A/N: And here's the next one. Written in a hurry on a single evening... I'd like you to know that I actually wanted to cut off one scene earlier then I did... but I feared I might be killed by some of you for that...

As to a warning - I'm not sure. There's nothing in here that's not in an evening crime series. But there is violence in here, and people trying to kill each other.

Thanks to frustratedstudent, who found a loophole in my tale. And thanks to judybear, who found errors in my writing.

And last but not least: I know there are quite a lot of you reading this from the Phillipines. I am thinking of you. I wish there was something I could do...

Chapter 51: The Punjab lasso

"You should never hand someone a gun unless you're sure where they'll point it."

"Try the officer's club, I would."

The old crone was peering up at her through half-closed eyes and graying strands, the lack of teeth in her mouth giving her response a slightly muffled characteristics, but Éponine didn't mind. She understood the woman's words quite well.

As far as the gamins of Paris were concerned, Old Vera was as ancient as time and just as mysterious. Nobody seemed to remember her any other way than she was now, wrinkled and crooked and toothless, but sharp and nasty and sly into the bargain. There were a hundred stories about what she had done in her youth, one wilder than the other. Word had it that she had hunted down and killed a duke during the revolution. There was an elderly knifesmith in Les Halles who swore that she had gone to Russia with Napoleon in the disguise of a man. And Éponine's own mother had once – in all seriousness – told her the tale of Old Vera being a noblewoman herself, come down in the world during the revolution and fending for herself in the underbelly of Paris now.

Although, with nowadays experience, that tale had probably been wrought to soothe the pain Éponine and Azelma felt at losing the inn and their former life at Montfermeil.

All things considered, Éponine was not sure she believed any of the stories that were wrought around the person of Old Vera, and she was not stupid enough to ask the crone who knew how to keep a secret well. This was how she had survived.

They all played the games of favors, but Old Vera better than them all, and this was how she survived, despite age and frailty.

There were different kinds of predators. The lions and wolves, which were prowling the city in search for prey; the eagles and falcons, sitting back and waiting for an opportunity to strike, the ravens and crows, scavengers, feeding on what others left.

Old Vera, however, was more like a snake, deceptively small, deceptively harmless.

And in this probably more dangerous than them all.

She was not kind to anyone, but at least Éponine knew that she also had no quarrel with her or her family. And she ran by the reputation that she was reliable in a bargain, and that her word, if she were willing to give it, could be trusted. Sly as she was, she rarely had to resort to lies and deceit.

With the information given, the old woman seemed to lose interest in the girl in front of her and instead focused on devouring her prize – two dried pears that Éponine had taken from her own meager supplies in one of her hideouts, an abandoned house away from her family. Her world of shadows was full of such places, refuges, passages and shelters. One did well, growing up in the family she had, to guard what little one could salvage for one's own.

In the same hideout she had changed from the dress Montparnasse had given her back to her usual clothes. She would better appear in front of Babet as inconspicuous as possible – a fine dress would attract too much attention, too much danger, and too many questions.

A lesson she was not looking forward to teaching Enjolras.

But at least now she had a trace of where to go, and this was something to be cherished. Éponine nodded in thanks to the old woman who had stopped paying her any sort of heed and left to follow the advice Old Vera had given her.

The officer's club was a cellar below a butcher's shop in Saint Michel which had probably at some time been used as a storage room, but was now more or less abandoned. Filled with shards of old furniture, barrels and other broken goods, it was mostly ignored by the current butcher who was too lazy to clean out the room and not very much in need of the space.

A few scoundrels, years back already, had dug a low tunnel, just low enough to allow crouching, from the cellar into the Paris sewer system; and ever since then, those who fancied themselves kings of the underworld had used this room as a gathering place, as sheltered and undisturbed as they could hope for.

It was a society almost as exclusive as that of the backroom of the Musain, and it was equally unwelcoming of women. But Éponine had braved the back room – although unintentionally at first – and she had braved the officer's club and was willing to do so again if that was the place where she would find Babet.

And so she crawled through the narrow tunnel that was dripping with moisture, randomly thinking that even if Gueulemer had been admitted ever to the officer's club, he probably would not be able to enter. Her troubles were of a different nature.

The corridor was almost pitch-dark, and it had taken all her courage to enter it.

