A/N: Hihi.

Chapter 52: Unexpected and unbidden

Because what is built endures, and what is loved endures…

"All right." Courfeyrac's voice sounded resigned, as he ran both hands through his curls in a somewhat desperate gesture. "If you are determined to have me do this, who am I to object."

"Your rebuffs were not quite that good, my friend", Feuilly answered, the ghost of a smile on his lips. They had retreated to Louise's room, so that the fan maker could retreat to the bed again, mostly at Kataczyna's insistence. He was still pale and his complexion wan, but at least he was able to hold Courfeyrac's gaze now.

Of course, his comment earned him an annoyed gaze.

"Judas", Courfeyrac commented. "I would have expected better from you given the sharade that we are playing here." Immediately, Feuilly looked slightly stricken at the reprimand, and Courfeyrac regretted his words almost immediately.

"We are…", he began uneasily, but Katya interrupted him before he could utter the declaration of debt and obligation that he certainly had in mind.

"… realizing that you are deflecting very cleverly, Monsieur", Kataczyna gave back very candidly, placing a quick, soothing hand on Feuilly's shoulder, immediately reminding Courfeyrac why he had agreed to the charade in the first place and why he intended to continue this game for the sake of the two. "I would have thought such a move beneath you."

"Maybe it was", he answered ruefully. "You'll understand though, that under circumstances the prospect looks slightly questionable."

Enjolras was annoyed.

As long as the interactions of his comrades with the members of the female sex did not interfere with their overall goals and plannings, he chose not to argue but to ignore what they did. Now however, the fact that Courfeyrac was reluctant to speak with Charles Jeanne because of Adelaide was bordering on ridiculous. Vanity and pride had no saying in the dealings of revolution.

He was about to comment something to that effect when Courfeyrac shrugged resignedly.

"Well, I'll go if you absolutely insist. Although, to be honest it might be a good idea, especially in the light of circumstances, if you and Charles Jeanne would have a conversation as well."

All of a sudden Enjolras found himself in the middle of attention and for a brief instant felt sympathy for Courfeyrac's earlier predicament. For he had his own reasons to avoid the former military man and his group. They had quarreled – badly so – and one word had led to the next, and the sum of all their words finally concluded to a lack of communication that reached until the present day.

However, their dispute had been on the nature and spirit of revolution, instead of the fickleness of the human heart.

"I am not sure that this would be productive", Enjolras contradicted stiffly, shaking his head. "While there are a few things we agree on – our judgment of the quality of the current government, for example – there are more sources of dissent, I am afraid."

"Were", Feuilly intercepted softly. "What happened yesterday changes everything, does it not?"

A denial sprang to his lips in an instant; words of rebuff that came almost as a reflex too deeply ingrained to ignore, but with the same ferocity, there was the roar of the explosion. The feel of dislocation as Grantaire tore him off his feet. The weight of brick and wood as the house came down on top of him.

The curious, magnetic gaze of Grantaire, as the light faded from his eyes and he could feel a whisper of devotion and darkness.

Warmth and life fading out of a body, out of a mind that had dreamt and doubted.

And maybe loved.

"Enjolras?"

Courfeyrac's voice sounded worried, but it shook him out of the reverie. The images were hard to ignore, but he clawed his way out of the ruins of Corinthe and looked at his friend. All pretense of banter and complaint had vanished from Courfeyrac's eyes and been replaced by a deep frown.

Enjolras shook his head to clear his thought, but the truth would not go away.

"Yes", he responded, feeling as if he sounded nothing like himself at all. "Maybe."

It was surprisingly painful to admit.

"Yet change triggers change. And wherever it will lead us, at least things may come to motion."

That was Feuilly again, of course, and once more, Enjolras was stricken by the fact how much simple, true wisdom a man of his birth and living could have accumulated, all by himself and his determination. Enjolras had thought him singular; exceptional; until the last night, when he had been shown a similar spark of light by a street girl at the most unexpected of moments.

