A/N: I truly apologize for the delay. I am still on this, believe me. But my time is not as much my own as I would have it.

Drop me a line if you like it?

Chapter 64: Uncomfortable truths

"See yourself for what you are, not what others try to make you."

They reached Picpus in the morning hours after too little of sleep, the city already awake, but weariness hanging like a heavy blanket over their shoulders.

Objectively speaking, it was already fairly late, the sun had long since begun its summer climb up to the zenith of its wandering,

Even Gavroche, indomitable and always cheerful, seemed subdued and tired as they neared the cemetery walls, sticking close to his fellow gamine and generally avoiding to talk altogether.

Eponine was no more forthcoming. Enjolras had briefly considered inquiring after the pronounced welt that had formed on her cheek, but something about the glare she gave him when his gaze strayed to the injury had him refrain from the question. Given the hour that she had arrived at the apartment in Rue Pascal, she must have had an interesting night, but she had shared none of it.

In parts attempting to keep an eye on the complete picture, in parts to divert himself from the weariness that was still clinging to his bones, he turned his head to Éponine and asked.

"Have your dealings been successful at least, yesterday night?"

Éponine snorted and shrugged.

"What can I say? Not much to tell", she answered, not even raising her head to look at him. There was something forbidding about her posture that had not been there before, a fallback into her demeanor during the first hours after the attack on the market. While he had seen her turning towards him and his friends in the past days, part of this progress seemed to have been lost during the night.

She seemed much farther away than yesterday.

For a brief moment, Enjolras wondered what had happened. It was clear from half-formed sentences that Eponine was fighting her own wars on a battlefield unfamiliar to him, and she seemed very unwilling to share any of this with him or his friends. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if Marius knew and made it a point to ask his friend when the occasion arose. Maybe he would be able to explain why despite her obvious agreement of helping them in their struggles, Éponine seemed to have retreated to the shadows again in the matter of a few hours.

Or maybe, he mused, it was just weariness that held both of them in a death grip, weariness and a foreboding of the days to come. Everything was coming to a focus in the end, and the time came when they had to decide what battles were the important ones. And maybe she was worried – fearful that the gamine in the convent was someone close to her, a friend, and ally, a relative even.

He realized how little about herself she had shared, for all her callous words on the nature of the world in general and her own circumstances in particular. But now was not the time.

"You will let me know if it becomes necessary." He did not phrase it as a question because it was not one. For all that he knew about Éponine, she had proven herself well capable of making her own decisions. A rare quality in a woman, as Enjolras would admit, but undeniably present and strong. By way of this, she earned the right to her own counsel, as the rest of them had, and Enjolras respected her for it. It was another way of granting and promising freedom.

Eponine answered with a curt nod, pressing her lips together until they seemed almost white.

"Sure", she finally said in a noncommittal tone that might have said everything or nothing, and he decided to leave her alone for the moment. He nodded to himself and changed the course of thought and conversation.

"I am afraid that the time we have is running short indeed. The funeral is drawing nearer, and before this, we should do our best to assemble as large a crowd as is possible. Therefore I would say that we have no more than…" he let his hand slip into the pocket of his waistcoat to take out a small watch. He frowned at the merciless clock hands that showed that it was already well past nine. "No more than an hour", he decided, "to spend in Picpus. Knowing that we are here on different errands, I would propose that the two of you go into the women's cloister to see to the gamine while I have a conversation with Prouvaire. We should meet at the gates again then around half past ten."

Éponine raised her head to him, and he could see a frown and a slight disapproval on her face, but apparently she did see the logic of his reasoning, for she responded with another shrug before she averted her eyes.

"Fair enough", she commented and nodded, falling silent again. Gavroche, uncharacteristically mute at her side, had nothing to add.

In silence, they arrived at the Picpus gates.

"How is she?"

The nun, a young, stout woman with dark eyes and a clear-lined face stopped in her stride and turned around to the two gamines that were trailing her through the corridors of the cloister.

Surprisingly, they had been received in a friendly manner – Éponine had half feared that they would need to call Enjolras again to talk them into the building, but this had turned out to be necessary at all. Their request to see the gamine that was brought in yesterday was well received, and actually met with friendly approval and some measure of relief.