If she was honest with herself, it had taken all her courage to even enter the sewer. Darkness was not her friend, and for a few moments, as she stepped into it, she almost seemed to hear the breathing of the man from two days ago, the dizziness, the cold, admiring voice

I will make you a work of art…

But she had shoved it aside with all the willpower she possessed. She was a child of the streets of Paris. A gamine. She had walked these paths often.

And she had been careful in not being followed.

Still, her relief was great, when she could hear the murmurs of conversation in the club, three or four men discussing, bragging and laughing, and Babet was clearly distinguishable among them.

As she approached the entry, she heard the distinctive clicking of a pistol being readied and hesitated, keeping her head down and away from the opening.

"It's me", she said, after a moment. "Éponine."

"The innkeeper's brat." A snort came from one of the men – Éponine knew the voice but could not place it – and another one added, not much more friendly. "What do ya want?"

Éponine hesitated for a moment. She felt somewhat trapped in the channel, but on the other hand she was not sure if it was wise to chance getting into the officer's club without the explicit invitation of those present. There was nothing that protected her here but bravado and her dubious reputation of association with Patron-Minette; and that might prove insufficient in the light of recent developments.

"I need to talk to Babet", she therefore called back and gained a moment of silence that way.

Then, a whistle and a laugh floated towards her, and a faint clapping sound.

"A girl thing, eh?" the first one said, almost amused. "Ah, ye've grown soft."

"Didn't you have a thing for the other one?" the second voice asked, sneering. "I thought you were Montparnasse's."

"I am no one's", Éponine gave back, unable to fully hide her anger. "And I need to speak to Babet."

"Well, what if he doesn't want to speak with you?" the question came back and Éponine did not need to hesitate to answer that.

"I'd remind him how one hand washes the other", she answered, and again, a moment of silence was her reward. And then, she heard a world-weary sigh.

"Ah well." That voice was definitely Babet's, and Éponine breathed a sigh of relief. "It seems a man cannot have a moment of peace, can he?" He snorted. "Ah well, girl, since you ask so nicely, who am I to refuse." His final "I'll see you later", was clearly directed at his comrades, and she heard him approach the corridor.

Climbing backwards to the sewer exit was awkward, but she managed it before Babet came into view and so she waited for him at the hole in the dim light of a candle she had brought and glued to the floor before she had entered.

He managed to crawl out with dignity and came to his feet in a smooth movement, wiping his fingers on his trousers.

"You came back quickly", he commented drily and raised a brow at her. "Eager to collect your debts, girl?"

"Opportunity is opportunity", Éponine gave back, crossing her arms in front of her, feeling slightly defensive. The darkness made her feel uneasy, and she could not afford to show a lack of confidence.

Babet smiled.

"I see. So Mademoiselle. What is it I can do for you?"

Éponine looked up to him, a tall, pale man with black hair and sunken eyes, long fingers loosely curled, almost relaxed at his side, and realized she had not formulated beforehand how she would address her wish to him.

Incautious. As if she had learnt nothing.

"I need a place where a fairly large group of people can assemble without attracting or receiving attention. And I need that place to be protected from cutthroats."

Babet frowned, his eyes narrowed.

"And what can I do to help this?"

Éponine shrugged with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

"You know Cortez. And he knows you."

For a moment, something flashed through Babet's eyes, but Éponine knew that she was right.

Cortez was no Spanish man.

In fact, he was also not Cortez.

He just fancied calling himself this way, a man in his forties, rarely seen in the underworld, more spoken about than spoken to. He was said to be vain and volatile, desperate for amusement and at times cruel in his pleasures.

Word had it on the streets that he had found a pot of gold to call his own, and this was probably where the origin of the interesting denomination was to be found, although no one remembered if this was a name he had chosen or that had been imposed on him.

Éponine believed the story of the pot of gold no more than she believed Old Vera to march with La Grande Armée. But what she did believe was that Cortez was a master of the art of rubbing two coins together to breed a third; and he had excellent connections into various areas of the world. She did believe what word also had – that there was little that Cortez could not get for you, given you did have the coin to pay for it. He was in the business of smuggling, and he was probably the best that Paris had.

Éponine knew that he had hiding places, storage rooms and hovels all over Paris, some legal, some illegal, some indistinguishably in-between, and this was what she was placing her hopes in. Maybe, for a while, he had one room to spare.

It was a stroke of luck that Babet had been known to run errands for Cortez, and to occasionally even be one of the smuggler's customers. And his reaction, quickly suppressed, had only served to confirm her information on him.

