A/N: You will hate me... I know this is going slower in the way of romance that you would have it, and I apologize... soomehow the story found its own pace, and this chapter was so long already, so I decided to cut it in half with respect to my previous planning - but this will hopefully give more time for E/E interaction in the next chapter, I faithfully promise...

So, here is basically the end of the beginning. The end of that very long, very dreadful day of blood that Paris has seen. After that, the damage has been wrought, and our friends are left to deal with it...

The opening move will be concluded, and it's time for a response...

It's the longest chapter yet, and I hope you will enjoy it none the less. I hope, I have set up the board, and all of the protagonists are now in the field.

Unless, of course, something springs at me later.

Anyhow:

Thanks to Tinmiss, my faithful reviewer - you made my day! Thanks also to those who favved and recced, it's nice to have feedback and see that things are appreciated.

Now, without further ado:

Chapter 10: Night of blood

"We all believe in something .. greater than ourselves, even if it's just the blind forces of chance." "Chance favors the warrior."

"How did it go?"

He hesitated for a moment.

"Tolerable, all in all. We have been very successful at the Barriere, in Saint Antoine and in Picpus. As to the Cougourde, there have been three wounded. Two of them may not live the night."

"The knife?"

"He is on the move. His man seems to be unsuspecting still."

"What about Enjolras?"

A moment's pause only.

"He lives. Alas. There has been a distraction."

Again, a fraction of silence.

"Pity. He may well be the most dangerous of all. Now things will be more difficult."

"Yes. But not impossible."

"Not impossible. That is true. Proceed then."

A rustling of cloth, as someone got up.

"Very well", he said. "We will wait a few days for things to develop and for the dust to settle. I will inform you of my next steps."

"Cosette!"

She passed through the hedges and branches of the enchanted garden, her steps light and careful on the dark, fertile soil. The call was only soft, but she had heard. She would always hear.

Moonlight kissed the intricate patterns of the garden entrance, kissed the flowers, which had folded their petals for the night with loving tenderness, kissed the hair, the eyes of the man on the other side of the gate.

She hesitated for a moment, just to take in the scene, unseen yet, watching him as his eyes darted through the green curtain before him, trying to discern if she was there, if she was coming.

"I'm here", she whispered, and he heard, because his hands on the gate tightened in response, and the quick movement of his eyes intensified, as he tried to pierce the patterns of dark and silver, that hid her in her white nightdress so well.

And then, he froze. The eyes, clear like a summer morning, remained open almost in shock, their movements ceasing, his lips opening just a fraction to release a breath she hadn't realized he had been holding.

And then, she saw the scarlet flower of red blood blossoming on his chest.

She thought she might have screamed, as she shot out of sleep, into a sitting position, throwing blankets and cushions in the process, but when she waited, anxiously, for something, someone in the house to stir, there was nothing, so she figured, that the scream had to have been the last thing that still belonged fully to the dream. Not like the quickening of her heartbeat that was still racing in pain and fear and anguish. Not like the horrified tightening of her chest at the picture she had seen.

It had been a long time since her last nightmare. They had taken long to cease after she had left the Thenadiers, and there had been many a night, where she had cried herself to sleep, night by night, in the arms of the man that had become her father.

She took a deep breath, and another one, willing the fear and anguish down. The night changed many thoughts, and it was only too clear, that it had been the events of the day, that were replaying in her mind. It would pass.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to find a calm center in the tempest that was her worry, reopened them and looked around in the dark room.

The curtains were drawn, but there were few rays of moonlight, that had found their way in, leaving a minimum of light, at least.

It was complemented by the light coming from below the door.

Cosette frowned. She did not know how late it was, but she had not gone to bed too early, and did have the distinctive feeling of having slept for a while.

So he was awake again, pondering and worrying.

Her father was a man of constant shadow. He was good to her, loved her, doted on her, and yet, there was a part of him that she would never see, never touch. Only rarely, she would see it surface, a sea of pain behind his eyes, and then she would be sent away, and he would hide, until he felt he could face her again, calm and sober, all shadows gone.

It was his burden to carry, but more often than not, Cosette would wish she could help him, give back to him some of the goodness she had received from his hand.