The comment was like a subtle, much needed reminder on why he was who he was. It had all started with Feuilly, somehow, the young fan maker he met by chance and who was the epitome of why the world was wrong at present and had to be put to rights by all means necessary. The spirit of the young working man had sharpened the diffuse feeling of unease, turning Enjolras from discontent to revolution, and like a memory of these glorious, long-gone hours, he felt an echo of the spirit that had started to drive him then and spurred him on until today.

"Indeed my friend", he responded, the deep serenity he felt finding its way into his voice again. "Indeed."

She had lost all sense of time, or space, or thought.

Every breath was a red-hot blaze, every heartbeat was a struggle, and she was caught in a moment of agony, like the sleeping beauty or snow-white in her coffin of glass.

Thoughts were frayed and fractioned, and she chased them one by one, but she was never fast enough and they slipped through her fingers with a mocking chuckle, dancing just out of her grasp. Turning her head, turning, turning, turning, until she did not know where pain ended and agony began, and she struggled for just another, and another breath.

Sometimes she thought she could discern images; flashes of light, a face from a dream and a smile from heaven, a dream of a face, a dream of a time, but nothing was solid and everything melted into air.

And then, there were voices, loud and brutal, shouts and yells that tore her out of her quiet reverie. Two men, one angry, one less so, both loud and invading and tearing her from her world of silence. The rage in the tone made her cringe, but the pain was too strong and she could not move, could not breathe. The red glare of pain turned to a blazing, mind-numbing white as she was grabbed, and shoved around, and in between the agony some of the disjointed sounds formed into words and phrases, a story only half told, in shreds and bits and pieces.

What… Fled… Don't know …Help….

Brother… Frater Antoine… Murder…

Hurt… blood

Stay… wake…

Back…

Soon…

Again she was shuffled around, and she heard someone screaming, agonized, like a little animal dying, pain exploding behind her eyes like the sun, and then the world settled down and the world shifted into dull silence again.

Slowly, her senses returned, in parts at least, and something within her quieted, the pain receding to a throbbing, her breath calming again. There was a measure of peace in the silence and stillness that was unexpected and almost sudden, and a sense of safety that she could not explain.

Panic, pain and darkness dimmed and allowed her thoughts to become somewhat clearer, hazed still, but more coherent. For a moment, she thought she was lying in her bed, the safest place she knew in this world full of insecurities, but a few heartbeats later, she realized that her body suggested that she was half sitting, not lying, and even though she was bedded softly she was certain that this was not her cot.

She turned her head slowly, her forehead touching resistance, and she felt a jolt going through her as a deep breath echoed her movement and softly grazed her face.

She was not alone.

Her head was pillowed on a shoulder, her back leaning against someone who was taking flat, cautious breaths, as if he were worried to waken the burn again that was raging in her side, now subdued like an animal lurking, waiting for its chance.

Her forehead was softly touching the jaw, and she felt the same flat, careful breaths stirring her hair softly, almost, as if the air was carrying a caress. An arm was wound around her, a hand applying pressure to the bundle of pain at her side.

And still, there was some measure of peace. The smell was faintly familiar, clean and new, and so very comforting that in a moment's weakness she almost melted against the warmth at her back and the arm tightened again, almost reflexively.

Slowly she realized she was spoken to, a steady, soft stream of words that she could not separate from one another, but that still provided some sort of line. She stilled almost involuntarily, listening more closely, and finally she realized that the sounds themselves were unfamiliar, syllables that made no words, words that made no phrases.

But there was something beseeching in that voice, something beckoning, a call, that slowly, carefully brought her back to wakefulness despite the fact that she did not, could not understand.

The lilt of the language was foreign, but not altogether alien, syllables rougher than her familiar mother tongue, but they did carry a notion that caught her attention.

„Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne,

Die liebt ich einst alle in Liebeswonne.

Ich lieb sie nicht mehr, ich liebe alleine

Die Kleine, die Feine, die Reine, die Eine;

Sie selber…."*

The voice was familiar like the back of her hand. Quiet, tender, but tempered with worry and a slightly urgent, anxious note. Dazed and tired as she was, she smiled.

"Jehan."

The voice halted, almost abruptly, and Azelma regretted to have spoken. There had been so much comfort in his whisper.