"What if I do?" Babet asked, obviously realizing that Éponine knew enough to insist, and that a simple dismissal would not find her acceptance anyhow.

"Then you could bring me to him and help me negotiate a deal."

Babet snorted.

"That", he answered bluntly, "is a huge wish."

Éponine stared back at him with determination.

"La Force is a very unpleasant place, and it is not easy to leave its hospitality."

Babet made a face.

"Granted. But that was not you alone, 'Ponine. If I give every one of you the same kind of favor, I would consider that a bargain very badly struck."

"You acknowledged the debt", Éponine reminded him coolly, sounding much more confident than she felt by sheer force of habit. "And Gavroche's debt will paid as well."

Of course her little brother – as proficient in the ways of the street as a rat – had foreseen that it might take a bigger bait to convince Babet to help her. He had given up his favor easily, claiming that he needed no alms for himself anyway.

Pride, it seemed, ran in the family.

Babet pondered her offer for a moment.

"What about your sister's?"

Éponine pondered this for a moment. Azelma's favor was not hers to give away, but she was also aware that her sister was sadly not very skilled at the game of calling and accepting favors that kept together the Paris underworld.

There was no time for consultation.

"Your debt to her would then be my debt to her."

Babet regarded her doubtfully.

"Let's for a moment suspend reality and think I agreed. For how long would you need that place?"

Éponine shrugged.

"As long as it takes. A week. A month. More maybe."

Babet shook his head.

"There's no way I can make that happen. I won't indebt myself that deeply to Cortez."

"Call a few favors then." Éponine was merciless. "Make it happen somehow. Like we did that night in La Force. There's much less risk in what I'm asking."

"That depends on whom you want to shelter. I'm not sure I want to know who it is, but I want to know if he has any quarrel with Cortez."

Now, it was Éponine's turn to snort derisively.

"What do you take me for – a stupid ass? Would I then try to turn to him?"

Babet pondered this for a moment and had to concede to the truth in her words.

"Touché", he admitted. "But still. I can't call that kind of favor with Cortez, even if I wanted. And you know his reputation. I won't indebt myself that deeply to him. I'll never be able to repay."

"Coward", Éponine muttered, firing off a well-aimed shot. Indeed, Babet's eyes flashed in anger, but he simply held his ground and crossed his arms before him.

"My answer is no."

Éponine quickly considered her options.

"All right", she said. "So just my debt. You bring me to him. You take care he'll think of me favourably, a lost stepdaughter or something. I'll do the negotiation. Think of a reasonable offer, if you don't dare it. If I come to terms with him your debt is paid."

Babet shook his head.

"That's not very favorable for me, is it?"

Éponine's thoughts raced as she searched for new options.

"All right. My debt is paid by you establishing the contact. You help us negotiating, argue on our side. We reach an agreement, and that will pay Gavroche's debt as well. So, half in advance, half on delivery. And no one except Cortez will learn about it."

Babet considered this for a moment, worrying his lower lip with a spindly digit. Then, he nodded.

"Done."

Éponine hid a sigh of relief as she responded.

"Done."

The darkness, after the midday glare of a summer day, was almost blinding.

Jehan hesitated at the entrance for a moment, checking his pistol, desperately gazing into the darkness of the chapel for any sight of movement or a white Picpus brothers' robe.

He had gotten into the habit of carrying weapons after the market incident, a knife and a pistol; and today's events seemed to only confirm his actions. It would not do to appear unarmed at a situation like this, and the cool metal in his hand promised a sense of security.

Jehan had to admit that the danger was probably very real.

In retrospective, they should have seen it before. Picpus, who had paid the highest blood toll, had obviously been targeted by the most skilled of the assassins, and the devastation he had wrought over a number of days was almost unfeasible without extensive inside knowledge.

To know the haunts and apartments of all the students, to know their habits and occupations – all this would be necessary to lure them into traps and kill them one by one, as it had obviously been done.

Unless, of course, they came to the assassin like pigs to slaughter.

Jehan had heard it often said. Frater Antoine, although priding himself in staying out of most of the concrete activities, was the kind soul of the group.

With people scared, where would they have run?

The thought had a cold shudder running up his back, and Jehan shook it off with an almost angry movement. This was most definitely not the time for fear. This was the time for anger.

With time, the vision cleared before his eyes and the insides of the chapel were more easily distinguishable.

