A/N: Hmmm... as of now, this fic is probably also Combeferre/OC; of a fashion at least. Sort of jumped at me. I hope it's not overbearing.

Actually, this chapter was giving me quite a lot of troubles... it has gone through three complete rewrites; and a restructuring, because actually, that Valjean scene was supposed to be not in this, but in the next chapter.

Ah well, we'll just get back to Joly and his merry band in the next one...

It's probably better that way.

Thanks to those who reviewed and PMed, I really appreciate your support...

As a fun fact - the chapter 12 had by far the most views in the two days between updates, but not so many reviews, to be honest... ts, ts, ts ;-)

Let me know what you think on this one... I am a bit unsure.

Thanks to judybear236 for comments!

Chapter 13: Talking of winter, dreaming of spring

"An old friend of mine once quoted me an ancient Egyptian blessing: 'God be between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk.'"

Night had held no sleep in store for Jean Valjean.

After sending his daughter to bed he had remained in his seat and pondered the absurdity of the situation, together with the events of the day. As time passed, the candles lighting his room burned lower and lower, and finally, at the brink of dawn, went out one by one.

Thoughtfully, he twisted and turned what he knew, the magnitude of impact of the events of the day as well as the actions to be taken, and he felt at loss as to how to proceed.

Of course he had feared that one day someone would come and steal his daughter's heart from him, be it in the manner of petty thieves or sophisticated con-artists, come what may, the result would be the same. And yet, such was the way of things, such was the way of the world. Cosette had been the single bright spark of his existence for so long, that he could not imagine what he would do, were he to lose it. What shreds of his soul would remain once she was gone? And yet, as much as he loved her, should he not be happy for her?

There was a huge difference between love and possession, as the priests said. Selfishness was a path to self-destruction, led to pain and suffering. And selfish he must not be, not when it came to Cosette who had shown him a way out of a darkness unending that loomed at the corner of his mind when he was not looking.

The deed was done, the genie unleashed from its bottle. If anything, the expression in his daughter's eyes had shown him that he had lost the fight already.

Be it through his own harshness or through the hands of Marius Pontmercy; he would lose Cosette.

The only thing left to do was to ease the transition.

Which led, inevitably, to the issue of the man Pontmercy had brought to him. Valjean believed him, that the young man had had the best intentions in mind as he rushed to Rue Plumet today, but the face at his gate had awakened demons long banished. To put it simply, Valjean was afraid.

Afraid for the safety of his daughter – and also a trifle concerned for the safety of himself – but even more than this, he worried for Pontmercy.

The man that held his daughter's happiness in his hands had made a powerful enemy indeed.

And he had no idea what he was facing.

Valjean got up and shook his head, taking to pacing.

But how could he deal with this? What could he do? To reveal who – or better yet – what this man was would be to reveal who he himself was; to speak of that which must not be named; and this was out of the question. Nothing would bring him to open that well of darkness in his heart, and yet something had to be done to protect the man.

Should he try and seek out the attacker by himself? Protect Pontmercy, so that no harm may come to him from this source? This was difficult to be brought about, if not impossible, and Valjean dismissed the idea as he had the one of telling either Cosette or Pontmercy the truth.

So what, then?

Silently he pondered this, standing at the window and looking into the coming dawn of a new day, painting the sky a pale green with the colors of a young morning.

The world was fresh and new in these hours.

And it was time for all that was old, man and demons alike, to step aside in the face of a beginning.

A decision made, Jean Valjean sat down at his writing table, taking ink, pen and paper, beginning to write.

This is the account of a man that shall not be named…

An hour later the deed was done, and he felt exhausted. Carefully he reread the letter, worried about each careful phrase, looking into the details of it to see that nothing could be traced back to him, to this house, or this place.

It was vague enough, and the truth was planted in lies and deceptions, but he hoped that the young man would understand the message, if not the messenger and would act upon it.

Even if Valjean himself had serious doubts about what would be the appropriate course of action in such a case.

He felt surprised at the fact that it was a relief to have finally banned the darkness with words in ink and paper. The secrets were lying heavily on his heart, and of course he knew that no one – no one – should ever learn the truth about him, but releasing this small fraction of a demon into the world had made his heart lighter in a strange, inexplicable sort of way.

And thus it was that when he heard Touissant shuffling around in the wee hours of morning, he was actually in a calm mood, as he gave her the letter he had so agonized over.