"I assume that you are friends or relatives of her", she asked in a roundabout way, brow furrowed under her white, elaborate bonnet.

For reasons she could not well explain to herself, Éponine nodded.

"I am her sister", she said. And left Gavroche out of the bargain. The nun nodded, as if to herself, and measured her up and down before she continued.

"Your sister has had a difficult night, I am afraid. She has been wounded in the stomach, and although the fact that she is still alive gives measure to a small amount of hope, it is in gods hands alone how this will end." Her tone was warm, but professional, and for some reason Éponine felt she appreciated this more than she would have commiseration. The clear, strong words gave no possibility of interpretation, no matter how gruesome the truth. That was something to be cherished, at least.

"The stomach wound has done no immanent damage that we could discern", the nun continued. "Although I will be honest with you – stomach wounds are vicious things and often end in pain and fever. From our experience I should say there is a chance she lives, but there is an equal chance, I am afraid, that she will die."

Gavroche, at her side, took a breath that somewhat surprised Éponine, but she kept her focus on the nurse. If she kept her focus, she would be able to remain active.

Thinking of Azelma dead was out of the question anyhow.

"You are not a friend of softening a hard truth, are you?" Her voice was a mixture of appreciation and a desperate sort of humor. The nurse huffed slightly and raised a brow.

"Mademoiselle, I think I have a fair idea of the manner you have grown up, and I know that both you and I have seen things we would rather forget, but that have shaped us to be the way they are today. I can give you a lie that sounds pretty and sets your heart at rest, or I can give you a truth. I believe, that in the end, the latter one is more merciful."

Éponine considered this for a moment and found it to be true. It was a rare behavior though, especially for someone who had sworn her life to the church. Still, she decided to count her blessings and focus what was most important now.

Azelma.

"So when you say a difficult night…?"

"There has been fever, and although she has never regained consciousness throughout the night I am afraid that she was in a lot of pain. She slept uneasily, and there are definite signs of inflammation in the wound that she has received. The fever has eased in the morning, although I would not say that it has broken yet. It is still too high for such an optimistic estimate, and I fear your sister still has a difficult time ahead of her. We have watched her the best we could during the night, and the young student that was brought in with her has been with her most of the time as well, until we finally managed to put him to sleep as well." She gave a small smile, and all of a sudden Eponine realized how tired and drawn she looked. She had been fetched, when Éponine had asked for Azelma, and given the details she had just been given, she was probably talking to her sister's caretaker. Which meant that she had been up all night as well.

"Thank you." The words were out before she could even think of it, and the nun responded with a small smile.

"It is what I was born to do", she answered. "Although I probably do not expect you to understand."

And with this, she turned on her heel and moved on, trusting the gamines to follow her through the corridors, her stride confident and calm. And Éponine, pondering her words despite herself, despite her worry, had nothing to do but to follow.

It must be nice, she thought, almost absent-mindedly, to be certain of one's purpose in life like this.

"She looks dead."

A deep line had formed on Gavroche's forehead, as he watched the silent form of his sister, lying in bed, motionless and quiet. His voice was meek and subdued, uncharacteristically so. He cowered at Azelma's side, chin propped up on one arm that was lying on the matress next to his sister, and for a moment actually looked as young as he still was.

Éponine was suddenly sticken by the surprising thought of how much he actually cared.

"She isn't, though", she said, meaning to sound encouraging, but Gavroche's nod was barely conceivable. Éponine understood him very well. Azelma was indeed a gruesome sight to see.

Her upper body was bound in bandages, tightly, so that what little shape she might have had was all covered in linen and cloth. A loose white shift added to this impression, and a thick coverlet in the end made it look as if there was no body hiding in that bed at all. Only a pale face, a thin sheen of sweat making the sickly white skin shine in the morning light, was clearly visible on the pillows.

Azelma was barely breathing, her mouth opened slightly as if every take of air was an effort in itself. When they had arrived, first the nun, then Éponine and finally even Gavroche had held their hand in front of Azelma's mouth and nose to see if she was even still breathing, but for now she was, a small grace at least.