Finally, after a moment of hesitation, he continued.

"Azelma", he responded, carefully, and she felt his breath on her forehead a little closer, as if he were leaning in. "Are you… awake?"

"I don't know", she responded truthfully. Her thoughts were frayed, fractured and incoherent, but his voice was a lifeline in the dark, and so she clung to it. "What did you say?"

He did not answer immediately, but there was a slight hitch in his breath before he continued, and a minuscule flinch in the chest she was lying on.

"What do you mean?"

"Just now", Azelma précised. "The foreign words. What did you say?"

He hesitated again and took a deep breath. His arm around her was twitching slightly, but he kept his hand on her wound steady, at least, so the pain did not become worse.

"Nothing of consequence", he replied, and Azelma heard that it was a lie, but she was too tired, too pained to pursue it. Later, she decided, if there would be a later.

Silently she repeated to herself what she remembered of the words, the foreign syllables and phrases. It was easier than she would have thought.

"Azelma?"

There was a hint of panic in his question as he bowed down to her, slightly shaking her. The pressure on her wound shifted and she cried out in pain, clawing her fingers into the wooden boards she was sitting on, and immediately, the motion stilled.

"I am sorry… I'm sorry", he answered, sounding stricken. "I just… just thought you had gone again. Stay awake. Stay with me, please. You can sleep later, but you must stay awake for now, do you hear me?"

The urgency was so immediate that she nodded.

"What happened?" she asked, partly because she wanted something to focus on, to step away from the alluring darkness, and partly because she wanted to know.

"We did stupid things", he answered, slightly rearranging his hand pressing to her wound. Azelma winced. "And now we wait for help."

Azelma blinked feeling dizzy. The world was a mixture of light and dark, refusing to come into focus, spinning in its own time and rhythm.

"Who will find us?"

"Bahorel did already, thank God", Jehan answered and Azelma wondered for a moment who he was talking about before she remembered their conversation at the gates of Picpus.

"Where is he?" she asked with difficulty.

"He went to the convent", Jehan answered. "To get help for us."

Azelma nodded and leaned against him again, into the comfort, away from the throbbing pain, the weakness and the fear. Feeling safe was a strange notion she realized, like a dream she had almost forgotten, and it was curious that she found it now, when she was bleeding and life was slowly seeping out of her.

"Stay with me, Azelma." Somehow he felt how she was fading and was calling her back, his voice so close to her ear that she could feel his tangling breath. "Come back here."

It was hard. So hard. But she would have done anything she could at his request, and so she tried to focus.

"Wasn't he a monk?" she asked after a moment, a remnant of concern and clear thought assembled with difficulty. "Is it wise to go to the other brothers?"

"I cannot believe they were all involved, Azelma", he answered carefully. "There must have been some sort of deception… something."

"Are you sure?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"One can never be sure, Azelma", he answered, very softly, but solid as the rock beneath her feet. And then, after a moment's hesitation. "But one has to trust."

She shook her head feebly. A time when she had trusted blindly, deeply, seemed so long ago.

"How does one do it?" she asked almost painfully as she remembered how it had been, long ago, when she knew how to be happy.

The arm tightened around her again, carefully maintaining the cloth where it had been pressing to her wound, and his head moved slightly against hers.

"You just do it, Azelma. Just close your eyes and jump." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, tingled with an emotion she did not recognize, could not name.
It was so, so alluring. And yet...

"Show me how…" she begged, lost in a haze and an unfamiliar storm, blood loss clouding her judgement, his presence filling her senses, specters of the past dancing through her mind.

"I can't", he whispered, sadness tingling through his voice like a silver stream. "This is a step you have to go by yourself." The thought was frightening, but he continued, chasing away the sudden surge of fear. "But I think you have done it already."

Maybe he was right. Maybe he was wrong. But it was so difficult to think about it, difficult to focus and form coherent thoughts, but he was solid behind her, and warm, and inexplicably safe.

"Don't let me fall", she breathed, forming phrases with utmost concentration. "If I jump…"

Lips on her forehead as the last lifeline against the darkness.

"Don't worry, Azelma. I won't."