She brushed aside some blonde curls from her face. She was too disquieted; there was no thought of sleep to be had, this night. Blindly, she fished for her dressing gown, which hung at the foot of her bed, ready to take, and slipped in it. On soft feet, hardly making a sound, she left her room.

The door to her father's study was left ajar, the source of the light she had seen from inside coming from two oil lamps, one on his study table, the other one standing next to him, as he was sitting in one of the armchairs, disheveled, in chemise and trousers, without waistcoat or jacket, staring at something that only he could see, his eyes in silent torment.

Slowly, Cosette approached him.

"Papa…?"

He flinched visibly and, after a moment's hesitation, turned towards her in a slow, steady movement. A frown appeared on his face, and for a moment, she thought he would scold her, but then he pressed his lips together and forced some sort of calm on his face. He stood, with measured movements, and turned towards her, eyes almost impassive as he looked at her.

But Cosette knew his black moods, had known them since she was a child, and she did not fear them. He was inaccessible during this time, but she would only have to wait to have her Papa back again, but today… today she was not sure if she had that option.

"What is going on?" she found the courage to ask. There could be only two sources for his condition.

The one might be a petty jealousy, for now he knew of the love between her and Marius Pontmercy; so he might harbor a fear that he might lose his precious daughter to a man, but that fear could be alleviated. Or, on the other hand, she had not forgotten the look he had shared with the assassin on Marius' life. And now, that his secrets had become entwined with the one she loved, Cosette found that she could no longer stay silent.

Her father, however, was unaware, and carefully stepped towards her, a tender hand touching the blond curls, which were still tangled from sleep.

"Don't concern yourself with it, Cosette", he said softly. "It will be alright. Don't worry."

She shook her head softly.

"I…", she began uncertainly, "… am sorry you found out this way about… Marius."

The sadness in his eyes was bone deep, and his smile seemed to hurt him, and tear him apart at the seams. And yet…

"Again, Cosette, do not concern yourself with this. I…", the smile took on a slightly rueful quality, "I confess, I hoped that it would be some time yet before something like this happened, but it is not to be." He shook his head. "He is a reckless fellow, this Marius."

"He is the best of men", she answered, boldly, and stepped towards her father. "He has a good heart."

Her father shook his head softly.

"That I do not doubt, Cosette. He seems to be a young man of some character, but… we both know that he is one of those who stir unrest in this country, Cosette. He is reckless… and entangled in a dangerous web. My dear, my dearest daughter…" A flicker in his eyes that she could not place, gone too soon, "that is a fool's errand you would attach your heart to."

How could she explain? How could she explain that his dreams, the proud way he fought for what he believed, his heart, that made him see past the barriers of the caste he was born into, past his own comforts, were part of why she loved him?

She settled for something easier.

"It is too late, Papa", she whispered, softly, almost tenderly. "I love him too well for this."

"Foolish!" Her father burst out angrily and whirled around, turning his back on his daughter, who had flinched at this sudden show of temper. "I will not have it, Cosette! This is a foolish thing to do, and it is not like you!"

She took a calming breath and remembered a pair of clear eyes. Remembered the way he spoke, the shouts and whispers, as he was calling to the crowd, remembered the way he whispered, urgently, to her between the gate.

For him. Always for him.

"Have you not raised me to be compassionate?" she whispered. "Have you not raised me to see the good in those that I meet? He is good, Papa."

"Possible." He all but spat out the word. "But there is good, and then there is the law. What do you expect will happen, Cosette? Let me tell you what will happen."

He began to pace, and his voice was soft, almost calm, but all the more cruel for it, as he mercilessly lay out his conclusion.

"This… upraising, that is being stirred in the city will fail. The king's arm reaches too far. If this continues the way it goes, be it through the hands of a sinister man on a dark errand, by a stray bullet on an eventual barricade or by the hands of a merciless law – if these children continue the path they have taken, they will fall, and by whatever means, in the end, Marius will die."

Now he turned back to her, and his face was full of love and a sadness so deep, that it struck her to the bone.

"I would spare you this heartache."

"It is too late for that, father", she replied, her heart in her voice. "Much too late already."

She hesitated for a moment, but then, taking courage, took a step towards him, and a leap of faith with this. She held his gaze, and lowered her voice, to an imploring tone, her voice trembling only slightly.