"See to it", he said, "that this is brought to Marius Pontmercy." She looked at him questioningly, but he was not inclined to explain. "I do not know where he lives, but I do know that he is connected to some of the students, who are currently stirring unrest in this city. I want you to find him and give this to him. But do not do it yourself, find someone, a gamin, a hired hand, and do not let yourself be seen or connected to this house. What is in this letter must remain a secret to anyone but its recipient, and the writer of this letter must remain a secret to the reader."

The worry in his eyes seemed to touch the woman, and she took the piece of paper with care, folded it twice more and placed it under her belt.

"I will, Monsieur", she said, ever calm, ever reliable, and another, slight touch of relief crossed over his heart.

It was dawn, of sorts, after all.

The apartment was quiet after Enjolras and Eponine had left. Lamarin, who had had the last watch in the early stages of morning, sat in an armchair, looking slightly tired. At least, instead of just hovering somewhere dejectedly, he now had a book on his knees – thank heavens for Enjolras' tendency to shower people in activity (The paragraphs on the laws of inheritance. Look them up for me, will you? Find out, what's in store in case of the de Cambouts, and what is to be done.). It had been the right thing to do, because if nothing else, it had chased the panicked look out of the young man's eyes. Instead, he was now focused on the task at hand, sifting through Enjolras' well-used copy of the Code Civil, and taking notes, thoroughly distracted from his current situation. From what Combeferre could tell he knew what he was doing. What little Lamarin had agreed to eat for breakfast – Enjolras' cupboards were not exactly packed, when it came to this, but some bread and cheese was to be found – stood forgotten before him.

It left Combeferre to watch over Hélène, who slept fitfully in Enjolras' bed, tossing her head from one side to the other. Her composure yesterday had been admirable, but it seemed that her demons had crept upon her unawares and thoroughly caught up with her.

Silently, he debated whether he should wake her. Rest was the best remedy in case of shock and pain, he knew, but on the other hand he seriously doubted that her sleep was restful at all at the moment.

And he hated to see her in pain.

It had been one of the few times that any woman not working at the Musain had been allowed in the back room that was their usual haunt, but she seemed thoroughly unaware of the fact.

The young man, blonde, close-cropped hair and warm brown eyes, exhibited an air of cordiality that was hard to resist. His clothes spoke indeed of the nobility he was, but his demeanor had nothing of the aloof tendencies of the upper class. He was, even at first glance, easy to like.

The woman was a trifle quieter than he, but she had quick, clever dark eyes that followed the conversation with an alertness that implied intelligence, and she did not mind speaking when she had something to say. She was not intimidated in the assembly of the students that formed the inner circle of Les Amis de l'ABC. He would learn later, that she could be stubborn, when convinced.

Alexandre de Cambout and Hélène Dufranc had been invited courtesy of Courfeyrac. The Cambout and Courfeyrac families had long-standing ties, and the friendship of the fathers had led to a tentative understanding between the sons, which was promising to become deeper. If anything, they were probably drifting towards a similar relationship with their respective parents, if de Cambout's words were anything to go by.

"Up to now", Enjolras said skeptically, "I was not under the impression that Le Globe was particularly unsympathetic to the government."

"Ah, but that was when my father was still presiding. Giving his progressing age and his wish to return to the country, he has bestowed that position to me, now."

Enjolras' brows rose in surprise.

"You certainly lose no time, Monsieur", he said, and de Cambout smiled.

"I was not aware", he retorted, a trifle ironically, "that circumstances were such that one had time to lose."

Enjolras smiled at that, won over immediately.

A whimper from Hélène decided the matter. Combeferre put a hand on the mattress and shook it slightly, calling out to her in soft tones.

"Wake up, Hélène."

She opened her eyes nearly immediately, taking in her surroundings in a glance. Her breath was going a trifle too quickly, and in the first instants after waking there was a remnant of panic in her eyes. But she mastered it quickly, drawing a curtain of stone over her face and inhaled and exhaled pointedly as if to fight down whatever was raging inside her.

"You were dreaming", Combeferre offered by way of apology, and she nodded almost absentmindedly. She was pale and the deep lines under her eyes suggested that she had had no rest at all. The doctor in him wanted to send her back to sleep at once, to allow her to recover some more, but the friend did not have the heart to even suggest it.

It would be too hard a thing to send her back down into this abyss on her own.

"Thank you", she answered after a moment's thought, still eerily calm and composed. Her eyes were darting about the room, but he was not sure that she was even registering what she saw. The expression in her face was devoid of any indication.

"How are you feeling?" he finally dared even though the question was ridiculous at best, and her face softened for a moment but the echo of a smile did not reach her eyes.

"Overwhelmed", she confessed, finally. "As if I am still trapped in a nightmare."