"Nightfall is still a couple of hours away", Enjolras stated soberly, hoping she would take up the half stated thread without him having to go into the details of his concerns in the middle of a crowded, chaotic market.

Éponine had come to collect him from the girls' apartment a few moments ago, all determination and hurry, and only after she had dragged him down to the streets he had learned that they would be meeting whoever in the Paris underworld was willing to bargain with them after sundown, and still, Éponine was hurrying as if they were running late already.

His comment had her stop in her tracks and she turned around, arms crossed before her. She had changed back into her customary, ragged chemise and skirt and all of a sudden he realized the difference, as if the clothing and Éponine were two separated, disconnected things. The image was disjointed, as if the one had outgrown the other or as if the picture were slightly out of focus.

He shook his head to chase off the ridiculous notion and focus on the task at hand.

"And we should count our blessings that we still do have some time. We'll need it."

"For what?" he asked frowning and Eponine stepped a trifle closer.

"Remember the prison?"

He did indeed. As well as her comments afterwards.

Deceit was something that did not come to him naturally. In fact, he abhorred it, but as a means to an end, it was necessary at times. Necessity had driven them into the back room of the Musain, away from overly curious eyes, necessity had him hiding all the powder and bullets that they had acquired over the past months. Necessity had brought deceit into his dealings, and necessity dictated what he had to do today.

"So you think a disguise is needed", he commented, not really in form of a question but rather to show her that he understood what she meant. Her response was a quick, curt nod, but a wry, almost humorous expression found its way into her eyes.

"We really should do something about that head of yours."

Enjolras frowned.

"Do you really think that will be necessary?"

The thought of wandering into a thieves den was uncomfortable as it were; to do so not as himself was infinitely more so, and yet, he had a fear she might be right.

"Listen, Monsieur", she began and he felt a sudden flash of irritation.

"Enjolras", he interrupted her almost angrily. She blinked in surprise.

"What?"

"It is an almost outrageous example of inequality", he explained with what little patience he had, "that you have asked me to call you by your given name while you insist on addressing me formally. I thought we had made this clear already."

She seemed confused for a moment at that, looking at him with her head slightly cocked and it was impossible to understand what was going on behind these dark eyes of hers. But finally, a curt nod was all the answer he received.

"All right", she said, and then, trying out the unfamiliar name. "Enjolras."

There was a certain satisfaction in the address that took him somewhat by surprise, but all he gave her was a curt nod. This was neither the time nor the place for sentimentalities.

Although, all things considered, there never was a time for this, anyhow.

"What did you want to say?" he came back to the original point and to her credit, Éponine followed the swing of topic fairly quickly, picking up the thread where they had left it moments before.

"All right, Enjolras", she continued, giving slight emphasis on his name. "I would propose that we get what I think we need. We will have to talk about how we present ourselves there, as well as who we will be dealing with, anyhow. Will not do to show up unprepared, because the others certainly won't be. So we have quite a lot of talking to do, anyhow, and this is not the time for it. I do not know if we are being watched, but maybe we are, and I would not spill all our intentions right away. I think to discuss this in your apartment would be the better choice."

Enjolras pondered this for a moment, but he had to admit there was some sense in what she was saying. She certainly had learned to find her own way during her rough times on the street. She was sharp and put her wit to good use.

This was a quality to be appreciated, at least.

"Fair enough", he answered, knowing that this would most probably be all the confirmation that she required. "Lead the way."

An hour and a half later they finally arrived at the apartment in Rue Pascal.

Enjolras could not fully suppress a relieved sigh when he locked the door while Éponine unceremoniously dumped their purchases onto the table in front of the couch, before she went to the window, silently looking out into the streets.

He had to admit that he had learned a share of the art of moving silently this afternoon.

Worried of being watched and found out they had gone ridiculously out of their way purchasing what items they needed, moving from one market to the other, appearing in a few shops – sometimes her alone, a few times him alone, now and then them together – and in some places even giving a few coins to a gamin to purchase items for them.

