vibrating with anger and annoyance. "To say such things. You need not remain that which you were born as. That is the whole point of the exercise. The whole message. France as it is today keeps each of us in the lines we think are befitting to us, due to birth and standing. And yet, so many examples prove that there is little that is more unjust than this, because in the end, the single truth is that we are all humans. This is all that matters in the end." He shook his head, almost in exasperation. "But perhaps you have not been paying much attention to the words as well."
His anger was a frightening thing to behold, as Eponine realized again, but she realized the anger for what it was. One did not grow up being the daughter of her mother without learning a thing or two about the way people lashed out in anger at others who were not guilty of their plight. And, for a reason she could not fully understand, she did not think she would have anything to fear from Enjolras in the end.
"That's not what I mean", she contradicted with a shake of her head, ticking of the points she was making with her fingers. "There's what you say and there's what you are and there's what you were made to be. Of course I've listened to what you say. I'm not turned by a set of pretty curls alone, that'd be pretty shallow and I'm done doing that. I've listened to every word you said to me, and some I like and some I don't but you believe them and that's something I can value. But that's not what I was trying to tell you. There's what you are and there's what you were made to be. You're a bourgeois, and a student, and you've probably grown up rich, not knowing what it's like not to know where the next meal should come from, being dressed well, sleeping in a cozy bed." She turned around briefly, shrugged, and added with a smile, "… or on a comfortable couch, anyway. That's what you were made to be. I was made to be a street rat, but that's not who I am. And neither is an arrogant bourgeois all that there is to you. You can change what you were made to be, and that's probably what you are trying, you and your friends."
He frowned slightly, and she continued, almost guessing what he was aiming at.
"And I'm trying that as well, for what it's worth. But you shouldn't change what you are, because if you do that, you become lost."
The magnitude of the truth behind these words hit her almost unexpectedly. How much had she tried – for Marius – to be something he wanted to see, to be able to change what she was made to be? It was a strange revelation that came with the words already uttered, as if Enjolras' misery had made her see some if the sources of her own.
She hated what life had made her, hated the merciless, relentless twists and turns of fate that had forced her to lead the life she was leading now. But while the thought that she had almost sacrificed what she was to escape circumstances was horrendous, the idea that she could be something more than a street rat – that this was what she was made to be, not what she was – was incredibly calming. It was a formalization of a thought that had tortured her for a while – that she was leading a life she was not born to lead – and now, finally, she had understood a trifle more on what she could do, and what she could not.
So lost she was in her own thoughts, that she did only realize very late that he was staring at her, his face unreadable, fully focused on her. His eyes, keen and intent, roamed over her face, as if searching something; a fleeting expression or a thought. And when he spoke his voice was low, deep, and unexpectedly rough.
"And… what am I, pray?" he asked, and for a moment something in his eyes pleaded for an answer. Eponine felt a quick, unexpected surge of pity, but there was little comfort she could give him.
"That is for you to know and answer", she responded. "But what I know is that your intent is true. And that by wanting to change what you were made to be, as well as what we were made to be, you are doing a great and courageous thing. You are gifted to do this, in a way. Maybe what makes people listen to you is like cunning, or strength, or the agility, a weapon of yours of sorts. But I think it belongs to you. The real you."
She saw him swallow, almost convulsively, and for a moment his expression wavered and he blinked quickly, once, twice. Still, his gaze was lying on her with frightening intensity and she did not know what he was looking for in her face, but a few muscles in his cheek were working on their own accord, as if he were still, and ever conflicted.
"You", he said softly, after a long pause, and his voice was still rough and raw, a tone she had never heard from him, "are one of the most singular people I have ever met, Eponine." He took a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes, and then he turned towards the window again, his head bowed.
Outside, a slightly paler shade of black heralded the arrival of a new dawn.
"Thank you", he continued, his hands placed on the windowsill again, but his posture was, if not more relaxed, then at least softer, less harsh. "For your words both kind and unkind. They… were much needed." He shifted slightly, taking another deep breath. "I will think on what you said but it… puts things in perspective."
For a moment, he lost himself in thought again, and only when the bell struck the next half hour, he seemed to remember her presence.
"Maybe you should try and sleep a little more"; he recommended with the hint of a wry smile. "I will wake you in an hour."
Eponine frowned. He seemed less tortured than before, but the conflict was still clearly visible in his face. However, she was indeed tired, and her own revelation had left her with much to sort out for herself.
"All right", she said, after a moment. "I'll do that."
He nodded and she stepped over to the sofa, once more curling up on its cushions.
"Good night, Eponine"; she heard him say as she wrapped herself in a blanket. "May your dreams be more pleasant than the day has been."
A strange wish, she wondered, but somewhat welcome, and maybe God followed the golden sound of his voice as much as men did, for the rest of the night was merciful and she did not dream at all.