It looked almost as if he had never been away since lighting the candles at Frater Antoine's bidding a few days back. The semi-darkness, the smell of old, decaying wood from the benches. The creaking floorboards, slightly slippery as he stepped on them. Candles, lighting the single room even in the bright light of a summer day.

The only distinguishable difference was the table placed in front of the altar, long and narrow. A shape was spread out on it, motionless under a white shroud that covered body and face alike.

Jehan quickly measured up the shape, the size.

Too slender to be the good Picpus brother, and – more importantly, because body weight could be faked with appropriate clothing – too tall as well.

Jehan carefully let out a deep breath.

The church was deserted. Frater Antoine was not there. He was not sure yet whether this meant good or bad news, but in any case it posed a window of opportunity that might be lost if he now left the chapel in search of the Frater, or even in search of help.

This moment could allow him an undisturbed view on what the Frater had done here, and much information might be gained by examining the haunts of the man, who had apparently not only killed so many of his assoicates, but played a devious game of make-believe over a number of years as well.

Gripping his pistol more tightly, Jehan stepped into the darkness, bit by bit, eyes darting around in the relatively small room as he made his progress towards the altar and the shape below the shroud.

He left the door open to admit some more light, but darkness and silence gripped him almost immediately and were not easy to ignore.

The sound of birds in the cemetery receded and was superposed by that of his own breathing, of his steps, and the incessant creaking of the floorboards.

The way to the shroud seemed eternal, but Jehan braced it, approaching the altar and suppressing a reflex to cross himself, but he did speak a quick prayer into the void.

But if this chapel had seen the things he suspected it had, Jehan mused, God had probably fled a very long time ago.

Arriving at the altar he turned back to make sure he had not missed anything, but there was little to see. Four benches were lined up in twos in front of the altar, the small corridor between them leading directly to the door. Candles completed the dark, decaying picture of a place forgotten in time, but what had seemed charming during their last visit, now appeared rather gloomy and suspicious.

Another, smaller portal was at the right hand side of the altar, and, heart pounding, Jehan stepped towards this as well and opened it. More light flooded the room as he realized the door was simply leading into the cemetery again, the area still more overgrown here than around the front door.

Silence greeted him there, and so he slowly turned back towards the altar and the table before it, closing in on the still figure below the shroud.

Fearing to see another friendly, probably familiar face, he pulled back the shroud slowly to reveal the person – presumably the corpse – underneath.

And froze for a moment.

He knew the person, yes. He would not have been able to forget him if he tried, and yet, if he had expected to maybe find him here, he would have expected him to be living.

For lifeless, in front of him, lay the shell of the man that had attacked him at the market, the man that had captured Éponine. The man who presumably had killed many in the north before he came to Paris, and here continued to do so on a slightly different path.

Alfonse Rébucy.

Jehan pulled further back the shroud to reveal an ugly wound at the neck of the man. A knife had slashed his throat with a single, clear cut, and yet, there was something curious about this fallen foe in the face of the gruesome injury.

The damage had been cleaned as much as possible. The blood was washed off and Jehan could see a few stitches where the terrible wound had been mended – not enough to indicate that medical attention had been given, but enough to keep the gash from falling open at the tiniest movement. He was dressed in clean clothes, a shirt and trousers, not new but at least not very worn. His hair was combed and neatly arranged, and Jehan thought he even detected a slight hint of a smell of pomade.

He did look as if he had been prepared for a wake.

Maybe he was.

Later, Jehan wondered why he had not heard anything. But even later than that, he knew – learned from sad experience – that for all his plumbness, the man who had been a Picpus brother for so long could move with fiendish stealth and silence. The church was his, and he knew the properties of the wooden boards. He knew where the light fell and moved and stayed out of it, a shadow in the shadows, and Jehan never saw him coming.

It was only in the last second that he caught wind of something unexpected; a hue, a strange smell, a shadow falling where it should not. It made him flinch and step a bit aside to turn around.

It saved his life.

The knife that slashed at where his throat had just been only grazed his neck, drawing blood, but not deeply so, and Jehan only had time to see a shadow lurching forward.

The impact was heavy and hard, throwing him to the floor. He slammed against the boards; all breath being pressed out of his wounds, and a heavy shape was toppling with him, bringing him down to the ground and trying to pin down his hands.