She was calm, which the nun considered a blessing after a night of crying, tossing and turning, an indication of agony receding, and those words had hurt Éponine deeply – knowing how much her sister had suffered, and knowing she had not been there to help her.

Éponine touched the coverlet and found it soft and pliant. A featherbed. Something they had not had in eternity. Like a gift from another world.

"It's been a while, hm?" Gavroche mused as he saw her inspecting the bedding, her little brother guessing her thoughts all too easily. But she was not in the mood for a quarrel. The sickbed of her sister did not invite to extend the discontents between her sister and brother.

"Yes", she answered peacefully. "For all of us, I guess."

"The elephant is not too bad", Gavroche answered, almost defensively. "It is mostly dry, and we have a few blankets…"

Éponine would have almost smiled at the passionate plea for the home her brother had carved out for himself.

"I don't doubt that the elephant is not too bad", she answered. "I guess it is in many ways better than the Gorbeau tenement, I guess."

Gavroche, raising his eyes towards his older sister, nodded.

"That's easy, though", he answered. "Anything is better than that." There was so much conviction in his voice that a blatant denial seemed out of the question. And yet…

Éponine's gaze went back to her pale, frail sister lying between the cushions as if she were about to be swallowed by them. She had not moved the slightest since they had arrived and gave no notice that she even was aware of their presence.

It was a painful sight.

"We were together, at least", she said, a hundred days in mind, where Azelma and herself had run from her father's wrath, had secretly sought their mother's protection, had found solace in the company of the other. A hundred scenes of trying to hold on to what was, to memories of the inn, and yet, it had been slipping, bit by bit, luxury, and treats, and then, in the end, love.

Gavroche fell silent for a moment, and when Éponine shot him a glance she realized, that his small hand had sneaked under the coverlets, presumably to take Azelma's hand in his. His gaze was pensieve, wandering into the void to something that only he could see.

"I was never together with you", he said, after a while, rough and callous and so much not Gavroche. "You were together, Azelma and you, and mother, to an extent. But I wasn't."

"You left, Gavroche", Éponine reminded him, trying to keep the anger out of her voice, but failing. "You just turned the back to us and left."

He huffed softly.

"It's not as if I was missed", he answered.

"Not true." Eponine shook her head violently and checked her voice, realizing she had become loud enough to possibly tear her sister from direly needed sleep. Maybe it was unwise to start this discussion with Gavroche, but somehow her battered sister had left her with little defense against her own, callous thougts. "You were missed. Dearly. We were just fending by. You know that mother's not as strong as she should be, and Azelma is dear, but she's a sheep, not a wolf. We could have needed some more strength in that family, but you just turned your back and left. You just forgot about us. You still do. You have your own life with your surrogate brothers and the streets you know so well. But if you ever come back, it's only to show off how much you do not need us. Even if we would have needed you. If Azelma would have needed you."

The moment the words were spoken, Éponine realized that she had gone too far. Her little brother's eyes were shining, and he sniffled.

"You're not fair", he acclaimed.

She wanted to deny his words openly, but she realized that her little brother was worth more than that and gave the matter some real consideration.

"What do you mean?" she finally asked.

Gavroche shrugged, wiping his nose with his arm.

"How can y'not have seen?" he asked. "You were so blind, 'Zelma and you. I was five. But it was only you and Azelma who ever got to anything. Winter apples? Not for me. Clothes? Leftovers from you, made to look like boys clothes if I was lucky. Things father got heaven knows where on worse days. Their kind words were all for you two, 'Ponine. Have you ever seen mother waking me up in the morning? Because I surely can't remember that happening."

Éponine shook her head, replaying childhood days she remembered. He had always been there, always cheerful, always resourceful. Sly, if he needed to be, and even then wise beyond his age.

"You seemed to be doing fine", she contradicted, but she knew herself that the argument was weak to say the least, and Gavroche briefly hid his dirty face against Azelma's white bedsheet.