After having assembled all these things they had turned back to Rue Pascal, moving through the city in a way he never had before, slipping through passageways, entering houses just to leave them through the back door, climbing through windows twice and taking a long stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg, until Éponine was certain they were not being followed and could retreat to his apartment for further preparation.

Enjolras was not certain if he was annoyed or impressed at the level of paranoia displayed by the gamine, but he was entering her world; and here he had no choice but to trust her.

While the girl was still watching the streets carefully, Enjolras turned to assess the purchased goods on the table. Most of the money that he had had on his person had been turned into this set of items, and while he did not regret the money curiosity certainly had gotten the better part of him.

There were three different sets of clothing of a more simple nature, chemise, jacket, trousers, shoes and a cap. Part of it was a used buy and the garments showed the indication of significant wear, having been mended at some places with more – in the case of the trousers – or less – in the case of the jacket – skill.

Among these items also was a small glass flask, about the size of his palm, filled with a dark, oily substance. Enjolras frowned.

"What is this?"

Éponine turned away from the window and stepped up to him, taking the flask from his hand and rolling it around in her fingers. "Green walnut shells. Ironroot, and oil of myrthe, if I remember correctly."

Enjolras frowned, but he could not make sense of her description.

"You will pardon me that I do not know what this could be used for, I hope. Chemistry, I have to admit, is more of Combeferre's domain."

"It's to color black those curly locks of yours", Éponine informed him calmly, and this unsettled him slightly indeed, unexpected as it was.

Enjolras had never given much thought to his appearance. He was not blind to the fact, that other people seemed to notice something peculiar about it, although he had not bothered to ever wonder what or why.

The recent conversations both with Jacques de Morier and Éponine on the subject of his impression on others had forced him to reevaluate his opinions slightly, but still he considered this attention ill-placed, energy, that certainly could have been put to better use in other fields.

Yet, to dye his hair seemed to be a fairly drastic measure.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked and Éponine let herself drop into one of the armchairs next to the table.

"That depends a bit", she answered. "It's your risk, I guess. I've told you before that you are pretty easily recognized. It fully depends on you if you want people where we are going to know who you are. I wouldn't think that's wise, but you really should tell me."

Enjolras sat down in the opposite armchair with slightly more grace than the gamine and pondered this for a moment.

"But would they not know anyhow who they are dealing with if we are negotiating for a safe place for our comrades?"

Éponine nodded.

"That yes. But truly, on our way there there's lots of people you'll see that are only remotely connected to that man. I think I managed to get secrecy from Cortez himself, but I'm not sure that extends to all of his minions. Or those who stick around hoping to become minions on this. That's something that can go wrong very easily, and if I were you I'd like as few people as possible to know who you are."

"Ah", he said. "Hence the sharades for coming here."

Éponine nodded.

"Exactly."

"What about you?"

The gamine shrugged nonchalantly and kicked against the table from below.

"I'm who I am. They know me anyhow, I guess. We got to be careful that we're not seen too often, but it's not the first errand I'm running and it won't be the last. So as long as people don't connect you with Monsieur Enjolras, I think it should be fine."

Enjolras mulled this over. It was by no means a safe game – neither for him, nor for her. But it seemed as if there were no safeties in this world any more. And he did have to admit that some of what Éponine was saying made sense. There was no use in taking unnecessary risks. And vanity was a luxury that was not available to him.

"How long will it stay?" he asked. Éponine shrugged.

"Not long I think", she answered. "Never tried it on myself, but that should be a mixture that probably doesn't even survive a heavy rain."

Enjolras felt his lips turning up in a wry smile, almost despite himself.

"Hence the cap", he commented, and Éponine grinned.

"Yes", she confirmed. "Hence the cap."

Enjolras took a deep breath. He did not believe in doubts after a decision taken.

"All right", he said. "Do what you think is necessary."

She nodded, clapping into her hands and getting up.

"Let's get to work then", she recommended. "We have no time to lose."

This was distracting.

Unexpectedly, strangely, almost frighteningly distracting.

Enjolras was sitting on his armchair, a cloth draped over his shoulders, waistcoat and jacket discarded, while Éponine generously poured the content of the flask into his hair.