The pistol slipped from Jehan's grasp and slipped behind the altar and out of reach and he was left without weapon, at the mercy of the attacker.

Fear and panic rushed through Jehan's veins and he struggled against the grip of the brother. Frater Antoine was strong, stronger than he, he realized, and he had the upper hand. For a moment Jehan saw his face in the twilight of the church, an expression of strange, deep calm on his features, for all his heavy panting and the strain of their battle. There was a cold, merciless depth in his eyes that told Jehan that no words, no pleas, no arguments would sway him from his task of murder.

Lying on the floor of the church, Jehan found himself seeing the face of the devil.

But he was not ready to give in to his fate. As the Frater tried to get a better grip – his forearm trying to cross over Jehan's throat to cut off his windpipe – Jehan brought up his leg and rammed the knee between the brother's legs, eliciting a pained huff from him as the icy eyes clouded over in agony.

The grip was still deadly, but the distraction was imminent and Jehan jumped at the chance, wrestling free one hand and bringing it down with all the force he possessed onto the fingers that were still holding the knife.

It worked, and the assassin's finger opened, the knife slipping away as well, vanishing between the wooden floorboards.

Jehan heard a dark clunking just a few heartbeats later.

A cellar. Of course. That's where he had been hiding, he thought, but this observation again cost him his concentration, and the assassin recovered with fiendish speed.

His grip intensified, and he used the full force of his body to keep Jehan down. The young poet wrestled and squirmed, but he was not able to land a second blow of the same nature as before. Quite to the contrary.

With a force that Jehan would have never guessed the man possessed, he twisted Jehan's arm, and Prouvaire heard something snap. White hot pain shot up his left shoulder. Tears of agony filled his eyes and he screamed, bucking against the weight that pinned him down again.

He felt being seized and turned, and when the pain receded enough for him to think clearly once more, he found himself lying on his stomach, the weight of the attacker on his back. He wondered what the assassin was planning, but a few moments later he realized it, and his blood turned cold.

Icy metal was winding itself around his neck. Jehan shouted at him, not even knowing what – understanding that it was his last opportunity to do so – before he felt the bite of the steel as the garrotte closed, taking away his breath in an instant's time.

He fought.

He struggled.

He wrestled against the weight on his back with the panic of a person doomed. His shoulder was sending burning shots of pain, but he ignored it, pushing and shoving, kicking and grabbing at all that he could reach.

But the grip was merciless.

And slowly, slowly he felt his strength waning.

He was gasping, but no air came. His lungs fought a silent, wasted battle against the metal of the garrotte and lost, for no strength of will, no struggle could bring air past the impenetrable barrier of metal that was biting into his skin.

Stars were dancing before his eyes as the need to breathe became blinding, overwhelming.

He fought and struggled against the darkness closing in but ultimately, ultimately, it was in vain.

Azelma chased across the grounds, not heeding who saw her. Surprisingly, no one had stopped her as she had entered the cemetery, but it was almost morning still, and there were hardly any visitors yet. So maybe no one cared for the dirty gamine who ran onto the premises as if she were chased by demons.

Maybe, she was.

She had taken a moment to piece together what little she knew to follow on the conclusion that Jehan had had. She did not see the full picture yet, but what she understood was that the Picpus brother was probably not who he pretended to be. And that Jehan had gone to confront him.

That had been enough to spark her fears – who knew, if that man was responsible behind all those dead in the sewers. If it were, he must be a devil of a man, unrivalled in his ability to kill compared to everyone that Azelma knew.

And Jehan was facing him alone.

Somehow, with this thought in mind, it did not occur to her to be afraid.

She hesitated, standing in the middle of the cemetery, unsure where to go. There was no sign of Jehan; no sign of anyone for that matter, and Azelma turned around desperately for any hint, when she heard the cry, a painful scream that shook her to the core.

Her heart stopped for a moment, then continued rapidly and in panic. The scream had come from deeper within the garden, and this was where she ran now, open, dark hair streaming behind her, drawing on all the strength she could find within her to hurry.

After a moment, a small chapel came in view, and she heard his voice again, loud, strong and clear, "Begone, scoundrel!", and now she was certain that he was in the chapel, but she was also certain that he was in trouble. Being who she was, she was careful in approaching the door and peeked in before she entered.

Jehan was struggling with the man she knew as a Picpus brother. He was pressed to the floor on his stomach, the brother pinning him down with all his weight as he tightened a garrotte around Jehan's throat, mercilessly drawing the thin wire into his skin. Jehan gasped desperately for breath.