"I was doing fine cause I had no other choice. Sure, I knew things, but that was because that was how I ever got anything. And I was fine, cause I wanted to be fine. That's what you get to choose, Ponine, when things are rough. You get to choose what ye are. That's the only thing y'get to choose, and then you pay the price of that."

The magnitude of the words were hanging in the room with gigantic force. It was a phrase that Éponine herself had never thought of, another unexpected piece of wisdom from her brother, and one that carried so many implications that she would not even know where to start.

This was, she mused, as trails of thought seemed to be tumbling and chasing each other, probably what Enjolras truly fought for. To see this statement of Gavroche become true.

Which led to the interesting – frightening – question of what she, what Azelma, had chosen to be and how they could turn back from that road. But maybe, they had started this path already.

Éponine let his words hang for a moment, watching her little brother who very purposefully avoided to meet her eye at all. And wondered, if all those years, she had harboured a grudge in vain.

"But we were a family." Her rebuffals were becoming more ridiculous with every word, and there was a part of her who knew this very well, and still she felt not ready yet to fully accept her little brother's side of things. Gavroche snorted into Azelma's bedding.

"You were a family", he gave back. "I was a pimple on your butt. So I left. And was better off for it."

And still he was here. Sitting next to Azelma, as uncharacteristically serious as could be, holding her hand when even Éponine had not reached out to her yet. Hiding his face from her. Crying and losing tears. No matter what he said, no matter what his bravado, Gavroche had not left their family, not fully. There was still some part of him that was attached, if not to the parents, then at least to the sisters. He had helped them rescue her father out of prison. He had been full of useful advice when it came to her situation with the Friends of the ABC. He had volunteered to help her with Montparnasse.

He was still her brother.

And she had done him wrong.

"I'm sorry", she said, finally admitting defeat, placing a careful hand on her brother's shoulder. "I'm really sorry."

Gavroche sniffled into the bedding.

"I'm sorry too", he replied, muffled, and somehow, for all his clever lies, she believed him.

On the other side of the cloister wall, Enjolras' errand had taken quite a different turn. Like Éponine, he had asked for admittance to the wounded, and like her, he had not been sent away. But instead of being led to Jehan, he was brought to an elderly man, with greying, unruly hair and a calm demeanor, wearing the robe of a Picpus monk.

He learned that his name was Father Coudrin and did not need to be told that he was faced with the head of the Picpus order.

The man who had harbored a snake at his breasts for apparently many years.

But also the man, who, according to Bahorel, seemed to be genuinely grieved and interested in clarity when it

"I have no intention to separate you from your friend as such", Coudrin said when faced with Enjolras' anger at this apparent change of plans. He seemed to be immune to Enjolras' displeasure, meeting his gaze unblinkingly, but also without scorn. "I understand your desire to see him, so please, let me explain."

Enjolras, after a moment's consideration, nodded in confirmation.

"Your friend is currently sleeping", he explained. "While his injuries are not very severe, he still needs rest. He has slept very little to nothing this night. We have found him, in the small hours of the morning, in the room of the girl that was brought here at the same time, and who is harbouring much graver injuries." He offered Enjolras a glass of water while he continued to explain. "He was sleeping when we found him, but I suspect the night was a rather short one on the whole."

Enjolras nodded. He was on the verge of asking, how and why his comrade would have spent the night there, but considering that it was Jehan they were speaking about, the possible explanations were so manifold that it was not even worth posing the question.

The young poet had a soft heart, and compassion and worry for other human beings had always featured topmost on his mind. It was only natural that he would feel remorse for a passing acquaintance, that had ended up almost dying for him.

A reasonable explanation for the matter being found, Enjolras nodded.

"I will be honest – I had hoped to get his account on what happened yesterday in the chapel on the cemetery. I have gotten a description from Bahorel – who, however, was not present, as far as I understand – and a firsthand account is always the more reliable one."

Father Coudrin nodded solemnly.

"I can understand that and I agree. I would hope there is still time for this once your comrade has awakened."

Enjolras responded with a thin smile.

"I am afraid, father, that time is in rather short supply at the moment."

Father Coudrin raised a brow at the statement, but did not ask. Instead, he took a sip of his own water.