The mixture gave off a heavy, earthen smell, that was not quite pleasant – not quite unpleasant – reminding him of a forest in fall, or a log waiting to be put on the fire.

The cool liquid ran over his skin, tangling in his curls, and Éponine had started to distribute it, almost gingerly, her fingers running through his locks as she drew a comb through them, trying to ensure that they were completely covered and nothing would betray the usual, bright blond of his head.

The procedure was distracting.

He could feel the movements of her fingers over his scalp, careful, uncertain probably, and yet each of the tugs and flicks made itself recognized in a most disturbing manner that took him completely by surprise.

He was not even sure if the sensation was pleasant or unpleasant, for all the unfamiliarity of it, but he found himself utterly at loss as to how to react.

This was nothing more than a certain kind of coiffure, he told himself, but Éponine's fingers in his hair were nothing akin to the skilled hands of a barber. She roughly seemed to know what she was doing, but she was careful, and the professionalism that she had displayed throughout the preparations did not seem to seep into the movements now.

He felt a shiver running down his back involuntarily, only barely suppressing it.

She followed his curls to the nape of his neck, gathered them and drew the comb through them carefully, smoothing them out afterwards again; the now wet curls sticking closely to his head. He could not see it, but the image of her gingerly grooming the strands was vivid and surprising, and belately only he realized that he had closed his eyes.

Distraction. Fatigue and the events of the last day were catching up with him, just another level of being tired, and the cure to this was distraction.

"Tell…", he began, realizing that his voice was somewhat rough and grating, and so he stopped and cleared his throat before he restarted his question. "Tell me about the man we are going to meet."

"He calls himself Cortez", she began after a moment's collection of thought. "Although I'm sure that's not his real name."

Her fingers wandered to the top of his head, comb gliding to one side, her hand to the other, smoothing out the strands into the coloring ointment. He made a noncommittal sound to confirm that he was listening, clenching his teeth against the sensation.

"He's a smuggler", Éponine continued. "Although if looking at it from a right angle you might even call him a merchant. He purchases goods and brings them to the city. Word is he has connections to Spain and the Netherlands, and that's where he gets most of the things. Things from foreign places. Expensive stuff."

Her hands moved around his ears carefully, and he felt his fingers clenching into the armrests of the chair he was sitting in. Briefly he considered asking her to stop, but he did see her argument and he could see no rational reason to interrupt her. Doing it himself he would surely miss half of the strands and give quite the strange picture.

"He has a number of storehouses, meeting places and apartments where he allows his business partners to sleep from time to time. I was hoping he would give us one of them for a while."

Her fingers moved to his forehead, gathering the locks and taking them back. Her hand strayed to his forehead, and he guessed that she left some coloring on his forehead, because she swore softly.

"Close your eyes", she interrupted his tale and he complied with much more gratification than was justified, while she rubbed over his forehead with her sleeve, cleaning the stain away.

"He's also proud", she continued. "Fancies himself a nobleman, does not take well to being reminded of whatever his origins actually are. Agreeable enough if one pays him respect, and certainly not a murderer or cutthroat, unless I'm very badly informed. A man who thinks two steps ahead if you understand what I mean."

She stepped back and admired her handiwork, correcting here and there before there was a note of finality in her voice.

"There", she said, "Done. Now we wait an hour and then you can wash it out."

And only the absence of the feeling, falling on his head rather suddenly with the cruelty of a winter breeze, made him realize that what he had felt was enjoyment, some strange, unwanted, unbidden enjoyment at the touch.

For a moment, it was very hard not to mourn its loss.

And he had no idea what he should make of that.

*Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne,

Die liebt' ich einst alle in Liebeswonne.

Ich lieb' sie nicht mehr, ich liebe alleine

Die Kleine, die Feine, die Reine, die Eine;
Sie selber, aller Liebe [Bronne]
Ist Rose und Lilie und Taube und Sonne.

Poem by Heinrich Heine.

English translation:

The rose, the lily, the sun and the dove,

I loved them all once in the rapture of love.

I love them no more, for my sole delight

Is a maiden so slight, so bright and so white,

Who, being herself the source of love,

Is rose and lily and sun and dove