Azelma was a child of shadows. She knew the art of moving and remaining unseen, if nothing else. This was how she survived in the streets. She did not have Éponine's bravado, nor Gavroche's resourcefulness. All that Azelma had was silence.

And this was her only weapon.

And yet, the somber church was her ally in this, and even though every movement of Jehan's, every slower bucking of his body against the weight of his adversary spoke of a losing battle and urged her to hurry, she stilled her heart and progressed slowly, shadow among the shadows, and so she moved unseen.

She gripped one of the candlesticks, good, solid brass and crept closer as Jehan's movements were waning to almost nothing. And yet, she was only five paces away, then three, then one.

She brought down the candlestick onto the Picpus brother's head, but he was struggling so much, moving quickly from side to side, and so it was his shoulder he hit, and she heard a nasty, cracking sound as bone gave way and the man howled, thrown off his victim by the force of her strike, rolling once, twice, before he stopped next to the altar, motionless for a moment, as Azelma stared in horror, unsure how to proceed.

And then a loud crack breached the silence.

At first, she did not understand what had happened. There was no pain at first, only a slight, sinking notion at her left side, a strange weakness as from hunger or fear.

Then her left leg gave way and she tumbled to the floor, almost without her doing, and only then there was pain, searing and unbearable and she screamed, screamed as she had not screamed before, the child of silence suddenly loud. But she only had that much air, and when there was no scream any more to fight off the darkness she fell into it, into the warm, deep nothing where there was no pain.

Air.

Breaths.

One, two, three.

His lungs greedily sucked in the long missed element, stars dancing before his eyes, but it was so sweet to breathe, so very, very sweet.

His senses returned only slowly, and memories were hazy of where he was, and how he'd gotten here. For a moment he was content just to breathe, to feel life returning into his body again, to remember that he was not quite dead yet, to remember…

A clang was heard from far away and he wondered, thought that this should be of meaning to him, but somehow, strangely it wasn't.

Air.

Breaths.

Nothing else.

Then, he heard the scream. Full of pain, deep, deep agony, and suddenly it was all there again, Frater Antoine and the fight, and the voice he heard was so very familiar.

Cold fear shook him and roused him like air could not. He turned around to see Frater Antoine standing, left arm hanging down at an awkward angle; but the right one was holding Jehan's pistol and he was still aiming at Azelma. The smoke rising from the gun was a telltale sign of the shot that he just fired.

Azelma had sunken against the wall. Her chemise was red with blood.

And then he knew little. There was a frenzy akin to almost suffocating, a state that he later neither could understand nor ever sought to. A flash of knife and anger and overwhelming, bone cutting fear, light and darkness and screams and fury.

And then he was staring into the Frater's eyes, standing over Azelma, a knife in his hand, and somehow there was blood coming out of the Frater's stomach and the same blood was on his hand as well.

The white garb of the assassin became more and more drenched, the blood black in the half-darkness, black as evil, and suddenly, the man turned and ran, limped, out of the door and into the garden and out of Jehan's sight.

He did not follow him.

A whimper from beneath him brought to attention the unconscious girl. He dropped to his knees, his shoulder protesting violently as he tried to assess what had happened to her.

A bullet had penetrated her side just above her hip, and she was bleeding deeply, her clothing on the left hand side wet to the touch. She was breathing, softly but steadily still, and Jehan tore off a good part of his sleeve with the help of his knife to press it onto the wound to still the blood flow, at least.

"You stupid girl", he whispered, confused and terrified and proud and torn. "You stupid, brave, incredible, wonderful, stupid, stupid girl. Why did you do this? Why, Azelma, why?"

She did not respond to his ranting, only flinched slightly as he pressed the bandage onto the wound, and he closed in on her, dimly aware that unconsciousness was not a good sign, that she needed to be awake, and aware, and somehow responsive.

"Azelma", he whispered, his free hand coming up to her face to press against her cheek. His shoulder was screaming in pain, but he was too terrified, and it was only a dim background noise. "Azelma."

She did not respond and he pressed his forehead against hers, continuing to whisper without even knowing what he said, tears running down his cheeks.

Only an eternity later, her eyes opened slowly, dark pools of confusion and deep, deep pain.

Her whisper was barely audible.

"Jehan…"