"However that may be, while I fully understand your desire to see Monsieur Prouvaire, the medic in me begs you to wait a few hours. Maybe, in the mean time, you and I may exchange some more information on what we know about my infameous former brother and his doings during the last years."

"Bahorel has told me", Enjolras answered, not one to deny a proposal that indeed seemed to make sense, "that you have given him the account of what you knew about him when you spoke to him yesterday."

"I did", Coudrin confirmed. "I gave him all the information I had that day about Antoine Lauriel. However, since then, I have had the time to gain some more intelligence than I had before."

Enjolras raised a brow. This was not what he had expected from the visit, but if Father Coudrin had news to share, he was more than willing to listen. The more they knew about their remarkably able enemy, the better.

"Pray, do continue, Father", he encouraged him.

Coudrin nodded and started with a rundown of the information that Enjolras already knew. The full name – Antoine Lauriel; the circumstances of the joining. His occupation on the cemetery since he had started to work with the order."

"And there was never a piece of suspicion that he might in the end not be who he claimed to be."

"Monsieur", Coudrin answered, "I take you for an educated man, and therefore, even though you have possibly not witnessed it personally, you may well know that the early days of my order were… turbulent times in Paris. It is part of our vows that we leave behind that which bound us to a previous life, therefore, technically, by joining the order one ceases to be the person one was before." Enjolras was about to comment, when a fine smile on Coudrin's features made that unnecessary.

"Of course I am aware, that such a thing is not possible in full. It is an offer, none the less. We offer oblivion, and we trust in god to judge, to in the end weigh the good against the bad and decide which way the scale shall turn. We offer confessions – which are of course under the veil of secrecy – and we offer to then keep whatever we learned during this in our hearts and close to God. Nowadays", he looked at Enjolras, and again he was stricken by the calm this man was capable of exhibiting, "nowadays these sorts of confessions are mandatory. In the chaotic early days, however, this practice was not… that strongly enforced. Antoine, on the other side, did take the opportunity to confess; however our records show that it was I who took his confession, and while I cannot remember the event in itself, I would certainly remember if there had been anything… suspicious."

Enjolras pondered this for a moment. The naivete of the priests was somewhat striking, however, he appreciated a man who stood up for his principles, no matter what they were.

"I see", he said. "Is… that all?"

Father Coudrin shook his head.

"By no means"; he contradicted. "Our records show that he claimed to have no family living – not an uncommon circumstance when someone choses to join – and that his wordly posessions, which were few, were included into the order treasury. This is what happens with the posessions of all newly appointed brothers."

Enjolras frowned.

"Would it be… possible to hold something back?"

The monk gave a short huff of a laugh.

"I suspect, Monsieur, that you can give the answer by yourself. We are no accountants – although our business makes it necessary to keep books – and we are no government agents to sniff around in a person's belongings to see if there is something he has hidden. On our side, there is God, and we trust in him and his judgement. We never have felt the inclination to spy on our brothers. Not giving up what they own to the church… is against the rules of the order, but if they did so for valid reasons, it will be God to pass judgement on this, not us."

Enjolras nodded. This was not unexpected, in fact he probably would indeed have been able to give that answer to himself. It was a sad thought that God apparently did not protect them from being that grievously deceived.

The implications of this, however, were a discussion for another man. Combeferre, perhaps.

Enjolras had no patience for this.

"And the posessions were also nothing out of the ordinary."

Father Coudrin shook his head.

"We checked the order's books. A sensible amount of money, a musket and the tattered remains of an armor, stemming from his time in Russia. A few smaller items. Nothing unusual for a man of lower bourgeoisie. His record reads like that of quite a few disappointed warriors of the Napoleonic wars."

He folded his hands in front of him.

"I have, however, spoken with the brother who was in charge of his training, and he has conveyed to me that he was under the impression that the name "Antoine" was perhaps false.

Enjolras rose both his brows.

"How so?"

"Frater Josephus is a very perceptive man, Monsieur", Father Coudrin explained. "He remembers it because it caught his eye. As he explained it, his reactions to his name – especially in the beginning – were a bit to slow for truth. He did not press, though."