"Then help him", she whispered. "Help them. You know who it was that attacked them. I have seen it. You know the man. You shroud yourself in secrets, Papa, and I know that there are reasons. But now… now you could to them good. Help them. Help me." And then, softer, sadder, "help us." It took all that was within her to hold his gaze, and she went on, afraid, if she stopped, that she might not be able to follow it through. "I know that you can… but will you not? For him… and me…?"

For a moment, he stood motionless, his gaze fully unreadable. For a moment, Cosette saw pain resurfacing, like a powerful dragon raising its head, but then he turned, quickly and violently. His whole posture vibrated with tension, and Cosette wondered, whether she had gone too far.

"You have no idea, what you are asking", he said flatly. "No idea, child." His fists clenched at his side. "Tomorrow", he said, "we will leave for the Rue de l'Homme Armee. I suggest you pack , after you have slept."

Cosette, who had been caught completely unawares, stared at him in horror. Marius did not know about this second place, and he would be lost to her again.

"What? But, Papa, I…"

"You heard me." Still, his voice was fully emotionless, but the firmness in it did not allow any contradiction. "And now go back to sleep. You should not be up and about in the middle of the night."

Her mind reeled at possible ways to change his mind, but when he turned to look at her reprovingly, she understood, that there was no swaying, no pleading, no begging in this mood. He was not to be swayed.

All that remained was to hope, that tomorrow would be different.

The silver hall, of course, was a euphemism.

For those, who were not prone to the code, that Patron-Minette and their associates were using, it would be highly difficult to associate the almost poetic description with the actual location – an abandoned arm of the Paris sewers, just off Place St. Michel – but the name had been given for a coin of silver, that had been found by Gueulemer some months back, and he had been bragging so much about it that the name had stuck.

Eponine was the first to arrive, Montparnasse still at her side, and together they watched the others trail in, one by one, observing in silence first the shuffling of her father, then the silent steps of Claquesous, Gueulemer's heavy gait and Babet's confident stride, until they were all assembled, creatures of the underworld, and their time would begin.

Eponine had tried to wash the blood out of her blouse with Montparnasse's help – she certainly did not feel like answering her father's questions as to how that particular injury came to pass – and if she moved carefully, neither would the relatively clean bandage under the torn blouse show, nor would her walk betray the hurt that she had suffered in the morning.

It was more difficult to hide the fatigue, though. It seemed, as if the events of the day were catching up with her at the most inconvenient of times.

Yet, she knew that protests were futile, and dangerous on top of that; and therefore she followed her accomplices, quiet as a shadow, with the practice of way too many years.

Rue d'Olivel was a short street not far from Les Invalides, in the quiet outskirts of Faubourg St. Germain, where the houses were surrounded by gardens and walls – from stone and iron, or from tangled hedges, as in the case of the place they were standing in front of right now.

Eponine was sitting in the shade of a pear tree, that stretched its branches over the thorny hedge, throwing some shadow on the small, almost idyllically quiet street and found herself wishing for a cloudy sky.

But there was no such luck. It was the end of May, and summer was upon them, and the skies were clear and bright, the moon almost full, shining its silver light onto the scenery. Yet, her father had not be swayed from what he intended to do that night.

The house was relatively well accessible, surrounded only by the thorny hedges, that had several prominent gaps, big enough for a fully grown person to push through it – not without difficulty, but still much easier than climbing fences and walls – and yet, the setup of the garden and the shape of the building within belied a considerable wealth.

A sitting duck, her father had said. An easy target.

And as it was their habit, Eponine was made to wait outside, to watch for the dangerous eyes of the law, to warn them in case of a stray policeman coming their way and jeopardizing their plan. She had done it many times before, and there was a serenity in lingering somewhere around these beautiful, rich houses, in the quiet of the night, left to her own thoughts.

Recently, these nights had belonged to Marius, to her dreams. She had fooled herself into believing, that one of those houses was theirs, that he was home, waiting for her to return from a midnight stroll. And she would only need to step over the threshold to see him greeting her, smiling that captivating smile of his. Or he might seek her out, wondering where she had gone, and there were arms around her waist, before she knew it, and his voice whispering in her ear: I missed you…

"You still here?"