"Madame…", the words found their way out of their own accord. "I am so deeply, incredibly sorry for what happened. There are no words adequate to convey my regret. If there's anything I can do…"

"Strange to think that we somehow should have expected this, should we not?" Her lips quivered slightly at that, but her eyes were dry. "And yet, we never truly thought of it…" She watched him sadly, looking pale and defeated in the pillows. "Pourvu que ca dure, n'est pas*?"

"Yes", Combeferre answered, softly. How very much like her to find a quote as astute as this one at these times. "Now everything is changed."

Somehow it helped to voice it. Somehow it helped, that the words stood between them, aloud now instead of silent. Someone had to admit that they had woken to a new dawn today.

"I don't regret it." Her gaze had wandered to the ceiling and now, there were indeed tears there, glistening but unshed. "I mourn everything. But I regret nothing."

What else should she have said?

"What do you think?"

Alexandre hardly seemed to be able to wait until his fiancée had finished reading the draft of the leaflet that should be their first item of cooperation, excited almost as if it had been his words and not those of Enjolras that she was evaluating. The author of the pamphlet seemed much less nervous, the expression on his face nearly bored as he waited for Hélène to complete her assessment.

"It's harsh", she unwittingly repeated, if not in the same words, the opinion that Combeferre had uttered to his friend in private some time before their guests had arrived.

"It's true", Enjolras retorted. "And it needs to be said."

Almost the same words that Combeferre had heard from him earlier, and she nodded thoughtfully, turning to her soon-to-be husband, pondering.

"What's your opinion on it?"

Alexandre took back the draft and slowly played with the paper, not really reading it.

"I tend to agree with Enjolras", he answered. "It's harsh, but it's rousing. And the wording is good. A few brushes here and there – but it hardly needs to be edited at all."

"What about a picture?" Hélène proposed and reached over the table to pluck the pen that was lying before Enjolras without even a second thought. She began, at the corner of the draft, to paint a layout. "Softening the message, so to say. Catching the attention. Here would be the header", she began, writing "Citizens of France" in quick, careless letters at the top of the drawn page. "The image here…" she placed it in the right part, directly below the bold header and drew some lines left and below to indicate the text. "Like this. This should work well with the new Bauer press, don't you think?"

Alexandre shook his head.

"Too expensive", he said. "Too time-consuming. We have no time to get a xylograph done. They need it by tomorrow. And I am not sure I want to draw Pierre into…", but Hélène had no time to wait his concerns out. "Unless of course we reuse the xylograph from the header two weeks ago. The one about the redecoration of the southern part of the Jardin du Luxembourg…"

"… as a signifier of hope for a better place…" Combeferre knew what article they were talking about and fully understood the lines along which they were thinking. Hélène nodded, exchanging a glance with him that was at the same time astonished and grateful. Excitement had colored her cheeks red and her eyes were dancing.

"Just what I meant."

They had found that pamphlet still months afterwards, being plastered to walls, being carried around by citizens, being flaunted whenever they dreamt of a new world….

She had closed her eyes for a moment and when she reopened them, the tears had vanished and her eyes were cool and dry.

"Enjolras promised to stop by Joly's before going about his errands. Joly has… a friend that may be able to provide you with fresh clothes."

"Ah." Her interest was small apparently, but after a moment she nodded, seemingly remembering that what she had given him was no adequate response to that kind of offer. "Thank you", she added, her voice soft and dead.

Slowly, she roused herself to get up into a sitting position and rubbed her face with both hands to clear her thought.

And froze in mid-motion. Her face had gone deathly pale in a matter of seconds.

"Oh no…", she whispered, shot up fully and hurried out of the bed, pressing one hand to her mouth, the other on the stomach, and hurried to the small washing room, before she emptied what little she had eaten the night before into a washing bowl, stomach cramping until it had nothing else to give.

Combeferre, more than worried, shot up and hurried after her, arriving at the washing room only a few steps behind. She was trembling as she took deep, labored breaths to calm herself.

He felt himself go cold.

Sickness… sudden vomiting… pallor.

No man inclined to the arts of medicine in this city could miss these signs these days. The sickness was mysterious, quick at times like a wildcat on the jump, and sometimes slow like a danger in the shadows. The vicious enemy that was holding the city in a death grip had spread violently, mostly among the poor, but had not spared the privileged ones either.

Not all those infected died. But most of them…

"Are you alright?"

He had all but forgotten about Lamarin, who had put aside his book and come up to them to evaluate the situation.

"I'm fine", Hélène lied.