Enjolras nodded.

"I see. Did he have any papers when he arrived?"

"He did", Father Coudrin confirmed. "And as far as we could judge, they were in order. However, in those days…"

He shrugged somewhat helplessly. Enjolras felt a mixture of sympathy and annoyance.

"Would it be possible to have these papers?"

Father Coudrin frowned.

"What for?"

"Granted, it is a long time ago", Enjolras explained, "but it may be possible to still find out if these papers were good or false, and in the latter case who made the forgery."

He himself had of course no idea how he could achieve such a kind of information. But quite out of his own accord, the pale, narrow face of Éponine had appeared in front of his mental eye. If anyone could find out, she could. This was fully within her domain, and if there was information to be gathered, he was sure he could entrust her with this task.

She had proven capable more than once.

"A good idea", Father Coudrin confirmed. "I will see to it that we bring you the paper – borrowed of course. I trust on your word to bring it back."

Trust again. Enjolras felt his lips twitch.

"Of course", he replied.

"In addition", Coudrin continued, "we have been since yesterday going through his personal affairs. There was not much in the way of memorabilia – a few books but nothing that would raise suspicions. My monks are looking through the books as we speak, if any unusual notes are found within. However, tied to his matress, we found this."

Out of his robes, he produced a small item and rolled it over the table to Enjolras.

Taking it, he recognized a signet ring.

Fabricated in gold, it carried no crest that he was familiar with, an intricate mixture of patters and designs that told him nothing at all.

He would have to show this to Courfeyrac, who, being of the noble class, would probably stand a better chance at defining whom this crest belonged to – if there even was something to be said about it.

None the less, a signet ring was not amongst the expected possessions of a monk born to lower bourgeoisie.

"Can I keep this as well?" he asked and Coudrin nodded.

"Do you know the sigil?"

Enjolras shook his head.

"I do not have the slightest clue", he admitted.

"I see"; the monk answered. "What is curious however, is that I asked my brethren, some of them noble-born about this sigil, and I am afraid that the answer from all of them was much the same as yours. There are theories, of course, similarities, but it seems as if whoever fashioned this sigil, took great pains to not be found out – or traced back to a certain group of people."

"Wise", Enjolras had to acknowledged, as much as it annoyed him to be faced with another proof of their enemy's cleverness. "A sigil that is unconnected to any of the current players. Devised and only known to the participants. This is of course the safest – and least dramatic way of working."

"Possibly", Father Coudrin answered, "although one has to remember that a curious sigil also may attract attention. Be that as it may – this may be a clue to those that Antoine Lauriel has worked with. So yes, keep it for the moment and try to find out where our renegate brother has indeed come from."

Enjolras, with a flash, realized that Coudrin was taking the situation with surprising calm. He was not sure what he would have done, had he realized a stray sheep of that magnitude in his own ranks, but the composed activity that Coudrin exhibited, certainly would not have been his method of choice.

Which was a curious thing in itself. But Enjolras did not believe in silent observations in times like these.

"Ah", Coudrin answered to his question, his smile somewhat self-deprecating. "Monsieur, you may rest assured that this event grieves me no less than many of my brothers. But in times of rough sea, the captain must have a sure hand. Anger will not help me or any of us in this matter, and neither will sorrow. I will say my prayers and cry my tears at the appropriate time, but for now, I will be strong for the sake of others. I am sure you understand that."

There was something peculiar in his gaze that held Enjolras' with surprising force. He was not used to being glanced at so openly by a stranger, but Coudrin, in his own manner, seemed utterly and thoroughly fearless.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Enjolras could not help feeling that the Father was trying to send him a message, a truth beyond the words that he was speaking. But that would imply knowledge of his activity beyond what Coudrin should have – or a surpreme knowledge of the human being.

Uncomfortably, he felt reminded of his callous conversation with Jacques de Morier, that had equally run along the lines of the responsibilities of a leader.

But for now, Enjolras had no time for being something else than he was.

"I do", he therefore answered, although it did not feel like a truth to the core.

But it was all that he had today.