Ah, yes. This night, she was not alone. However he had done it, Montparnasse had been successful in convincing her father, that four eyes would see more than two, for whatever reason, and so he kept watch with her.

He hadn't done that in a while, and the company was actually not so bad.

"Mhmh", she made an affirmative sound for lack of a better response.

"You bored, too?"

She had no idea, how long they had been sitting here. Time flew, when she was living in the brighter recesses of her mind, where Marius was hers and the world a good place to live in. But that was certainly none of Montparnasse's business.

"Yap", she therefore lied, and he chuckled, nudging her side in a gesture of familiarity, mindful of her wounded shoulder.

"Can think of so many more interesting things to do, hm, sweet?"

His teeth were flashing in the near darkness, when Eponine gave him a studied withering look. This was a conversation they had had for more times that she cared to remember.

"Drop it, 'Parnasse."

He took it in his stride and sighed dramatically, getting up to stretch his legs and walked a few steps along the hedge, his gaze wandering from one side of the street to the other.

And then he stopped.

"Eh", he whispered. "Ponine. Come here."

There was something worrying in his voice, and she complied, followed him up to one of the rifts in the hedge, where he was pointing to something on the floor. She crouched beside it to get a better look and saw, in the ground that was still moist from the rain in the last days, the remnants of a small bootprint, fairly fresh, as far as she could tell.

And yet, none of them had taken this entrance into the mansions garden.

Uneasiness crept over her and she found it mirrored in Montparnasse's eyes.

And before she could say something, the silence was torn apart by a blood-curdling scream.

Eponine reacted on instinct.

Maybe it was the strange day that lay behind her, the fatigue and sense of surrealism that had come over her after the events of the hours past. Or maybe, it was the memory of a room full of youthful enthusiasm, every breath speaking of hope and bravery, the firm conviction of we have to do something, we cannot stand back, waving through the room like a carefully crafted spell.

Whatever it was, instead of taking flight into the streets, Eponine rushed through the hedge towards the building, with half a mind of helping her comrades and half a mind of finding out what's going on, ignoring the surprised, albeit quiet call of warning uttered by Montparnasse. She dimly realized, that he followed her, trying to catch up with her, but Eponine was quick, always quick, and she reached the door long before he did.

It was slightly ajar and she pushed through it without hesitation.

The inside of the house was in turmoil. There was clanking somewhere on the ground floor, and distinct sounds of quick steps and the crashing of wood from above. Eponine, in a split second, decided and bolted up the stairs, taking two steps for one, while from below, she heard the voice of her father cursing violently, only broken by quick, albeit less loud talking from Babet.

But there was no time, and she paid it no heed, instead turning towards the source of the sounds in the upper floor. From the streets, she could hear more shouting. More steps. A whistle.

The police.

Silently, she cursed, but there was no time, no time at all, and she reacted on pure impulse, pushing to the heart of the source and took a step directly into someone else's hell.

The bedroom was lit by the moon shining through the window, but even this poor light only insufficiently obstructed the gruesome scenery before her.

The door to the adjacent balcony was ajar, curtains flaying in the warm summer wind. The moon shone on a broad bed, where, motionlessly, a young man was splayed, eyes directed towards the heavenly source of light, as if he, as a last deed in life, had already turned towards the heavenly pastures that he with great certainty believed in.

His blood, remnants of it still flowing from the gruesome wound in his throat, had drenched the sheets until there was no life left in him.

In the corner of the room, wearing a blood-soaked nightdress, stood a young woman, a washing bowl raised in a defensive gesture at the dwarf before her, who was approaching her with the stealth and agility of long practice.

The moonlight caught the flash of yet another knife.

The room showed signs of a desperate fight. A vase was lying on the floor, shattered, a pillow had spread all its feathers through the room, being ripped apart by a vicious slash of the knife, and the nightstand had been overthrown, flacons and pots strewn everywhere.

Eponine did not hesitate. There was a walking stick, at ready, next to the shell of a man and she gripped it, using the fact that the woman and the assaulter were mingled in a desperate fight of their own and there was no time to dwell on that, or on anything, no time at all, and she took the stick in her good hand, aimed, and brought it onto the dwarf's head with strength and vigor.