"Madame…" Combeferre began, cautiously, still debating with himself whether he should approach or not. "Maybe I should…"

"It will pass", she cut him off, not wanting to explain herself. She felt crowded in the small, windowless washing room, with him blocking the only entrance and that put her off foot. "No need to worry."

He hesitated before nodding curtly and opening the escape route for her by taking a step aside.

"You should sit down at least", he suggested and she nodded, taking uncertain steps towards the couch.

He followed, Lamarin in tow.

When Marius and Combeferre stepped into the Corinthe, a few minutes before the appointed time, they were surprised to find that she had come alone.

Clad in a modest dress of fine cut, dark hair partly hidden by a hat, she raised her gaze to them as they entered, and greeted them with a smile.

"Alexandre sends his apologies", she said, as Madame Houcheloup set two additional glasses next to the carafe of Côte du Rhône red and the two revolutionaries took their seat across the table from her. "He was delayed – an article was late, but don't worry. I can take care of it."

Later, they had understood that Alexandre's family had finally caught up with his sidetracked activities, and he had been called home for investigation. They had never learned how he managed to resolve the situation, head, pride and occupation more or less intact.

"We would need two hundred of those", Marius said, slipping a draft over to her that Hélène took to read. She was quick in these things, normally, but now she took her time, and he saw her eyes squinting, then softening. A smile ghosted over her features.

"That's not your hand, Monsieur Pontmercy, is it? Nor Monsieur Enjolras'." She shook her head. "It's beautiful."

He could not help a strange, selfish surge of pride as Marius confirmed. "It's Combeferre who wrote it. Quite the philosopher, he is."

She raised her gaze to muster him, seriously, for just a moment, dark eyes unreadable before she smiled.

"Not quite snappy enough for a pamphlet, I'm thinking", she said as she put the paper down. "No offense, of course. I can print it if you want, but…" She tapped her lips with her fingers carefully. "I am thinking… would you consider having it for the paper itself instead?" Her fingers played along one another, a nervous gesture she took to when she was excited. "It's vague and careful enough, and yet all things are there, clear to see for those who will…" Her smile turned slightly mischievous. "We can always claim being a little dense when it comes to subtleties, if there's any trouble."

Combeferre blinked, surprised at this offer. "Le Globe itself? Are you sure?"

She nodded, seriously.

"Very much so", she confirmed. "This one and any others along those lines that you can give me. Alexandre and I have been looking for a way to seep the message into the main paper for months now. This", she lifted the draft, "is perfect for this."

He would not have been able to say no after that, even if he had wanted to.

Silence had settled for a moment. Hélène seemed to be recovering, a trifle at least, her eyes closed as some color returned to her cheeks. And then all of a sudden, she spoke again.

"There is no need to worry." She forced her eyes open and the words past her lips. Her voice was dead and matter-of-fact. "I am with child. That is all."

He took a moment to process that. Of course. It should have been obvious. They had been married a good six months now, it was to be expected. Internally he sighed. Trust him to jump to conclusions, after a day like the last one they had. It seemed that he was turning more into Joly by the minute.

Would, that he also had his fellow students' natural ability of seeing the bright sight of an intrinsically hopeless situation. That would have been a very useful feat at the moment.

For, given the overall circumstances, he had no idea what to say.

"I…" he began, then restarted differently, "This is…" to stop again and settle finally for "How far along?" Probably not an appropriate response,

"I have known it for a month", Hélène explained and fell silent.

She had yet to shed a tear for her husband, and she did not cry now. But everything was hidden behind a dark, forbidding façade of stone.

It was the beginning of winter, when they were all invited to celebrate Mademoiselle Dufranc becoming Madame de Cambout.

By this time they had fallen into a comfortable rhythm of companionship. Marius wrote the pamphlets, his natural gift for exuberance and finely crafted words had him very well suited for the task. Feuilly and Enjolras would support at times, but especially the leader of the ABCs quickly lost patience with the perfectionism that the newspaper owners exhibited. It was in his nature to see things done, and he left the fine detailing to those better suited to it. His gift was the oration, where his natural charisma would color the words and play the emotions of the audience.

In time, he left the written word to those with more patience for revision.

Combeferre on the other hand had continued to write articles for Le Globe, commentaries and appeals, and they had been well received. He had watched the newspaper, under the guidance of its new owners, move from a voice of the establishment to a critical institution in the city, with careful, well-tempered articles that showed the signs of the time for those that were able to read them.

He would have had to lie in saying that he did not enjoy it. Discussing his thoughts and writings with them – even though, in truth, it was mostly Hélène who took care of his articles, Alexandre being occupied with other things – was as interesting as it was creative.