He fell like a stone.

For seconds, that were an eternity, the two young women stared at each other.

From below, she could hear shouting, and the door on the ground being torn fully open, as the police entered the house. Time was running out.

She had to get out of here, preferably not bound and chained. She could hear that they started searching the house, could hear shouts and tumbles as they found something – someone? – and things got nasty.

The woman had seen her. She might scream any minute, scream for help. But she didn't.

Between them, the dwarf stirred.

The woman blinked. The turmoil from below grew louder.

"Let us run."

For a split second, Eponine wondered if she had really heard this. But there was a haunted look in the woman's eyes, as they darted about the room, obviously listening to the turmoil in the same way that Eponine was. In a flash of intuition, Eponine understood, that she was scared. Scared of everything that was going on down there, police and burglars alike. So who was she to object to a proposition as sensible as this?

Eponine lurched forward to grab her arm and pull her with her to the balcony.

They found, that there was a hook and rope attached to the bars, obviously the foreseen path of intrusion by the dwarf. Eponine threw a quick look down.

The balcony was pointing towards the rear side of the house, and the police had not yet found their way into the back part of the garden, seeing as they were busy trying to arrest Patron-Minette in the lower parts of the house.

For a fleeting moment, Eponine wondered, where Montparnasse was.

But there was no time.

The woman had already started to climb down, but Eponine, mindful of her shoulder, decided to jump the one story down, instead of tediously scrambling with one arm.

Pain shot up her legs at landing on the floor, but she managed it fairly silently – at least compared to the turmoil inside the house – and just a moment later, the woman stood beside her, breathing heavily.

Dirt had joined the blood on her nightshirt, and all of a sudden Eponine wondered, whether she was wounded.

But like this morning, at the market, finding a safe place was the first objective of the day, and so they darted through a back part of the hedge, leading to the Rue de la Traverse, which was, luckily, deserted.

Aimlessly, the two began to run northwards, away from the turmoil, a gamine in a dirty blouse, and a rich, young woman in a bloody nightdress, and only, when the latter ran out of breath, taking wheezy gasps and stumbling along did they slow and take a moment to assess their situation.

Eponine's thoughts raced, as she wondered about a possible safe haven. She was sorely in need of asking a few questions of the woman she had had all intentions to rob. But the nightly streets of Paris were no place to do so.

So she quickly sifted through the hiding places she knew, wondering if she wanted to betray the hideouts of the Paris underworld to this woman of good breeding, until she remembered the most obvious solution of all.

Some of us, at least, will stay at 7, Rue Pascal today. Know, that you will be welcome there.

And it was not even far from where they were.

"Come." Eponine took the arm of her charge who had not recovered, but nodded none the less, in an attempt at bravery. "I know a place to stay."

Rue Pascal number 7 was a tenement of the better kind, three stories high, façade intact and intrinsically carved; one of the buildings that were in Saint Michel, but dreamt of Faubourg Saint Germain, instead.

Eponine tried to discern the number of flats with an experienced eye. Six at least, two per floor, one on each side.

But which?

She scanned the façade and found her answer, on the second floor, where a room was dimly lit with flickering light and the curtain was swinging softly as someone moved behind it.

Not very stealthy, bourgeois boys….

She entered the tenement, and as soon as the door had closed behind her, she could hear a far-carrying whisper from above.

"Second floor", a voice said that she could recognize as coming from Enjolras, and even though she did not need it, she complied and hurried up the stairs, her silent shadow right behind her.

The door of the flat was opened already, and she was being greeted by the blonde rebel leader, who stepped away from the opening as soon as she reached the landing to allow her entrance. He looked tired in the dim, flickering light, his blonde curls slightly mussed. There was a worried frown on his face as he greeted her entrance softly with her name, and the irritating "Mademoiselle" in front of it.

In the room behind him, she could see Combeferre just getting up from his resting place on a chaise longue, blinking owlishly, hair slightly tangled as he ran his hands through it in an attempt to clear his thoughts and chase the remnants of dreams away.

And then, his gaze fell on the woman Eponine had brought with her.

He paled, as if he had seen a ghost.