He had doubted the wisdom of the lot of them making an appearance at the wedding, but Alexandre had laughed his concerns away – "Your voice is all over my paper, why shouldn't your faces be at my wedding?" – in that infuriatingly careless manner of his, and so they were sitting in the back rows of the church, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

And as Hélène exchanged her vows with her future husband, he had, with a strange flash of intuition, wondered why it was so excruciatingly hard to be happy for her.

"Is… is there anything we can do for you?"

Combeferre had almost forgotten that Lamarin was there, but the young man spoke up suddenly, sitting in the armchair he had occupied before and looked at Hélène intently.

There was something in his earnestness that made her smile sadly.

"You already are, unless I am mistaken", she said, after having had a look at the book and notes around him. "I find myself in a fix at the moment. To be honest, I… am a bit at a loss at all the protocols that I am facing now. And the…", her voice hitched, only so slightly, "… the questions of succession… and the like."

"But surely", Lamarin answered, "your family will help you in this…."

Hélène closed her eyes for a moment.

"Yes. They will." She clenched her teeth and her fingers formed firsts, as she was struggling with the demons of her own. "They will see to it that I do not lose all in the process. But they do not understand." She opened her eyes to look at the two students, and now indeed there were tears there, threatening to overspill and drop on her cheeks, red in excitement and pain. "They do not understand who… what we were." She held Lamarin's gaze, blinking away tears almost angrily. "You want to help? Then protect his legacy, our legacy." Her hand went to her stomach, an almost unconscious gesture. "Help me keep the paper. Help me continue what he died for." She took a deep breath then, and Combeferre thought that there was almost a quality reminding him of Enjolras in her burning gaze, but she was not asking for justice. Pain had driven her beyond that, for now.

"Make them pay", she whispered. "Weave your finest words, Monsieur Combeferre, and call light into the dark places no one dares to go. Tell your friends to send me rousing calls that will move the stoutest of hearts." She trembled, overtaxed, overwrought, tired, angry, sad, and determined. "We will tell our story, what they did, and what they dared. And with any luck, we will set the city aflame, in time."

Lamarin, at the receiving end of such fierceness, blinked a few times before he nodded.

"All right", he said. "All right." His eyes darted back to his books and notes. "I can do that."

Her gaze wandered to Combeferre but she did not need to ask him.

She knew.

They had spoken of it only once, an enchanted night in March. There had been a police raid at the headquarters of Le Globe that had been made seemingly for no other reason than to enhance pressure on an uncomfortable vox populi, and Alexandre, in his usual exuberance, had decided that this called for a celebration. Both things actually – the fact that the rally had happened at all, and the fact that they had had to leave without any result.

Hence, they found themselves at the Musain in the evening, Hélène and Alexandre still excited and drunk on the events of the day, and wine was flowing freely as spirits and dreams sored.

He was sitting on Hélène's right, laughing with all of them as Alexandre recalled for what probably was the twentieth time how they had spoken to the police officer – a simple man very clearly in over his head – and confused him with their quick responses and seeming incapability to understand what the problem was.

"And the best thing", Hélène laughed, cheeks reddened by the wine, eyes dancing as she turned to Combeferre, "was that he tried to take your Plato quote about the child fearing darkness and its context as a trademark on why we were so out of line, but he got it all backwards and I didn't even have to say anything to make him shut up."

She shook with barely repressed laughter, and she was so alive, and the wine was singing in his veins; and so he took her fingers and bestowed almost a kiss on her hand, not even touching her; the most proper of gestures, and smiled.

"I am glad that my words were able to help confuse someone meaning you harm and deflect his attention. Feel free to call for that line of defense any time you need it, Madame."

He had meant it in jest, but she was staring at him with wide eyes and excused herself shortly after to step outside the door.

He went to look for her when she didn't return and found her standing in the crisp march air, leaning against the café wall and looking up at the stars. She gave no indication that she had noticed him, so he stepped up to her.

"Madame", he asked. "Is something amiss?"

She turned towards him, watching him for a moment with an unfathomable expression in her dark eyes.

"There are days, Monsieur", she said, and her voice sounded introspective and sad, "when I regret that we met only so late."

This caught him completely unawares, but before he could think of something to say she placed a soft hand on his shoulder and smiled.

"I have to go back in. Alexandre will be waiting."

It had been the first and last time she had ever touched him.

*"'As long as it lasts', right?": "It's good, as long as it lasts", or rather in short "as long as it lasts" was, what Laetizia Buonaparte, the mother of the famous (and infamous) Napoléon Buonaparte used to say when asked her opinion on the high ascention of her son to the role of french emperor.